Lenny and Sharon lived on the same estate as them, although they were on the other side, so the Dornans were not too much of a nuisance. Plus everyone knew who Lenny was and who he worked for, so he and his were automatically given a swerve. Even so, Lenny Scott was no fool, and he had asked one of the younger lads, Cyril Brock, to accompany him on the visit. The eldest son, Reggie Dornan, was twenty-five, and had a rep to be wary of. He had just come out after doing a three for malicious wounding. Lenny parked the car outside the council house and sighed in annoyance. These were actually nice houses. Built after the war, they were spacious and had good-sized gardens. Most of the homes were well kept, but the Dornans’ place looked like an abortion. The windows were wide open, with loud music blaring out into the early-evening twilight. There was rubbish piled up out the front, and two ferocious-looking dogs barked over the dilapidated fence. Lenny remembered what his nan used to say: people make slums not houses. She knew what she was talking about all right.

‘What a dump, eh, Len? It’s like something from a documentary.’

Lenny laughed at the truth of Cyril’s statement. ‘Let’s hope Old Mother Dornan is dressed today. Usually she’s got half her business hanging out, and that is not a pretty sight!’

They got out of the car and stood on the pavement, surveying the dogs warily. Lenny hated people who used animals for intimidation. These were German Shepherd crossbreeds and were fine-looking animals. Going to the boot of the car, he took out a small stun gun which looked like a torch. All you did was pull off the top where the light was supposed to be and you were left with a perfectly reasonable-looking but dangerous weapon. He set it to high, and took both the dogs down in seconds. Their screeches of dismay were loud enough to bring the music to a stop and the Dornan family out of the front door mob-handed. Lenny was pleased to see a young girl rush to comfort the dogs. At least one of the family seemed to have their priorities right.

‘What the fuck you doing?’ This was from a dark-haired boy of about eight years old with a pierced ear and a New Romantics haircut.

Janey was watching warily; she recognised Lenny Scott and she wasn’t about to queer her own pitch until she had to.

Her eldest son pushed her out of the way and, cuffing his little brother hard around the head, he yelled, ‘What have I told you about keeping your big fucking trap shut?’ He looked at Lenny and his worker and nodded respectfully. ‘Can I help you, Lenny?’

Lenny smiled that charming wide smile that made him look so amenable and handsome.

‘I hope so, mate. Reggie, ain’t it?’