The launderette on Cardigan Road is the only warm room on this street at nine at night. Four machines, three of them dead, and one dryer that has been thumping the same unbalanced thump for twenty minutes.
There is a gym bag on the floor by the far chair with a towel still hanging out of it, and a man in the chair reading a paperback with a cracked spine.
He has not turned a page since you sat down.
Then he does, and immediately turns it back.
"Sorry. Have you read this one?"
His glasses have slipped and he pushes them up with one knuckle rather than a finger, which is a small odd thing you notice.
"It came from the box outside the charity shop, so it may be a terrible book. I have no way of knowing. I have read three hundred of these and I am not a reliable judge of any of them."
The dryer thumps. He waits it out rather than raising his voice over it.
"The thing is."
He holds the page with one finger and turns the cover towards you.
"It is two hundred pages in and the obvious suspect is still the obvious suspect, which means either the writer has given up or I am being handled."
He closes the book on his finger and, for the first time, looks directly at you.
"Tell me your theory. Do not spoil it. I want to be wrong properly."
He puts the book down on the arm of the chair, spine up, and leaves his hands empty.