‘I thought, since I knew how valuable his contribution . . . how much you would miss . . .’ He couldn’t find the words and abandoned the sentence. ‘I thought about returning the money he’d lost but that . . . I mean . . . so I arranged for a sum to be paid to you monthly. I didn’t notice, at first, that it was being returned.’

‘We didn’t want it,’ said the sister, harshly. ‘We still don’t.’

‘But do you need it?’ he said before he could stop himself, and she flushed with anger.

He tried again. ‘Look, I’m sorry. If you are genuinely angered or offended by the offer, then there’s no more to be said. I shall apologise and leave and you’ll never hear from me again.’

‘This is you buying us off, isn’t it? To make you feel better about yourself.’

He opened his mouth to deny it, thought again and then nodded. ‘Yes, to some extent. I was there. I was partly responsible. But if it hadn’t been me, then it would have been someone else. There was no stopping him.’

No one denied it. Both mother and sister knew their Orduroy.

‘So, perhaps you could tell me. What would you like me to do?’

Twenty minutes later he let himself out of the house, down the narrow path and out into the street again. The sun had disappeared and the air was full of a wet drizzle. He stood blindly for a moment or two and then, choosing a direction apparently at random, wandered the streets until he reached an ancient church with a stumpy tower, surrounded by a tiny churchyard. Leaving the path, he wandered aimlessly across the grass and around the headstones until he found himself a secluded spot under a very large cedar tree. Lowering himself slowly to the ground, he drew up his knees and put his hands over his face. He made no sound, but every now and then, a tear forced its way between his fingers.

Dusk was falling when he climbed stiffly to his feet and caught the Hyperloop back to Paddington. The urge to be alone hadn’t left him and he chose to walk back through the steadily pouring rain – which took him some considerable time. He amused himself by counting the number of Time Police-sponsored electronic billboards he encountered along the way. The ones encouraging people to grass up their family, friends and neighbours for the public good and monetary gain.

Eventually, he crossed Barricade Bridge and wearily made his way along the embankment to the building he realised, with a shock, he now thought of as home. Ahead of him, Time Police HQ, the former Battersea Power Station, was silhouetted black and menacing against the darkening sky. A fitting home for a black and menacing organisation, he thought.