The Quaker. Liam McIlvanney

      The blueprints showed the basement door, the point of entry. The basement floor held storerooms and the nightwatchman’s cubbyhole, down a corridor on the right-hand side. On the ground floor were offices, toilets, a small staff tearoom. The first floor held the big showroom and the manager’s office, where the safe was housed.

      ‘This comes off,’ Paton said. ‘Even if it doesn’t come off, they’re going to come for you. You know that. They’ll know it’s an inside job.’

      She was looking out the window and she raised her arms now in a long, slow stretch, fingers interlaced, her shoulder blades lifting in the clingy fabric. The window was turning glossy in the dusk. Paton could see the glass clouding where she blew out a sigh. She twisted her head to look coolly at Paton. ‘You think I’ll fall apart, break under questioning, blurt it all out?’

      ‘I think you should be prepared. I think these people can be very persistent.’

      ‘There’s seventeen people know about this sale. I imagine at least some of them have more interesting backgrounds than mine. Anyway,’ she flashed a smile at Paton; ‘if it comes off, there’s other things we need to decide. Like who’s getting what?’

      ‘Nothing to decide,’ Paton said brusquely. ‘Six-way split. Equal shares. End of discussion.’ Paton stood up. He could have argued for a larger share of the take – he was the skilled tradesman, after all; the rest were just manual labour – but he knew from experience the trouble this caused. An equal split was clean and straightforward. If the take was big enough you didn’t worry about trying to leverage a bigger share. Make the split, move on, everyone’s happy.

      ‘You’ll be taken care of,’ Dazzle told her. ‘Same as everyone else. No one’s stiffing anybody.’

      She looked at Paton through her fringe. ‘Well, I hope that’s not the case.’

      They drove back separately, leaving ten minutes between each car. Paton went last, in Dazzle’s Triumph, the smell of dog, dog hairs on the upholstery, he thought of the dog resting its chin on his thigh, the mobile eyebrows, the sad, wet, intelligent eyes.

      ‘That Jennifer,’ Dazzle said, shaking his head. He looked across at Paton then back to the road.

      Paton cracked the window an inch, kept it open while they drove, the smells of the night mingling with his cigarette smoke.

      ‘I handle gelly for a living,’ Paton said. ‘Not for fun.’