‘Right. So what’s the address?’

‘You don’t know?’ There’s another silence. ‘Hmm. I tell you what, come to the corner of Audley Street and Packers Lane, and someone will meet you down there –’

‘I’m not a bag thief.’

‘So you keep saying. Ring when you’re there.’ He can hear her thinking. ‘If nobody answers, just hand it to the woman in the cardboard boxes by the back door. Her name’s Fran. And if we do decide to meet you, no funny business. We have a gun.’

Before he can say anything else, she has rung off. He sits at his desk, staring at his phone.

Janey walks into his office without knocking. It has started to annoy him, the way she does this. It makes him think she’s trying to catch him in the middle of something. ‘The Lefèvre painting. Have we actually sent off the opening letter yet?’

‘No. I’m still doing checks on whether it has been exhibited.’

‘Did we get the current owners’ address?’

‘The magazine didn’t keep a record of it. But it’s fine – I’ll send it via his workplace. If he’s an architect he shouldn’t be hard to find. The company will probably be in his name.’

‘Good. I just got a message saying the claimants are coming to London in a few weeks and want a meeting. It would be great if we could get an initial response before then. Can you throw some dates at me?’

‘Will do.’

He stares at his computer screen very hard, even though only the screensaver is in front of him, until Janey takes the hint and leaves.

Mo is at home. She is a strangely unobtrusive presence, even given the startling inky black of her hair and clothing. Occasionally Liv half wakes at six and hears her padding around, preparing to leave for her morning shift at the care home. She finds the presence of another person in the house oddly comforting.

Mo cooks every day, or brings back food from the restaurant, leaving foil-covered dishes in the fridge and scrawled instructions on the kitchen table. ‘Heat up for 40 mins at 180. That would mean SWITCHING ON THE OVEN’ and ‘FINISH THIS AS BY TOMORROW IT WILL CLIMB OUT OF ITS CONTAINER AND KILL US.’ The house no longer smells of cigarette smoke. Liv suspects Mo sneaks the odd one out on the deck, but she doesn’t ask.

They have settled into a routine of sorts. Liv rises as before, heading out on to the concrete walkways, her feet pounding, her head filled with noise. She has stopped buying coffee, so she makes tea for Fran, eats her toast and sits in front of her desk trying not to worry about her lack of work. But now she finds she half looks forward to the sound of the key in the lock at three o’clock, Mo’s arrival home. Mo has not offered to pay rent – and she is not sure that either of them wants to feel this is a formal arrangement – but the day after she heard about Liv’s bag, a pile of crumpled cash had appeared on the kitchen table. ‘Emergency council tax,’ the note with it read. ‘Don’t start being all weird about it.’

Liv didn’t get even remotely weird about it. She didn’t have a choice.

They are drinking tea and reading a London free-sheet when the phone rings. Mo looks up, like a gundog scenting the air, checks the clock and says, ‘Oh. I know who this is.’ Liv turns back to the newspaper. ‘It’s the man with your handbag.’

Liv’s mug stalls in mid-air. ‘What?’

‘I forgot to tell you. He rang up earlier. I told him to wait on the corner and we’d come down.’

‘What kind of man?’

‘Dunno. I just checked that he wasn’t a bailiff.’

‘Oh, God. He definitely has it? Do you think he’ll want a reward?’ She casts around in her pockets. She has four pounds in coins and some coppers, which she holds out in front of her.

‘It doesn’t seem like a lot, does it?’

‘Short of sexual favours, it’s pretty much all you have.’

‘Four pounds it is.’

They head into the lift, Liv clutching the money. Mo is smirking.

‘What?’

‘I was just thinking. It would be funny if we stole his bag. You know, mugged him. Girl muggers.’ She sniggers. ‘I once stole some chalk from a post office. I have form.’

Liv is scandalized.

‘What?’ Mo’s face is sombre. ‘I was seven.’

They stand in silence as the lift reaches the bottom. As the doors open, Mo says, ‘We could make a clean getaway. He doesn’t actually know your address.’

‘Mo –’ Liv begins, but as she steps out of the main doorway she sees the man on the corner, the colour of his hair, the way he runs his hand over the top of his head, and whips round, her cheeks burning.

‘What? Where are you going?’

‘I can’t go out there.’

‘Why? I can see your bag. He looks okay. I don’t think he’s a mugger. He’s wearing shoes. No mugger wears shoes.’

‘Will you get it for me? Really – I can’t talk to him.’

‘Why?’ Mo scrutinizes her. ‘Why have you gone so pink?’

‘Look, I stayed at his house. And it’s just embarrassing.’

‘Oh, my God. You did the nasty with that man.’

‘No, I did not.’

‘You did.’ Mo squints at her. ‘Or you wanted to. YOU WANTED TO. You are so busted.’

‘Mo – can you just get my bag for me, please? Just tell him I’m not in. Please?’ Before Mo can say anything else, she is back in the lift and jabbing at the button to take her to the top floor, her thoughts spinning. When she reaches the Glass House she rests her forehead against the door and listens to her heart beating in her ears.