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of Evander Holyfield’s 1989 fight with Michael Dokes, to focus on a report in the Evening Standard. It was the unremarkable story of two drug dealers who were due to be sent down for up to twenty-seven years after police found two holdalls containing 50 kilograms of heroin in the boot of their car. The report claimed that the ‘haul’ was worth almost £5 million ‘on the street’. I’m not sure what street you’re thinking about, mate, Dom sniffed. Off the top of his head, he estimated that anyone would do well to generate three and a half million from such a load in these straitened times. Still a tidy sum, but well below peak prices. The deepening recession was savaging all types of discretionary spending; even the drugs business, which had held up better than most for longer than most, was now seriously feeling the pinch. Austerity was the name of the game now, even when it came to getting wasted.

He turned back to the newspaper story. The dealers claimed to have been picking up leaflets that they had ordered from a printing business. According to this version of events, the leaflets were not ready for collection at the appointed hour. Meantime, the men were asked to deliver the holdalls instead in return for £250. The jury had taken less than fifteen minutes to find the cretins guilty. It was a surprise that its deliberations had taken that long. The police must have been pissing themselves.

‘Idiots!’ Silver studied the mugshots of the duo that accompanied the story and shook his head. He had mixed feelings about the police’s success in this case. The drugs had belonged to a rival dealer and someone else’s product being taken off the market was always good news. Without feeling too smug, Dominic felt that natural selection would always work to his advantage. At the same time, however, it showed that you could only push your luck so far. Disappointed customers would still want servicing and any gap in the market invited a free-for-all. There were plenty of people who would happily spill blood for the sake of market share. That was the capitalist way.

Dominic closed the paper and tossed it on the floor, thinking that it was getting ever closer to the time when he really should be calling it a day. He shut his eyes and tried to clear his mind of all its various distractions.

This, he knew, was a big test.

Could he live up to one of life’s basic rules?

Could he quit while he was ahead?

TEN

A shower and a fried-egg sandwich went a little way to easing the frustrations of the day. Alice had retired to her bedroom to do her homework, and seemed completely unfazed by recent events. Picking up the evening paper, Carlyle flopped on to the sofa beside his wife. ‘What a day!’

Helen finished sending a text message and dropped her phone on the coffee-table. ‘Well, at least there was no bomb. Apparently a couple of the older girls called it in.’

Carlyle gave her one of his many bemused looks. ‘Huh?’

‘They were due to have a test. They didn’t want to do the test, so . . .’

‘So they said that there was a bomb in the bloody school?’ he spluttered.

‘Yes.’ Helen grinned.

He half-laughed. ‘Well, I suppose that’s using your initiative, kind of.’

‘But sadly for them,’ Helen continued, ‘one of the girls used her mobile to call it in. They are soooo busted.’

‘Jesus. How do you know all this so quickly?’

Helen tapped her nose with a finger. ‘The mothers’ network is always first with the news.’

‘Very impressive.’

‘There’s more.’

‘There is?’

‘Yes.’ Helen’s face darkened. ‘The sniffer dogs didn’t find any bombs, but they did come up with eight bags containing drugs.’

‘What kind of drugs?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Dope, presumably.’

‘What about that skunk stuff?’ Helen asked. ‘Isn’t that the new super-threat to the nation’s teens?’

‘Only if you’re a neurotic middle-class parent,’ Carlyle yawned, ‘happy to throw a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc down your throat every night while lecturing your kids about how they shouldn’t even look at a spliff.’

Helen regarded him thoughtfully. Normally she was the more liberal side of