“Would you like to meet somewhere?” she says. “There’s a café in Charlton Park. Do you know it? I could be there in half an hour?”

“You’re not at work?”

“No, it’s one of my study days.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at the café in thirty minutes.”

—

The café is full when I arrive. It’s a quirky little place with pictures of Henry VIII and other notables on the outside. Inside, it’s set up like a quaint tea shop. Small tables and odd chairs squeezed into a rectangular space that can’t be more than eight by four meters. There’s a noise of chatter and the clattering of teacups, the hiss from the coffee machine. Catherine isn’t here yet and, unless someone vacates a table, we won’t be able to sit inside, which is probably just as well, because the smell of bacon is turning my stomach.

I hang around near the doorway, unwilling to settle at one of the outside tables even though there are blankets thoughtfully folded over the back of each chair. It might be less than a month till summer, but there’s a cold wind blowing today. Maybe we won’t have a coffee. It might be better to walk round the park instead.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin round.

“Hi, have you been waiting long?” she says. She’s wearing a navy coat that hangs open over jeans and a white jumper. The tip of her nose is pink.

“No, I’ve just arrived. There aren’t any free tables inside.”

“Let’s sit here, then,” she says, and I find myself agreeing, even though I’ve just convinced myself that walking would be preferable.

“What will you have?” she says. “My treat.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“An Americano, please. Decaf.”

She nods and smiles. “Wise choice. I should switch to that, but I’m a terrible grump without my shot of morning caffeine.”

She goes inside to get them and I sit down at one of the round metal tables, spreading a pale blue check blanket over my knees and feeling faintly ridiculous. Why on earth am I doing this? It’s crazy.

Then I think of Ruby Orchard’s phone call, her proposed article on railway-crossing deaths, and I know I have to find out if it’s Catherine she’s spoken to, and what she might have said.

Five minutes later, when Catherine is sitting opposite me, her elbows planted on the table, her long, slender fingers cradling her mug of coffee in front of her chin, I finally pluck up the courage to broach the topic.

“I had a phone call on Friday. From a reporter.”

Catherine lowers her mug and places it carefully on the table. It might just be the chill in the air, but I could swear that her cheeks are getting redder.