Monday, May 18, 1953
Cradling the receiver between ear and shoulder, his back to the road, Robbie held a tuppence over the slot.
He looked at the advertisement on the telephone box wall: Weetabix makes an ideal summer snack.
Then he looked at himself in the small, square mirror.
Under the harsh yellow light, he appeared gaunt.
Spectral. Finally he pushed in the coin and asked the operator for Bishopsgate police station.
“Hello,” he said, “I’m telephoning to report an abandoned vehicle.
Yes, I’ll hold the line… That’s right, it’s a rusty Ford Anglia, blue and cream.
It’s parked at the bottom of Fish Street Hill, at Upper Thames Street.
Suspicious, I thought. Not to mention an eyesore.
I work in the area, you see. No, thank you, I’d rather not leave my name. ”