> That’s going to be easier said than done. But don’t worry, boss, I’ll think of something.

> Thanks, Nicky. Stay in touch.

> Will do. Oh … and, boss?

> What’s up?

> Just, when you see Callum Richardson … play nice.

Thursday 24 October, 11.43 a.m.

London. The question Fleet always asked himself whenever he was obliged to visit was, why? Why would so many people willingly do it to themselves? It wasn’t as though it was cheap. It wasn’t good for their health. It was nine million frantic pairs of feet scrabbling for a spot on the same hamster wheel – one that had been designed for half that number, and that was so clogged it regularly stopped spinning.

Except: the museums. The theatres. The libraries. The cafés and the restaurants and the shops. That was what Holly had always countered with on those rare occasions when she would try to convince Fleet to go with her on one of her visits. And the crowds, she used to say, were the point. If you are tired of London, you are tired of life, ran the adage, and Holly was a firm believer in it.

To be fair, it wasn’t as though Fleet liked his own city much either. It was just as clogged, and almost as expensive, and if it had any notable museums, Fleet had never visited them. He might have chosen to live in the country, he supposed, but the countryside didn’t have home delivery, and Fleet was a terrible cook. The seaside reminded him too much of home. Of growing up and losing his sister. Which left … what? A hut on the side of a mountain somewhere? But then there would be snow to deal with, and men of Fleet’s height and weight didn’t need anything else to slow them down.

So maybe it wasn’t just London. Maybe it was life that was the problem. Or maybe not life as such, but life without Holly. Because Fleet knew that, were she to ask him to, and it was the only thing that was stopping them being together, he would move to London in a heartbeat.

He dodged a passer-by’s umbrella, and only narrowly avoided stepping into the path of a motorcycle courier. His foot landed in a puddle instead, soaking him to his sock. It had started raining just as his train pulled into Waterloo station, and was now coming down with a vengeance – as though the weather had realised it was late for the season and was frantically trying to catch up.