He snatched sideways, grabbing for the wall. Far behind, on the further side of the road, a couple meandered entangled in groping love. In front a girl was approaching, hobbled by a short, thigh-hugging skirt. A man strode past him, bowler purposefully slanted over his forehead, tightly furled umbrella striking the ground in time to his marched progress, like a parade sergeant’s staff. Too dark and too quick to see the regimental tie, but there’d be one. Just like the pricks who took over the department and tried to get him killed. Screwed them, though. Sucked them up and blew them out in bubbles.

He frowned, trying to remember why he was standing in the middle of the bridge, with his back protectively against the parapet. Surveillance! Trying to observe the observers. He sniggered, conscious of the whisky fumes at the back of his throat. Still good enough to spot them, if they’d been there. Quite safe, he decided positively.

He pulled upright, to continue across the river, confronting the girl approaching him. The skirt was tighter than he’d first thought. And shorter. Wasn’t wearing a bra either, he saw, conscious of the bouncing turmoil under the clinging sweater. A professional, judged Charlie, with a vague stir of interest. He tried quickly to guess how much money he had in his pocket, feeling the coin edges and attempting to count the notes, holding them unseen separately between his fingers. Difficult to tell. Maybe ten pounds. More likely five or six, where he’d counted twice. Should be sufficient for a short time. Charlie squared himself, ready for the approach. The girl detected the interest, slowing her walk. Then, quickly checking the traffic in both directions, she crossed the roadway, heading for Chelsea and a better class of client on the opposite side of the river.

‘Fuck me,’ said Charlie inappropriately. Once more he sniggered. No one wanted Charlie Muffin; not even whores.

Or Rupert Willoughby.