Anyway.

For reasons of economy they’d switched from gin to beer, which increased the traffic to and from the gents. Conversation had loosened up too, ranging from the quality of the bar snacks on offer to Benny fondly recalling their first meeting, when he’d punched John in the face.

“What was it you said?”

“Leg like an overcooked noodle,” John remembered. “Not that it’s slowed you down much.”

“I still do holiday jobs, yeah.”

“. . . Like a student?”

“Keep up, mate. Do I look like a fucking student?” He didn’t. “When the homeowners are on holiday, that’s when I do a job. Less call for the speedy getaway.”

“And that’s how you found this story you’re selling,” said John.

Benny gave him a hard stare, blurred at the edges.

“The story Daisy thinks is important, but her editor doesn’t believe.”

“Yes he does. Just thinks it needs . . . nailing down.”

“Because you stole it,” John said. “Making things tricky from a legal point of view.”

“Fag break.”

This time, John followed him outside. There was a gaggle of smokers there, if that was the collective noun—a chokehold? Which sounded clever, though maybe wasn’t. Benny begged a light then drew away, John following. The streets were busy, everyone enjoying a summer’s evening: fun while it lasts. Tomorrow he’d feel more bruised than hungover, like he’d been dragged through a gravel pit. His mouth was numb and his pockets empty. He hated to think of the punishment he’d put his credit card through. But Benny was talking.

“Nice little score, that’s all it was supposed to be.”

A conversation in a pub: man who worked for a carpet-cleaning firm and had just that day completed a four-storey place in Hampstead. Family away for a fortnight. Some of the chemicals, you’re best off being absent for a while.

Benny had laid a twenty on him before fading into the background.

“Some people,” he said, “like the idea of getting their fingers a bit dirty. Too chickenshit to actually plunge their hands in.”

Or just too law-abiding, John thought. A bit chatty down the boozer, but generally law-abiding.

“Thing is, the guy in the four-storey house? The family man? He was connected, right? Well connected. If you get my drift.”

John didn’t. Organised crime?

“Give you a clue, mate. A recently deceased gentleman.”

John couldn’t think of anyone who’d died since 2016. Nobody famous, anyway.

“Headlines?”

. . . The American, John remembered. The American billionaire. The American billionaire sex trafficker who suicided in his cell.

“Yeah, him.” Benny sucked hard on his cigarette, as if he were trying to get the lit end into his mouth. “He lived over here half the time, didn’t he? And that’s who my man was connected to. Used to be invited to those house parties, the ones with happy endings guaranteed.”

Happy endings for the fat rich men his age, thought John. Less happy for the teenage girls involved.