Across the dancefloor, beyond the bar, she spies a pair of women emerging from a doorway, swaying arm in arm, and guesses that this is where she might find the room she is looking for. She picks up her handbag and makes her way over.

A group of men are gathered in a small cluster by the bar, drinking whisky as they talk. They look like factory workers, she thinks, muscular and thick necked. Harriet will have to pass them. Her shoulders tense, and she clutches her bag to her body, but they are watching the women whose skirts ride high to their calves as they bob and skip. They won’t be interested in her.

One man, eyes on the dancers, is, from the look of his gestures, outlining a plan or telling a story while the others listen, nodding and commenting occasionally. She is alarmed to realise that she recognises him. His suit is smart, but also ‘flash’. He has a handsome face, cleanshaven and with a strong jawline, but his expression is hard.

He was the man with Ruby Mills. The man who robbed Mr Enderby’s shop and pushed little Cecily to the ground. Billy Walsh. That was the name Alice Dunning had given to her. An associate of the Forty Thieves and a hardened criminal, according to Inspector MacKenzie. And here he is, lounging against the bar of the Angel, holding court, as though it is he who owns the club and not Peter Lazenby.

Harriet remembers to breathe. Raises her shoulders. He will not recognise her. She will not be afraid.

The men do not move as she nears them. They are committed to their own conversation and ignore her. There is a lull in the music as the dance comes to an end and the musicians pause for a drink.

‘– taking the goods to Mayfair tomorrow –’

‘– and the General wants the boys to collect another load from here. Mortimer’s keeping it all warm –’

She slows her steps, trying to make sense of what they are talking about. They are carrying, fetching something. Jimmy had spoken of illegal buying and selling. Perhaps this is it. This is what he was talking about. It would be the sort of thing Billy Walsh might be involved in, alongside raiding jewellery shops. She turns back to the dancefloor as if looking for someone and continues to listen.

‘He will, if he knows what’s good for him.’ The voice is jocular enough, but the men respond with dark laughter. The sound of it bothers her.

‘Another one, Billy?’

‘Yeah, go on.’

The discussion of ‘goods’ is lost to her as the men turn towards the bar for more whisky, so she proceeds on her way to the door beyond where they stand.