‘Give me that shooter. No good a young idiot like you being caught with it.’

She’d tucked the offending firearm deep into her capacious handbag. Grinned at Mickey in a rather disturbing way. And then set her face hard against the invading army. In another time and place she might well have been searched, along with the flat and every able-bodied man in it. As it was, well over a dozen armed officers went about their futile investigation without ever thinking to demand she open the bag.

And so, in the end, all was well. At least in Mickey’s world. Although not in the case of the robber’s former best mate. Who mysteriously fell to his death from the top-floor landing a week later. And that, it had seemed, was that. A tight corner escaped, thanks to the brass neck of his best friend’s auntie.

Martin and Mickey’s friendship deepened at about that time, as most of their previous schoolmates fell away. Martin started work for the council. Mickey went to college to do three A levels. Pretty much de rigueur for coppers by then. Not being much of a joiner even back then, he had ignored the blandishments of college social life and remained true to his roots. And to Martin. Beer and girls being their main interests.

Three years later, with Mickey a probationer taking his first tentative steps in policing, Auntie Steph died. The inevitable result of too many fags and too much vodka. Mickey went to the funeral to pay his respects to his one-time saviour. Exchanged nods of mutual recognition with some small-time local criminals. Drank a few beers at the wake, turned a blind eye to a couple of minor possession charges. Generally chilled with his mate. And then, at the end of the evening, the metaphorical roof fell in. On both his perceptions and potentially his career itself.

‘Here, come and have a look at this.’

The two of them were alone in Steph’s flat, soon to be repossessed by the council. The last of the mourners having left five minutes before. Martin had locked the door and lowered the blinds, then led Mickey to the smaller of the two bedrooms. Mickey fearing that his mate was about to come out of the closet. Then lost for words when he’d opened it instead. And stepped back to let him see its contents.

‘No fucking way!’

Martin had grinned at him. ‘Way.’

‘Auntie Steph? This lot?’

‘Yeah. Auntie fucking Steph.’

The longer he had stared at the collection of firearms in the wardrobe, the larger it seemed to get. Martin’s Auntie Steph had been the proud owner of enough guns, vintage and modern, to equip a rifle section. All with enough ammunition to put up a decent few minutes of carefully aimed shots. Pride of place going to the ancient Bren gun and its five curved magazines. Serious firepower.

‘This is…’