Sam shook his head.

“Do you respect me?” Julia softened her expression. Sam relaxed a little. “You don’t earn respect by hitting out, Sam. You’re better than Darren. You’re stronger.” She tapped his chest. “You’re stronger where it matters, and that’s why we have to try extra hard with Darren. He’s been through a lot and you know what that’s like. So, I need you to do something for me . . . I need you to be smarter than this. Because, one day soon, I’m going to ask something of you and, if you’re not ready, if you’re not smarter than this, I won’t think twice about leaving you behind.”

Sam’s mouth had slowly dropped open. She gently placed her forefinger underneath his chin and closed his mouth.

“Clean yourself up,” she said, and kissed his cheek before leaving the room.

Dougie Marshall stank from the inside out. The smell seemed to seep from his very pores. In his eighties now, he was the only forger Angela knew. Back in the day, Dolly had spoken about him by name and reputation, and Angela had never forgotten. Not being part of the criminal fraternity, her knowledge of London forgers was not up to date—so, when her world began to get complicated, she turned to Dougie. But if he was good enough for Dolly, he was good enough for her.

Dougie and Angela sat in his small, unventilated office above Marshall’s Bookmakers on the main street through Croydon. The bookie’s had been there for as long as anyone could remember, and was still frequented by old men with no one to go home to. A new generation also came in to spend their hard-earned cash, in the hope of winning some easy money. Dougie’s son, Gareth, now ran the shop itself, while Dougie sat upstairs in his museum of an office, and lived out his days sticking address labels onto marketing flyers.

Dougie’s upstairs office was accessed by a side entrance no wider than a flight of stairs. A stairlift had been fitted recently, making the stairs hard to maneuver. Angela banged her shin on the footrest every single time she visited.

As Angela examined the passports and driving licenses, Dougie’s eyes lit up with pride. It had been a long time since anyone needed his skills, his craftsmanship, his artistry. He prided himself on making his IDs look used and worn. He’d fray edges, add stains and scratches; he’d even wear down the embossed leather pattern in the bottom left-hand corner to make them look like they’d been opened by a thousand pairs of hands over the years. He’d make sure the issue date wasn’t brand new and he’d add stamps from various countries. He was a true master. He was worth the money and the uncomfortable twenty minutes in his stale-smelling office.

Angela handed him three bundles of £20 notes, which he did her the courtesy of not counting.

“Good luck,” Dougie said as Angela stood.

She smiled. She wouldn’t be needing luck.