By then, of course, things had been desperate in the Cohen household. It was 1930, a year after the collapse, and there was so little work for Stanley that, most nights, they had little to eat. Stanley was two years out of Pentonville and had no desire to go back in. But how could Ray and Artie see their old man suffer so much? Sometimes Artie found work in the scrapyard. Ray swept floors most mornings at the meat market. But it was not enough. So when one of Stanley’s old friends suggested they go out on one of his jobs, standing guard while the old boys robbed one of the townhouses on the river, well, there wasn’t really any choice in it. And when, some weeks later, Artie started wondering why all they were good for was waiting outside and taking home a few pennies for the privilege, well, it made perfect sense that he would start casing out houses, warehouses and yards on his own. Even a carriage clock robbed from some old dear’s front room could fetch a price. But Artie’s speciality became the railway yards. Barely guarded at night, there were railway sleepers and copper and iron, if you knew where to look. And wasn’t old Stanley Cohen a dab hand at fencing stolen scrap metal?

So Artie Cohen began a racket of his own, and there was nothing Ray could do to stop him.

‘You still see your old boy Georges then, do you?’ Artie asked with contempt.

‘From time to time. When he’s in London for an engagement. I believe he’s been in St-Tropez for the summer.’

‘St-Tropez! St-Tropez, he says, like it’s the most ordinary thing! And here’s me, banged up in Pentonville for the same summer. It’s a mysterious world, Ray, you can’t deny that. I never did like the cut of that fella. He knew he was better than you, Ray. He lorded it over you.’

‘You only met him once, Artie. What impression can you make of a man in thirty seconds?’