She stepped away from the gatepost, tingling. At first it seemed unlikely, if not plain ridiculous. But the more she thought about it, the more that unlikelihood diminished. She grabbed her phone and banged in Harry’s number.

‘Yep,’ he replied. By the background hubbub, he was at the chippie, buying their lunch.

‘Harry, I know how he’s doing it.’

‘Ta, my love … keep the change. Sorry, Luce … what did you say?’

‘He’s using a metal detector.’

‘He’s … what?’

‘He knows exactly where to find the valuable stuff because he’s using a metal detector.’

‘Hang on …’ To say Harry sounded dubious would be an understatement. ‘Lucy, what’re you …?’

‘Look, they’re not difficult to get hold of. You can buy them over the counter.’

‘That would work?’

‘Why not? If they can detect rusty old swords ten feet underground, surely they can tell you which drawer the money’s in or which shoebox under the bed contains jewellery.’

There was a long pause before Harry spoke again.

‘Clever little bastard, eh?’

Chapter 16

Andy Northwood’s house was well placed to be the party capital of Crowley.

In truth, it was only just inside the Crowley border, in the southwest corner of the borough, where it adjoined Cheshire, and was located on Millwright Lane, a B-road with a semi-rural atmosphere because on its south side, it ran along the northeast edge of Chat Moss, an extensive area of natural heathland. Northwood’s house, none-too-subtly named Golden Roost, was a lavish, seven-bedroom mansion – all red brick and white stucco – and boasting an indoor swimming pool and sauna area, its own tennis courts, and substantial mature gardens to the front, back and sides. It was situated on high ground, at the top of a winding, seventy-five-yard drive, which, in addition to the thick wall of conifers in front, ensured that it couldn’t be seen from Millwright Lane itself.

Wednesday night parties at Golden Roost were so regular an occurrence these days that they’d become known in certain circles, with Northwood’s encouragement of course, as the ‘Wednesday Night Specials’. This wasn’t just because Northwood himself led a wild lifestyle – even though as one of Greater Manchester’s leading pimps and drugs dealers, he certainly did – but because he had ambitions to be much more, and in this day and age, with high-end crime in the Northwest of England as strictly controlled as it was, that didn’t mean kicking and pushing your way to the top, but wheedling your way: making friends, not enemies; being nice to people, entertaining them. And if there was one thing Andy Northwood did very well, it was entertain.

In some ways, Northwood, himself, was a walking advert for this.