‘You ever box, Terry?’ asked Cooper.

‘Never in a ring,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I’ve had the odd moment.’

Cooper laughed. ‘Yeah, I bet you have.’

‘I boxed a bit when I was a kid,’ said Carter, ‘but I didn’t want to mess with my good looks.’ He laughed and clapped Shepherd on the back. ‘Now if anyone needs punching I get someone else to do it.’

‘Always the best way,’ said Cooper. ‘You know, if you hit someone in the face, you’re more likely to break a bone in your hand than to hurt them. That’s why boxers wear gloves. I always thought it was so they wouldn’t hurt the guy too much but, nah, it’s to stop them breaking their hands.’

‘That’s why God invented knuckledusters, innit?’ said Carter, and all three men laughed.

Evans returned with Shepherd’s drink. Shepherd took a sip and winced. ‘Double? More like a treble.’

‘They water the gin down here anyway,’ said Evans. ‘The more the fucking merrier.’

‘Just telling Terry, boxers wear gloves to protect their own hands, not the other guy’s face,’ said Cooper.

Evans nodded. ‘True enough,’ he said. ‘Worst injury I had was in Brighton. Can’t remember how it started but I was up against two big chaps and I hit one of them right on the chin. He went down but I broke half a dozen bones in my hand. Took months to fix.’

‘What about the guy you hit?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Yeah, well, he went out like a light, obviously. But he’d have been up and about with nothing more than a sore chin. I was in pain for fucking days and couldn’t hit anyone for months.’ He held up his right hand and flashed the bulky rings. ‘Now these do the trick nicely. I don’t even have to hit hard, just make sure I twist as the fist goes in and the flesh gets ripped up nicely.’

Cooper shook his head, chuckling. ‘You’re an evil bastard, Paul.’

‘Just taking care of Number One, mate,’ said Evans. ‘Same as it ever was.’

Shepherd sipped his drink again. His eyes narrowed as he recognised someone over Carter’s shoulder. He hadn’t seen the man for more than ten years but his memory kicked in as accurately as if the police file was in front of him. Jeff Owen. Armed robber. He was in his late thirties now and had put on weight and lost some hair, but it was definitely him. Shepherd had been undercover, penetrating the gang Owen was in, when they had been busted. The guy who ran it, Ted Verity, was a nasty piece of work and had gone down for twenty-five years. Owen had been given fifteen, which meant that with good behaviour he would have been out in eight.