Light chinked through the curtains and fell on Holm’s face. He blinked awake, aware of traffic noise in the street outside, the growl of a heavy goods vehicle, the beep of a horn. Then somebody pounding on something. Bang bang bang. Holm screwed his eyes shut. He had a beast of a hangover for which Palmer was entirely to blame. As Holm was leaving work the previous evening, a text from his friend had bleeped into his phone.

‘If you’re going to drown your sorrows, best not to do it alone, eh?’ Palmer signed off with a winking emoji, and half an hour later they were starting their second pint in the Morpeth Arms at the bottom of Millbank, ostensibly to celebrate Holm’s new job.

The night had gone downhill from there, ending with a curry that Palmer insisted on paying for.

‘The way you’ve been talking, it sounds like you could be taking early retirement soon,’ he said. ‘Best save your pennies.’

One Madras and several bottles of Cobra later, Palmer was bundling Holm into a taxi for the ride home. He could remember little else except the taxi driver’s shake of the head when Holm had stepped out and vomited on his own front step. Drinking with Palmer tended to be like that.

‘Bloody hell.’ Holm heaved the words out and pulled a pillow over his head.

Bang bang bang.

The pounding came again. Then a pattering on the window. Stones or earth hitting the glass. Holm pushed off the pillow and cast the duvet aside. He staggered to the window, drew back the curtains and looked down into the street.

Farakh Javed grinned up at him before gesturing at the front door. Holm bent and lifted the sash window.

‘Boss. Are you going to let me in or what?’ The smile again. Like a bright sunbeam and about as welcome.

Holm groaned. This wasn’t the sort of morning he’d been expecting. He’d hoped to phone in sick and lie in bed for a couple of hours. Later, when he eventually got up, to cook a hearty breakfast and veg out in front of some daytime TV.

‘Well?’

Holm nodded and moved to the hallway. He buzzed the entry lock and a minute later the door to Holm’s flat swung open and Javed stepped in.

‘Some dirty wino’s spewed on your front step,’ he said. ‘This neighbourhood’s going to the dogs.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Holm crossed the room. He wondered about closing the curtains because the light was altogether too strong for his eyes. Instead he dropped onto the sofa. Javed was bouncing like a first-round featherweight who’d yet to land a punch. ‘Sit down, you’re making me nervous. Besides, what are you doing here?’

Javed stopped moving for a moment. ‘You look like you could do with some fresh air.’