‘All right. Eileen’s still bad, they’ve got to go and see her tomorrow. Kerry’s getting heavier, but she don’t look pregnant. Briony still ain’t having none of it with her old woman, and Rosalee ... well, Rosie’s Rosie, if you know what I mean.’

‘And how’s Bernadette?’ Tommy’s voice was full to the brim with innuendo.

‘Bernie’s doing all right, thank you very much.’

Tommy laughed heartily.

‘Touchy, ain’t we?’

Marcus swerved round a corner fast, and Tommy held on to the dashboard to keep himself upright.

‘All right, Marcus, I can take the hint.’

Marcus slowed down, his face grim now in the dimness.

‘I don’t know why you don’t just keep in touch with Briony. I mean, you’ve me and Kevin Carter watching out for her, and reporting back to you. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just kept up a full-time partnership?’

Tommy shook his head.

‘No. It wouldn’t.’

Marcus heard the hard edge to Tommy’s voice and dropped the subject.

Tommy stared out of the window in silence, thinking of Briony. He had had to leave her, to save himself. Briony was just too much, she had too many complications in her life. But that alone would not have been enough for him to have left her. He had left because, much as he loved her - and he did love her, deeply - she could never give him more than she had already.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t look out for her, and he always would. No matter who he married, or who was the mother of his children, Briony would always occupy a big place in his affections. Without her, he would have had a much harder road. He owed her, and Tommy Lane always paid his debts.

Although he wouldn’t admit it to a soul, he missed her at times so much it was a physical pain. If only they could be friends. But their relationship was such that that would be impossible. He either had her, one hundred per cent, or he had nothing of her.

At this moment in time, nothing seemed the better choice.

Victor Ricardo was a Maltese immigrant. Born in Buggiba, a small fishing village, he had come to England in the late 1800s bringing his fifteen-year-old wife, Maria. He had settled in Stratford where his wife had given birth to six sons in quick succession - all big-nosed, with deep-set dark eyes and thick unruly black hair. He loved to look at them, they were like his doubles. His only daughter, Immaculata, was tiny, pretty, and had the same modest demeanour as his highly religious wife.