If she tried, she could account for every single car she’d moved for Mal over the years but she could hardly think of any use she’d put the money to, except for the electric bill, the gas and water, telephone, her monthly groceries, some clothes and a few records, tickets for the flicks. Her first delivery had been a Morris, then it was a black Ford Anglia, two Standards and a Singer; then came four of those dull Vauxhall Wyverns and a Velox. She’d done these jobs on weeknights only, so her brother wouldn’t have to know. For some of them, Mal had a way of jamming a flat-headed screwdriver into the ignition. For the others, he relied on trickery and wits. In quiet country pubs, he’d steal the keys right out of boozy fellas’ pockets while they stood at the urinals or the cigarette machines. In hotel bars, he’d charm old men and slip a blue into their cognac, filch the car keys out their jackets, drive off in their Daimlers and Lagondas after they’d passed out. He’d be up and down the country all week long on visits, never in the same place twice, varying the counties that he worked as though he were rotating crops. For the flashiest cars, he’d always have a fence he could rely on, whether it was somebody in Devon or the Yorkshire Dales. He’d keep his business on the fringes of the cities, which were other people’s territory, belonging to the sorts of gangs you didn’t want to know your face. But when the car was ordinary, he’d always use the same two fences – one who had a garage out in Sevenoaks, another out in Sittingbourne – and he’d give her the responsibility. ‘A wholesome-looking girl like you behind the wheel and no one bats an eye. You won’t have any bother in a family car. Just get a bag and fill it up with fruit and veg, make sure it’s on the seat beside you. Have a picnic blanket in the back. Dress up nice and get your hair done.’ He’d appear at the flat by night, waking her sometimes or finding her halfway through clearing supper. ‘Got one for you. Parked it three streets down, by number 57. Here.’ He’d throw the keys and tell her where she had to go. ‘Well, hurry up, girl. Blimey.’ And she’d drive for half an hour to Sevenoaks, where, under lantern light, a bloked called Oz would swing his garage doors back for the car, no pleasantries exchanged; or further out, to Sittingbourne, where a white-haired bloke called Munce would do the same. ‘You want to stay and have a drink with me this time?’ old Munce would ask, a quart of Pusser’s springing from his overalls, and she’d refuse. ‘All right, darling. More for me.’ With that, she’d fetch her blanket and her bag of groceries and catch the late bus home.