Instinctively, Raymond lurched forward – but the door was opening, too far away for him to force it shut – and there, in the doorway, appeared the sallow face of Mr Simenon. The jaw dropped. The eyes widened. ‘Raymond de Guise,’ Mr Simenon breathed, ‘what is the meaning of . . . ?’

Then his eyes took in the rest of the room: Mr Charles’s desk heaved out of its place; the man on the floor behind it; the safe in the wall, its door hanging open . . .

Think, Raymond! THINK! He knows you’re expelled from the Buckingham but he doesn’t know who you really are . . .

‘Mr Simenon,’ Raymond began, adopting his old airs, ‘let me explain.’

But whatever Raymond would have said next was lost. The door slammed shut, Mr Simenon behind it. Raymond leaped forward – but then came the telltale click again, as a key was forced into the lock from outside. Raymond heaved at the handle, but the door held fast. Then he heard the clatter of panicked footsteps retreating, as Mr Simenon fled up the hall.

Artie scrambled to his feet. ‘Ray, you bloody fool.’

Together the brothers threw themselves at the door.

‘But you can pick the lock, can’t you? We got in that way. You can—’

Artie barged him with his shoulder, gathered up his tools. ‘Out of my way, Ray. You got us into this mess – and for what? some papers! I guess it’s up to me to get us out.’

As Artie needled in the lock, Raymond stepped back, ran his fingers desperately through his hair. The office windows looked out onto the delivery yard behind. If they could get out that way, then perhaps . . .

He lifted a paperweight from Mr Charles’s desk. They knew it was him now, of course. They could come looking. But Raymond had reinvented himself once before. He could do it again.

Artie’s fingers trembled as he tried to force the lock. Something wouldn’t give. ‘He’s left the bloody keys in,’ he roared. ‘If I can only . . .’

Artie’s voice fell dead. Raymond turned slowly around, dropping the paperweight from his hand. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

‘Don’t you hear?’ said Artie, cocking his head. ‘Footsteps. There’s two of them now. But we can take two, can’t we? Us Cohen boys. Don’t you remember the Wellhorn Yard in ’25? Me and you, and those Darling boys from down in Limehouse. Come to take off with those railway sleepers – and we saw ’em off, didn’t we, me and you together? There’s nothing that can stop us if we fight together. Besides, I fought more bastards than this on Cable Street – and that was on my own . . .’ Artie leaped to his feet as his tools clattered all around. ‘Back to back, Ray – just like in the old days. I’m not . . . I’m not going down again.’