Tipper, a balaclava pulled over his blond crew-cut, sidled up to the edge of the steps to the Soviet Embassy and emptied the contents of a cloth bag. 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 on the tiles,” Sowerbutt whispered to Spaghetti. “We’ll pay a visit round here soon, plenty of open windows. The owners begging for help with storing their valuables.”
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