‘Good. Go and find Tuft and ask him to draw her for you, so that the readers have a better idea.’ Sam Tuft is the artist for the Gazette. He creates line drawings when they cannot find a photograph or when they have spent too much money on real images and need only a suggestion of a picture.

‘Thank you, Mr Pickford.’

Harriet struggles to contain the thrill that now ripples within her. She trots with a new lightness to James Curran’s desk. Perhaps it is finally her desk after all.

‘Did you say you were making the tea, Harriet?’ Another man, incapable of finding the kettle by himself, passes her before she can even sit down, nudging her arm. ‘Put the pot on, love.’

‘I was just on my way,’ she says, smiling. ‘It appears that several of you are so parched you’re about to wilt. If you come with me, I’ll show you where to find the kettle.’

He laughs and walks off.

This does not irritate her. Nothing can overshadow the shine of Mr Pickford’s praise. It’s good.

It is good.

She wants to run from the building and tell someone that she wrote something she is proud of. Something that the editor likes. Her parents will not share her enthusiasm for a female criminal, but she would like to find Ralph, to read him her piece and hear him say that it was wonderful. He would put his arms around her, kiss her lovingly and tell her that he was proud of her. Yes, she would share this moment with Ralph. Indeed, she will enjoy sharing it.

She fills the kettle with water and sets it to boil, thinking about Ralph and anticipating what he will say.

But the face at the forefront of her mind is not Ralph’s.

The one person Harriet truly hopes will read this piece is the subject of it. The girl whose image Sam Tuft will spend the afternoon creating. Of course, she never will. She might not be able to read, Harriet thinks, and besides, the Kensington Gazette is not read in Southwark.

Harriet sets the cups on the tray.

‘Peter Lazenby?’ Ruby snatches up her dress and throws it over her head. ‘You sold the watch to Peter fucking Lazenby?’ She is hopping with fury, incredulous at what Ray the Rat has just told her. ‘When did he come here? How did he know about it?’

Ray leans back on his pillow, his arms folded over his head, watching her with a contented sneer on his face.

‘You want more answers, you’d better come back to bed, you little firecracker.’