but were picky enough to know they didn’t want to share their grand abode with filthy Frankie and his gross personal habits for one minute longer.
So, here he was. Mooching around the streets, mugging a granny here, snatching a wallet there, doing a bit of housebreaking, nicking a few cars, selling stuff on and using the proceeds to buy smack. He’d had a decent education. He was even – in the days before drugs and drink had fucked his brains up for good – what you’d call bright. He’d picked up a few skills. He could get into a house and have the contents away – jewellery, cash and electrics, all easy to sell on – before you could say knife.
Oh, and he could hot-wire a car.
He loved hot-wiring cars.
Whistling under his breath, he was ambling along, Nothing to see here, officer, discreetly trying this car door, then that one, then another. One or two in every London street would be unlocked. He knew this from experience.
A group of girls passed by, got a waft of his unwashed body, looked at him in revulsion, and edged away.
Frankie didn’t care.
He was on a mission.
He needed another hit.
As he moved on down the street, trying the next car door, and the next, he saw a bloke up ahead sitting in the driver’s seat of a black Mercedes. The door was wide open, he had one leg out on the pavement as he leaned in, fiddling with something in there, cassette player maybe. The man glanced around.
Frankie had never seen such a long curling mop of fire-engine-red hair, especially on a guy. It was all the more striking because his skin was bleached-out white. Funny-looking fucker. Frankie slowed his pace and watched, fascinated. Finally the man finished whatever he was doing, got out. He was big, Frankie noted, a burly geezer, not someone you’d want to tangle with. Not realizing he was being watched, the guy closed the car door gently. Didn’t lock it.
Frankie smiled.
All his Christmases had come at once.
What could he get from selling on a hot Merc?
A fucking fortune, that’s what.
The man hurried away up the street. Frankie moved in.
The office door was open and Dolly was sitting at her desk. She looked up in surprise as Annie appeared.
‘Hello,’ she said, starting to smile. ‘What are-’
‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me Layla’d had bother?’ Annie asked, shutting the door behind her.
Taken aback, Dolly sat gawping at her.
‘Well, come on,’ snapped Annie. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
For a moment, Dolly could only stare at Annie, who’d marched in, all guns blazing, and was now leaning both fists on the desk and glaring at her.