That’s when her brother had begun to fret. ‘What’s going on? Why didn’t you just tell him?’ He’d looked confused and haunted. Mouth ajar and nostrils quivering. It was rage and disappointment on his face. Sheer disbelief, a bit of hatred. She’d expected him to cry, but hadn’t been prepared for the unholy sight of it: the glut of tears, the sudden crumpling of his face, as though he were a little kid who’d tripped and scraped his elbow. Sniffing back the hurt, he’d said, ‘Why can’t you just be honest for a change?’

‘Because I can’t,’ she’d said. ‘I’m sorry, mouse.’

‘Don’t call me that. For God’s sake – Joyce. Just tell him or you’re going to ruin everything. Just tell him, Joyce. This isn’t fair.’

Such a tired announcement of her name, as though he couldn’t even bring himself to speak it. She’d tried to lay a hand upon his shoulder, but he’d shrugged it off. Then PC Higgs had reached her window, saying, ‘Let me take your details, please. Who’s going first?’ There hadn’t been a chance to tell her brother everything would turn out fine, the way she used to do when they were younger. They were side by side in silence on the back seat of the coppers’ car before he’d even looked at her again.

*

As she waited at a set of traffic lights just south of Croydon, it occurred to her that still she didn’t know the buyer’s name. With circumstances being what they were, she hadn’t thought to seek the information. Now she was in league with some posh-speaking woman with a face she couldn’t tell from any other. She was being followed by two strangers in a black saloon, whose cigarettes were venting fumes out of their windows, scarcely a few yards behind her. It was doubtful she’d improved her situation – if anything, she’d only made herself more vulnerable to harm. But she felt certain of one thing: her brother would be safer with Mal Duggan gone, and she was glad of that result. No waking up in fright again because she thought she heard Mal’s whisper in her ear. No more wondering what he would make her do: take this, fetch that, drive it here, stop asking questions, shut your fucking trap, lie still. She hoped they’d throw his body face down in a hole so he could rot there, belly first.

The route was leading her to Woldingham – or was it Oxted? She was checking her direction on the map each time she had a chance to stop. From this point, it was only B roads till she reached a crooked yellow line called Chalkpit Lane, which Mal had crossed with pencil. There was a jagged symbol on the page there, labelled WORKS, which didn’t give her the most hopeful feeling. In the boot, she had an overnight bag full of sales brochures for lamps and lighting fixtures, packed for her by Rick. A layer of banknotes set on top – no more than fifty quid, as far as she could tell. A consolation prize. ‘You’re going to want a weapon,’ he’d said, ‘in case he tries to scarper – you could slow him down with it. The boss looks kindly on that sort of thing.’ When she’d told him she’d come empty-handed, he’d said, ‘Take the hammer,’ and she’d put it in her handbag, not a word of thanks.