The victim’s skull had been as hairless as an egg, so the blow seemed extra cruel – it had been a neck-breaking crunch that had made him and the woman sitting next to him cry out together. The owner of the bag leapt to his feet, and apologised, but his main concern was for his luggage: he hadn’t seen the man’s head snap to the side as it took the impact, so he probably didn’t realise how much pain he’d caused.

And it had, after all, been an accident.

If anyone was to blame it was the designer of the train, whose priority seemed to have been the aerodynamic appearance of the carriage rather than storage capacity. Or had the designer been responding to a brief created through fear? Ayesha wondered if the train company was frightened that a larger luggage rack would end up being the perfect hiding place for an explosive device? Anyway, the man who’d been hurt spent the rest of the journey rubbing his neck and working his shoulders. He muttered to his wife, and she muttered back: both looked furious, but there was soon nobody to be furious with, because the young man took his rucksack off at the next station, and everyone watched him hurry towards the exit barriers without a care in the world.

‘A musician?’ said a voice.

Michael might have asked the same question, but he was a long way off, just leaving Bath. It was a man sitting opposite, and Ayesha realised she had made the mistake of staring into space, unoccupied and open to conversation. She would normally curl up with her headphones in her ears, and the journey would be an opportunity to catch up on the music a college friend regularly sent her. Now she was obliged to smile, make eye contact, and reply.

‘Not me,’ she said.

‘Whose is it? It’s not lost property, is it? It’s not a… God forbid—’

‘No, no. It’s mine, but it belonged to someone else. I’m just delivering it.’

‘Acoustic?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have one myself. I even had lessons, years ago.’

Ayesha raised her eyebrows.

‘I gave up,’ she said.

The man was sitting back in his seat: thirty-five to forty years old with soft, neatly cut fair hair and a slightly boyish, sunburned face. He wore a neutral grey suit over a black shirt, and the distinguishing mark was his white clerical collar. He was slim, and his features fell naturally into a friendly, easy smile. She saw that his eyes were soft blue, and he had no anxiety about looking into hers. He didn’t seem to blink.

‘I probably should have done,’ he said. ‘Given up, I mean. I embarrass everyone now, especially my wife. Are you going far?’

‘Preston,’ replied Ayesha.

‘Not a town I know. I don’t think I’ve ever been outside the station.’

‘You’re very wise.’