‘I hope not,’ said Nelson.

‘When’d you last get some, then?’

Nelson frowned. ‘When did I last get some what?’ he asked.

‘You know.’

‘Oh. Right. Of course. Some … a romantic … moment. Well, it’s been a while.’

‘How long? Two days? Three?’

‘A little longer,’ said Nelson.

‘I haven’t had any in about three years,’ said the man, sitting back again and crossing his arms.

‘I thought you said you’d had more women than I’d had hot dinners?’

The man looked offended. ‘Well, I have, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘When I was younger. It’s a lot of hassle now, that’s the truth. Women want you to respect them and some of them don’t even want to go home once you’re finished. Bollocks to that. I only come here for the biscuits, if I’m honest. I stock up, you see.’ He opened his bag and showed Nelson the contents and, true to his word, it was full of biscuits. ‘Gets me through the week. Last Thursday, I went to a meeting in Colliers Wood and—’

Fortunately, Nelson never found out how the meeting in Colliers Wood went, as the bell rang again and he moved to the next seat. Now he was seated opposite a woman old enough to be his grandmother, who, somewhat cheerfully, had brought her knitting with her. He looked at her, trying to remember who she reminded him of. And then it came to him: the Queen Mother. Who’d been dead for years, of course, but still. The resemblance was uncanny.

‘I’m Nelson,’ he said, raising his voice a little, assuming she was deaf.

‘No need to shout, dear,’ said the woman. ‘And no names. It’s all anonymous here, remember? Like AA. Which I’m also a member of, as it happens.’

‘Of course. Nice to meet you, Number 1. Oh, you must have been the first one here.’

‘I always am,’ she said, click-clacking away with her needles. ‘I try to come early so I can look at all the men as they arrive. I rate them in my head on a scale of one to ten and then I make sure to put extra effort in when I’m sitting opposite the ones who scored high. It saves a lot of time, I find.’

‘I see,’ said Nelson. ‘And what number did I get?’

‘You’re a five, dear. Maybe a six. A sort of any-port-in-a-storm type. You’re no Number 18, that’s for sure, but you’re a damn sight better than Number 26.’

‘Thank you, I suppose,’ he said. Number 18 again. Whoever he was, he was proving very popular among women of all ages.

‘Still, a policeman! That’s impressive. Brought your truncheon, have you?’ She giggled like a manic pixie.

‘Ahahaha,’ said Nelson, to be polite.

‘I would have thought a policeman could have his pick of the women.’

‘No, sadly no. We’re very manly, of course. And fearless. But no.’

‘When did you last arrest someone?’

‘Yesterday,’ he lied. ‘Down Bridge End.’