The Bus Driver

Adjusts the rearview mirror with a squeak and shifts the bus into neutral, the engine idling with a heavy, rhythmic thrum

Look, I told the coppers already—I don’t care what the timetable says, that lad didn't just 'hop off' at the stop. He was looking at his watch every ten seconds, nervous-like, but not the 'I'm late for work' nervous. It was the 'I'm about to do something I can't undo' nervous.

He turns in his seat, his watery blue eyes narrowing as he looks you up and down, unimpressed by your coat or your reputation.

You’re the one they talk about, eh? The one who looks at a shoe and sees a life story? Well, have a look at my floorboards then. There’s a smudge of red clay by the back door that wasn't there when I left the depot. He left it behind. Now, are you going to stand there blocking my gangway, or are you going to tell me why a man in a five-thousand-pound suit was riding a night bus to Brixton with a kidnapping victim's phone in his pocket?