Her own place in Crystal Palace was a basement flat and the view from her living room consisted of a moss-coated metal slab covering a storm drain which had an annoying tendency to back up when it rained a lot.

‘It’s not Miami Vice or anything,’ said Frank. ‘But it’s not bad for taxpayers’ money. And it should do the job of convincing anyone who decides to check you out. And Stratford is kind of in the Molloys’ neck of the woods.’

She glanced around the rest of the flat, seeing that the kitchen was open-plan with a breakfast bar separating it from the living room area. She’d always wanted an open-plan kitchen – her own kitchen was a rather cramped galley affair. She wandered over to have a closer look.

Meanwhile, Frank took a thick chunky envelope out of the bag he was carrying and dropped it onto the living room table.

‘These are your credentials. Passport, driver’s licence, and so on. Even a gym membership for the gym on the ground floor. All under the name of Bailey Sharpe. Just as you requested.’

She nodded absently as she peered inside various cupboards. ‘Thanks. I’ll go through them later.’

He placed a laptop on the table next to the envelope. ‘And here’s a laptop.’

Bailey turned the tap on in the kitchen. The water dribbled out in a feeble trickle. ‘The water pressure’s a bit low,’ she said.

Frank looked up and shrugged apologetically. ‘I can get someone to look at it if you want.’

‘And I’m really not sure about this decor,’ she said, casting her gaze around the inside of the apartment. There was something fundamentally kitsch and tasteless about the way the place had been decked out. In the centre of the living room was a round nautical-themed coffee table constructed out of a ship’s wheel. On the wall by the entrance hallway there was a large garish mirror with a gold bevelled frame. And standing beneath the mantelpiece was a life-sized porcelain model of a jaguar. Bailey’s eyes rested on the porcelain jaguar, her forehead wrinkling in puzzlement. ‘Who on earth thought that was a good idea? I’ve never seen anything so tacky in all my life.’

‘I’m sure you’ll make the place your own. But don’t make it too cosy. Remember to stay in character.’ Frank paused. ‘Talking of which. Here. A moving-in present.’ He opened a carrier bag and took out a handful of DVDs, which he placed on the table. ‘I picked up a load of films this morning. Any self-respecting gangster would own these movies.’

‘DVDs, Frank?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You’re so old-school. I do have Netflix, you know.’

‘Yeah, but these’ll look cooler on your bookshelf. And this place does come with a DVD player.’

She gave a concessionary nod and went over to the table to have a look through them.

‘Scarface…’ she murmured. It was one of those films she’d never got round to watching.

‘With Al Pacino,’ he said. ‘All aspiring gangsters seem to be obsessed with that film. They can’t get enough of it. Especially that bit at the end where he shoots everybody.’