The streams of people ebb, recede. The wide sliding doors to the exit leading onto Station Approach are permanently open and without a barrier of waiting bodies, the concourse and the cafe grow cold very quickly. By the Information desk, a young member of staff is clapping his hands together and laughing with the young woman sitting behind it – it has only taken a few hours for the staff’s solemnity to dissipate. A middle-aged man in a smart wool coat wearing very large glasses says to the young man, ‘Excuse me, where is the bar?’ The young man becomes suddenly serious in his desire to be of service and points to the fridge opposite the counter of the Pumpkin Cafe. The man walks over to it and stares at the small selection of lagers and wine in tiny bottles, as if bewildered by his lack of choice. As he stands making his selection, the older blonde woman I often see behind the counter, Stacey she’s called, turns and holds a plate aloft and calls out in a high-pitched, nasal voice, ‘Tuna panini!’ Repeated, it sounds like the cry of an exotic bird. Toonappaneenee!

*

I go out of the main entrance – on days like this, the dying light can be lovely. As the sun fades, Peterborough Station and its surrounding area become suffused with a glow. Since the clocks changed, 4 p.m. is a mere hour before dusk but after our blurry, ambiguous start, it has been a clear blue winter’s day. The air is lit up gold. The glow will fade soon, but for a few moments it is stretching and lighting up the brick wall of the multi-storey car park opposite the station. By the side of the Great Northern Hotel, the trees have black trunks and yellow leaves that make a pretty contrast with the deep blue paint on the Crescent Bridge and the way the sky, in the distance, is strung with a little low cloud, tinged with apricot. I can still be caught by this, all the more lovely because of its transience. It is almost possible to believe that the turn of the day into evening, then night, is nothing to be frightened of.

To my right, the car park is emptying as commuters collect their cars, head home. To my left the road swoops round and the large Waitrose is brightly lit, men and women pushing metal trolleys in and out. Across from the station, the small brick building belonging to the British Transport Police looks like a little house in the middle of an industrial forest. I am missing PC Lockhart. He’s one of my favourites. I wonder when he will be back on duty, whether he was at the beginning or the end of his run of nights, and whether Inspector Barker will suggest he has time off.