The night Artie was caught, Raymond thought. Ripping up railway sleepers for their old man to sell. Artie had gone out that night in ’31, expecting his tight-knit gang to come with him like they always did, thick as thieves they were, and where one went the others always followed. But a vicious fight over the rightful owner of some stolen goods had left Artie on his own. Ray had promised he’d be there that night to help Artie lug the heavy railway sleepers onto the barrow and cart them away. Only, when it came down to it, Ray’s conscience got the better of him. This was no life to be proud of. He asked Artie to stop, to leave the sleepers and get out of a life of crime, once and for all. When his brother flatly refused, a bitter argument ensued and Raymond had stormed off to go to meet Georges de la Motte. And that was the same night Georges unexpectedly chartered a boat to take them to Paris and the ballrooms out there. By the time Raymond got word, the trial was over and Artie was already in his prison cell. The guilt stabbed him sharply, even now.

‘Didn’t even come back, did you?’ Artie snapped, jabbing the air with the tip of his knife. ‘Just carried on gallivanting around Europe with that ol’ lad of yours, while they tossed me in prison and threw away the key. Did you come and visit me once, Ray?’

‘I tried to, that month after Pa passed on. You just stayed in your cell like the little boy you’ve always been.’

‘You ain’t even said sorry—’

‘I’m not your keeper, Artie. What you did that night, it wasn’t on me.’

‘A promise is a promise, Ray. We’re blood. If I’d have had someone looking out for me, I’d have known to scarper long before those coppers come on in . . .’ Artie paused. A look of delight had appeared on his face, and he said, ‘Pa was disappointed in you, you know. The way you left me hanging like that, the way you sold me down the river. You off forsaking the family while all of the law was ranged up against us.’

Raymond felt his fists clenching. Don’t let him know it, he said to himself. He’s goading you, that’s all. Stanley Cohen wasn’t a criminal for the love of it. Artie was always too small-minded to know it – but for Pa, thieving and robbing was just a means to an end. All he wanted was to rise up and out of this poverty. He was proud to see me off to Paris, to Berlin, to Madrid and St-Tropez. I was doing what he wanted all of his life. I was getting out . . .