“I’ve no idea,” he said. “Somewhere out of public view.” And they followed the work gang at a discreet distance, through tall iron gates in a high wall, and out across a great confluence of lines, red and green lights winking in the mist, the occasional grind of metal on metal as rails slid between rails to make connections between lines. They lost sight of the workers and kept on across the lines, towards the dark shadow of a bank of derelict sheds. The rails here were rusted, grass and weeds growing tall between the sleepers. Lines of old carriages lay rotting in front of the sheds.

Li pulled himself up on one and kicked the door open. The inside smelt musty and damp. With Yongli’s help, Margaret hauled herself up and followed him down the corridor. It was an old sleeping car, compartments with fold-down beds on two levels, stripped bare and divested of any comfort they might once have had. But the carriage was clean enough, and though it smelled damp, seemed secure against the elements, and dry. Li slid open a door to one of the compartments and looked in. “This’ll do,” he said. With the sheds on one side, and a view out across the junction towards the city on the other, they would be able to see anyone approaching. He threw their holdall on to one of the beds and sat down to light a cigarette and slowly peel off his whiskers. Margaret wandered to the window and looked out through the dusty glass at the sun pushing up above the skyline, dispelling the early morning accumulation of mist and smoke. She pulled off her wig and with relief released her hair to tumble across her shoulders. Yongli remained in the doorway.

“I’ll go and try to get us transport,” he said to Li. “I might be some time.”

Li nodded and chucked him a bundle of notes held with an elastic band. “See if you can get some cigarettes,” he said. Yongli turned to go. Li called after him and he turned back. “I appreciate this, Ma Yongli.” He hesitated. “And I’m sorry. I was wrong about Lotus.”

There was a pained look in Yongli’s eyes, and he looked away, unable to speak for a moment. “You were,” was all that he said in the end, and he turned away again. They heard his footsteps retreating down the corridor, and then watched his tall, round figure dwindle across the tracks, disappearing finally into the mist without looking back.

“He seems very low,” Margaret said eventually.

Li drew deeply on his cigarette, the tobacco crackling as it burned. “Ma Yongli is an extrovert. He can be . . . manic, sometimes. He has incredible highs. He also has terrible lows. He’ll come out of it.” He stood on his cigarette. “I must try to sleep. I got none during the night.” He looked at her. “Will you be okay?”