That Celeste was this anxious told her that something big was going down. For the first time that night she wondered if her James was involved. She hoped so – whatever it was would be a big earn. All this worry wasn’t for a lousy couple of quid, of that much she was sure. Her quick brain worked out that it had to be about taking something from someone – that was the only way a true Face could go forward in life. It was how you spread your workforce and made sure everyone was getting a nice earn.

Cynthia was a born criminal. She had the innate cunning needed for the job, and she also had the hard core inside her that was necessary when the time came to take out those who had outlived their usefulness. She didn’t know that, but her instincts were nearly always spot on. Except when she was blinded by jealousy – then her instincts risked being overpowered by revenge. She had a taste for revenge, she had since a small child. In a man these would have been traits that could have taken her to the top of her game; in a woman they were seen as a weakness. Men in her world believed that women were ruled by their hormones, and they could never respect a creature that had no real will of their own – it was as simple as that. Yet Cynthia knew she was ten times more intelligent than most of the men in her orbit, especially her ignoramus of a father, and that imbecile of a husband she had tied herself to.

As she looked round her sister’s home, saw the luxury and the expense, she could once more kick herself metaphorically in the head. This could have been hers, this could have been her life. This should have been her life. Because, all that apart, Jonny Parker was the only man to ever ring her bells. When he had taken her she had finally felt whole, poor James couldn’t compete with that. No man could compete with that. She had chosen respectability and where had that got her?

She had imagined herself presiding over dinner parties, where her James, not Jimmy, James, would bring his minions, and she would patronise them while stunning them with her food and her witty repartee. Instead she had chosen a man who couldn’t decide whether to wear a tie without a fucking twelve-day postmortem on the subject.

She closed her eyes in anger and frustration. She hated her life so much, and the fact she had been the instigator of her own downfall was doubly frustrating.

Cynthia took the teapot to the table, and looked at her little sister. She was all eyes, all big blue eyes and anxiety. Even in her anger she felt a stirring of pity for her. ‘He’ll be OK, Celeste, stop worrying.’

‘It’s three in the morning and not even a phone call.’