‘Ouch, I never learn,’ the Welshman said. Then, looking in the pot, his eyes grew round. ‘Well, goodness me. Your fella wasn’t kidding, was he? I’ve not seen too many pure as these.’

‘He’s not my fella.’

‘Makes no odds to me. You want to see or don’t you?’

In the watery dark innards of the pot there was a diamond gleam. Fifty of them, maybe more. Each one small but dazzling. They held more colours than she knew existed, splintering the light and spinning it. As she leaned away, she felt a little dizzy. ‘I’ll have that ciggie now, if you don’t mind,’ she said, and took a seat.

Wilson let her have one from his case and lit it for her. While she sat there, relishing the smoke, Rick fished out the gems and dried them with a scrap of cloth. He laid them out upon the desk before his boss. Then, one stone at a time, the Welshman put them under his examination, a jeweller’s loupe clamped in the socket of his eye, a pair of tweezers in his hand. She watched their rainbow shimmer in the lamplight as he turned them round and round. The more of them he scrutinized, the more content he seemed. ‘Everything’s as we were promised,’ he said. ‘That’s good news for your fella. And for you.’

‘I told you – not my fella.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I’m a go-between, that’s all.’

He hummed. ‘Let’s get this done, so we can all shake hands and say ta-ra.’ With this, he reached across the desktop for the telephone and lifted the receiver. As he dialled, he screened the number with his other hand. It hardly seemed to ring before the call connected. ‘It’s a yes,’ he said. ‘All’s good from where I’m sitting.’ Furrowing his brow at her, he hummed again. ‘That’s hard to tell … I’d say she’s brought a bit of attitude with her, but that’s to be expected, I suppose …’ She could hear an outline of the voice that answered him, but couldn’t understand what it was saying. ‘I reckon so. Keeps telling me they’re not attached … Enough to know what she’s involved with, anyway … Fine. Right you are. OK.’ And, suddenly, the phone was being offered to her. ‘Wants to speak to you,’ he said.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s your mother.’ Wilson jiggled the receiver. ‘Come on. You should never look a gift horse in the mouth, that’s what my old mam taught me.’

She stubbed her ciggie in his plant pot, took the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello there. I believe you’re Joyce?’ It was a woman’s voice, or else the meekest bloke who ever spoke the language.

‘Yeah, and who are you?’

‘A fool for diamonds,’ came the answer. ‘But nobody can tell me what to spend my money on now, can they? And it seems as though we have a deal.’ There was something very airs-and-graces to the voice, the t’s and d’s so crisp they sounded forced.