He crosses London to the meeting point at Holborn. It’s early summer, every station and train is packed with a riot of cultures and languages. The winter coats are gone now, replaced with lightweight jackets, shirts and blazers. He gets to Holborn and waits for the site manager at the ticket kiosk. This is the preliminary meeting for Ben to get a first visual inspection of the site, and the works manager is under orders to meet him alone with no union reps or senior managers present. He checks his phone continually but there are no new messages. Steph will be at her desk now but maybe she’ll text him at lunchtime. The knot in his gut twists and drops. Anxiety in his face. He pushes it away to focus on the job at hand and looks round casually then double takes as he spots the man in the nice suit from the lift this morning on the other side of the road. By the time the flotilla of buses has gone he’s lost from view. It’s a small world sometimes, even in London. Ben looks again thinking maybe he has something to do with this meeting today but he was too well dressed to be a works manager and looked more like a top-line executive. A crowd of men and women brush past Ben rushing into the entrance. A tall ginger man turns to glare at Ben from the shoulder contact but this is central London so Ben smiles to show no offence is taken.

‘Ben Calshott?’

‘Oh hi.’ Ben turns to see an overweight man wearing a crumpled suit glaring at him.

‘Works manager,’ he says brusquely with a distinct London accent. ‘You got the short straw then did ya?’

‘Yeah, something like that,’ Ben replies.

‘Got overalls have ya?’

‘Er, no . . . I was hoping I could borrow some?’ Ben asks, pulling a face as though to say he forgot to bring his own.

The fake grin on the works manager’s face fades instantly. ‘Nope.’ He walks off without another word. Ben falls in behind him as he paces through the terminal towards a service door at the back. The tall ginger man is still there with his group and Ben figures they’re tourists from a western country. Dark hair, light hair, pale and olive complexions and all of them wearing I Love London jackets and carrying bags. They don’t look happy though; mind you, no one ever looks happy on the Underground.

Ben follows the works manager through the service door, which cuts the thrum of noise from the terminal the second it closes. Plunging them into a weird silence broken only by the rumble and vibration of trains as they go through a catacomb of corridors, doors and stairs leading down.

‘Where did it happen?’ Ben asks, knowing exactly where it happened.