Around dawn Troy felt Kitty slide from his bed, heard the rustle of her slipping back into her clothes, the wooden groan of a drawer being prised open.
‘Need a hanky. You don’t mind, do you?’
She plucked out one of his F-embroidered handkerchiefs. Troy said nothing.
Then the gentle click of the Yale engaging on the front door, and the roar of her motorbike ripping up the blackout in Bedfordbury.
Kitty roared home to Covent Garden. All of three streets away. She needed sleep before her shift. She’d got next to none in Troy’s bed. It was less than three hours later when her father phoned to murder sleep.