‘I told you, I don’t have a boyfriend, not that it’s any business of yours.’

‘What about the boy in your building? I’ve seen you together. You can’t deny it.’

True. They had been in the attic which was where Johnny did his painting. He’d been working on a sunset over Waterloo Bridge, feeling frustrated because everything he did was wrong: the colours, the lines, the light and shade. They had argued. He had told her that she had no appreciation of art – like his mother. She had defended both herself and his mother. Afterwards, he was tearful and apologetic, and when they were leaving, Victor was sauntering up the stairs on his way to see her father.

Victor had a knack for turning up uninvited in their flat. Her father welcomed him because he believed in generosity and respect, but Connie hated every second of his presence.

‘He’s gone,’ she said, finally answering his question.

‘Where’s he gone?’ Victor patted his pocket and pulled out a pouch of tobacco.

‘Paris.’

He gave a low whistle. ‘Nice. Expensive. Has he robbed a bank? He’s not one of those train robbers, is he, and now he’s done a bunk?’ He rolled his cigarette and licked the edges. ‘Two and a half million. Wish I’d thought of a stunt like that.’

‘And what about the train driver?’ said Connie hotly.

‘Yeah, well.’ Victor grimaced. ‘I never said anything about what happened to him. It’s the entrepreneurship I admire.’ He flipped open his lighter, changed his mind and snapped it shut. Leaning forward, his eyes shining with approval, he said, ‘You know the farmhouse – the gang’s hideout after the robbery?’

She nodded. After the men had gone, the police had been tipped off. Searching the building, they’d discovered tins of soup and corned beef, bags of sugar and slabs of cake. There had even been a Monopoly board with the men’s fingerprints on it. Imagine playing Monopoly with real money.

‘Well,’ said Victor, ‘I heard the owners of the farmhouse charged half a crown to look round – a shilling for kids. Now that is genius.’ He pocketed his lighter and gave her another sly look. ‘So, is he?’

‘What?’

‘Your boyfriend. Is he a bank robber?’

‘No! Of course he isn’t. He worked at Smithfield, you know that.’

‘I’m a salesman, but it doesn’t mean I’m not cut out for a different job.’ He tucked the cigarette behind his ear. ‘I know I’m older than you, but that means I’ve got experience. And maybe I could help you and your father out.’ He waved an arm about, indicating the shop.

Connie took in his meaning and shook her head in disgust. No amount of money Victor could provide would compensate for his personality. The landlord had already waived their rent for this month, but better Kenneth Quip than Victor Wallace.