Benny was drinking straight from the bottle. He took a good long pull without taking his eyes off John, then said, “This leg I’m carrying round. I didn’t break it climbing out a window. I had it shattered, bespoke-like. By two bastards doing an impression of a pair of brick walls.”

His accent was plain and unvarnished, but bastards had a flatness to it. His file hadn’t included deep background—Benny Manors was evidently unforthcoming with his personal information, possibly an occupational wariness—and he hadn’t been important enough to warrant legwork, if you didn’t include the job carried out on his actual limb. So John didn’t know but wondered if Manors wasn’t city-born at all, but hailed from up country. Would explain his choice of drink. But he was still talking:

“So the way I see it is this. You pay the compensation as agreed, and you stay out of my line of sight. That clear enough?”

“If I don’t see you, you don’t get the money, Benny. It’s as simple as that.”

“Yeah, right, but, that’s not actually simple at all, is it? What that is is downright complicated. Because I don’t plan to spend the rest of my natural being wherever you want me to be once a month simply to collect what’s owing to me. The dosh goes straight into my account, right? It’s not like you’re carrying round an envelope full of fivers.”

There had been a time when that was precisely what milkmen did—carried round bags of money. But this way of doing things, reliant as it was on the honesty of all parties, had been brought to an end back when Michael Jackson was King of Pop.

“So there’s no actual reason for me to have to be anywhere, is there?”

John Bachelor wasn’t used to this attitude. Most of his clients were glad of the company: a friendly face, some kind words. The opportunity to talk about the old days, when they’d done whatever they’d done that had brought them into his ambit. Mostly, this had involved acts of courage rather than petty burglary. Mostly, they were better men and women than Benny Manors. Snap judgement, but this didn’t seem an uphill battle.

It occurred to him that he didn’t want to spend the rest of his own natural having this conversation once a month.

“So what I suggest,” Benny was saying, “is that you just turn in your monthly report saying yes, all’s well, Benny’s fine. And instead of us actually having a meeting, you can have a lie-in. How does that sound?”

“Again, Benny, what’s your problem? It’s ten minutes out of your busy schedule. Which, let’s face it, must have gaps in it these days. I mean, it’s put a crimp in your burglary career, right? Having a leg like an overcooked noodle.”