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South with their hose-pipe bans. I could hear the comic Thomas the Tank Engine hooting of the trams in the distance. The traffic was less clogged than usual, and some of my fellow pedestrians actually had smiles on their faces. More importantly, the ALF job had gone without a hitch, and with a bit of luck, this would be the last banker’s draft I’d have to collect. It had been a pretty straightforward routine, once Bill and I had decided to bring Richard in to increase the credibility of the car-buying operation. It must be the first time in his life he’s ever been accused of enhancing the credibility of anything. Our major target had been a garage chain with fifteen branches throughout the North. Richard and I had hit eight of them, from Stafford to York, plus four independents that Andrew also suspected of being on the fiddle.
    There was nothing complicated about it. Richard and I simply rolled up to the car dealers, pretending to be a married couple, and bought a car on the spot from the range in the showroom. Broderick had called in a few favors with his buddies in the credit rating agencies that lenders used to check on their victims’ creditworthiness. So, when the car sales people got the finance companies to check the names and addresses Richard gave them, they discovered he had an excellent credit rating, a sheaf of credit cards and no outstanding debt except his mortgage. The granting of the loan was then a formality. The only hard bit was getting Richard to remember what his hooky names and addresses were.
    The next day, we’d go to the bank and pick up the banker’s draft that Broderick had arranged for us. Then it was on to the showroom, where Richard signed the rest of the paperwork so we could take the car home. Some time in the following couple of days, a little man from ALF arrived and took it away, presumably to be resold as an ex-demonstration model. Interestingly, Andrew Broderick had been right on the button. Not one of the dealers we’d bought cars from had offered us finance through ALF. The chain had pushed all our purchases through Richmond Credit Finance, while the independents had used a variety of lenders. Now, with a dozen cast-iron cases on the stocks, all Broderick had to do was sit back and wait till the dealers finally got round to
admitting they’d flogged some metal. Then it would be gumshields time in the car showrooms.
    While I was queueing at the bank, the schizophrenic weather had had a personality change. A wind had sprung up from nowhere, throwing needle-sharp rain into my face as I headed back towards the office. Luckily, I was wearing low-heeled ankle boots with my twill jodhpur-cut leggings, so I could jog back without risking serious injury either to any of my major joints or to my dignity. That was my first mistake of the day. There’s nothing Richard likes better than a dishevelled Brannigan. Not because it’s a turn-on; no, simply because it lets him indulge in a rare bit of one-upmanship.
    When I got back to the office, damp, scarlet-cheeked and out of breath, my auburn hair in rats’ tails, Richard was of course sitting comfortably in an armchair, sipping a glass of Shelley’s herbal tea, immaculate in the Italian leather jacket I bought him on the last day of our winter break in Florence. His hazel eyes looked at me over the top of his glasses and I could see he was losing his battle not to smile.
    â€œDon’t say a word,” I warned him. “Not unless you want your first trip in your brand new turbo coupé to end up at the infirmary.”
    He grinned. “I don’t know how you put up with all this naked aggression, Shelley,” he said.
    â€œOnce you understand it’s compensatory behavior for her low self-esteem, it’s easy.” Shelley did A-level psychology at evening classes. I’m just grateful she didn’t pursue it to degree level.
    Ignoring the pair of them, I marched through my