Eddie liked his boss Joe’s house. Sure, it was beyond ostentatious. But if Joe couldn’t be a bit flash, then who the fuck could? Not that Eddie could have done flash without feeling like a right prick. Hench, if not tall, Eddie wore the suits that were expected in his “managerial” role without conviction. Pukka gear – Armani and Ralph Lauren. Church’s shoes and Paul Smith ties chosen by his wife completed the image nicely, in theory. Problem was, every time Eddie caught sight of himself in the mirror he saw a gorilla in fancy dress. Having to shave his hair off to deal with male-pattern baldness didn’t help much either. Looking like he belonged in a Guy Ritchie film. And not feeling all that comfortable with that on several levels.

A large part of him looked fondly back to when it had just been the two of them. Joe as the brains – and the necessary ruthlessness – Eddie as the unquestioning enforcer. But the years had brought then both unavoidable responsibilities to shoulder. For Joe, inheriting the family business with his dad’s untimely death from lung cancer. For Eddie, having his previously simple role in Joe’s firm abruptly expanded. Promotion, just without any choice. Taking control of what Joe liked to call his “black operations”. Dealers, pimps, the supply of their product and the hard men needed to keep them in line. And to persuade other interested parties not to try butting in.

And to be fair to Eddie, he was good in the role. Hard as nails from long practice, and as fair as he could afford to be given who he worked for. And the hammer of the gods in dealing with would-be rivals. Smart with it. As proven by the fact that, able to choose any place to live he fancied, he’d wisely chosen not to rival Joe’s epic residence. Made do instead with six bedrooms in a nice commuting suburb, a few miles from Joe’s almost-rural idyll. Never compete with numero uno. He’d learned that one early. Made it his mantra.

Whereas Joe had taken over his dad’s place in Cockfosters. Gutted and extended it. Paying off councillors for the outrageous amount of planning permission required. Made it into a palatial fortress, complete with a sheet-steel-lined panic room. Showing those Greek bastards what proper style looks like, as he’d been known to state while looking out over his infinity pool across leafy Hertfordshire.