‘She might as well try her luck at recruiting Doll again.’ Maggs has called on Doll over the years, seeing how fast her fingers work when she’s shelling peas, but Doll, though a good neighbour and loyal to the Forties, refuses to go raiding. She is devoted to her children – all the waifs and strays of the Borough she takes in. No one would be around to look after the children, she says, if she ended up in prison for thieving.

‘I could put in a good word for you?’ Florrie eyes the coat slyly. ‘If you like. As a favour.’

Ruby purses her lips for a moment, considering the possibility of returning. She could be back in the Forties, back with the girls, and lifting jewellery. Back home. They need her. As long as she is prepared to grovel to Annie.

‘Do what you want.’ She hitches the coat into a better position in the crease of her elbow and picks up her suitcase, readying herself to return to Southwark. ‘I’m going to see Daisy.’

Ruby doesn’t wait for a response and crosses the bridge, with Florrie trotting at her heels and telling her more about Daisy’s situation until they reach the High Street. There, Florrie, with one last doleful look at the coat, leaves her. Ruby takes a turn right, then left, and left again, and arrives deep in the heart of the slums. She knows this tangle of streets and alleys as well as the people who live here. Coppers fresh to the area fear this part of the Borough, where the tenements rise high and the daylight barely reaches the cobbles. It is a dark, foetid riddle of streets, that gives no clues to strangers; there are no helpful signs or comforting landmarks. Ruby wonders how the men from the docks have found Daisy’s house – but then, of course, they always know where to find what they want.

Ruby bangs on a rickety door next to the brewery where Harry worked until recently. Dust and grime have begun to gather on the doorstep.

There is no answer immediately, so she bangs again. A window upstairs is hauled up. Daisy’s face appears.

‘Daisy, let me in.’

‘Go away, Ruby. I’m not supposed to be talking to you.’

‘You’re hardly popular yourself, you silly cow. Let me in.’

Daisy disappears and in a minute the door is opened, just a crack.

‘I can’t let you in,’ she hisses. Her eyes flick up and down the street. Children play, dragging sticks over cobbles and through the puddles, splashing dirty water over each other. Older boys are fighting, pretending the sticks are swords. A few women are leaning against the walls of their houses, passing the time of day in the chilly air, their housework done, their doorsteps swept clear of dust until the wind blows it all back again.