She had to make the effort. He was locked up and he was innocent. Granted, he’d tried to shoot Tony Dillon, but he hadn’t succeeded. He hadn’t finished the job. Frank had.

Next day, when Frank had already gone out for the day, she went ‘shopping’ – only not really. Once out of sight of the hotel, she hailed a cab – Frank always gave her plenty of spending money – and set off for Brixton Prison with the VO in her handbag.

It was grim, grimmer than she had expected. Being ushered through like cattle with the rest of the visitors, and finally sitting down at a table – and then Dickie walked in. Only . . . he wasn’t the same Dickie she’d known, the glossy, charming and confident man with the sharp suits, the immaculate hair, the pencil moustache and the highly buffed shoes. This Dickie slouched in, clean-shaven, dead-faced, and sat down opposite her.

‘All right then, Dor?’ he said.

Dora looked at him in disbelief. He hadn’t been on remand long and already he had a prison pallor and a defeated look about him. He hadn’t even been properly tried yet for the murder.

‘How are you?’ Dora asked, stupidly. Poor bastard looked like shit, how did she think he was?

‘I’m OK,’ he mumbled. Then he raised his eyes from the table and looked at her. ‘You look great, Dor. Frank looking after you then?’

Dora felt herself getting angry. ‘Bugger Frank. He’s looking after me, but who’s looking after you?’

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘He’s got people in here looking out for me, Dor.’

‘Oh that’s bollocks. And if it’s true, don’t you mean keeping watch on you? Making sure you don’t change your story and put him in the shit?’

Dickie looked pained. ‘I’m pleading guilty, Dor. Death sentence’s a thing of the past, all I got to do is my time.’

‘How much time?’

‘Maybe twenty.’

‘Twenty years?’ Dora nearly shouted it. The man she’d allowed herself – stupidly, she did see that – to fall in love with, the man she had fully intended to marry, was talking about spending the prime years of his life – and hers – locked up in jail.

‘Shut up, Dora,’ said Dickie, glancing around nervously. ‘Maybe I’ll get a bit less with good behaviour. And I’ll have a good handout waiting for me. As a thanks from Frank.’

Dora couldn’t believe her ears. She’d thought he was smart, but it was clear he was a moron. And now this fool was prepared to do a twenty stretch just to keep Frank’s hands clean?

‘This ain’t fair, Dickie. He did it, not you.’

‘I said shut up.’ Dickie’s face was wild, fearful. ‘Anyone hears you say that . . .’ He leaned forward again, stared straight into her eyes. ‘Listen to me, Dor. I did it. I’m pleading guilty. I’ll keep my nose clean and I’ll be out early with a good pay-off. Because if I don’t . . .’