As Elsie emerges from the Underground station, she immediately sees that the fog has thickened. It lingers like a lace curtain over the entrance at Highgate Station as she approaches the exit and walks out into the street beyond. It isn’t too thick or sight-reducing, not yet at least, but the dark winter night does not help. She is also just beginning to get that little throat tickle and the sour taste in the mouth that goes with it. She clutches the package of documents she is carrying tighter and moves to cross the main road. All is deadly quiet. She moves quickly, taking the biggest steps that these particular shoes will allow as she knows that trolley buses can approach silently and at speed. And if you can’t see it until it has practically hit you? A tram, though, is different; it cla
