“This is between you and me, Sophie,” he agreed.

“My real name is Cummings,” she said. “I am the wife of Dave Cummings. I can see that you remember now.”

“About twelve or fifteen years ago,” he said. “Wasn’t he the man who got a lifer for shooting at a policeman in Manchester?”

“That’s the case. It was a jeweller’s shop and I was dogging outside when the constable became suspicious. I gave Dave the office and we started to move off. Dave never went armed on these things⁠—in case. But I carried a pistol and when we were pressed hard I passed it on to Dave. He used it, and perhaps you remember it was touch and go whether the officer lived. Dave and I separated after the shot was fired, and he got caught. For some reason it was supposed that he was alone. The policeman was a little excited I guess, and when he recovered spoke of only one person. So Dave went down and I got away.”