Every time he made progress with his colleagues, he slipped back a few steps.

But he couldn’t stop now.

He said to Latimer, ‘I’ll be back in later today.’

‘Where are you going? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

Hobbes held up the photographs in their folder. ‘Seeking help.’

He drove out towards Deptford. He kept south of the river all the way, rather than the quicker route of going north and then back down. And only when he was on the outskirts of Peckham did he understand why: hidden thoughts were steering him.

He parked outside Cromwell House and sat in the car, smoking a cigarette and letting his thoughts wander. He bought a sandwich and The Times from a newsagent, came back to the car and waited some more. He said to himself, One hour, that’s all, but he was still there at eleven o’clock, tackling the cryptic crossword. Exactly two clues written in, and one was probably wrong. He threw the paper on to the passenger seat and did his best to resist yet another cigarette: the car smelt bad enough as it was.

The housing unit was all shut up, as it had been the first time he’d visited. From his vantage point he could see the main entrance and one outer wall of flats, all the windows boarded or barred. Not a single person came or went. It really was a strange place, eerie almost. And so different from the other squatting communities he’d visited on the job, which were usually lively places, driven by activism, revolution, creativity, the idea of forging new ways of being outside society’s structures. This place was more like a castle under siege. But they had to eat, they had to buy things – booze, drugs, rolling tobacco, and so on.

And just past the half-hour he struck lucky. Two people came out of the entranceway, turning on to Cavalier Road.

Hobbes got out of the car and started to follow them along the busy street. It was easy enough, as they stuck out from the other pedestrians by way of their clothes and hair: the boy was a punk, still sporting the spiked hair, leather jacket and tight black trousers popular a couple of years back. The girl wore torn fishnet tights under a black skirt and a plastic jacket, bright green in colour. They both wore rust-coloured Dr Martens boots.

Hobbes followed a few yards behind. An interesting thing happened when they turned a corner on to Peckham High Street: now they looked at each other and came together in a kiss. Hobbes watched from a doorway until they parted again and walked on, this time with their hands clasped together. The milling crowd closed around them.

Hobbes kept pace, his eyes on the boy’s spiked hair, the girl’s green jacket. He saw it now: two young people in love, but a love that wasn’t allowed in the squat for some reason. They had waited until they were out of sight of the building. Maybe one or both had another partner back at Cromwell House, and this time out was their only chance to connect.