‘What the fuck?’ asked a youngish man with a squashed bulldog nose and a belligerent air.

‘You better clear out, mate,’ said Steve breathlessly, turning away. ‘There’s a fucking fire upstairs, I saw it from along the road.’

Having said that, Steve ran back to the car and piled in. ‘Right, let’s go,’ he said, and Jackie gunned the engine and took off like a bat out of hell.

Next morning, Annie Carter brought up a tray with toast and tea on it. Somehow Angel had slept. That second glass of brandy had probably helped, she thought. Annie yanked back the curtains and sunlight streamed in, then she left Angel alone to eat her breakfast.

Donny’s dead, thought Angel. And what had Annie said? Lenny’s smitten.

She knew she was a bad person. That she ought to feel something more about Donny being dead. Maybe it was shock. Since the happenings of yesterday, a numbness had come over her. She thought she wouldn’t be able to eat, but to her surprise she found she could.

Annie Carter had told her everything was going to be fine. She didn’t dare believe that yet, but still she felt a weird sense of hope, albeit fleeting. Donny was gone. Christ alone knew what they’d done with him, she didn’t know and she didn’t even care.

But . . . she’d killed him. Stuck the big tailoring scissors in his throat. Yanked them out. This madness had come over her when he’d suggested going to bed, taken her hand to lead her there. Would he have forced her again? Yes. She knew he would. After all, that’s what he did.

I’m glad he’s dead.

Now, her life could begin. Couldn’t it? But the police! They’d be hunting for Donny. And his family – oh Jesus his family! – they would be wondering where he’d gone. Angel thought of the neat, worried-looking woman she’d seen at the front door of Donny’s house. She supposed the woman must love handsome, manipulative Donny. She would fret over his absence, poor cow.

Annie Carter was back. ‘Good! You ate something. Feel a bit better now?’ asked Annie, looking at the clean plate on the tray.

Angel nodded.

‘You’re a quiet one, aintcha? I’m going to give you something to put on. Lenny’s downstairs, he wants to see you’re OK.’

Annie was moving around the room, taking out underwear from the armoire, then going to a big wardrobe and pulling out a couple of dresses.

‘What size shoe are you?’ she asked, opening another wardrobe and peering in at row upon row of what looked like very expensive shoes.

‘Five,’ said Angel.

‘I’m a six, we’ll have to pad them out a bit with some loo roll but they’ll do for now. There you go then. Feel free to use the bathroom, I’ll leave everything here on the bed.’

Annie Carter put two dresses down on the armchair, picked up the tray, and was gone again. Angel reached out and touched the dresses; one red, one black. Simply cut, and . . . she looked