Declan had revamped it, renamed it, and now all he had to do was sit back and coin it in. It was a gold mine. It was located in East London with plenty of pubs and restaurants nearby and, best of all, it was now licensed for everything from live bands to boxing matches. The Costello firm, run by Michael Flynn, still owned enough Filth to guarantee anything they might feel they wanted. This was going to be a real earner; it had five bars over two floors, a huge dancing area, a glitterball that could pass for a spaceship and, like all their premises, the only people who could deal drugs were in their employ.

‘I think it will pay us well, Michael.’

Michael grinned. ‘I don’t think you need worry about that, mate. I would worry about that bird behind you, though – I think she’s out for a fight.’

Deirdre was tapping him on his shoulder, as if she had every right to be there. He rolled his eyes at Michael, who he could see thought this was absolutely hilarious. He turned slightly towards her and, opening his arms in a gesture of supplication, he said, ‘What now?’

Deirdre looked at him with barely concealed malice.

Michael could see that Declan was not in the mood for a drama; this was his night, and he was clearly embarrassed because it was happening in front of him. Since Patrick had gone, Declan treated Michael with the same respect he had always given his older brother. It was instinctive. Although he had refused Michael’s offer of a partnership, he still treasured his own place as a Costello, and the respect that demanded.

‘What do you mean by that?’

Michael looked at the girl properly; she was a looker, but then all Declan’s amours were lookers. He wouldn’t bother otherwise – womanising was his hobby. This one had a mouth on her, though, and she wasn’t going without a fight. Declan was willing her to take the hint and go away. But Deirdre was far too drunk, and full to the brim with righteous anger. She was going to have her say publicly and as loudly as possible.

Michael stepped forward and, grabbing her arm roughly, he said quietly, ‘If you don’t fuck off, you filthy little skank, I am going to get my blokes to drag you out of here and then I will personally see to it that you can never show your face within a ten-mile radius. I can do that. Declan can do that too but, unlike me, he’s a nice guy. Now do yourself a favour, and fuck off.’

Deirdre was frightened now. This was Michael Flynn, and he was a Face, a real Face. That he had threatened her was something to be taken seriously, and she knew it. His words had sobered her up and, when he pushed her away from him, she nearly lost her balance.