Joe laughed. ‘I can tell you’re enjoying this. So, this Tamara sort. She can’t hide forever. We’ll get hold of her too, eventually. She’s a bit younger. And a bit of posh totty, from what I screwed out of her mate Mark before he went into the cement. More likely to put up a fight. Too much of a fight, that is. So it’ll be smack for her for sure, when we find her. And we will find her. I reckon I could make a thousand a night off her. Add in what your Roz could draw, and I might make back a hundredth of what you’ve cost me over the last three months. But then it’s not about the money. Is it?’

‘No.’

‘So what is it about, do you think?’

Mickey laughed. Having found sufficient equilibrium to fight back. However weak his position. ‘Revenge?’

Joe’s tone was condescending. ‘No, son. It ain’t about revenge. That was what you came here for. Blaming my dealer for your druggie sister’s stupidity.’

‘I didn’t blame him, I blamed you. Warren was just a way to send—’

‘I literally couldn’t give a shit. Not about you, and not about Warren either. Or the cash crew. Or the people you pasted at Number 37. I don’t even really care about the product you took from me.’

Mickey needed a moment before he could translate “product” into “trafficked women”.

‘I cared about Lewis, of course. He was a diamond. A rare find in a sea of shit. And he’ll be hard to replace. But even Lewis ain’t the point of this. So no, I’m not about revenge. I’m about respect. You kill my people, you chip at my respect. You burn my money, you burn my respect. And I’m here to take that respect back. Problem is, I reckon I’ll have to dig it out of you with a rusty fucking spoon.’

Enough. Mickey was back on his game. Shock absorbed, ready to fight. ‘So why the twenty-four hours? Why not now?’

Joe laughed softly. ‘You’re a hard one, ain’t you? Most blokes would be pissing themselves by now. Asking for mercy. But you just want to understand your sentence. All right, we can do that. Just as long as you’re clear that you’re done. When a man goes down, I keep him there.’

He paused, and Mickey heard the faint crackle of burning tobacco. The inhalation of smoke, then a gust of breath caressing the phone’s microphone. The bastard was smoking a cigar. Probably with his feet up on the desk. Celebrating.

‘Thing is, you must have had inside knowledge. A nasty little rat inside my gang. Someone who wanted you to chop off my limbs, one at a time. Make me so weak that my peers in the business would have no choice but to move on me. Eh?’