The Debt

by Roberta Kray

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

After eighteen years inside, Johnny Frank is coming out of jail with just one thing on his mind, to kill the man who put him there; but as his past returns to haunt him, a vicious murder and kidnap force him back on the streets of London. He could choose simply to disappear ? if it weren't for Simone. Through her marriage to Reggie Kray, the author has a unique insight into the inner conflicts of a long-term prisoner, and just as Roberta's life was irrevocably changed by meeting Reg, so Simone's will never be the same again after she enters Johnny's dangerous and unpredictable universe.

Release date: April 11, 2019

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 343

Sample

Johnny

So I’m smiling at the plump florid man who’s sitting across the table. It’s always a pleasure to see old friends. Time passes slowly inside, the hours dictated not by revolutions of the earth but by an unchanging routine, each week identical to the last, each year a groundhog repetition of the one before. So I’m staring intently, drinking in every detail; I’m making the most of this most welcome of visits. How long has it been since we last met? It must be over eighteen years.

I’ve still not decided how exactly I should kill him.

‘How’s the family then? Dee’s okay, I hope? And those boys of yours? They must be all grown up by now.’

‘Fine, fine,’ the stout man replies too quickly.

Perhaps a look of sly amusement creeps into my eyes but I’m careful to keep the voice genial. ‘Glad to hear it. You’re looking well too.’

This, of course, is a lie. That Jim Buckley wishes he had never stepped across the threshold is patently clear. His red face has taken on a deeper shade of mauve and under his arms two widening stains of sweat expose his guilt. Never one to waste an opportunity, I press home the advantage. ‘So what do you say, mate? We’re only talking a couple of months. Shouldn’t put you out too much.’ I leave a friendly pause before dropping the bombshell. ‘And don’t forget – you owe me big time.’

The implicit threat has the desired effect. As Buckley’s bowels cramp into dread, his distended stomach flinches against the table. I know what he’s thinking: Shit, this has been a mistake, a terrible shitting mistake. Of course he realized the moment he opened the envelope and saw the visiting order that he should stay away. No point tempting providence. But then he couldn’t live with the uncertainty either. He had to know if he was in the frame.

The word when it emerges is barely audible. ‘What?’

I grant him a few more seconds of undiluted terror before starting to laugh. ‘All those drinks, mate, all those free meals at the club. I reckon you owe me some hospitality.’

Jim’s left leg is dancing a nervous jig, his heel beating a brisk staccato rhythm against the floor. I can read him like a book. He can’t work out if I know. Do I? Don’t I? His mind’s spinning round like a waltzer, getting dizzier by the second. He’s starting to feel sick. But then logic kicks in and everything gradually slows. He considers that if I knew the truth he’d be dead by now, history, sleeping soundly with the little fishes. So as he’s still alive that must surely mean … His mouth stumbles eagerly towards a smile of relief.

‘Yeah,’ he eventually croaks.

And who am I to disillusion him?

‘Of course it goes without saying, I’ll see you both right.’ I glance around the hall, gesturing for him to move closer as I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s all still there – you know what I mean. I just need somewhere to stay when I come out, somewhere private, somewhere I can keep my head down until … ’

I pause as Buckley’s scared piggy eyes slowly brighten into greed.

The seconds tick by.

Fear battles unsuccessfully with avarice. ‘How much?’ he eventually murmurs.

‘Five k.’ I force my mouth into a curl. I’m close enough now to smell his stinking breath, close enough to wrap my fingers round his neck – but there’s time enough for that. Inching back a fraction, I remove the temptation. ‘In return for some privacy, right? I don’t want the world and his dog to know where I am.’

Now Buckley’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer but he’s not completely stupid either. He shifts uneasily in his seat, a frown slowly puckering his forehead while he considers this unexpected proposition.

I sit back casually and fold my arms. I can sense his caution, can almost see it too, dripping like treacle through his treacherous mind. Silently, I wait. And believe me, if there’s one skill Johnny Frank possesses it’s patience. Never rush a sure bet. It takes a while, two minutes, maybe three, and I don’t say a word but finally he produces the questions I’ve been anticipating.

