‘I’m WDS Tennison and this is DC Jackson. We’d like to speak to Nick.’

‘You a lookin’ at him. My name is Nicola Bianchi, but I pay my taxes and don’t allow no stolen property to be sold on my premises. Che vuoi da me?’

She smiled. ‘It’s nothing like that. We’d like to talk to you about some men who use your cafe—’

‘You gonna take long, because I have to clean the place up, then go to the shops for supplies? This business doesn’t run itself, you know.’

‘We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,’ Jane said.

Nick opened the door and ushered them inside the cafe.

‘Alla tavola . . .’

Nick gestured to a table and pulled a chair out for Jane.

‘Is there somewhere out the back we could talk more privately?’ she asked.

Nick looked surprised. ‘What’s this about?’

‘If we could go somewhere more private I can tell you.’

‘OK. My wife’s is away just now, so we can go upstairs to the flat.’

‘That would be ideal, thank you. PC Bottomley mentioned your wife hadn’t been well – he asked me to send his regards to you both.’

‘That’s kind of him. My a wife’s is suffering from breathing problems – she’s staying with her brother in Southend. I’m hoping the sea air will do her good.’

As they walked through the downstairs kitchen the smell of cooking oil and fried food was almost overpowering. The living room was small, with a two-seater sofa, two armchairs and a four-place dining table. It was neat and tidy but, like the kitchen below, smelt heavily of cooking oil and fried food.

‘Please sit down. Who are these men you wanna know about?’

Nick sat down in an armchair. Jane sat on the sofa with Teflon, who got out his pocket notebook to take notes.

She smiled. ‘We were hoping you could help us with that. From our enquiries we know they are white, in their mid-forties to early fifties, and usually use your cafe on Monday and Friday mornings.’

She didn’t want to give away too much information until they’d gauged Nick’s willingness to help.

‘I’m full of customers at that time: there’s a decorators, plumbers, electricians, engineers – you name it, I get them all in my place.’

‘These men like to sit at the far end, at the table by the wall,’ Teflon told him.

‘I need a some more clues if I’m gonna be able to help you,’ Nick said, lighting a cigarette.

‘One of them wears a chain with a little pair of gold boxing gloves,’ she added.

His eyes lit up. ‘Ah, OK, that’s a gotta be Tommy, il pugilatore – he tell me he used to be a champion boxer. He owns the new snooker club over the road.’

‘And the other man?’ Teflon asked.