Each time the train stopped, Simon leaned out to see who got off. Seed didn’t alight at Archway, Tufnell Park or Kentish Town, as far as Simon could tell, though the mass of moving bodies was such that he couldn’t be sure. Camden Town: no. Mornington Crescent: no. Leicester Square, Simon guessed. People who came into London for the evening usually headed to the West End. What did Proust think, that Simon was some kind of bumpkin who started to hyperventilate if he went any further than the ‘Welcome to Spilling’ sign outside the Queen’s Hall? Fucking wanker.

Simon had to move fast when he stuck his head out at Euston and saw Seed walking along the platform, following the ‘Way Out’ signs. He jumped off the train and went after him. Euston, he thought. What was at Euston? He swore at himself, impatient with guessing and being wrong.

He followed Seed up the escalator to Euston station proper. The place was heaving. In the middle of the concourse, an un-moving crowd of hundreds stood and stared up at the boards overhead. Around this still mass, another several hundred bodies swirled—those who already knew where to find their trains, those dashing in and out of shops. Simon kept his eyes fixed on the shiny shoulder patches of Seed’s jacket and made sure to stay out of his line of sight.

Seed went into WHSmith and bought something. From his vantage point, Simon saw that it was a newspaper, but not which one. Where next? Across the station concourse. Seed walked fast, like a man who knew exactly where he was going. He wasn’t ambling, drifting in and out of shops aimlessly like some of the people Simon could see. He had a purpose. He’s done this before. But done what? Simon wasn’t sure.

He watched as Seed went into the station’s food court and approached one of the counters. After a brief exchange with a woman wearing a red uniform and a red cap, Seed went to the till to pay—for nothing, apparently—then sat down at a small table that was unoccupied, his back towards Simon. He opened his newspaper. Simon moved closer and saw that it was the Independent . About five minutes later, the woman in the red uniform brought a plate of food to Seed’s table.

Simon wished he’d remembered to pick up his phone. He could have phoned Charlie. And said what? That Aidan Seed had come to Euston station for his tea? She’d have pissed herself laughing.

Seed had to be going on somewhere. No one came all the way from Spilling to London to have their dinner in a train station food court. Yeah, Charlie would say, just like no one confesses to murdering women who aren’t dead.