‘Sweetheart, I mean this in the nicest way, but if you have another drink I’ll worry about you. And I really, really hate ending my shift worrying about customers.’

‘A small one,’ she says. Her smile is heartbreaking. ‘I don’t even usually drink.’

‘Yeah. You’re the ones I worry about.’

‘This …’ Her eyes are strained. ‘This is a difficult day. A really difficult day. Please can I just have one more drink? And then you can call me a nice respectable taxi from a nice respectable firm and I’ll go home and pass out and you can go home without worrying about me.’

He looks back at Paul and sighs. See what I have to put up with? ‘A small one,’ he says. ‘A very small one.’

Her smile falls away, her eyes half close, and she reaches down to her feet, swaying, for her bag. Paul turns back to the bar, checking his phone for messages. It is his turn to have Jake tomorrow night, and although the thing with him and Leonie is now amicable, some part of him still worries that she will find a reason to cancel.

‘My bag!’

He glances up.

‘My bag’s gone!’ The woman has slid from the stool and is gazing around at the floor, one hand clutching the bar. When she looks up, her face is leached of colour.

‘Did you take it to the Ladies?’ Greg leans across the bar.

‘No,’ she says, her gaze darting around the bar. ‘It was tucked under my stool.’

‘You left your bag under the stool?’ Greg tuts. ‘Didn’t you read the signs?’

There are signs all over the bar. Do not leave your bag unattended: pickpockets operate in this area. Paul can count three of them just from where he sits.

She has not read them.

‘I’m really sorry. But it’s not good around here.’ The woman’s gaze flickers between them and, drunk as she is, he can see that she guesses what they’re thinking. Silly drunk girl.

Paul reaches for his phone. ‘I’ll call the cops.’

‘And tell them I was stupid enough to leave my bag under a stool?’ She puts her face into her hands. ‘Oh, God. I’d just withdrawn two hundred pounds for the council tax. I don’t believe it. Two. Hundred. Pounds.’

‘We’ve had two already this week,’ says Greg. ‘We’re waiting for CCTV to be installed. But it’s an epidemic. I’m really sorry.’

She looks up and wipes her face. She lets out a long, unsteady breath. She is plainly trying not to burst into tears. The glass of wine sits untouched on the bar. ‘I’m really sorry. But I don’t think I’m going to be able to pay for that.’

‘Don’t give it a thought,’ says Greg. ‘Here, Paul, you call the cops. I’ll go get her a coffee. Right. Time, ladies and gentlemen, please …’

The police around here do not come out for vanished handbags. They give the woman, whose name is Liv, a crime number and promise a letter about victim support, and tell her they’ll be in touch if they find anything. It’s clear to everyone that they do not expect to be in touch.

By the time she’s off the phone the bar is long empty. Greg unlocks the door to let them out, and Liv reaches for her jacket. ‘I’ve a guest staying. She’s got a spare key.’

‘You want to call her?’ Paul proffers his phone.

She looks blankly at him. ‘I don’t know her number. But I know where she works.’

Paul waits.

‘It’s a restaurant about ten minutes’ walk from here. Towards Blackfriars.’

It’s midnight. Paul gazes at the clock. He is tired and his son is being dropped off at seven thirty tomorrow morning. But he cannot leave a drunk woman, who has plainly spent the best part of an hour trying not to cry, to walk the backstreets of the South Bank at midnight.

‘I’ll walk with you,’ he says.

He catches her look of wariness, the way she prepares to decline. Greg touches her arm. ‘You’re okay, sweetheart. He’s an ex-cop.’

Paul feels himself being reassessed. The woman’s makeup has smudged beneath one eye and he has to fight the urge to wipe it.

‘I can vouch for his good character. He’s genetically wired to do this, kind of like a St Bernard in human form.’

‘Yeah. Thanks, Greg.’

She puts on her jacket. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind, that would be really kind of you.’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Paul. And good luck, Miss Liv. Hope it all gets sorted.’ Greg waits until they are some way down the road, then closes and locks the door.

They walk briskly, their feet echoing in the empty cobbled streets, the sound bouncing off the silent buildings around them. It has begun to rain, and Paul rams his hands deep into his pockets, his neck hunched into his collar. They pass two young men in hoodies and he is conscious of her moving slightly closer to him.

‘Did you cancel your cards?’ he says.

‘Oh. No.’ The fresh air is hitting her hard. She looks despondent, and every now and then she stumbles a little. He would offer his arm but he doesn’t think she would take it. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

‘Can you remember what you have?’

‘One Mastercard, one Barclays.’

‘Hold on. I know someone who can help.’ He dials a number. ‘Sherrie? … Hi. It’s McCafferty … Yeah, fine, thanks. All good. You?’ He waits. ‘Listen – could you do me a favour? Text me the numbers for stolen bank cards? Mastercard and a Barclays. Friend’s just had her bag nicked … Yeah. Thanks, Sherrie. Say hi to the guys for me. And, yeah, see you soon.’