‘Thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘Maggie, did Nuttall tell you about Corinna?’

‘Yes, he did. I’m so sorry, love.’

For a couple of seconds, neither of them said anything. ‘Well,’ Robin said, awkward, ‘I’ll leave you in peace. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. And to thank you for giving me a chance, even if I blew it.’

‘Well – thank you.’ Maggie sounded embarrassed. ‘Look, Robin, I’m not saying we should work together any more, that ship has sailed, but I’ve been feeling bad about something I said last night. The heat of the moment, you know. I did want to help your mother, obviously – she’s one of my best friends – but of course it wasn’t the only reason I offered you a job.’

From the sitting room came the pulsing music of the evening news, silenced abruptly as Dennis switched channels. Robin sat down in the egg-shaped wicker chair that hung from the conservatory’s central beam, his present to Christine a few Christmases ago. It creaked under her weight as she pressed back into the overstuffed cushions.

Every time she thought about it she was amazed again. How could you, Corinna? How could you do it?

They were doing it anyway. I helped them, Rob, I got them away from people like him. I looked after them.

You sold them.

I kept them safe – safer. Where will they go now? The streets?

That was how she’d sold it to herself, Robin knew. Corinna the care-taker, Corinna the kind. Corinna who’d salted the steps the day she’d brought Lennie home from hospital, who’d moved across the country from her fiancé so she could support Robin when she needed her. Corinna who sold young women’s bodies for profit.

Her phone buzzed in her lap. Gid. Had the news reached London already?

‘Hi.’

‘So guess what?’ he said. No preamble, not even an hello. ‘Hinton made a really bad decision. Epically bad.’

Hinton? It was a moment before Robin got her mental orientation.

‘He was putting it where he shouldn’t – really shouldn’t. If you were him, who would be the one person whose girlfriend you wouldn’t mess with?’

‘Who?’ she said. ‘I can’t do games today, Gid.’

‘Richie Liddle.’

‘Who?’

‘You know, Richie Liddle?’ Gid sounded startled – who was he talking to here? Had she lost the plot? Have aliens stolen your brain?

‘No, I don’t mean … I know who he is.’ A man intimidating enough to be called Richard Liddle and never have heard a joke about it. The legitimate part of his operation was a collection of bars and clubs where East End faces got bottle service alongside C-list celebrities. ‘I mean, why the hell …? Of all the women in the world.’

‘Well, she does look like Britney Spears. In her heyday.’

‘Forget Britney, it’d take bloody Cleopatra, mate. Or Idris Elba, for me. How did you get this?’