‘Yes. Where should he meet you?’

I named the pub. ‘I’ll be up on the balcony, he knows the place. We had a drink here a few days ago. I’ll have a can of Fosters all ready for him. Umm… I take it he’s just stepped out or something? I would like to see him soon.’

‘Yes. An hour?’

‘Good. Thank you.’

I went for a walk around the streets, wondering what was going to happen next. It was a mild winter day; the sunshine was fitful and the water turned from a greenish blue to a hard grey in response to it. A small yacht moved along in the choppy water looking incongruous against the backdrop of cargo, machinery and work. Fifty-five minutes later, I was back on the balcony with a fresh beer and a clean glass and a can of Fosters in front of me.

She came in. Dead on time. She was tall, with black hair, olive skin and eyes and a nose like a Coptic mask. She was wearing a camel-coloured coat and boots and as she stood in the doorway there wasn’t a man within sight who wasn’t staring at her. She walked over to me and sat down and I could feel and hear breaths hissing out between clenched teeth from all around.

‘Norman couldn’t come,’ she said.

‘I know. He’s dead.’ I opened the beer can and poured some into my glass. ‘This was his drink, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. That was his drink.’

‘And who’re you? I know you’ve got a new phone number lately. I’d say Norman was important to you, and you don’t look like a relative. I don’t know anything else about you.’

‘Why did you want to see Norman?’ She tramped right over what I’d been saying as if the words were a minor nuisance.

‘I didn’t, I wanted to see you.’

She made a move to get up but I got my hand across, gripped her arm and pressed her down. ‘Wait. Let’s talk, what harm can it do? Will you have a drink?’

She subsided and shrugged. In the smooth, brown skin of her face, especially around her eyes, were lines of strain and desperation.