Ten in the morning, the pub inside the transit lounge at Waterloo rail station – he sat, as promised, at the near end of the bar with a copy of today’s newspaper and a pack of red Dunhill’s. Charlotte unbuttoned her coat and approached carefully, taking the barstool next to his. “They say April will be the coldest month this year,” she said in a measured cadence.

He looked up and extinguished a cigarette. “Not in Sri Lanka, I should think.”

The relief of recognition caused her to smile, though his lack of expression did not reciprocate. “What’s next?” she asked, afraid to make eye contact.

He left coins on the bar for his coffee as he stood. “It’s ten minutes until the train to Madrid leaves Platform 8, so let’s get moving.”

She slid off the barstool and followed him out of the pub and into the airy main concourse. The heels of her winter boots, even among such a crowd, resonated deafeningly in her own ears.

“Take my arm, and walk slower,” he instructed. “Someone is likely to be watching.”