She’d thought of going to the coppers with the packages, but they weren’t likely to believe her. A history of thieving was a drawback when you needed to be taken at your word. It was the teeth that were the problem. She’d been euchred by those teeth. The bastard knew the game that he was playing. She’d considered dumping them into the compost, scattering the lot of them across the east field while she pulled up carrots, burying the box so far away that nobody could ever dig it up. But there was too much risk with that: she’d hang for it if she got caught. Everyone would think she’d been responsible for what had happened. Mal was always dealing her a crooked hand. He’d played a bower with those teeth, all right. That awful strip of hat inside, just so she’d know whose head they’d come from. Bastard. Worthless bloody bastard. He’d been sending her a message to go with it: Follow orders and keep quiet. Remember what’ll happen if you don’t.

One night, shy of sleep, she’d come up with the bright idea to open all the other parcels. Maybe they might give her the advantage back: if not a joker, then a jack she could lay down to change the pattern of the game. They were underneath her bedpost on the far side, by the wall. She’d heaved the frame back, where the shortest piece of floorboard lifted with a bit of jimmying – the blade of a butter knife worked best and she kept one in her desk drawer for the task. It had served her well, this hidey-hole she’d made – big enough to hold the packages and hard to spot. Removing one, she’d started picking at the tape, but hadn’t gone much further. There was nothing to be gained by knowing, she’d decided, and everything to lose. If she kept those packages intact for Mal, as promised, and delivered them to where he needed, maybe he’d release her when the job was done.

There’d been no trace of sunshine in the sky when she’d phoned through to him this morning. Still, ‘A fine day in the countryside again,’ she’d said.

‘Can’t argue with you there.’

She hadn’t been expecting this, or the contentment in his tone.

‘I’ve got instructions for you, finally,’ he’d said. ‘We’re nearly out the woods.’

‘You found a fence?’

‘Not quite. A middleman. The buyer trusts him.’

‘Jesus. What does that make me, then?’

‘Nothing that you weren’t before. A go-between.’

‘You know this bloke – the middleman?’

‘I trust him. We’ve done bits and pieces down the years.’ There’d been a momentary rustle, then his voice had softened. ‘Listen here, I’m banking on you, Joy. If this goes wrong for me, I’m going to wind up dead or something worse. And they’ll not spare you either.’

‘Worse than being dead?’ she’d said. ‘How’s that?’

‘Let’s hope you don’t find out.’

That part had shaken her. A fella with a walking stick had shuffled down the lane to post a letter. He’d looked across the road, towards her in the box, and she’d glared back. The moisture in her mouth had gone. She’d felt a flutter in her bladder. But a robin redbreast had flapped down and landed on the grass outside and she’d relaxed again. As soon as it had darted off, the man had gone away.