I felt a shiver up me spine, I don’t mind tellin’ ya, soon as I saw them tailor’s dummies. Fair put the willies right up me it did.

That explained why the Fence give us this job in the fust place.

I mean, I don’t do houses, much, me. Not even much, I never do houses, never. This was a first.

Shops are more my line, nice’n’easy-like. Break in by ram-raidin’ the front door or winder and load up the van quick, like. Then show a clean pair o’ round rubber ‘eels and get out afore anyone has a clue. Bulk swag, crash’n’carry, that’s me trademark. “Mode-us-upper-’and-I”, I fink the Fence said it was.

All this quiet, softly, softly creepin’ about the place housebreakin’, is specialist work. Like what the Panther did.

I knew the Panth, cos I did, saw ‘im dahn the Fence’s gaff loadsa times. Never spoke to ‘im, mind, just nodded. Old School he was, the Fence told me first time and ev’ry time after, that Panther always got the job done proper.

Not this time, though.

“Ain’t seen the Panth fer a fortnight, Jackie me boyo,” the Fence pulled me close an’ whispered yesterday, “Got a tip off ‘bout an old girl in Vine Street what ain’t bin seen about on her pins for a while; maybe she’s popped her clogs, eh? The Panth said ‘e was gonna check ‘er place out the other night but ‘e ain’t shown up since, an’ ‘e’s normally regular as clockwork is the Panther.”

“Maybe there weren’t nuffink there werf nickin’.” I suggested unenfusiastic-like, as I laid out a box of old watches and a nice but fake French carriage clock what I had ... redeemed ... from a pawn shop front winder at least three towns away. I’d eased that winder ajar wiv a Ford Transit box van. Even empty, them long wheelbase diesels can pack quite a ‘efty punch when ya need it. Take the bleeding, ‘inges off a castle keep, if’n you ‘it ‘em just right.

“Nah!” Fencey sneered, “Panther wouldn’t settle fer nuffink. Them old girls’ve got stacks o’ old jewel’ry what can be released back into gen’ral circulation. I know just where I can place some Victorian-style cut diamonds, or a nice bit o’ jet, or jade’n the like.”

“So?” I said, op’nin me stupid great gob, puttin’ me size nines right in where I bloody well shouldn’t, “Wot’s that gotta be ter me?”

“Ah, young Jackie,” the Fence said, wheedlin’ like, “Here’s where you could do you an’ me bofe a favour and do the job for us.”

“Yeah?” I said uncertainly, not sure what I was letting meself in for and having me doubts all ways up. “If it ain’t got plate glass wot yer kin drive fru easy like, I don’t wanna bloody know, Mr Fence.”

“You break in quiet like, and get the goodies for us, I’ll giv ya top exchange rate,” said the Fence, “Stuff’s usually in the main bedroom, loose in the top drawer, easy in, easy out.”

“Nah, mate, I ain’t doin’ it,” I said, “It ain’t my fing.”

“Look, Jackie,” the Fence wheedled, “I like you, my boy, but ‘ow long yer gonna get away wi’ smash’n’grab, eh? One punctured rad or shredded tyre an’ you’re bleedin’ nicked ain’t ya? Got a record, they’ll keep tabs an’ nick yer time after time. Gotta trade up, my son. Old folks’ ‘ouses is blooming, easy. No alarms ter worry abowt, no urgent get away, no CC-fuckin’-TV yer worry about. Yer takes yer time, an’ grab everything yer can load inta ya van. Fink about it, why don’cha?”

Yeah, I thought about it. Decided to have a go in the end, didn’t I? What a mug!

The Fence does the research for me. Apparently, this old girl’s ninety-odd and ain’t been seen fer weeks. Lived in the ‘ouse wot she was born in, ramblin’ great place it were. Spooky, if yer asks me. Looked like one of them horror film sets, in black’n’white, even at the tail end of daylight.