He looked all injured innocence and Boysie began to breathe heavily through his nose. Davey Mitchell annoyed him beyond measure. He was so cocksure. He had borrowed a thousand pounds to open his own spieler, Boysie and Daniel had lent him the money in good faith. They knew, from whispers on the street, that the spieler was doing very well, so where was their money? The interest was rolling up by the day, but that had not deterred Davey in the least. He still gave them a load of old fanny every time they sent someone to pick up what was their money after all. Now Boysie had visited personally and he was annoyed. Deeply annoyed. Davey Mitchell had best watch that big Yid mouth of his, and that cocksure attitude, because he needed putting down a peg and the mood Boysie was in, he would be the man to do it. No trouble.

Boysie poked him in the chest, hard.

‘I’d better have it, Davey, or your guts will be strewn all over fucking Bethnal Green. Right?’

Davey nodded. But he still didn’t look as if he was really bothered and Boysie fought down an urge to smash him in the face.

He left the little office and walked through the games room. As he left the club and climbed into his car he took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He sat still for a couple of minutes and decided he would make arrangements with Davey after the New Year for a larger cut of his takings. He might even just take the club from him. That would teach the bloody ponce a lesson he wouldn’t forget in a hurry!

Smiling grimly now, he pulled away from the kerb. His next stop was a man called Liam O’Docherty, a bookie. Liam owed them over two grand. He was a good payer usually, but that didn’t deter Boysie. He would go and tell him he wanted his money, and quick.

He had to do something, and this was as good a something as anything else he could think of.

Unlike Daniel, who was still ensconced in his bedroom moping after Rosalee’s death, Boysie needed excitement. He needed action. And by Christ he would find it if it killed him!

Briony and Tommy were sorting out the final arrangements for Rosalee’s funeral. The coffin was chosen, the shroud was a delicate pink and white, the rosary in her hands of olive wood brought from Jerusalem and given to Briony by the priest. It had been blessed by the Pope himself.

As Briony sorted out food and other arrangements she fought an urge to scream. Every time she thought of Rosalee in that church, dead and silent, she wanted to scream. She was to be buried beside Eileen, which helped. At least they would be together. All the Cavanaghs would be together in the end.