Jane fidgeted the mirror from its special pocket and pretended to be admiring herself while she scanned the inside: handkerchief; comb; compact and a face: a face that gazed gorgeously out at her from a shiny black and white card. Jane’s eyes batted between the mirror and the snapshot: pretty faces, late teens, dark hair, wide eyes; but the girl in the bag peered out with a look of such friendly, flirtatious glamour, such fabulous finish, that Jane wanted to run to the Ladies’ and borrow a lipstick. Just behind the photo was a torn manila envelope. She clicked the bag shut.

There must have been a hundred quid in that envelope. Jane looked about her as if expecting the rightful owner to pounce but there was no one in sight who could possibly lay claim to a beautiful crocodile bag full of fivers. Jane and Tony had got to the pub just after it opened and there had been no one there then either. It must have been sat under the bench since lunchtime – more than likely, given the state of the floor.

The old woman was eyeing her nastily over her pink gin. Tony still wasn’t back. Jane pretended to take an interest in the pub’s characters – that’s what Tony had called them. Loud-mouthed drunks more like.

The pub had filled up with Friday drinkers. By seven o’clock most of the ‘swift halves’ would have dried up, leaving the regulars to it, but for now the small bar was heaving. An optimistic little sales rep in a sheepskin jacket with dandruffed shoulders was telling a home-dyed blonde that he had a friend who took photographs. His showroom was always on the lookout for new models for the new models – if you took his meaning. Jane sized her up with a saleslady’s eye. A large fourteen. She wouldn’t stand a chance modelling anyway: too short; too top-heavy.