The man was aware that George was a bit too quiet at the other end of the phone and hurried on, ‘But to you, two-fifty, being as how you’re a regular customer like.’

‘Well . . .’

‘They won’t last long, mate, these type never do.’

George was in a quandary. He wanted the film desperately, but he had already had to hide one Barclaycard statement. He racked his brains.

‘Look, mate, if it’s too much . . .’ The other man’s voice was placating and wistful. Suddenly George was frightened that the man would think him mean.

‘I’ll take it!’

‘When can you get in?’

‘First thing tomorrow.’

‘See you then.’

The phone went dead. George replaced the receiver and went back to the kitchen. He reboiled the kettle for Elaine’s tea.

The phone call had frightened him. George felt exposed. He poured the water into the teapot. He would get the film. He would draw the money out of the bank this time. Elaine might notice it was gone but then again she might not. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. Chinese women . . . He liked Chinese women. They knew their place all right.

‘GEORGE!’ He winced as Elaine’s voice drilled through him.

‘Who was that on the phone?’

George poured out her tea and took it in to her.

‘Just a friend from work. Peter Renshaw. He wished you all the best, dear.’

Elaine took the tea.

‘Oh. Do I know him then?’

‘I don’t think so, dear. But I often chat about you to him. Would you like a biscuit with your tea?’

‘I’d love one, but with my diet and that . . .’ She grinned at him, a girlish look on her face.

George grinned back. If she was waiting for him to say that she didn’t need to diet she had a long wait.

Elaine felt the grin slip from her face. Her head was still pounding. She sipped her tea.

Imagine old George getting a phone call from a friend. Wonders would never cease.

Patrick Kelly was in his main offices in Barking. Normally on New Year’s Day he would be at home with Mandy. Mrs Manners would cook a large early dinner and they would sit and chat about the coming year. Now all he had to look forward to was burying her. And in a funny sort of way he was looking forward to that. At least then he would know that she was not lying on ice in a bloody mortuary. He lit himself a cigarette with his gold lighter. He grasped it tightly in his hand. On the front of it was the inscription: To Dad, Love Mandy - xxxx. It was all he had of her now.

A sharp knock at the door brought him back to earth.

‘Come in.’