‘But why me? Why us? There must be—’

I have to fight to suppress the grin. ‘Look,’ I interrupt quickly, shifting forward and placing a firm hand reassuringly over his, ‘I know we’ve had our differences but that’s all behind us now, isn’t it? It’s in the past. I need someone I can trust, someone I can rely on. Everything’s changed out there. I need some time, a bit of space while I make the … arrangements.’ How often have I rehearsed this glib disingenuous response? On at least a thousand occasions, cursing, raving, pacing my cell with my brains in the balance. Now my right hand curls tightly into a fist. Fuck him. It takes an effort to keep my voice steady but I do – I have to.

‘It’s okay, I’ll understand if you … if you can’t, that’s fine. No hard feelings.’ I give a swift dismissive shrug. ‘Forget it.’ From the expression on his face it’s clear there’s nothing Buckley wants more than to forget the past – that dreadful place he’s consigned to history. Nothing, perhaps, except for good hard cash. And the honeyed scent of money is wafting sweetly through the air. Things haven’t been going so well lately. He could make some lousy excuse and leave but he won’t. I know he won’t. He’s made the mental calculations and thinks he’s got control.

Like a predatory snake he flicks out his tongue, moistening his lips. ‘A couple of months?’ he repeats tentatively.

I nod. ‘Ten weeks max.’ Aware my face is under scrutiny, I keep its expression benign. I even smile again. Now there’s a genuine pleasure in the gesture, in the satisfaction of a job well done. The bastard’s about to take the bait. There’s no going back. This is the beginning of the end.

He grunts. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Sure – but don’t take too long. I’m out in a fortnight.’

Jim’s eyes dart around the room, unsure as to where to settle. His head is saying yes, of course it is, there’s all that lovely brass up for grabs, but his instinct is still whispering caution. And now he’s thinking – what? He’s thinking we were never mates, never, associates at best. He’s trying to justify what he did, realigning the past and twisting wrong back into right. I was always out of his league, smarter, richer – and a fuck sight more successful. Flash, that’s what he thinks I was, a smug self-satisfied git. And I can’t argue with that. I had everything he wanted. I was everything he wanted. And he knows the only thing we ever had in common was … well, that’s something he’d rather not dwell on; carnal knowledge of his wife is hardly the basis of an enduring friendship. Although he certainly got his own back. Eighteen years and counting.

Which is a reason and a half for him to just walk away.

But then there’s the money.

His red face crunches into indecision. ‘Give me a couple of days. I’ll talk it over with Dee.’

As if outmanoeuvred by a master of negotiation, I shrug and say: ‘Okay, make it ten but that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.’

He’s shocked. His eyebrows hit the roof. Ten? Fuck, that’s hardly a sum to be sneered at, not for a few weeks’ bed and board. I must be desperate. And if I’m offering ten then how much more can he get his hands on? Oh, he remembers the job all right: Hatton Garden, late eighties – a haul of diamonds, and not just any chunks of ice but the rare and famous pink ones too. And those sweet babies are very much in fashion …

Buckley’s eyes gleam suddenly bright. This is an offer he can’t refuse. As if he’s doing me a favour, he sighs and says: ‘Okay. It shouldn’t be a problem.’

I quickly nod before he can change his mind again. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

We shake hands.

The bastard’s palms are clammy. Surreptitiously, I reach down and wipe my fingers along my thighs. There’s no such thing as something for nothing. Buckley should have learned that by now, but some people never learn – they go on making the same stupid mistakes over and over again.

Thank fucking Christ.

Simone

Now you don’t just wake up one morning and find yourself inadvertently married to a gambling, womanizing, convicted fraudster – well, not unless you’re a thirty-two-year-old accountant who’s had her eyes firmly closed for the past five years. So okay, I’ll put my hands up and say I’ve been a fool but that doesn’t mean I haven’t tried to make it work. And I doubt if Marc’s the worst spouse in the world even if his CV does read like an illustrative extract from The Smart Woman’s Guide to Husbands to Avoid.

No, I’m sure there are deadlier partners out there. He has his good points: he’s generous, kind and indisputably sexy. On his good days he can even totter some way down the path towards love. But I guess the bottom line – and there’s really no getting away from it – is that Marc Buckley’s an out-and-out cheat.

So it’s hardly a marriage made in heaven although I guess if nothing else it’s been an education, a useful lesson in the triumph of adversity over hope. And I’ll know not to make the same mistake again.

