But Donny just stood there, looking her over. Looking at her tear-stained face. Taking in the suitcase. His thin mouth formed a smile.

‘Chucked you out then, have they?’ he asked. ‘Can’t say as I blame them.’

‘Yeah, go on, laugh,’ snapped Dora, slapping the suitcase down on the ground. What the fuck was she going to do now?

‘William remembered about the ring Dickie Cole wore,’ said Donny.

‘I know. He told me.’

Donny’s eyes were hard as they met and held hers. ‘Your boyfriend’s confessed to the murder of Tony Dillon,’ he added.

Oh Christ! Dora didn’t know what to say. Suddenly, her whole world had gone crazy. Everything she had thought was solid and real was gone, vanished into thin air.

‘If he hadn’t been charged with that, you know what?’ Donny drew in closer and Dora stepped sharply back, away from him. A patter of fear erupted in her chest. Donny looked like he wanted to drag her off somewhere and hurt her, badly.

Dora shook her head; no.

‘I’d have busted his legs, too. Same way as he did William’s. Then I’d have busted his arms and finally I’d have cut his worthless cock off.’

He meant it. She snatched up the suitcase.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ said Donny. ‘You go. Probably best.’

18

Kim Merton had always thought of herself as a tough cookie, but now she knew she wasn’t, not deep down. Her nerves were shot to hell. Night was coming. She hated the nights now, she could not so much as catch a minute of shut-eye until she saw dawn peeping through the narrow barred basement window to drive the terrors back, away from her.

Not that it had happened during the night.

She tried and tried not to remember, but she couldn’t do it.

Her last Saturday afternoon party where Tony – her boyfriend – had died.

It haunted her, the memory of that afternoon. If she heard the music on the radio, the same music she had been playing on her old Dansette that day, if she heard Sinatra or Rosemary Clooney she felt like she was going to scream. Straight away, all she could see was blood. All she could hear was the sound of that knife pounding into Tony’s body, and the panicked shouts and screams of everyone there as Frank Pargeter murdered him.

And Frank – being Frank – had fitted up Dickie Cole for it.

Somehow, Kim lost her taste for parties after that. It was Saturday now, but she couldn’t even imagine getting tarted up in her false eyelashes, Pan Stik and bright red lippy, slipping on a tight pink or blue sheath dress that hugged her dynamite figure in all the right places, bouffing up her blonde hair, putting out snacks and drinks, getting something lively going on the record player.

She used to do all that nearly every Saturday afternoon. But now? Crowds and loud noises panicked her. She couldn’t even go up West shopping like she used to, because when all those people started jostling her on Oxford Street, bustling around, talking, she felt herself freeze. She literally grew rigid with fear and she had to stand still, trying, struggling, to draw in a breath, and then she had to get a taxi to take her home because she couldn’t even go down the Tube, the sense of being trapped inside, down below ground, with all those other people, made her want to shriek.