Boris employed runners from the age of seven to fifty, and was the foremost bookie in London. He chased his bets like the fillies chased the Cheltenham Gold Cup: conscientiously and without ever letting up. If you couldn’t pay Boris it was time to leave the country.

He closed the heavy wooden door behind the thick curtain and motioned for Tommy to sit. He didn’t extend this courtesy to Jimmy because a minder should always stand and remain alert. Jimmy leant against the wall and crossed his arms, watching Boris all the time.

‘So what can I do for you, Tommy Lane? Long time no see.’ Boris’s deep and throaty voice was accompanied by a chuckle. Tommy smiled and crossed his legs. Pulling out one of his cheap cheroots, he lit it before saying: ‘You’re looking well, Boris me old mate. Prosperous and happy. That’s what I like to see.’

Boris shrugged his shoulders and clenched his fists, emphasising his muscular torso.

‘I have to keep well, Tommy, there’s so many people wanting to come up in the world over my back. And yours, I don’t doubt. I keep my place with fear and a little bit of respect. Now, we’ve had the polite chit-chat, what’s the rub? I’m a busy man.’

‘You know just about everything that’s going on. People owe you money, and when they can’t pay they trade information. What’s been going on in the streets that would interest me particularly?’

Boris digested Tommy’s words and, opening a drawer in the table, took out a bottle of red-eye whisky. Pulling the cork out with his teeth, he took a long drink before offering it to Tommy. He took the bottle and swigged from it, wiping his hand across his mouth afterwards.

‘Is what you have to tell me so bad I’ll need a stiff drink first?’

His voice was jocular and Boris, noted for his dry sense of humour, laughed out loud.