I’m almost home now, walking up the gravel drive, approaching the house. Despite the less-than-happy reflections on my personal life I’m actually smiling, for the snow has started to fall again, drifting down in muffling clouds and transforming all suburbia into a sparkling paradise of white. My feet may be cold but it’s impossible to be downhearted in the light of so much beauty.

That is, until I step inside.

In the hallway I pause, senses alert, before carefully closing the door behind me. Such caution isn’t strictly necessary for above the rumpus of my in-laws, locked once again in gladiatorial combat, my entrance will be neither heard nor cared about. As I climb the stairs the snow tumbles from my coat leaving a clear but rapidly melting trail of evidence.

Their voices penetrate even to the third floor, Dee’s fierce and strident, Jim’s equally booming but more defensive.

‘I don’t fucking want him here!’

‘Well, you go and fucking tell him then!’

This is a battle that’s been raging on and off for the last couple of weeks, a fight that’s already diminished the china and has now progressed to sturdier projectiles. Whether any territory has been conceded is impossible to judge.

My money, as always, is on Dee.

With a sigh I open the door to the self-contained flat at the top of the house. In an attempt to block out the noise, the TV is turned up extra loud. Marc is lounging on the sofa, feet on the coffee table, watching – or at least pretending to watch – the evening news. His eyes are actually focused on an indeterminate point somewhere to the right of the box. A thin stream of smoke rises from his cigarette. On the screen the aftermath of yet another but more distant war is being played out, full-volume death and desolation spilling straight into our living room.

He glances up as if surprised to see me. ‘Hi, love. Are those two still at it?’

‘Full on.’

‘Shit. Why can’t they just ignore each other like any normal married couple?’

Like us, he means, as if non-communication is some higher art form, an ideal state to be aspired to. I try not to snarl. And as he clearly isn’t going to wear out his legs by leaping up and welcoming me home with a beneficial cup of tea, I go to the kitchen and switch on the kettle myself. While I wait for it to boil I lean against the doorjamb and ask: ‘So who exactly is this Johnny guy?’

Marc stubs out his cigarette and instantly lights another. ‘If you’re making a brew, I wouldn’t mind a refill.’

Normally I’d tell him to get up off his arse and make it himself but tonight, desperate to know more about what’s going on downstairs, I choose the road of least resistance. ‘Okay.’ Sometimes I feel more like a mother than a wife, attempting to squeeze out through constant repetition, bribery or corruption one tiny piece of information from a recalcitrant infant. I ask again, casually: ‘So what about this guy?’

He shrugs. ‘Just some geezer they used to know. Johnny something. Frank, that’s it. Johnny Frank. Dad’s invited him to stay. He’s been away for a few years.’

‘Away as in abroad or away as in inside?’

He gives me one of his thin-skinned sensitive looks. ‘What does it matter?’

‘It doesn’t,’ I answer patiently. ‘I was just wondering. Only there’s major hostilities going on downstairs and he seems to be at the centre of it all.’

It’s always hard to tell which way he’ll jump. Marc’s moods come and go. Sometimes he’ll close up tight as a clam and like some Trappist monk take a convenient vow of silence. But this evening, perhaps as sick as I am of his parents’ constant rowing, he decides to share his knowledge. Leaning his head against the back of the sofa he declares: ‘He’s been in the nick – for the past eighteen years.’ My mouth falls open. ‘What?’ He nods. And in case that announcement might not have shocked me sufficiently, he adds dramatically: ‘For murder.’

My instant reaction is one of horror. I’m hardly surprised Dee is throwing saucepans. ‘What do you mean, murder? What kind of murder?’ As if killing can be neatly categorized, from bad, to very bad, to disgustingly evil – the question sounds ridiculous even as I ask it. Perhaps I’ve been reading too many tabloids.

‘Dunno,’ he replies, as unconcerned about this apparent piece of minutia as he is about most things. ‘Don’t worry about it. Some villain. Roy Foster. It was years ago.’

I’m partly mollified, although I’m not sure I should be. But at least it’s not a child or a woman. ‘And he’s coming to stay here?’

‘Not if Mum gets her way.’

‘And if she doesn’t?’

Marc shrugs again. ‘Well, he’s done his time. What’s the problem?’

The problem is that it’s hard enough living with a man you want to leave without his volatile parents, his psychotic brother, and now a convicted killer joining the scenario. If I still had a sense of humour, I’d laugh.

Marc, perhaps tired of the Question and Answer routine, is already putting on his jacket. ‘Skip that tea, I’ve got to get to the club.’

