Ron Dalmer wasn't your typical junkie. He certainly wasn't hooked. And he wasn't even sure if he liked the stuff. But the buzz of scoring, boasting to his mates and the thrill of doing something illegal was how he got his kicks. "Did you get any, then?" asked Dazza impatiently. "Nah - he wasn't home." Dazza looked disappointed. "What do we do now? D'you know anyone else?" "Maybe." Ron had been hanging out with students ever since he left university with a fairly ordinary degree in history of art. Of course, he couldn't get a job with those qualifications, nor did he want to. He had discovered that life had much more to offer than Rembrandt or Moore. Crystal Meth. That was his Mona Lisa. And its smile was far more enigmatic. Although he graduated nearly ten years ago, he still rented a small flat just off Dartborough road, in Walcombe. He got on well with his landlord, Mr. Singh, because Ron was his 'enforcer&#