Rain hammered against the window, angry. Like it had a vendetta against the Weatherspoons I was hiding in the corner of. I’ve always preferred the corner seats, probably because they usually have a sofa - they also have the advantage of being an excellent vantage for people watching (one of the only benefits of being surrounded by people).

Sat there, I found myself dreading the inevitable ride home. I really don’t want to in this rain. Hopefully, my saddle won’t be too wet, though that is just wishful thinking.

Suddenly, the door of the restaurant bashed open and in he walked, breaking my stream of thought. His navy blue sauconys gleaming with droplets of rain reflecting the yellowish light of the restaurant. Once white socks now flecked with mud peaking out of the top of his trainers.

Dark hair covered his lean muscular legs, which were only wearing shorts despite the awful weather. His waterproof had been sprayed in mud almost like a brown murder scene. Blue eyes glistened with the excitement from the adrenaline still remnant from the run. They matched his trainers perfectly and I marvelled at how happy he genuinely seemed.

Running in that weather would be hell!

Nodding briskly at the slightly sceptical man at the bar, he makes his way past the gawks and gaping mouths to my little corner booth. Striding confidently, unashamed with no shred of embarrassment.

“If you think you are going to sit here and get me muddy you are out of your mind!”

He laughs at me and takes the seat opposite on the wooden chair. Peeling off his sodden waterproof carefully and draping it across the back of the chair, trying not to flick mud everywhere.

Young hands pluck the menu from the centre of the table and he begins to scan. I do nothing. Samson looks up and asks,

“Are you alright?” He cocked his head slightly to the side then a small smirk spread across his face: “You are never this quiet.”

I kick his ankle under the table and he just laughs. Mildly angry, I take a menu and glance at the options, Scampi seems like the best choice, I haven’t had it in ages.

“Daisy? Daisy Harris?” My eyes snap up, the London accent unfamiliar.

Samson turned round, intrigued. A professional looking lady with a laptop bag under her arm stared at me. Her eyes were dark brown and looked helpless and lost, like a baby deer. Immaculately painted finger nails in a deep purple betrayed her fear as they were quivering.

“You are Daisy Harris right?” She paused for a few seconds, waiting for a response she wouldn’t get. She persisted, clearly in a hurry “The detective?”

Her eyes flicked to Samson “And you must be Samson?”

“Yes” Samson replied, I shot him a look. I didn’t want any more cases at the minute, and he knew that I wanted a break, I needed a break.

“My name is Alice, and….”

Then she said the words I was dreading: “I need your help”.