‘I’m making my own enquiries,’ Paul Warboys said darkly. ‘If anything comes up, I’ll give you a shout.’

I almost told him not to take the law into his own hands, but I kept quiet. It would have been like asking Ronnie Kray to take a deep breath and count to ten before doing anything impulsive.

‘This is a good flat, Paul.’

‘I’ve got a lovely Polish lady that comes in twice a week. And it’s handy for seeing some of my mates. Of course, most of the old faces are long gone now.’

‘And how’s your pension?’

A wolfish grin.

‘You think I’m struggling for money? I invested my money wisely, Max. I didn’t put it in stocks and shares. I didn’t put it under the bed or in a bank. I put it in bricks and mortar. I didn’t put it with any financial experts who would have pissed it all up the wall. I put it into London property. It’s the reserve currency of the world, Max.’

‘I’m happy for you. But you see my problem, Paul. I’ve got twelve young women who froze to death. And I’ve got a lorry driver with a bunch of Afghans in the back who is meant to be dropping them off in the car park of the Champagne Room.’

He folded his heavy arms, the gold chains rattling like new money, and his eyes got a faraway look. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was wait.

Here was a man who had sat through countless police interviews, who had spent years of his life incarcerated. It was the stoic, Zen-like patience of a man who had served a life sentence – which is never the length of a lifetime but which is always long enough for your children to grow into total strangers – for sanctioning the removal of a former employee’s tongue with the aid of a pair of bolt cutters.

Paul Warboys had the old con’s genius for letting time pass by.

‘So that lorry in Chinatown had nothing to do with you then?’ I prompted. ‘And nothing to do with your grandson – as far as you know?’

I think if it had been anyone else he would have just let the silence grow. But I kid myself that he actually liked me. He roughly scratched his old Bull Terrier on its head until it sighed in its sleep. And in the end he spoke.

‘Why?’ Paul Warboys said. ‘Why would I have anything to do with these scumbag people smugglers?’

‘For the same reason the world gets up every morning.’

‘For money? You think I would do it for money? I made my money, Max. And I told you but you don’t seem to believe me – I put it where it just keeps on growing. I don’t need money.’