He lights up and settles further into his seat, drawing on the cigarette. She hates it when he’s like this. He knows she’s desperate. She can see the glint of triumph in his face and despises him for it. She tries to keep still, but her body fidgets with mounting impatience.

He blows smoke into the air.

‘I want my cut, Ray. My money. That was my watch. You said we’d discuss the terms, so let’s discuss them.’

He sits, smoking, staring at her thoughtfully, as if he’s giving their business arrangement serious consideration. He’s making her wait. Even this is beginning to annoy her, but she bites down her frustration.

The clock on the wall ticks heavily. It’s louder than usual.

He takes a final draw on the cigarette, stubs it out in a thick glass ashtray and smiles.

‘I’d better close up for the afternoon, then, hadn’t I?’

He eases himself out of his seat and makes his way to the front door of the shop to lock up, brushing past her as he goes.

His heavy, sweet scent thickens in her throat.

Perhaps she could kill him – once he’s given her the money.

Harriet types up her notes steadily. The reporters’ hall is noisy, clattering, shouty. Someone makes a loud comment about needing a cup of tea, but she ignores it, shuts it out of her mind, keeps her head down. Alice Dunning had been helpful enough, and along with the comments from the girl at Hartleys and her own recollections from the theft at Mr Enderby’s jewellery shop, she will soon have a decent piece to take to Mr Pickford. She has given him what he asked for already. The copy about engagement rings was declared ‘charming’, though it led to an awkward exchange when he enquired about whether she had a young man and if she was expecting to become engaged in the near future. She had glanced, anxiously, at her left hand, worrying that she had forgotten to remove her diamond ring.

According to Alice Dunning, Ruby Mills had been in Debenham and Freebody with her, but on a different floor. She had not been looking at talcum powder or perfume – she had been elsewhere. It was gloves, possibly, or scarfs, that she had lifted. Harriet imagines Ruby’s lithe figure wrapped in bright silk. Or a daring evening gown with sheer fabric that skims one’s skin. Ruby Mills would be the sort of girl to dare, she is certain.

She frowns at her typewriter, willing herself to concentrate on the last sentences, before finally tugging the paper from it and advancing towards Pickford’s office.

‘Make us a cup of tea, Harriet,’ one of the reporters wails plaintively. ‘A man could die of thirst here.’

‘In a minute,’ she says, clutching the paper. ‘I need to speak with Mr Pickford first.’