Of course, to properly do them justice he had to get right down on his hands and knees and set about them with the dustpan and brush. His daughter had bought him a wee hand hoover, but the battery never lasted, and even fully charged the suction power was nothing to write home about.

You knew where you were with the dustpan and brush, though. Yes, usually it was on your throbbing knees, cursing the aches and pains of old age, but it got the job done better than any modern gadgets ever would.

Bruno had just finished sweeping out the corner where the tinned goods met the porn mags, and was admiringly appraising his work when he heard the bell ba-ring above the door.

The toilet roll shelf lent him enough support to clamber back to his feet, and he went hobbling down the aisle towards the front counter before any bugger could have it away on their toes with the box of Creme Eggs he had sat there.

They were bloody gannets for the Creme Eggs, the shoplifters around here. He’d lost three boxes over the weekend alone, and had taken to emptying most of the contents into a bag behind the counter, and leaving just a few of the foil-wrapped chocolate eggs out on display.

And these were no ordinary eggs. After some sticky-fingered bastard had pinched the third box, Bruno had selected four eggs from the new box, and tipped the rest into a carrier bag.

Then, he’d carefully unwrapped the foil of each Creme Egg in turn, placed the eggs fully into his mouth one at a time, before rewrapping them and placing them in the box on the counter. If anyone tried to buy one, he substituted it for one of the eggs from the bag. If anyone stole one—and there were just two left in the box the last time he’d checked—then hell mend them.

They’d probably never know their contraband had spent ten seconds in the mouth of an elderly Italian shopkeeper, of course. But he would, and he took some amount of satisfaction from it.

“Hello, hi, I am coming,” Bruno called, announcing his presence to any would-be thieves while he hurpled along the narrow aisle. “I will be right with you.”

“No rush, Bruno. We’ve got all the time in the world,” came the reply, and the shopkeeper froze between the cat food and the clingfilm.

“We don’t really, Uncle Frankie,” another voice said. “We’ve still got to go see—”

“Paco?”

“Aye, Uncle Frankie?”

“Gonnae shut the fuck up?”

The voices were similar. Local accents, almost indistinguishable from each other, although one was notably younger than the other. Bruno knew those voices well. Every shop owner within a two-mile radius did.

There were three of them today, he noted. That did not bode well.