‘I’ve been waiting,’ she said, ‘but you seemed to want a chat.’

Again, the laughter from behind her.

‘Dear me, you’re just like him,’ Wilson said. ‘No manners.’

‘Leave it out,’ she said. ‘I’m not like him. I’m not like anyone.’ And she unclasped her handbag on her lap. One by one, she brought out Mal’s three parcels, laying them before the Welshman on the desk. For a moment, it appeared that Wilson was expecting more – he was peering at them with a wry expression – so she said, ‘That’s all of them.’

‘Good good.’

‘You need to give me what I came for now.’

‘Oh, do I?’ Wilson said. He drew on the last embers of his cigarette and stubbed it in his plant’s dry soil. ‘I think I’d better check these first, my dear, if it’s OK with you.’

He went and got a knife out of his drawer and sliced the tape on all the parcels, tearing off long strips and bundling them inside his fist, until he could attack the layers of paper underneath. He ripped them back and what was left there on his desk surprised her. Three glass jars of Brylcreem, full up to the brim.

She must’ve taken her next breath too fast, because he looked at her and said, ‘You’ve really got no clue what you’ve been carting round here, do you?’

She said nothing.

‘Show her, Rick,’ he said, and sat down in his chair.

The other fella tucked his hammer in his belt and came to fetch the jars. At the back end of the room, there was a small handbasin with a corded kettle on a shelf, which Rick topped up and set to boil. ‘Have you got that little doo-dah, boss?’ he called, and Wilson ferreted about inside his drawer again, propelling what he found across the room for Rick to catch. It seemed to be a tea strainer. Rick fetched the teapot, rinsed it out. The kettle gasped and rumbled on the shelf while he got on with twisting off the lids from all three jars. He spooned the lumpy Brylcreem out of them into the empty teapot.

‘Just a minute,’ Rick said. ‘It works quicker if it’s boiling hot.’

‘Whatever’s coming out of that, I won’t be drinking it,’ she said.

‘Me neither,’ Rick said. ‘More than my job’s worth, believe me.’ When the kettle was done simmering, he poured the water in the pot and swirled it round. ‘Here, grab on to this for me,’ he said, and passed her the tea strainer. ‘Just in case they try escaping.’

She had to hold it out over the sink while he slow-poured the milky liquid from inside, sieving out what dribbled from the spout. The steam got to her face and stung it.

‘That’ll do,’ Rick said. ‘Let’s have a look what Santa’s brought us.’ And he put the teapot down in front of Wilson on the desk, who craned his lamp above it, lifting up the lid and blowing sharply on his fingers when it burned him.