Maggie and Charlie looked like typical Brits abroad—they had bright, shiny pink faces and looked drunk. Charlie’s shirt was open down to his belly button, showing off his abundance of gray hairs that looked ten times grayer against his pink chest. Penny wore a halter-neck dress but had clearly been wearing a spaghetti strap tank top throughout the day, so now her shoulders were an array of pink and white stripes. Jack couldn’t stop grinning as she went on and on about what they’d been up to.

“Madeira has the most wonderful food, Jack, Maggie would love it. We’ve seen whales and dolphins, haven’t we, love? And it’s ever so green considering the heat. We’re in Funchal—have you been to Funchal? It’s Europe’s most picturesque and cleanest capital, according to the guide books. It’s famous for pirates. And do you know who was born here? Guess, Jack. Go on.”

“No idea, Mum,” Jack lied.

“Cristiano Ronaldo!”

Jack and Maggie stifled a giggle and sipped their champagne as Penny continued with her various tales of beautiful gardens, long beach walks, the thrill of eating at eleven o’clock each night and drinking cocktails with fruit perched on the rim of the glass. And all the while, Charlie watched every move that she made, listened to every word and laughed at every single terrible attempt at a joke. He was exactly where he wanted to be and Jack knew it. He almost cried because his parents looked so incredibly happy. His relief was palpable.

At ten o’clock the next morning, Jack was being frisked by prison guards on his way into Pentonville to see Tony Fisher. Tony and all of the other inmates wore yellow smocks to distinguish them from the visitors—not that that was really required. The cons in this wing were the kind of men you’d cross the road to avoid just because of how they looked.

Tony walked toward Jack with a scowl on his face that said You’d better be worth getting out of bed for, boy.

When he sat down, he didn’t bother pulling in his chair and getting comfortable, suggesting that he had no intention of staying. He had a natural sneer and, for 75 years old, he was still a frightening man. He had a split lip, a cut just beneath his left eye and a small wound to his neck, which Jack assumed was where his young assailant had tried to cut his throat. Tony was bigger than Jack, stockier and far more intimidating—and he knew it. Tony stared, motionless and silent. If Jack didn’t speak within the next couple of seconds, he had the feeling Tony would get bored and leave.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Fisher. I appreciate it.”

Jack knew that a man with such a big ego would prefer to be treated with respect, even if it was fake.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Tony growled.

Jack couldn’t help but smile, because he sounded exactly like the impression of a stereotypical East End gangster Jack had done for Laura.