As Harold passed, he added, “And keep an eye on Hennessy, will you? You know what those bitches are like.” He tapped his nose with that forefinger, as if it was now the pointer to a shared secret, and not a gun, except of course Harold had no idea what he was talking about.

He wondered if, despite her aptitude, Mr Napier was already trying to get rid of her. His boss never trusted the people who were better than himself.

The first drive came a few days later. Queenie appeared at his car, gripping her square handbag, as if she was off on a shopping trip instead of an inspection of a pub’s account books. Harold knew the landlord of the pub; he was a slippery chap at the best of times. He couldn’t help feeling afraid for her.

“I hear you’re driving me, Mr Fry,” she said, slightly imperious.

They travelled in silence. She sat beside him, very neat, her hands tucked in a tight ball in her lap. Harold had never felt so conscious of how he took the corners, or pressed his foot into the clutch, or pulled at the handbrake when they arrived. He leapt out to open the passenger door, and waited as her leg slowly emerged and groped for the pavement. Maureen’s ankles were so slim they made him weak with desire. Queenie’s on the other hand were thick. Rather like himself, he had felt, she lacked physical definition.

When he glanced up he was mortified to find her staring straight back at him. “Thank you, Mr Fry,” she said at last, clipping away, with the handbag wedged on her arm.

It therefore came as a surprise, when he was checking the beer levels, to find the landlord beetroot-faced and dripping sweat.

“Fuck me,” he said, “that little woman’s a demon. You can’t get a thing past her.”

Harold felt a small rush of admiration, touched with pride.

On the journey back, she was silent and still again. He even wondered if she was asleep, but it seemed rude to look, in case she wasn’t. He pulled into the yard at the brewery and she said suddenly, “Thank you.”

He muttered something awkward about it being a pleasure.

“I mean, thank you for a few weeks ago,” she said. “The time in the stationery cupboard.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Harold, meaning exactly that.

“I was very upset. You were kind to me. I should have said thank you before but I was embarrassed. That was wrong.”

He couldn’t meet her eye. He knew, without looking at her, that she was biting her lip.

“I was glad to help.” He reapplied the poppers on his driving gloves.