‘Not sure yet. It’ll be up to my mum,’ Vinny replied politely.

The meeting lasted another forty-five minutes, as many raised their hands to ask questions. Then finally it was over and those who were interested were urged to queue on the left to put their names on the list.

There was a small queue of people wanting to speak to Jeremy himself, so Vinny sidled past them and waited for Jeremy to finish. He then tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Hello, Geoff. Remember me? Long time no see, mate.’

The colour drained from Jeremy’s face as recognition hit home. He frantically craned his neck to see where his wife was before grabbing Vinny’s elbow and leading him outside the building. ‘What do you want?’ he hissed, once out of earshot.

‘That’s not a very nice greeting, is it, Geoff?’ smirked Vinny.

‘Just get to the point, please. Is it money, is that what you want? Because if you blackmail me, I will go to the police and have you arrested.’

‘Nah, you won’t and I don’t need your money, thanks. Here’s the deal. My mum’s currently renting privately – a two-bedroomed property in Whitechapel.’

Jeremy glanced around nervously to check nobody was watching. ‘You want a flat, I can sort you a flat.’

‘Nah. My dear old mum don’t like flats. But she would like a nice council house in Whitechapel. A new-build that’s modern with more bedrooms.’

‘I can possibly sort something in Poplar. Whitechapel isn’t my area.’

Vinny patted Jeremy on the back. ‘Best you make it your area, you must know whoever runs it. Tell ’em you need a favour. Only I would hate to have to tell Katherine, Oscar and Felicity you’re as bent as a nine-bob-note.’

Jeremy took his business card out of the inside of his pocket and handed it to Vinny. ‘I’ll make some enquiries first thing tomorrow. Call me after lunch on that number. But that’s it, Terry. Don’t come back to me for more favours. Otherwise I will have no alternative but to go to the police.’

Vinny held his hands up. ‘That’s all I want, I promise. Anybody who knows me will tell ya I never go back on my word. Oh, and my name ain’t Terry, by the way, neither am I a poofter. The name’s Vinny. Vinny Butler.’

The following morning, Queenie met Viv in old Jack’s cafe. Jack was in his early sixties and he ran the cafe with his wife Ethel, who was only a couple of years younger than him.

Queenie leaned towards Viv as Jack and Ethel’s weird son Peter walked past with his school satchel. ‘No wonder he’s a nincompoop, that boy. Didn’t they have him late in life? Makes you wonder if he’s adopted.’

‘Nah. He looks like Ethel. Got her sloppy mouth and double chin. We ain’t heard about him flashing or touching up young girls any more since your Vinny had a word with him eh.’

‘Nope. Vinny did threaten to chop his hands off if there was a next time, mind,’ Queenie smiled.