I reached out and took another cigarette from the packet. I didn’t put it to my lips. Just played with it, keeping my movements and tone as light as falling leaves. ‘You’re here for me,’ I said, closing one eye as if thinking through all the permeations. ‘We’re not just having a lovely time.’

He shook his head. ‘I’d have let you sit staring into space for another three stops if it was up to me. Would let you get where you’re going. But that’s not going to happen. They’ve worked it out. If you get off at the next stop there’s a direct train back to London ten minutes later. They want you to be on it. Then you can go straight home, have a little lie down and we can debrief properly when you’ve had your porridge and fresh orange juice.’

I didn’t show any emotion. Just stared at him, mulling it over. ‘You’re with us?’

‘Who’s the “us”?’ he asked, snatching up his cigarettes and pulling a fresh one from the packet. He lit it in a temper, the lights in his eyes growing brighter as he sucked smoke into his lungs. ‘Who are you, that’s the question. Then maybe I’ll get to the who I am.’

‘You’ve already told me about your daughter,’ I said.

He shook his head at that. Spread his hands. ‘I haven’t got a fucking daughter.’

We let it hang there for a while; the absurdity of it all; the great tangled mesh of lies and half lies and truths unspoken between us. We could talk for an age and still never know which one of us was telling the truth or for what purpose.

‘I’m Cordelia Hemlock,’ I said, letting my vowels lengthen and some serious middle-class pretension bleed into my accent. ‘My husband is Cranham Hemlock. You might have heard of him. Department for Foreign Affairs and Commonwealth. I’m an economist with the European Commission. I’m heading to our country house to finalize some repairs before we put it on the market. My children are at school. I’m hoping that if this is all some dreadful pick-up attempt, you’re not going to be upset at the inevitable rejection. And if you’re a journalist looking for a scoop, I can assure you, nobody is interested in me. I’m a private person and my husband works very hard to keep it that way. So, fascinating as all of this has been, I must ask you to move to a different seat or I’ll have no choice but to call for the guard.’