By lunchtime he was beginning to sweat and regretting his earlier impulsive behaviour. He should have had the twins gunned down and then made his peace with the families. That was the usual way of the East End. Once they were dead there was nothing anyone could do. The McNee brothers wanted vengeance, his own brothers wanted vengeance, he wanted vengeance. But it was vengeance with a bitter taste. He had seen the worry in Michael Money’s face and Michael wasn’t easily scared.

Neither was he, for that matter, but the motley crew outside, much depleted by the war, seemed to him all of a sudden like a Darby and Joan club. Old lags and young tearaways were all he had now. Fuck the war! It had been hard in that department. Some of the best minders had joined up and died, while less patriotic counterparts like himself had gone on the trot and sat the fighting out from pub basements and other such places, building an empire that was now there for the taking by people like the Cavanagh twins.

He lit himself a Lucky Strike and pulled on it deeply. Life was a bastard sometimes, it really was.

Michael had tracked the twins down to their aunt’s house and sat just down the road from it in his Ford Deluxe station wagon, waiting for them to emerge. He loved Manor Park, it was a very desirable area. He approved of Briony Cavanagh’s house, which must be worth all of twenty thousand pounds. In fact, this was the sort of life he thought he could get used to.

Michael Money was clever and he knew it. He had had no formal education to speak of, but he’d had the education of the pavements and the streets, which to his mind was all he needed. He was debating whether to make an alliance with the Cavanaghs and help wipe out the Rileys when the twins pulled out of the driveway in an Aston Martin.

Turning on his engine he decided to follow them, until he plucked up the courage to put his money where his mouth was and make a decision on whether to try and take them to Kenny or try and do a deal. He realised almost immediately they were going to Bethnal Green.

Boysie was humming in the car, enjoying the ease with which they travelled. They passed a police car and Boysie, being Boysie, waved at the occupants.

‘How do you think The Aunt took last night, Boysie?’ Danny’s voice was worried.

‘All right. She’s a game old bird, she knows the score.’

Danny turned a comer and looked over his shoulder. ‘We’re being followed by Michael Money in his stupid fucking car with the wood all over it.’ His voice was disgusted.