Joey was on the dole but Job Seeking, which was a laugh. He turned up at one or two interviews, slouched in the chair, made himself look unemployable, and then went on his way. What paid better and suited him best were the occasional under-the-counter jobs his mates down the club could pass his way, all undeclared, cash in hand, and topped up by the steady trickle of benefits from the DSS, courtesy of the great British taxpayer.

He got a job clearing an old lady’s garden. She was a sweet thing, brought him out lemonade when it got hot and ushered him into her vast barnlike kitchen when she had to pay him. Cash in hand, of course. He charged her twenty quid an hour, but slipped in an extra half hour here or there to see if she’d complain. She didn’t, so he slipped in a few more.

He chatted to her, found out her background. She had no kids except for a daughter in New Zealand, and that was great because there would be no one poking their noses in and keeping an eye on what he was doing around the house. The old lady was vague, emptying her purse on the worktop and asking how much did she owe him today? And he saw the bundles of twenties in there. Shit, she really did have cash to burn. So he added on a bit, and again – she didn’t notice.

He suspected the old dear was losing her marbles, and that was confirmed to him when one day she took off to see a specialist with a hospital volunteer and forgot to lock the doors or set the house alarm. He was there in the garden, just pottering around, no need to exert himself . . . and then she went out, and would be gone some while, so he went indoors and had a look around.

It proved well worth the bother. There was a large bundle of cash upstairs in a wardrobe, hidden under a pile of mothballed clothes. He pocketed about a third of that, left the rest. And on the ground floor, tucked under the stairs, was a safe. Her husband had been an industrialist, he’d owned a factory, so there must be a good pile of wedge sitting in there, Joey was sure of it. But he couldn’t crack safes. Wouldn’t have a clue where to even begin.

So he went back to the club and talked it over with a couple of his mates.

‘She must know the combination,’ said one of them, ordering a whisky chaser to go with his beer.

‘Yeah, she must,’ said the other. ‘Just get it out of her, that’s all.’

Joey looked at the pair of them. Suddenly he wasn’t sure about this. ‘What, beat it out of her?’ he asked.