Jack was in a quandary and he didn’t know what to do about it. He had a call from a friendly Filth, namely Daniel Smithson, saying that a body had been found tortured and beaten to death in an alleyway in Ilford. It looked like it had been in a train wreck. But Smithson had said it seemed to be Lenny Scott.

The body had been found an hour ago at the back of a nightclub when the cleaners had come out to empty the rubbish into the bins. He had been there a while, and Daniel thought he should give Jack a heads-up. But it couldn’t be Lenny, surely? And where the fuck was Reggie? What the fuck was happening? The men had left him quite happily the night before and he had told them he would see them Monday at the yard. It was now Saturday evening and he had assumed they were working, as per usual. Lenny normally picked up his money from the betting shop, and had a drink with his old man and Reggie – well, he assumed Reggie had gone out and ended up on the nest somewhere. With some old sort, no doubt – he wasn’t exactly the marrying kind.

All Jack’s instincts were telling him that it could not be Lenny Scott. Surely not Lenny? He picked up the phone and started ringing round; once he located him he would feel a lot better in himself. No matter how much he thought about the last few nights, there was not one person he could think of who would have dared to retaliate for Frank Barber. He was a Face in his day, admittedly, but now he was a fucking bit of a joke. No youngster would put themselves out. So what the fuck could be going on?

For the first time in many years, Jack Johnson was seriously frightened. He looked on Lenny like a son. He loved that lad like a son. Lenny was far too shrewd; no one would get near him. This had to be a fucking big misunderstanding. But there was a small part of him that knew that cunt Smithson would not have rung him unless he knew what he was talking about. Lenny Scott was dead and that was the truth of it.