Ess’ phone rang on the journey back to Paddington.  She didn’t recognise the number.
 
“Hello?”
 
“Hello.  Ms. Williams?  It’s Allen Whitmarsh.”
 
“Hello.”  The name seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it immediately.
 
“Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday.  No rest for the wicked, eh?  But Peter and I are very keen to clear up this Daisy business.  Can we meet?”
 
Peter Davenport?  What was his PA’s name?  Allen?  Ess could only vaguely remember the man that lived in the MP’s shadow.
 
“Yes, of course.  When?”
 
“I’m free now.  Could I come round?”
 
“Oh, no.  I’m on a train into London, and, well, I have company at home later.”
 
“Perhaps a coffee?  Which station are you coming into?”
 
“Paddington.”
 
“Fine.  Can we meet there?  Over a coffee perhaps.”
 
“Um, okay.”
 
“Good.  They’re bound to have a clock or something.  I’ll meet you under it.  Or is that too clichéd?”
 
“No, fine.  I’ll get there in about half an hour.”
 
“Excellent.  Might take me a bit longer but please wait for me.”
 
She hung up.  Could this case actually be going somewhere now?  Why else would he be in such a hurry to meet her?  She texted Shades to let him know she was on her way and sat back.  If anyone could find a cure to her problem, it was Dorothy.  There wasn’t a finer Wiccan herbalist in the country.  She just wished she hadn’t had to go crawling to her for help.  A step forward in tracking down Daisy now.  And Shades waiting for her at home afterwards.  Life was on the up and up.  So why did she feel so gloomy?  Lack of sleep, probably.  It wouldn’t hurt to close her eyes just for a moment.
 
The train jolted and she snapped her eyes open.  They were at Paddington already.  How was that possible?  She grabbed her bag, stumbled off the train and made her way along the platform to the cathedral of a hall.  There was indeed a clock, a great three-sided square-faced monument to Victorian Gothic.  What did Whitmarsh look like?  All she could remember from the night before was a suit and tie.  No, his face was an oily blank. 
 
No one standing under the clock wore a suit, but then, it was Sunday.  Perhaps even politicos wore smart casual on Sundays.  Nobody looked the part either, even in plain clothes.  She joined the handful of tourists milling around under the clock.  After a minute the aroma coming from the coffee stall made to look like a gypsy caravan was too much.  She deserted her post long enough to buy a herbal tea that tasted more of chemicals than the organic ginseng and raspberry promised and resumed her position.
 
“Have you been stood up too?”
 
Ess turned to the speaker.  A boy, eighteen, all acne and nerves, grimaced at her.  He clutched a small box wrapped in a paper bag that could only be a last-minute box of chocolates bought on the station concourse.
 
“No.  I’m meeting someone.”
 
“Oh, okay, sorry.  Only you were looking at everyone, I thought you were on a blind date.  Thought for a moment you might have been mine.”  There was more than a hint of hope in his voice.  “I should be so lucky.”  His nervous laugh died suddenly.  “But you weren’t wearing the badge.”  He hooked a thumb at a badge on his lapel, which said ‘Hug Me’.  No, the badge not so much said as begged.  “She said she would wear the badge, you know, so we’d know each other when we saw.”
 
“I have a boyfriend,” said Ess, hoping that was the kindest way of putting him off.  It wasn’t exactly cursing the gods for foisting a boyfriend on her before she met this dreamy collection of bones held by taut elastic bands, but it wasn’t a lie either.  She suspected his blind date had already seen the badge, turned hers over and slunk away into the crowd.
 
“Okay.”  He nodded bravely.  “Of course you do.  The nice ones always do.”
 
She turned back to the faces milling around on the concourse.  Honestly, did she look like she was on a blind date?  Well, okay, maybe she did, she conceded.  Standing under the clock, looking at strange men as they neared.  She could understand that, but her?  No, she oozed a confident woman that had a very buff boyfriend, thank you very much.  Didn’t she?  My God, what if everyone thought that?  Worse, what if they thought she and the pubescent collection of terror and awkwardness were an item.  She took a surreptitious step away from him.  He matched it and took another closer for good measure.
 
“Can I ask you a question?” he said.  “She said twelve o’clock.  How long should I wait?”
 
Ess glanced up.  It was nearly one-thirty.
 
“I think something must have come up.  Maybe she can’t get here at all.  I’d call it quits.  I wouldn’t expect a boy to wait an hour and a half if it was me.”
 
He nodded and scanned the crowd.  “Yeah.  Maybe five more minutes.”
 
“Ms. Williams!”
 
Ess turned.  Whitmarsh, it appeared, did not believe in dress-down Sundays.  He had on the same shiny suit as last night, but the tie was different.  What did it say about him that she could remember his clothes but not his face?
 
“Have you been waiting long?”  He held out a hand and Ess shook it.
 
“No, not really.”
 
“Shall we find somewhere we can talk?  I spotted a coffee shop outside.”
 
“Yes, of course.”  She smiled a sympathetic goodbye at the desperate youth and walked off with Whitmarsh.  At the exit to the station she turned for a moment.  The youth still stood there, desperation oozing from him even at that distance, and she knew he’d still be there long after she got home.