‘Let go of my arm,’ Ethel shouted, kicking and struggling.

Dolly gave an added twist to the wrist, forcing the arm higher until Ethel yelped in pain. ‘Tell me where the letter is and I’ll let go,’ she said quietly.

‘I ain’t bloody telling you nothing, you cow,’ yelled Ethel.

‘How about I call the guard?’ Dolly murmured close to her ear. ‘He’s only over there, and I’m sure he’d be very interested to see what you had in your tin. Nicked it from the canteen, did you? That’s theft, Ethel, and I’ll make sure you do time for it if you don’t tell me what I want to know.’

Ethel groaned and sagged against the wall. ‘It’s in me pocket. But you’ll pay fer this, you toffee-nosed slag.’

Dolly kept her grip on the skinny wrist with one hand and delved into the grubby pockets with the other to find yet more tins – as well as the letter, which had been opened.

‘I were going to deliver it,’ whined Ethel. ‘I just forgot, that’s all.’

‘Of course you were,’ said Dolly, shoving the letter into her jacket pocket before letting go of the wrist and taking a quick step back and to one side, to avoid the haymaker punch the woman was winding up to aim at her head.

Unbalanced, Ethel staggered, tripped over one of the tins and went sprawling into the gutter.

Dolly looked down at her in disgust. ‘That’s the best place for a liar and a thief,’ she said coldly. ‘I hope Stan never finds out what sort of low-life he’s married.’

Ethel rubbed her wrist and scowled as she scrambled to her feet. ‘I’ll tell my Stan what you done to me – you bitch,’ she spat.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Dolly. ‘Because then you’d have to explain why I’m a bitch – and I don’t think he’d be too happy to hear how you steal food and other people’s letters.’

She was about to return to her car when she stopped and looked back at Ethel, who was now on her hands and knees scrabbling about for her ill-gotten booty. ‘What did you stand to gain by not delivering it?’

‘That ain’t none of your flaming business,’ yelled a red-faced Ethel.

‘I could make it my business,’ Dolly said softly, her high heel stabbing down on the packet of tea and missing Ethel’s fingers by a whisker.

Ethel cowered. ‘That bitch what owns the Anchor was due for a payback,’ she gabbled, hastily getting to her feet. ‘Thinks she’s so bleeding clever with her fancy clothes and ’er hold over poor old Ron all the time she’s playing fast and loose with that posh major.’