Tony remembered those days only too well, days when the bossman had some back-street prostitutes hanging around the place, laying on all kinds of entertainment. He didn’t want that reputation for his club. He had tried too hard and come too far.

‘Sorry, sir, this isn’t that type of establishment any more.’ Tony tried to be as respectful as he could to the man. He was wearing his uniform and there were all kinds of special buttons and honours on it. He saw the man’s face drop. He was in his late fifties, and had obviously hoped to see some bare flesh before going home. ‘It’s not the kind of club I’m aiming for. Anyway, don’t you need a special licence for that?’ Tony tried to hide behind the legal requirements, rather than just flatly refuse to consider the idea. It was making him cringe inside.

‘Laws are meant to be broken, Tony, my friend,’ said the policeman; again, he laughed at his own joke.

Tony gave him a weak smile; he felt cornered. Another high-ranking officer came to join them both, and for once Tony was relieved to see a policeman – until he spoke.

‘He’s right, you know, Mr Lambrianu. Dare I say it, but we are all men of the world. Some of the gentlemen here still pop around to the East End pubs for some light entertainment. You’re a businessman, and a ladies’ man, I’ve read.’

Now Tony felt angry. He didn’t want to cause a scene, but he felt he had to get his point across. ‘I do understand what you’re saying, gentlemen, and I also understand that the man who had this place before me had quite the knocking shop.’ Tony used that term to make his point. ‘Brothel’ didn’t seem to have the same impact. ‘I’m trying to run a respectable nightclub, and I don’t feel that’s the way forward.’ He gave his most charming smile, and made his excuses to leave, stating that he was needed elsewhere.

He walked into his office and found there was an accountant there, sitting at his desk, working out figures and having a drink with Jake. He seemed like a very professional man. His suit jacket hung over the back of the chair, his glasses were perched on the end of his nose, and he was constantly tapping away at his calculator.

‘What’s wrong with you, Tony?’ Jake saw Tony’s red, angry face, and watched him storm around the office, pacing and gritting his teeth.

‘Those bloody high-ranking detectives out there only want me to start running some back-street strip club. Bloody hell, Jake, let the perverts find their own fun.’

‘What, you mean all those respectable men out there want to stand toe to toe with some of the men they arrest, while ogling strippers?’ Jake found it funny, but he could see Tony didn’t.

‘Not necessarily,’ said the accountant. He was continuing with his work, but obviously paying attention to the conversation.

‘What do you mean?’ Tony gave him an icy glare.