Tipper, a balaclava pulled over his blond crew-cut, sidled up to the edge of the
steps to the Soviet Embassy. Pulling a cloth bag from his jacket, he emptied
the contents on one of the steps. Two plain gold rings, two wallets with papers but minus several pound
notes which were safe in Tipper’s pocket, a miniature Orthodox icon and two bloody
thumbs that he had bought from the elderly undertaker at the end of High Bob
for two pounds. He froze at the sound of a car door banging outside in
Kensington Palace Gardens. “Society set back from a night out on the
tiles,” Sowerbutt whispered to Spaghetti. “We’ll pay a visit round here soon,
plenty of open windows no doubt. The owners just begging for help
with storing their valuables.”
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