Dawn, rosy-fingered, tickling the rooftops. Joe, Eddie and Lewis in the Rhino, ghosting into town through light traffic. Heading for Smithfield.

Joe walked into the caff like he owned the place. Which, in point of fact, he partly did. Along with every other participant in the meeting he’d called. Neutral territory, the Bosphorus Cafe. Owned by an incorruptible Turk by the name of Sebnem. Who had been very happy when the proposal was made several years before. For her business to be the recipient of a capital injection from each of the big crime families. Given free rein to make the caff into a nice little earner. With a proper coffee machine, and all the right kitchen gear to boot.

Enough wedge to go out and recruit the best cooks going. Which had turned the caff into a bit of a destination, for the cognoscenti. There’d even been talk of a Michelin star, after Giles Coren had visited one morning. Lured in by Sebnem’s advertising, the offer of “top nosh for not much dosh”. And had then rhapsodised over his full English in the Times. Putting the Bosphorus in the papers and starting the gold rush.

Which was why a stream of punters were having to be turned away this morning. A private engagement. Apologies for the lack of notice. Please go away and eat somewhere else. And no, it really doesn’t matter whose friend you are.

Lewis entered the caff at Joe’s shoulder. His trusty Smith & Wesson .45 auto tucked under the Rhino’s driver’s seat. Deigned to let the private security present pat him down. And not just any security. Proper hard men. With manners, mind you. Nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of these attendees. But if the need arose they’d close down any agg before it got serious. Every gang leader’s bodyguard present was disarmed and proven so. For show. Because the first man to draw a weapon in this company would spark a bloody massacre. And besides, with Lewis to hand, Joe didn’t need a gun.

‘Joe! We were just wondering when you was going to show.’

Albie. The mouthiest of them. The flashiest too. Gold Rolex President, gold bracelet, gold neck chain. Old-fashioned gangster style. If you could call it style, in Joe’s jaundiced opinion. His own white gold Submariner understated, but every bit as expensive.

‘Nothing wrong with arriving dead on time, Albert. The big mistake is—’

‘Arriving dead! Don’t we know it!’

The remaining participants listened with an air of indulgence. The Joe and Albie needle being a constant factor in their negotiations. Like sonic wallpaper.

‘So, we getting down to it?’ Sammy Chin, speaking through a mouthful of bacon sandwich. And nobody could blame him, given how exceptional the cook’s bacon sandwiches were. ‘You called the meeting, Joe. Why not tell us what’s on your mind?’