Rosco came up from the floor in a rush, and Garvald coolly measured the distance and booted him in the stomach. Rosco keeled over with a sigh, falling across the bed, writhing in agony.

Wilma sat watching, no pity in her eyes, and Garvald emptied the gin bottle into his glass, sat down and waited. After a while, Rosco turned, his face the colour of paper.

‘Feeling better, Sammy?’

‘You get stuffed, you bastard,’ Rosco managed to squeeze out.

‘That’s better,’ Garvald said. ‘That’s a lot better. Now why did you sic those two tearaways on to me yesterday morning?’

‘I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.’

In one quick movement, Garvald seized the empty gin bottle by the neck and smashed it across the edge of the table. He leaned forward and held the jagged, vicious weapon under Rosco’s chin.

‘Maybe you’ve forgotten, Sammy, but I never liked playing games.’

Sweat sprang to Rosco’s brow in great heavy drops and his eyes widened visibly. ‘It was Fred, Ben. Fred Manton. He told me to line it up for him. Said he didn’t want you back.’

Garvald frowned and all light died in his eyes. ‘Why, Sammy? Why would Manton do a thing like that? It doesn’t make sense.’

He pushed the bottle forward viciously and Sammy screamed. ‘That’s all I know. I swear it, Ben.’

Garvald tossed the bottle into the fireplace with a quick gesture, then hauled Rosco to his feet. He opened the man’s coat, pulled the wallet from the inside pocket and opened it quickly. There was fifty pounds in five-pound notes, all new. He counted them quickly, then gave Rosco a contemptuous shove towards the door.

‘Start running and don’t come back.’

Rosco turned in the doorway, opening his mouth to say something, then obviously thought better of it. He stumbled along the corridor in the darkness and, a moment later, the back door banged behind him.

Garvald tossed the fifty pounds on to the table. ‘More than enough to get you back home there, Wilma. Unless things have changed since I was around, there are still night expresses to London.’

She flung herself into his arms, straining against him and when she looked up, tears shone brightly in her eyes, smudging the mascara.

‘I’ll never forget you, Ben Garvald. Never.’

He kissed her once, gave her a quick squeeze and was gone. She stood there listening to him pass through the tunnel at the side of the house, his footsteps fading along the hollow pavement.

She gazed around the room, filled with a sudden hatred of this place, of Sammy Rosco and the wasted years and what they had done to her. Very quickly, she started to pack.