"Yes, Bob. Er, it's about Mo." I sit down hard. "She's flying into London City from Amsterdam on KL 1557"—my heart starts up again—"and I think it would be a really good idea if you were to meet her in. She's due to land around nine, you can just get there if you leave in the next ten minutes—"

"What's happened to her?" I realize I'm gripping the phone too hard and force myself to open my fist. It wouldn't do to break the bloody thing before I've ported my number across—

"Nothing," he says, too quickly. "Look, will you just—"

"I'm going! I'm going! I'm dragging myself from my sickbed groaning and limping in my nightgown to the airport, okay?" I look round, trying to locate my shoes: I dumped them in the hall the night before—"Are you sure she's okay?"

"Not entirely," he says quietly, and hangs up.

I'm dressed and out of the house like a greased whippet, round the corner to the tube station and the train to Bank and then the DLR line to London City Airport, out in the east end near Canary Wharf. I remember to grab the JesusPhone at the last minute, shoveling it into an inside zippered pocket in my fishing vest. I'm at the DLR platform waiting for a train before I realize I've forgotten to shave. If Andy is yanking my chain . . .

All doubts fade when I get to Arrivals at ten to eleven and see KL 1557 on the board, on schedule for fifteen minutes hence. If she's hurt—

But she won't be. At least, not physically. In her line of work, if something goes wrong, it's probably fatal; at best she'd be clogging up a hospital high dependency unit, and I'd be on my way out to see her with many hand-wringing apologetics and a complimentary budget-price ticket from Human Resources.

Hanging around in an airport Arrivals hall is not a good thing to do if you're nervous. I can feel the cops' eyes on the back of my neck, wondering what the unshaven agitated guy who can't keep his feet still is doing. The minutes and seconds trickle by with glacial, infuriating slowness. Then the Arrivals board changes the flight status to arrived, and—

There she is. Coming out of the door from baggage claim in the middle of a clot of suits, violin case slung over her shoulder. Freckled skin stretched over high cheekbones, long red hair tied back out of her face, uncharacteristically dressed in office drag: that's unusual, must be urban camouflage for whatever she's been sent to do. Something about her gait, or the set of her shoulders, tells me she's bone-deep weary. I wave: she sees me and changes course and I move towards her and we collide in a deep embrace that ends in a kiss.

She pulls back after a couple of seconds. "Get me home. Please." She sounds—low.

"Andy said—"