Lily’s breath stopped in her throat. She looked from one man to the other. Peter was staring at him in disbelief.

‘I’m offering you cash for the phone. On the basis that this is the only copy of that photograph.’

‘I’m not selling my phone.’

‘Then I have to advise you, young man, that I’ll be contacting the police and identifying you through your car registration. And I have a lot of friends in the police force. Quite high-up friends.’ He smiled a smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.

Across the road a bunch of people spilled out of a restaurant, laughing. Peter looked at her and back at Mr Garside. He lifted his chin. ‘Five grand.’

Mr Garside reached into his inside pocket. He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He pulled out his wallet and counted out a bundle of notes. ‘I think this will do. It sounds as though you’ve already been amply rewarded. The phone, please?’

It was as if Peter had been hypnotised. He hesitated for just a moment, then handed Mr Garside his phone. Just like that. Mr Garside checked that the SIM card was in it, tucked it into his inside pocket, and opened the car door for Lily. ‘I think it’s time for you to leave, Lily.’

She climbed in, like an obedient child, hearing the solid thunk of the car door as it closed behind her. And then they were off, gliding smoothly down the narrow street, leaving Peter shell-shocked – she could see him in the wing mirror – as if he, too, couldn’t believe what had just happened.

‘Are you all right?’ Mr Garside didn’t look at her as he spoke.

‘Is … is that it?’

He glanced sideways, then back at the road. ‘I think so, yes.’

She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe the thing that had hung over her for weeks could be fixed just like that. She turned to him, suddenly anxious. ‘Please don’t tell my mum and Francis.’

He frowned slightly. ‘If that’s what you want.’

She let out a long, silent breath. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

He patted her knee. ‘Nasty lad. You need to be careful with your friends, Lily.’ He moved his hand back onto the automatic gearstick before she had even registered its presence.

He hadn’t batted an eyelid when she had told him she had nowhere to stay. He had driven her to a hotel in Bayswater and spoken quietly to the receptionist, who had handed her a room key. She was relieved he hadn’t suggested taking her to his house: she didn’t want to explain herself to anyone else.

‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow when you’re sober,’ he said, tucking his wallet into his jacket pocket.

She had walked heavily up to Room 311, lain down on the bed fully clothed and slept for fourteen hours.

He called to say he would meet her for breakfast. She showered, took some clothes out of her rucksack and ran an iron over them in the hope that she looked a little more presentable. She was not good at ironing – Lena had done that sort of thing.

When she came downstairs to the restaurant he was already sitting there, reading a paper, a half-drunk cup of coffee in front of him. He was older than she remembered, his hair thinning on top, a faint crêpiness to the skin of his neck; the last time she had seen him had been at a company event at the races where Francis had drunk too much and her mother had hissed at him furiously whenever nobody else was about, and Mr Garside, catching it, had raised his eyebrows at Lily, as if to say, ‘Parents, eh?’

She slid into the chair opposite him and he lowered his newspaper. ‘Aha. How are you today?’

She felt embarrassed, as if last night she had been overly histrionic. As if it had all been a fuss over nothing. ‘Much better, thank you.’

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

He had studied her for a minute over his glasses. ‘Very formal.’

She smiled. She didn’t know what else to do. It was too weird, being there with her stepdad’s work colleague. The waitress offered her coffee and she drank it. She eyed the breakfast buffet, wondering if she was expected to pay. He seemed to sense her discomfort. ‘Eat something. Don’t worry. It’s paid for.’ He turned back to his paper.

She wondered whether he would tell her parents. She wondered what he had done with Peter’s phone. She hoped he had slowed his big black car on the Thames embankment, lowered his window and hurled it into the swirling currents below. She wanted never to see that picture again. She rose and fetched a croissant with some fruit from the buffet. She was starving.

He sat reading as she ate. She wondered how they looked from outside – like any father and daughter probably. She wondered whether he had children.

‘Don’t you have to be at work?’

He smiled, accepted more coffee from the waitress. ‘I told them I had an important meeting.’ He folded his newspaper neatly and put it down.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I need to get a job.’

‘A job.’ He sat back. ‘Well. What kind of job?’

‘I don’t know. I kind of messed up my exams.’

‘And what do your parents think?’

‘They don’t … I can’t … They’re not very happy with me right now. I’ve been staying with friends.’

‘You can’t go back there?’