‘Yes, thank you, Salvi, fine, fine.’ Dad is dusting off his palms as I retrieve his cane from under the feet of exiting punters at the side of the entrance lobby, where it has half-skittered under a radiator.

‘You haven’t hurt yourself, Dad?’ I ask, concerned.

‘No, I’m absolutely fine. Right as rain.’

‘Are you all right?’ Dad turns to the space behind him, but the young couple patting themselves down are beside us now.

‘No, we’re OK, all fine. So sorry,’ they say, as the British do. ‘No harm done.’

‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ says Salvi. He goes to take Dad’s arm.

‘No, no, you’re all right, lad. Roo?’

‘I’m here, Dad.’ Dad finds the back of my left arm, just above the elbow, and we set off towards the exit, Salvi hanging just behind us with his arm hovering at the small of my back. People give our weird trio a wide berth, a clearing opens up before us; the parting of the Red Sea. I didn’t see Kemp again; he must have left before we did.

‘Silly old twit,’ says Dad as we pass through the final space of the lobby.

‘Who, you or that other bloke?’

Dad gives a snort of laughter. Salvi reaches forward and tries to retake my hand but I want to keep it free, just in case. I can’t not catch Dad again.

‘Are you sure you didn’t hurt your leg, Dad?’

‘No, no, I’m really all right. We’ll check it out when we get home.’

Except I was hoping to go home with Salvi. I was hoping to drop Dad off then travel with him to his flat. I glance behind and Salvi is on his phone. He taps away on it as we walk.

‘Actually, I’ve got to go,’ he says, now walking level with us.

‘Go? Where?’

‘Got to see a man about a case, crucial evidence. Prearranged meeting in the area.’

‘In the area? It’s Camden at eleven o’clock on a Friday night! I thought we could drop Dad off at The Palladian and go on somewhere.’ Like your bed.

‘Another time?’ He’s looking at his phone again. Tap, tap, tapping at something. Those fingers should be on me!

‘Really?’ Disappointment is knifing me in the chest, its blade rusty and flaking; twisting. Why is this man always running away from me? Is it because my focus is on Dad; because I wouldn’t hold his hand? Is Salvi a petty child? Has he invented this thing, this meeting? I don’t really know what to think any more.

‘Yes. Nature of the job, and all that. I’ll call you,’ Salvi says, and he kisses me very briefly on the cheek – the bad one – so lightly I can barely feel it, and he nods at Dad, although Dad cannot see him. ‘See you.’