And although I hate myself for doing it, despise myself for sounding like some suspicious nagging wife, I look at the clock and say: ‘But it’s only six thirty.’

‘Exactly,’ he replies briskly, ‘if I don’t go now, I won’t get anything done. You know what the noise is like in that place – especially on a Saturday.’ Then he softens and smiles. ‘Hey, why don’t you come along later? We could have a drink, grab something to eat.’

But he knows I hate the club. Jim’s rather dismal lap-dancing establishment, situated on the rim of London’s East End, is named, somewhat ironically, The Palace. Now, I’m pretty easy-going – each to their own and all that – but my idea of a good night out bears no relation to sitting in a smoky dungeon and watching ten sleekly oiled half-naked girls shake their butts at a crowd of sweaty and erectile men. Apart from which, my breasts just can’t take the competition.

‘Tempting as that offer is, I think I’ll give it a miss.’

He grins, leans down and bestows a perfunctory kiss. ‘Okay, love. Have a good evening. See you later.’

Then the door has closed and he’s gone. Dressed in his suit and a new white shirt, he’s prinked and pressed and closely shaved. It inevitably crosses my mind that he could be going to meet another woman, some twenty-something Tara or Tanya who will run her fingers, without judgement, through those tousled curls and gaze adoringly into his innocent blue eyes. And what is even more unsettling than this prospect is the fact that I don’t really care; it’s only my pride rather than my heart I’m trying to protect now.

Which isn’t to say I don’t care about Marc. I do. Between us there’s still a tiny nugget left, a hard firm cyst of benign love and loyalty. It would be so much easier if we could just cut that part away.

I turn and step into the kitchen. Tea for one, then. And two minutes later I’m standing aimlessly by the window, sipping from the mug and gazing down into the garden. For God’s sake, what am I doing? It’s Saturday night! The weekend! And while the rest of the population is preparing for a riotous night out on the town all I need is a pair of fluffy slippers and a marginal shift in attitude to slip effortlessly into my dotage.

How did it come to this?

I’m not old. I’m only thirty-two. I can still walk and smile and dance. My auburn hair still shines and I’ve got a full set of teeth. On a good day I can even string a sentence together. Most of my mental processes, if not entirely intact, are in adequate condition and my body – although showing hints of betrayal – has not really yet embarked on that gravitational journey south. Even my wrinkles are slight enough to pass for laughter lines.

I don’t have to sit around and watch TV. I don’t have to vegetate. I could go out and party. I could paint the town as brightly red as anyone else. I could ring some friends and meet them for a drink … except, well, to be quite honest we’re currently a bit low on the friendship front.

If Katie was around it would be different, but my longstanding pal has sensibly decamped to Australia for the season of goodwill. I miss her.

‘Why don’t you come?’ she’d asked a couple of months ago, spreading out the brochure in all its Technicolor luxury. ‘The hotel’s right on the beach. Sun, sea and buckets of wine – nothing but glorious self-indulgence. What do you reckon?’

I reckoned it would be pretty damn fine but with Marc only recently out of prison it hardly seemed feasible.

‘Well, you can bring him along too!’ she exclaimed, although the unspoken addendum of if you really have to hovered in the air between us. Because it’s a fact that Katie doesn’t like my husband much and it’s not just to do with his financial indiscretions. Long before his sticky fingers brought him to the attention of the justice system, she had identified an even more fatal flaw in the character of Marc Buckley – he was not the faithful sort.

Not that she ever put it quite that bluntly. Smiling comments such as, ‘That man’s too handsome for his own good’ or ‘He’s incredibly charming, isn’t he?’ were slipped almost as asides into our premarital conversations. Her implied criticisms were shrouded so carefully in compliments that, more often than not, they flew straight over my head. Or maybe, having balanced those rose-tinted glasses firmly on my nose, I was just loath to admit to chronic myopia.

But Katie was right. She clearly saw what I was blindly incapable of. However, she’s never been smug about it since, never gloated once or reminded me of how stupid I was. Neither has she pushed or encouraged me to leave him, although she has let me know in her own subtle fashion that should I ever choose to go down that road then she will, as always, be there for me.

