The following day was a Saturday, so I treated myself to a lie-in. Once awake, my mind was full of images of the dark-haired lady. She had a pip of a nose. One of those little button noses that turn up at the end just enough so you can see the nostrils face on. On some people it makes them look like a werepig, but not on her. She had a lovely quirk where she held the back of her hand up to the side of her mouth when she was about to laugh, and she laughed a lot. She had a little curl of hair on the left end of her fringe at its junction with the main body of her hair, and she even laughed when I suggested the little curl should be called a ‘Chappaquiddick’. She also had the habit of holding the cuff of her jumper in her clenched fist when she was listening.

Ah fuck, man, I would love to see her again. But I don’t even know her name. She looked to me like a Sarah, or maybe a Lucy. I should give her a name, I realized, and settled on ‘Satsuma’, after the title of the book she left for me. I turned to the page where she had written, ‘You won’t be disappointed – ha!’ Her handwriting was on the flowery side of frivolous, a little window box of interest at the top of the dreary page. The circle she had drawn in the middle of the text was effortlessly artistic. I wondered if I should buy some Doc Martens. She might like that.

Eventually I got out of bed at around 11am. I was due round at my neighbour Grace’s flat in an hour for our regular Saturday lunch snack and chat, so had to get my arse into gear. I took a look around my flat. It looked as miserable as it had every day for the past two years. It has one bedroom with bathroom attached, a lounge and a kitchen. Being on the third floor, I have a decent view above the gardens and trees through to Peckham High Street at the back. My bedroom has no furniture in it apart from a mattress on the floor, a clothes rail with a missing wheel and an old Victorian standard lamp. In my living room is a green canvas two-seat sofa, a TV and a small table with two plastic dining chairs. I’m still living like a student.

I was just about to leave for Grace’s flat when there was a knock on my door. I answered and there, stood before me, were a couple of blokes that looked like off-duty coppers. Turns out they were policemen, but they weren’t off duty.

‘Hello, sir, sorry to trouble you. Are you Gary Thorn?’