‘Have you got a place?’ he said, leaning up against the door.

It was opened by a young guy in black jeans and a sweatshirt. Matt, maybe that was his name, Porter thought, struggling to remember what he was called. He was OK, the way he recalled it from the last time he’d been here. Didn’t lecture you, and didn’t suggest you got a job. Just gave you a hot shower, and some antibiotics, and let you get some kip.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ said Matt.

Porter hadn’t looked in a mirror – it wasn’t a piece of kit you carried around with you when you lived on the streets – but he imagined he looked terrible. There was still some bleeding on his face, and some minor flesh wounds from the beating he’d taken. His clothes were cut and torn, and he was soaked through. Everything is relative, but even in a Vauxhall hostel for the homeless, he looked like crap.

‘I need a drink, mate,’ growled Porter. ‘A drink and somewhere to kip …’

Matt took a step back, and Porter followed him. The entrance hallway to the Orchid Centre was painted lime green, and smelt of disinfectant and boiled cabbage. Matt’s office had an electric fire, and a small TV. The clock on the wall said it was just after nine. ‘There’s no booze here, Porter,’ said Matt sharply. ‘You know that.’

Porter was wobbling, trying to hold on to his balance. There was still enough vodka swilling around inside him to make it hard to stand up straight. On the TV, he caught a glimpse of Perry Collinson. He was talking about Katie Dartmouth: it was a replay of the same interview he’d seen earlier in the day. As he finished his Churchill quote, the report cut to a blonde, smartly turned-out woman in her late fifties. It was an interview with Katie’s mum, from her home village in Hampshire. There were tears in her eyes as she said how worried they were about Katie, and how desperately they wanted to see her again. ‘We’ll be back right after the break with the all the latest on the Katie Dartmouth kidnap drama,’ concluded the newscaster. And the screen faded to an elegant picture of Katie Dartmouth, looking blonde and radiant, while the wistful opening chords of Elton John’s ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight’ played on the soundtrack.

‘I need a fucking drink,’ Porter snapped, looking away from the TV screen.

‘Like I said, there’s no drinking,’ said Matt, turning angry. ‘We can sort you out with a bed. From the looks of you, we should probably try and get you to a doctor in the morning as well.’

‘It’s a drink I need, not a bloody doctor.’

Matt took a step closer. He was slightly built but he’d worked in the hostel long enough not to be intimidated by any of the guys who kipped down there. ‘You need to learn to play by the rules, mate,’ he said.