Sadly the jaunt to Australia, although alluring, was never feasible. For one, although I have some meagre savings, I’m not exactly rolling in money. And for two, having already lost their son to a couple of festive periods at Her Majesty’s pleasure (he served eighteen months of his three-year sentence), Dee and Jim wouldn’t be overjoyed at the prospect of forgoing yet another family Christmas. And who could blame them? It would have been selfish to even suggest it.

So I didn’t.

And so while Katie is lounging on the beach, topping up her tan – I check my watch trying to recall the time difference – I’m wondering what other acquaintance I might contact to reestablish my credentials as a social human being. Slowly I flick through our address book, studying the pages with at first an eager and then a progressively despondent eye as each name is considered, thought about and then dismissed.

Of course it was different the first time Marc was convicted; then it was only a minor fraud, and he was so thoroughly repentant and so utterly convincing that even the judge was impressed. He wore his remorse as elegantly as his Savile Row suit. He claimed an aberration, a moment of weakness, depression, confusion, extenuating circumstances. He hung his head in stylish shame.

Six months, that’s all he’d got. He was lucky.

Then friends had rallied round, giving him the benefit of the doubt. Everyone makes mistakes, they said softly. They were supportive and forgiving, overflowing with the milk of human kindness. They wrote him letters, sent him gifts, and invited me round for warming dinners and words of reassurance. Secretly, although they tried not to show it, they were fascinated by this vicarious brush with criminality and under the cover of sympathetic understanding probed for details of prison visits and life inside.

‘So is the food really that bad?’ they asked, wide-eyed, tucking into their Dover sole with renewed appetite.

‘Does he have to share a cell?’ They shuddered. ‘Lord, just imagine, you could find yourself bunking up with—’

‘What are the screws like? What about the other cons?’ They’d all watched Bad Girls and the occasional more brutal episodes of Oz. And having garnered the idiom, they’d strangely started to spill it back as if such talk might somehow make me feel more at ease.

‘Are you allowed to touch or do you have to sit behind one of those barrier things? Are you allowed to kiss?’

‘So Simone, how’s he bearing up?’

My answer to the last question was always the same – a resigned, despondent shrug. ‘Well, you know …’ Although the truth was that he was bearing up just fine, as completely unfazed by this sudden change in circumstances as he was by everything else. Like a chameleon Marc had the ability to merge effortlessly into any environment.

But that wasn’t what they wanted to hear. Not that they were nasty or cruel, it wasn’t that, but in order to justify their faith in him – decent upright citizens as they were – they had to believe he possessed a degree of remorse from which some minor suffering necessarily ensued.

And who was I to disillusion them?

When Marc was released they welcomed him back with open arms and through their help and references he quickly got a new job. We moved across to the other side of the city and for the next eighteen months life almost returned to normal. With his talent and charm he skipped rapidly up the corporate ladder and by the time he reoffended even I’d started to believe that his lapse might have been an unfortunate blip in what might still prove to be a reasonably honest future.

Which only goes to show how wrong you can be.

His next digression was not so easily dismissed. Marc’s smooth-talking spiel fell on deaf ears as the judge passed sentence with a smile of dry self-satisfaction. Three years for a £90,000 fraud. I was still in shock as they took him down. We’d both been earning good salaries so what he’d done with all the extra cash was anyone’s guess – although I suspect there may be a bookie out there who, after his extralong vacation, could cast some light on the mystery.

And just as Marc’s luck finally ran out so too did that milk of human kindness. If it flowed at all it was only in small sour drops of tainted disapproval. Forgiveness had its limits. What had been perceived initially as a slip had suddenly turned into a disreputable habit and now there was no sympathy, no commiseration and no comfort.

‘Simone. Hi.’ A long uncomfortable pause. ‘It’s good to hear from you. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. I was just—’

‘Oh, that’s great. It’s great. Er, look, can I ring you back? I’d love to talk but this isn’t a very good time. We’ve got people here for dinner and … ’

My calls, taken at first with a stammering embarrassment, eventually went unanswered. There was only silence. I quickly got the message. I was the woman who was married to a thief. I was guilty by association.

His fall, our fall, from grace was absolute.

If it hadn’t been for that terrible silence, I might have left him too. I mean, I could hardly comprehend that he’d done it again. I wanted to slap him, to scream and shout and shake him to his bones. Why? Why have you done this? It left me so bewildered, so wretched I could hardly bear to meet his gaze.

What was wrong with him? What was wrong with me that I hadn’t even realized what was going on?

