‘Hi. Can I help you?’ The proprietor didn’t even glance in my direction.

‘Yes. I’m after a cheap mobile; pay as you go.’ I tucked my hands into my jeans, avoided eye contact and kept conversation to a minimum.

‘Yes, sir. That’ll be no problem. Any particular make of phone?’

He pulled out half a dozen varieties of handsets and splayed them across the counter. His stubby fingers greased the keys as he tried to explain the advantages and disadvantages of the different choices.

‘Any model will do. It’s for my daughter. She’s going on a trip to India. Something cheap and cheerful.’

‘Whereabouts? I’m from Mumbai.’ He beamed. ‘Such a beautiful country, India. I often wonder why I’m living in Finsbury Park.’

A couple of teenage lads entered the shop and started picking up phone cases and laptop covers from the shelves. I kept my head down and jerked sideways when I noticed a CCTV camera on the ceiling pointing in my direction.

‘Can I help you, lads? Please don’t handle the goods unless you’re thinking of buying,’ the owner barked. He was about to come out from behind the counter and confront the boys when they sidled, laughing, back out onto the street.

‘You can’t watch them closely enough. You know, I lose more merchandise through theft than I sell. Anyway, back to business.’

The stench of curry wafted through from a back room and as I fingered the phones, I tugged my hat further over my face. Indian pipe music broke out and stemmed the need for further pleasantries.

‘This one’s fine, thank you.’ I extracted a wad of banknotes and watched the shopkeeper lick his fat fingers as he counted out the spoils.

‘Keep the change.’ Might have been a risky move, offering something that I could be remembered by, but I’d already delayed longer than planned and was eager to get away. I turned down the offer of a carrier bag and hurriedly pocketed the phone and receipt.

The two teenagers were moping around outside and watched me leave before they reopened the shop door and went back inside.

69

Arthur

It wasn’t through concern that the owner of Handy Mobiles might confer with the hunch-backed manager at Cut Price Keys, but changing outfits for a second time that day added to my sense of purpose.

A trip back to Kings Cross, dressed as a city gent, proved to be a very pleasant time-wasting exercise. A recently purchased biography of ‘The Yorkshire Ripper’ made a riveting read as I melted into the hotpot of smartly dressed commuters.

Nondescript husbands, balding bankers and second-rate marketing consultants shared my tube carriage. I was pretending to be a lawyer at a top firm, a legal eagle, and was researching facts and figures relating to serial killers. The thick-rimmed glasses lent me gravitas and intellectual nous.