Glancing up and down the carriage to make sure that no one is going to come over and disturb me, I carefully unzip the pockets of the red suitcase one by one. Nothing much of interest in the front. But in the back one, I strike gold. A cardboard wallet, the kind you get in the travel agent’s when they hand over the currency you ordered. I open it, fully expecting it to be empty, or maybe with just a receipt inside, but no. There are several fresh, crisp notes.

Someone has been very irresponsible leaving them in this case like this – but I’m not going to hang around and wait for them to realise their mistake. I slide the notes out of the wallet, then put the wallet back inside. Then I pull my rucksack towards me again and open the top. I fiddle around inside until I find the zip for the secret pocket, and then I slide the notes in, zip it up and close the flap again. I push my rucksack back to the corner of the rack, leaving the red suitcase back in its original position. If they do come back, wondering where their money is – they’d never think to look in the bag next to it. I imagine a husband and wife arguing about which one of them was stupid enough to leave the wallet in the bag, and which one of them didn’t bother to put on the padlocks. Neither of them will ever know that their money is less than thirty centimetres away, but lost to them forever.

I’m humming a little tune to myself as I saunter off down the carriage and into the dining car. I realise now that Carrie was holding me back. My feelings for her clouded my judgement, dulled my senses. She made me weak, helpless – humbled by her sexy charms.

Well, not anymore. Because the real Violet is back.

The dining car is already nearly full, people chattering over maps and guidebooks, teas and beers. I stop at a table where two women in their sixties are pouring small bottles of tonic into tall glasses filled with ice and lemon. They look up when they see me standing there, and I give them my best, most vulnerable smile.

‘Do you mind if I join you, ladies? I don’t want to impose … it’s just, well … I’m traveling alone, and I was mugged last night.’ I pause to push out a tear, and I rub at my face, pressing my fists into my eyes, then I look back down at them, and they are looking up at me sympathetically, thinking, ‘This could be my daughter … this is someone’s daughter…’