Simon Taylor arrived at The Horniman just before 7pm and saw that the terrace was absolutely packed out with early-evening drinkers enjoying the unseasonably good weather. He had been unable to concentrate at work after Novak’s visit and had quietly fumed at the man’s insolence all day. He’d had to work hard to avoid the Borough Commander, who was gunning for him about the domestic violence clear-up rate having slipped badly recently. He just couldn’t bear the day-to-day drudgery of borough policing, but it seemed the only way he may be able to climb the promotion ladder any further.

Despite everything he’d done, the hours he’d put in, and the general improvements in the borough’s performance, he’d been rejected at the last two promotion processes. He couldn’t figure out why; they just seemed to flounder with very little feedback as to why he was not getting promoted. ‘Just keep plugging away, Simon,’ the Chief Super had said, without giving him anything concrete. It was so frustrating.

He looked inside the pub but couldn’t see the other two anywhere, which was annoying; he hated any kind of lateness, particularly in circumstances like this. He went to the bar and bought himself a pint of lager together with a large whisky chaser to settle his nerves. That would be his fourth pint, as he’d stopped off nearby for a couple of liveners before the meeting. He’d found himself drinking far too much recently, certainly since his unfortunate dealings with those bastard Brankos.

Taylor wandered outside onto the terrace once more to see if any spaces had cleared, but it was still jam-packed with revellers and groups of drunken office workers, still in their business attire with loosened ties and discarded stilettos.

He was on the point of giving up and going back inside to find a seat when a shaven-headed, short, stocky man with a pretty blonde companion said, ‘We’re just leaving, mate, take this one,’ in a cockney voice, indicating to the table they were vacating. It was littered with empty glasses and two cleared plates. A condiment box fashioned like a small, vintage wine box sat in the middle of the table holding a menu, napkins, cutlery, and sauces.

‘Thank you,’ Taylor said, relieved. The table was perfect: not too close to any of the other tables, and right next to the river wall overlooking the Thames. He sat down and got his phone out to see if the other two had called. They hadn’t.

He took a long swig of beer and took a sip of his whisky, savouring the warmth and smoky taste.

A young and pretty waitress appeared and said with a bright smile, ‘Can I just clear this please, sir?’

‘Please do,’ he replied, and she began to take the remains of the meal away.

As she wiped the table down she said, ‘Will you be eating tonight?’