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her denim jeans while her companion watched appreciatively from the grey-sheeted bed. He patted the vacant pillow.
    ‘Come back to bed, Jules.’ He reached out and touched her naked midriff. She moved away.
    ‘Sludge said the flea market’s worth a visit. We’ve got to get there before it shuts.’
    Dave lay down again, defeated. He could hear Sludge’s gentle snoring from the other end of the caravan.
    The tattered curtain that separated their bedroom from the living area parted and a kohl-eyed face, bejewelled with a jangling nose-ring, appeared.
    ‘Jules, are you coming or what?’
    ‘Yeah, right, Donna. I’ll be out in a minute.’
    Donna withdrew with her habitual expression of boredom. Julie had seen nothing like Donna, with her black-beaded hair and clothes to match, in her native Wongatoa. But then that was why she was travelling: to see the world; to broaden the mind. Everything at the travellers’ camp was new to her: the beautiful unkempt children running wild; the scruffy mongrels on leads made of string. She was glad they had met up with Sludge and Donna. It was one more experience for their album.
    ‘Sludge is still asleep,’ pronounced Donna flatly. ‘It’s time we went.’
    Dave reached across lazily and hit the button of a battered radio. It was the news.
    ‘Switch that off, Dave.’
    But Dave was listening. He held his hand up. ‘Shhh.’
    Julie sat down on the end of the bed. Donna, bored, retreated behind the curtain.
    ‘You heard what it said, Jules. Police want to interview a young couple seen …’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So! That’s us. We were there. That old woman with the dog saw us. They’re looking for us.’
    They studied each other. ‘You had it last, Jules. Where did you put that bag?’
    There was no privacy in the caravan. Sludge had been awakened by their conversation and had drifted through from his bedroom, bleary-eyed.
    Julie scrabbled under the bed and pulled out a small blackleather bag; quilted; expensive. ‘I’ll get rid of it. Chuck it away.’
    ‘We can’t do that. It might be important evidence.’ Dave, the good citizen.
    ‘So?’ Sludge opened the can of cider he was holding and took a swig.
    ‘What are the police going to think if we come forward now, Dave? And what about the money? Sludge is right.’ Julie looked at Donna for support, but Donna lit the strangely thick cigarette she had just rolled and said nothing. ‘How can we walk into a police station? Just think, Dave. We could land up in trouble, and that’s the last thing we need.’
    Dave stared at the bag. Julie had a point. They had planned to move on in a couple of days, and he had no more wish to get involved than Julie had. The radio news had said they could be important witnesses. The bag could be important, could help to trap a killer. He put his head in his hands and tried to come up with an answer.
    ‘Just forget about it.’ Donna’s voice was slurred in a haze of smoke.
    Dave looked up. ‘We’ll put it back.’
    Julie rolled her eyes. ‘Get real, Dave. I’m not going back there.’
    Sludge looked up from studying the label on his can of cider. ‘So what’s with this bag anyway? What’s in it?’
    It was Julie who answered. ‘Purse with thirty quid in it, make-up, key, few photos down the lining. We used the money … ran a bit short.’
    ‘You’ve got to get rid of it. Think of the hassle.’ Sludge shook the can. It was empty; he chucked it aside with contempt.
    ‘It said on the radio that the police haven’t identified this body yet. We’ve got to take it back.’
    Julie looked at Dave. She’d always known he had a stubborn streak. ‘Okay, Dave. You win. We’ll take it back there and hide it under some bush. They’ll think they’ve missed it.’
    Sludge smirked unpleasantly. ‘Yeah, put it under some bush and if they find it some pig’ll get a right bollocking for not seeing it earlier. I like it.’
    ‘Okay,’ said Dave, relieved. ‘We’ll go this afternoon.