‘I’m not so sure, Annie,’ Maggs says, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know…’

‘I’ll do it,’ Ruby says, before Maggs sways Annie’s mind. ‘I can do it. You’ve taught me enough, Maggs. I couldn’t have had a better teacher.’

‘It’s different,’ Maggs grumbles into her drink. ‘You’ve got to play the part, make them give you the items rather than just grab and run –’

‘That’s what I did today,’ Ruby says. ‘I pretended like I was a movie star, and the shop girl just wrapped the coat around me.’

She strokes the mink collar and then regrets the slip she’s just made. Annie hasn’t noticed it, though. She’s too focused on the jeweller.

‘I think she’s ready, Maggs. She’s not been inside. She isn’t known to anyone. And this is a new location for us to try. Besides’ – she winks at Ruby – ‘I’ve asked Billy Walsh to go with her. He’ll keep her in line. And Ron’ll drive them away when they’re done.’

Ruby’s heart begins to pound again.

‘I’m ready, Annie,’ she says, her eyes glittering, ignoring Edith, whose face has suddenly taken on a pinched expression. ‘Just tell me when.’

Annie finishes her stout and raises a hand to her mouth to stifle the belch. ‘You can go on Wednesday,’ she says. ‘Late morning, near lunchtime. Half-day closing on Wednesdays, so it’ll be quiet. And you’ll have a few days to sort your story out with Billy.’ Annie stands up, her business concluded. She cranes her neck towards the bar, looking for someone. ‘We’ll go out again as a group soon, too. Next week.’

She nods to Maggs and then leans forward and crooks a finger under Ruby’s chin. ‘Make sure Grace takes that mink off your hands, Ruby Mills,’ she says. ‘You know the rules, sweetheart. Don’t break them.’

Ruby says nothing. It’s not a good idea to argue with the Queen.

Annie leaves them and finds her man, Frederick Moss, standing with her brothers. Freddy Moss, the King of the Elephant Boys, smokes quietly, while the others talk. He’s always quiet and watchful, always thinking and planning. In a gang known across London for their muscle, Moss stands apart for his cool intelligence. That doesn’t mean he’s afraid to dirty his knuckles in a fight, although he prefers to run a razor blade across someone’s throat – a quicker and more precise way of dealing with trouble than slugging it out on a street. He has a scar of his own, a memento from an encounter last year, stitched small and neat, just under his right eye. The man who gave it to him spent several hours bleeding slowly until he died. No one crosses Freddy Moss.