Mal had sniffed a long breath in. He’d gathered his right fist inside his left, cracking the knuckles one by one. She’d thought that he was weighing up her information, considering another way. ‘D’you really think I’ve not gone down and done a recce, Joy?’ he’d said. ‘A nice big farmhouse they’ve got there. Access front and back. Huge master bedroom on the top floor, office on the ground. A fancy living room. No dog to bother you when you get close – it’s odd, that, for a house out in the sticks. They usually keep a dog, but all they’ve got is hens. I have to say, the woman is nice-looking, isn’t she? Bright green eyes. And she can fill a blouse all right. She drives a lovely Austin into town, sometimes that old flatbed. And she tinkers in the garage with a tractor in the afternoons. Must be very handy round the place. Especially as he’s only got the one. Poor bloke. Spends ages in those fields, not doing much of anything, as far as I can tell. I spoke to him – he’s friendly. Not the sort who’d trouble me. You know, who’s got a bit of fight left in him. He’d probably kneel down for me and beg to have his throat cut. But you know that isn’t how I’d do it. Far too messy. Nah. A simple fire’d do the job. The lights stay on downstairs till half past two sometimes. I’d wait it out till then. Bring that jerrycan back there. Four gallons, that one holds. Enough to get things cooking.’ He’d glowered at her, dropped the ciggy packet on her lap. ‘You get the picture. I am deadly fucking serious.’

There was no shame in admitting that she’d blubbed a bit, seeing the cold whites of his eyes, the malice in them. ‘I wish I’d never met you, Mal. You make me sick.’

‘Well, blimey, I don’t blame you. Then again, I don’t much care.’

‘Can I get out now?’

He’d nodded.

Stepping out on to the muddy ground, she’d felt nothing in her legs, a numb wobble as she moved away. The greyness of the day had been too bright for her.

‘Oi,’ he’d called through the window. ‘Just remember what I told you and there won’t be any bother.’

The walk back to the house had been the worst trudge of her life. Worse than even that first noisy march in handcuffs through the corridors of Holloway when she was on remand. Worse than the slow creep along the aisle to view her parents’ coffins in the funeral home – at least, back then, she hadn’t felt responsible for what had happened, only cursed. This time, she’d had to shake the panic from her face, her voice, and go about pretending she was glad to be alive. She’d had to conjure an excuse for Charlie when he’d asked about the comics – ‘Sold out. Not one copy left. It’s typical’ – and laugh and joke her way through supper, smiling at the Mayhoods with an awful sense of doom pinching her guts. It was still there now, that dread inside her. No amount of honey lemon drinks was going to fix it.