I wanted to hurt him back – but he’d already got his punishment. And to kick a man when he’s down, much as I was tempted, goes against the grain.

I couldn’t do it.

I think he was surprised, even touched, by the fact I chose to stand firm. Loyalty, along with fidelity, has always been an alien concept to him. It shouldn’t have been, his mother was staunch enough, but he could never entirely believe in her ideals. He knew how badly he’d betrayed me but as to whether he understood that my decision to stay was based partly on a negative – a blatant refusal to join the conservative and condemnatory ranks of his thin-lipped associates – is another matter altogether. It’s something that we never have discussed and never will.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured, the first time I visited that dreary depressing place. He took my hand and held it. And for one crazy moment, as we gazed across the table in a facsimile of married love, it even seemed possible that we might find a way forward. Hadn’t we been through so much? Survived so much? Surrounded by the ebb and flow of tumultuous emotions, of so many expressions of hope or despair, we smiled uncertainly and clung on to what we knew.

‘I’ll never do it again, Sims,’ he whispered, using his pet name for me. He squeezed my hand tighter and gazed into my eyes. ‘I promise. I swear.’

But even as he spoke I was sure he was lying.

‘I believe you,’ I said.

But I didn’t. For all his remonstrations, for all his sad and sweet remorse, all he really meant was that next time – and of course there would always be a next time – he didn’t intend to get caught.

Because Marc is a thief. There’s no denying it. He can’t resist temptation. But his thefts aren’t to do with acquisitiveness – or at least not directly. That isn’t at the heart of all this mess. He’s not driven by a desire to be rich, to drive a red Ferrari, to wallow in a million crisp new notes. I understand that now. His frauds are a means to an end and the end isn’t the money – it’s the reckless excitement of taking a risk, of going against the odds. It’s the kick of the ultimate gamble. He can’t resist the thrill of taking a chance, of doing something that he shouldn’t, of deliberately crossing that dangerous and forbidden line. It’s not money he wants to play with – it’s his life.

Which isn’t an excuse, far from it. It’s only a reason.

But it’s why he’ll never stop.

And it’s why I have to leave.

I take a hot shower, get dressed again in sweat pants and T-shirt, and create a gourmet meal of scrambled eggs on toast. I put my feet on the table and watch some banal television. It’s after eight by the time I realize we’re running out of milk. Since Marc went out I’ve switched to instant coffee and have been revving up my nerves ever since.

When I turn off the TV there’s no sound coming from the ground floor. In fact the lack of noise is eerily disturbing. Cautiously, I open the door. Nothing. I wait a while. Maybe it’s just a lull, a temporary break in hostilities but no, even two minutes later, everything’s calm. Whether this unusual peace signifies an armistice or a slaughter is impossible to tell – but faced with the choice of a dry breakfast or a walk through the killing fields, I decide to take my chances and trek downstairs.

The light in the kitchen is still on and Dee glances up as I peer tentatively round the corner.

‘It’s okay, love. It’s safe.’ She smiles wryly as she beckons me in. Dee’s in good condition for her age, a well-preserved fifty-three, but tonight the bright neon strips don’t do her any favours; her face looks grey and tired, and the slight bags under her eyes are exaggerated.

‘Are you all right?’

Patting her ash blonde hair with one perfectly manicured hand, she gestures towards the cupboard with the other. ‘Grab a glass,’ she insists, ‘and help me finish this. I don’t want a hangover in the morning.’

There’s a half-empty bottle on the table.

I do as she says. Not having any pressing appointments, I may as well. The wine’s cold and pleasantly crisp. As I sip it I ask: ‘Has Jim gone to The Palace?’

‘God knows,’ she replies shortly.

So, sensibly, I don’t pursue the subject. Instead I shift the conversation into more neutral waters. ‘We had a good day at the shop, sold over twenty Christmas wreaths. And a guy came in from those solicitors down the road – Langley’s, is it? – asking for a quote for regular displays. I said you’d get back to him. Oh, and that wedding’s been confirmed for the fifth of January, Sally Chambers, at St James’s.’

But even this news doesn’t seem to lift her spirits. ‘Weddings and funerals,’ she mutters a little thickly, making me wonder if this is the first bottle she’s opened, ‘weddings and bloody funerals.’ She fumbles with a cigarette, eventually lights it, and sucks in deeply. When she exhales it’s with a long