The manager looks away with a distinct lack of interest. A company man through and through and, like a stick of rock, you could break him in half and see the Tube logo running through his core. Ben knows the type and gives up any hope of winning cooperation. The few stabs at humour and firmness have failed, which tells Ben anything short of a briefcase full of unmarked bank notes will also fail. Instead, and with a sigh for effect, he pulls his phone from his pocket and activates the camera.

‘I am taking pictures,’ Ben states slowly as he thumbs the screen to fill the room with the irritating noise of the fake shutter clicking, ‘to make sure nothing is tampered with between now and when I return with the claimant.’ He takes more pictures to make more shutter noises and changes the angle a few times, turns the flash on, turns it off and does it all again for good measure. The works manager remains stoic and devoid of expression but even he can’t prevent the physiological reddening of his cheeks, flushing with unconcealed anger.

‘Done?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Ben says, pocketing his phone. They go through the same game as before. Walking in silence down the platform and through the disused tunnel before going back into the maze of corridors. They reach a door. The manager stops to take the hard hat, vest, torch and pass from Ben before opening the door and politely stepping back. ‘After you.’ He ushers Ben through and for a second Ben thinks maybe he’s had time to think or mellow until he says, ‘Nice meeting you,’ and slams the door in Ben’s face, leaving him on the Holborn station platform. He goes to bang on the door but gives up as soon as the thought forms. What else could you expect?

He starts moving through the dense crowds towards the arched entrance and catches sight of the tall ginger man in the I Love London rain jacket standing with his back to the wall further down the platform. He figures he must have got isolated from his group but then Ben spots the dark-haired man with olive skin wearing the same I Love London gear kneeling on the ground as he goes through a zip-up bag. Then he sees another one from the same group standing by the edge of the platform. It gets Ben’s attention and he turns round slowly, picking out the jackets and the faces of the group he saw bustling through the entrance. The woman with blonde hair and the pink I Love London coat is there too, also going through a bag on the floor. It’s weird how they’re all separated. Ben looks back to the ginger man wiping his forehead with a trembling hand and staring fixed at the brown-haired woman by the platform edge, who has her eyes closed while muttering as though praying.