[Beckenham. Tuesday April 17. 14:18 BST.]
I sat at the desk for an hour after Jessica left. I did not work. I did not read Bruno Fernandes. I did not return Marcus's messages. I sat with both feet flat on the floor and looked at the photograph on the wall behind the desk, the one of the Carabao Cup lift in February with Mili holding the trophy and the bench piling on, and I thought about everything Jessica had said and about everything Steve had said on Saturday night and about everything I had not yet said to Emma.
Then I picked up the phone and rang her.
"Walsh."
"Em."
"It is Tuesday afternoon."
"It is Tuesday afternoon."
"You are going to tell me."
"I am going to tell you. Tonight at home. Not on the phone."
"All right. What time?"
"Six."
"Six."
"I love you."
There was a pause on the line.
"I love you too, Walsh."
I hung up. Sat at the desk another five minutes. Then I picked the phone back up and rang Steve Parish.
"Daniel."
"Steve."
"You're early."
