‘There’s only one sure crime, pays big with little risk and you do it right, you’re set.’

Angie had moved on to an article telling how to give better oral sex, asked:

‘What’s the crime?’

Beth took another swig of the booze, tried to focus, said:

‘Extortion.’

‘Yeah, and that works how?’

Beth had to lie down, the brew was packing a wallop like a baton. She completely lost her train of thought, was even finding it difficult to remember who the hell Angie was. But Angie was finally interested, pushed:

‘Come on, girl, what’s the deal?’

Gradually and painfully, she learnt the master plan. Bomb a building then demand a payment not to bomb any more. Angie sneered:

‘That’s it, that’s the answer? It’s fucked is what it is.’

Beth had passed out.

Six months after Angie’s release, Beth was blinded by a dodgy batch of brew. Even if Angie had written, as she’d promised she’d do but didn’t, Beth couldn’t have read the letters.

Angie was seeing two brothers, Ray and Jimmy Cross. Ray was the brains and Jimmy the muscle. Small-time operators, they were crazy about her. That she serviced both didn’t bother either of them. Their main attraction was a Mews they rented off the Clapham Road. It was crammed with hot DVDs, laptops, bogus designer label fashion. They’d been eating curry, chugging Special Brew and vaguely watching Dumb and Dumber.

Jimmy said:

‘I found some dynamite today.’

Ray threw a can at him, said:

‘You stupid fuck, how are we going to flog that?’

Angie sat up, asked:

‘Where did you find it?’

Delighted to have her attention, Jimmy rushed:

‘We was doing a spliff in that old house on Meadow Road, I pulled a tarpaulin aside and there it was, a crate of the stuff.’

Ray opened a fresh Special, shouted: