Gassiot Road in Tooting SW17 was quiet and perfectly still. The glow from the streetlights was moth-free and the foxes had already completed their nocturnal sweep of the neighbourhood so there was no yapping, screeching or the tumbling of bins.
Suddenly, there was movement and a shape appeared at the end of the road where the chip shop was situated. It advanced down the pavement for a hundred metres and then transformed into the silhouette of a young man. He stopped midway down the road, then hopped over the nearest hedge and into the paved garden of Number 26. He approached the front door and bent down as if to look through the letterbox. He was not delivering anything tonight though, at least not anything good. Instead, he whispered something into the keyhole and the door opened, softly
