She smiled, said:

‘Good thinking. When they check out the staff at the left luggage, it’s possible they’ll come talk to you as Jimmy’s brother.’

Ray cracked a Special Brew, took a deep slug, said:

‘The Mews is clean, I’ve sold off the hot gear. They can search all they like. Fancy a drink, to celebrate?’

‘Maybe later, I have to go see about my flat.’

Ray gave her a long look, said:

‘You be real careful, that’s a lot of cash you’re carrying.’

Angie went to a small lock-up she’d rented when she’d last got out of prison. Just off Clapham Common, it held every item that was of any value to her. Some porcelain dolls she’d nicked from an old woman, designer clothes and imitation Louis Vuiton luggage she’d found in a boot sale. The tags on the handles said, ‘Florida’, for the day she made her great escape and she figured it was only a short time away now. There was a portable television, a fridge, a foldaway bed and essentials like vodka, a kettle, coffee and half a gram of coke.

She laid the money on the floor and wondered why it didn’t make her feel good. There and then she vowed not to go anywhere until she had it all, every last penny. It was her scheme, her planning, her fucking entitlement.

Rage enveloped her and she wanted to go back, shoot Ray in the balls, the bastard, remembering the half smile he’d given her when she’d asked:

‘Don’t you trust me?’

Yeah, right.

She laid out a couple of lines of coke, used a twenty from the pile to snort, and waited for the hit.

It came fast, hit her brain running and then the ice-drip down her neck. She didn’t use very often as her insanity was sufficient to keep her stoked but, now and then, she’d have a hit and summon up the crystal-clear thinking she needed. As her body began to experience waves of wellbeing, she thought: Okay, Ray, you want to play, we’ll play.