Martin had grinned. Enjoying his mate being lost for words.

‘Illegal? Totally.’

‘Fuck! I’m…’

‘Relax, mate. You were never here.’

Mickey had nodded gratefully. ‘You’ll have to get rid of… hang on.’ He’d reached down, picking up a battered automatic pistol. ‘This is the Browning that she hid in her bag that night. At Billy Wright’s coming-out party…’ He’d fallen silent, seeing the look on Martin’s face. ‘You knew.’

‘Not at the time. But later, yeah. She brought me into the business. How else do you think I can afford to eat and dress proper on what I earn.’

‘Jesus, Martin! You’d get twenty years for this lot! Or life, if they could prove they’d been used to kill. This flat could be under surveillance right now!’

His friend had shaken his head dismissively. Sparking up a Dunhill. A brand that Mickey had always thought a bit posh for the estate.

‘No chance.’ He’d blown a plume of smoke across the room. Master of the situation. ‘Steph only ever dealt off-manor. No-one round here has the first fucking clue about this lot. She was what you’d call select in her choice of clientele. And she kept her prices sensible. After all, she wasn’t exactly splashing it around, was she?’

Mickey had been forced to concede his point. A couple of hundred pounds here and there could make a huge difference to a modest lifestyle. And such a gentle cash flow, in arms-dealing terms, would have made for a nicely low profile. Auntie Steph had quite possibly been running so deep and silent that she had completely evaded the law’s detection. He’d reached out and taken one of Martin’s posh fags. Lit it with his mate’s Zippo.

‘You’ll definitely have to get rid though.’

And he’d trusted his friend to see the sense in that. Not his finest piece of intuition, it had to be said. Martin had affected to drop the whole collection into the Thames. Had even invited Mickey to witness one such disposal. Just to prove he was doing as he’d been bidden. But, as Mickey had discovered much later, he had in fact dumped only the worn-out dross and more infamous murder weapons. Steph having kept notes, possibly with blackmail in mind.

Having retained the more useful and less infamous pieces, he’d rented a lockup. Filled it with junk, then hidden his shooters in the chaos. Half a dozen carefully selected firearms lived in a lock box, their exact location known only to him. Or so he thought. Twenty years of running his guns for hire business, following Steph’s careful example, had made him, if not rich, at least comfortable.