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A crooked life

Prospect's prisoner was released last June, but for the second time in two years he was unable to resist the pull of London's drug-soaked, criminal underworld

By Peter Wayne   May 2000

My mother would have called it “navy.” But it was an altogether more unusual shade of deep Prussian blue-sleekly tailored, double-breasted, three-quarter length, velvet collared-a cashmere overcoat which overwhelmed me with the desire to own it. That I hadn’t the money to buy it never entered the equation. On the afterwave of the crack cocaine I had ingested minutes earlier, the coat already belonged to me. As I stared at it in the window of Crombie’s exclusive emporium in Jermyn Street, I knew what I must do.

It was four days before Christmas, and the interior was decked out accordingly.…

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