Angie James was seriously deranged. She’d learnt that early and just as quickly had learnt to hide it. Took her a while to grasp that other people had a sense of right and wrong. Her radar operated on feeling good or feeling cheated. There was little in between. Imitation was her salvation, miming what others expressed honed her survival skills.

But at a cost.

Attempting to incinerate her family as a teenager got her a two-year spell in a psychiatric unit. The best two years she’d had as she’d discovered the power of sex.

And what a dizzying power it was.

Her face was pretty in an unremarkable way. Make-up made you notice. Long afternoons with fashion mags taught her how to shape and hone her body to the level of desirability. Clothes added the rest. Going before the review board, she’d learnt enough to feed them the responses they wanted.

At the age of 28, she’d only made one serious error in the intervening years. One night in a pub, she’d opened a guys face — from the left eyebrow to the chin — with an open razor. Not because she was angry but from a vague interest in seeing his reaction. She did a year in Holloway where she seriously maimed a bull dyke.

For her time there, she was celling with a woman in her fifties named Beth, doing ten to fifteen for a string of post office heists. In a prison dispute Angie had waded in and saved her from a serious beating, purely out of boredom. Beth was grateful, lent her books, cosmetics, cigarettes. One stiflingly hot July day, she’d said:

‘Angie, you should be set up for life, you know that?’

Angie didn’t answer, busy with a Cosmo quiz.

‘I’m serious, hon, get yourself a stash, head for Florida, marry one of the rich fucks there, hump him to a heart attack.’

‘How do I get the stash?’

Beth was a bit drunk, on prison hooch. It tasted like rotgut but got you there and fast. She wanted Angie to have the dream she’d never achieved, said: