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out a little gasp. It was a
gold necklace, eighteen carat at least, with a goldlined
emerald heart roughly the size of a
five-pence piece on the end.
    'Oh, Jimmy,' she whispered. 'It's beautiful.'
    'I bought it this morning,' he told her.
    She reached up and kissed him tenderly on the
lips, feeling for that moment like the happiest
woman in the world.
    'I love it. Thank you.'
    They spent the rest of the afternoon and much
of the evening in bed. The lovemaking was some
of the best Andrea had ever experienced. She
could remember what they'd done together even
now. The following morning, wearing that beautiful
necklace and thinking that she'd really
landed on her feet, she cooked Jimmy breakfast in
bed, then went out to get the papers.
    Glancing through the Sun on the way back to
the flat, a photo caught her eye. It was of an
ordinary-looking middle-aged man with a beard
and a side-parting, and the headline beside him
read 'Hundred K Robbery: Security Guard Fights
for Life'. Even before she read the article, Andrea
knew instinctively that Jimmy was involved.
What followed simply confirmed her suspicions.
It seemed that a gang of four robbers armed with
a variety of firearms had held up a security van as
it made a cash pick-up from a branch of Barclays
Bank in Wembley. The security guard carrying the
case containing the money, whom the paper identified
as forty-seven-year-old father of two Alan
Jones – the man in the photograph – had tried to
resist when one of the gang had grabbed the case.
In the ensuing mêlée he was punched savagely in
the face several times and knocked unconscious,
having struck his head on the concrete as he fell.
An eyewitness was quoted as saying that the
robber had then kicked him several times, even
though it was obvious he was no longer any
threat. He was now in intensive care where his
condition was described as 'poorly but stable'.
    Andrea saw that the time of the robbery was
2.10 the previous afternoon, barely an hour before
Jimmy had turned up back at the flat looking
dishevelled and wearing a makeshift bandage on
his left hand. Jimmy had told her that at one time
he'd been an amateur middleweight boxer and
had won eleven of his twelve bouts, six by
knockout. Not exactly overwhelming proof of
guilt, but it didn't need to be. Andrea just knew.
    Stupidly, she didn't say anything. Instead,
trying to be as casual as possible, she watched him
out of the corner of her eye as he lay in bed, casually
perusing the paper, a cigarette in his mouth,
as calm as you like. He went straight to the
robbery story – she counted the pages – and read
it twice before running through the sports pages
at the back. Then, with a predatory half-smile, he
chucked the paper aside and patted the sheets.
    'Why don't you come back to bed, love? We've
got some unfinished business to attend to.'
    And she had, too, something which when she
thought about it now made her cringe with
shame. They'd made love again twice, and all the
time she couldn't stop thinking about the security
guard lying in a hospital bed connected to a load
of tubes while his family sat round him, waiting
for news. But Jimmy . . . Jimmy had forgotten him
already. The whole thing was simply business to
him, nothing more and nothing less.
    After they'd finished, he got a call on his mobile
and went out of the room, talking quietly. He
returned a few minutes later, saying he had to go
out. He was still acting casually, but she could tell
he was tense.
    And that's when she came out with it.
    'You didn't have anything to do with yesterday,
did you, Jimmy? You know, that robbery where
the guard got hurt?'
    'Course I didn't,' he answered, but she could
tell that she'd rattled him. It was something in his
eyes.
    She looked at his hand. The handkerchief was
gone now, but the knuckles were dark with
bruises. He glanced down at them as well, then
back at her. This time his expression had changed.
There was a darkness in it.
    'Why'd you think that?'
    She immediately