They are spoken about in whispers across the city. They are said to speak a language entirely of their own – a cross between Romani, Doric, and Manc. The men wear tailored trousers, braces, silk-lined waistcoats and heavy stopwatches of 24-carat gold. Each has a delicate chain with a St Christopher, and sovereign rings on every finger. The look is topped with fine, expensive bowler hats from the milliner at Lock & Co. Hatters in London, and each holds an identical bespoke cane. Bee commissioned them. They are beautiful works of craftsmanship, tailored to the client’s instructions. Sometimes it’s a family crest or a personal inscription to a loved one. Bee requested cane heads that twist off, each one slides out to reveal a long, thin dagger. She sips her drink. Teardrops are tattooed below large eyes. Shaved head. Fringe. Dr Martens boots. Black tights. Red lips. Black nails. Velvet shorts. Her shirt is white and she wears a tie. There’s a lipstick in her bag. It has a Stanley blade inside it. There are wet wipes from looking after her babies, cigarettes, Tampax and a small but solid cosh. On one wrist is a feather tattoo. On the other is a Celtic tattoo from the Iceni tribe. They call her Boadicea. It’s not her real name. In close company she is referred to as Bee. Only a few strangers actually know her real name and it is not good for them if they do.

The Red Room is quiet. A cluster of regulars, a few local businessmen, two tourists.

The energy shifts subtly. Men nod at the Original Founders. Look quickly back to the stage. The room is dimly lit. Bathed in a deep red glow. A mahogany bar top. Above the optics is a selection of whisky, brandy, gin. The girls’ mother wipes down the counter, then the till and the fridges.