That memory had only increased his fondness for the bridge.

In its own way Michael’s destination was just as impressive. The Temple area of London – just a short walk from the end of Waterloo Bridge – was living history. Built around a nine-hundred-year-old church, the area had been the English home of the Knights Templar. Following the violent destruction of the Templar Order in 1312, the district had passed from owner to owner at the whim of a succession of medieval kings. A hundred years of uncertainty finally ended at the end of the fourteenth century, when the lawyers arrived to stake their claim. A near millennia of barristers had come and gone since that time, and still the majority called the Temple home.

Michael glanced to his left as he walked the first hundred yards of Fleet Street, towards Middle Temple Lane. After all these years, he still found the sight impressive. London’s Royal Courts of Justice had been built at the peak of the British Empire. The power Britain had then possessed was evident in the building’s sheer scale. The largest court building in Europe, its massive stone edifice had bewitched Michael from his first glimpse.

Middle Temple Lane itself was less impressive but no less unique. Its entrance was an inconspicuous white gate directly across from the court building. Michael had walked through that gate almost every working day of his career, and yet still he marvelled at the dichotomy of the threshold. On one side – the Fleet Street side – was the modern world: a typical bustling London road. On the other was a scene from the past. Cobbled streets. Gas lamps. Centuries-old buildings that leaned sideways with age. It was a Dickens novel brought to life, and it fascinated Michael now as much as it had on his first day.

Michael looked at his watch. 1.15 p.m. His decision to walk had made him late. It had also made him sweat. He had not factored in the heat. Pulling his mobile phone from his trouser pocket, he saw he already had a text message: Tardy bastard.

The message was expected. Michael knew its author without a glance at the name.

Two minutes. Sorry, he texted back.

Michael accelerated as he covered the last short distance to Middle Temple Hall. Once there he ran up the short stone staircase and through the black iron gates that led inside.

Middle Temple Hall – like the streets that surrounded it – was a glimpse back in time. Built in the sixteenth century by order of Queen Elizabeth I, the Tudor hall had stood almost unchanged since its construction, as had its purpose. Hall, as it was simply known, had always been a working building. A place for lawyers to meet, to eat and to discuss their cases. Difficult though it was to reconcile the five-hundred-year-old beams, the antiquated oak tables and the marble statues with an office canteen, for hundreds of London’s barristers, Hall was exactly that.