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She opened it and looked inside.
“There are some of your dirty clothes in it. And shoes,” she said.
I ran up to her at a pace that would have done justice to a world-class sprinter in an Olympic final, and as casually as was possible under the circumstances, I took the bag from her hands.
“It’s just some old stuff I was going to give to one of the charity shops,” I told her.
I hoped to God that she hadn’t noticed anything suspicious in there.
The next day I took the bag to the Oxfam shop on Oldham Street. I knew that they’d give everything a good cleaning, and I nurtured the hope that some poor sod would buy the stuff, and line himself up as the prime suspect in the murder enquiry.
Straight after that, I collected the blackmail money. I had to meet with a couple of members of the
