On the short walk to the Lamb and Lion, Perdue and Naylor don’t say much. The pub is down a narrow alley still paved with cobblestones, and the low doorways and leaded windows of the neighbouring buildings always make Naylor feel she’s stepped into a Dickens novel. The illusion is short-lived. Though the outside’s totally traditional, inside the pub’s been given the inevitable brewery makeover to cater to their assumption of modern tastes: dove-grey walls, menus painted on blackboards, the old red-plush banquettes dumped in favour of satin-varnished pine. It’s not yet twelve and the bar is quiet. Behind the pumps, a student in a low-cut T-shirt gives them a practised smile.

‘What’ll you have?’ asks Ron.

‘Orange juice and soda,’ says Naylor.

‘One of those,’ says Perdue to the barmaid. ‘And a pint of lager shandy for me.’

As the barmaid fixes the drinks, Perdue looks around.

‘I preferred this place in the old days,’ he says. ‘Toilets out back and cigarette burns in the upholstery. It was the end of proper pubs, the smoking ban. All the interesting people you used to meet go and stand outside.’

‘Why would you object to a smoking ban? You don’t smoke. I remember the air in here being so thick sometimes you’d struggle to find enough oxygen to fill one lung, never mind two.’

‘And are you still smoking?’

‘No,’ says Naylor. ‘Gave up months ago. I got fed up putting all that tax into the public coffers when none of it gets spent where it should be.’

The barmaid places a tall glass in front of her, and Naylor takes a long drink.

‘Very wise. Are you eating?’ Perdue looks up at the blackboard at the end of the bar, where the menu is written up in white chalk as if it changes every day. Perdue knows it doesn’t; the only things that change are the prices, which always go up, he notices, never down. ‘Steak and kidney for me, please, love,’ he says to the barmaid. ‘No chips, just peas.’

‘No chips?’ asks Naylor. ‘That’s a first. I’ll have the same, chips and peas on mine.’

‘You can afford a few chips,’ says Perdue, as they make their way to a table by the window. ‘You’ve lost a couple of pounds too.’

‘You know how it is,’ says Naylor, sitting down on a chair which looks more comfortable than it is. ‘No time to shop, less time to cook. I end up living on sandwiches and takeaways.’

‘That’s a slippery slope.’ Perdue takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, moving a dessert menu to make room for his glass. ‘A diet like that’ll give you ulcers, sooner or later. Though I have to say you look good on it. I like your hair like that, by the way. Suits you.’

Naylor smiles, and makes a show of patting her French pleat.