Henry Dobbs was thinking about Joanne Wilson. For a man who had had little to do with any woman other than his mother for forty-seven years, he was thinking about Joanne Wilson rather more than he thought he should. He would have liked to see her, to meet up somewhere but how could that be managed? He knew there was no chance as he put out his breakfast cornflakes and boiled a kettle for his coffee. He had been at home in his little flat on the outskirts of town for a two-day break but was due back at work later that morning.
It was a dull day he saw as he sat in his kitchen, eating breakfast, and wondering how he could think up a reason to call Joanne Wilson on the telephone. It would have to be a good reason, or she would just dismiss it and him, and think he was a fool. It was a grey a
