‘Good. Now what’s next on the agenda?’ Jonny felt depressed, but he knew what he had to do was show his face and act as if everything was normal, then eventually, in the not too distant future, it would be. At least, that’s what he hoped anyway, although the way things were going, he worried it might take longer than he had first believed.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Vincent O’Casey was thrilled to be in on his first ever piece of real skulduggery. He just hoped it all went as planned. At eighteen, he was a good-looking lad, and he had a nice way about him – not pushy, but not passive either. Anyone looking at him would know he could take care of himself if the situation demanded it. He was very respectful, called people ‘Mr’ when appropriate, and he had a reputation for being good with cars, and reliable into the bargain.

Derek Greene had seen his potential and, for that reason alone, he would always have young Vincent’s loyalty and appreciation.

Vincent liked Derek. He was a man who was going places, but he listened to Vincent, and advised him on the many pitfalls of the criminal lifestyle. Vincent O’Casey came from a family of no-hopers – his father and brothers were nothing more than icecream freezers. Local geezers, thieves, sold a bit of knock-off, played the hard men to the neighbours. Talked the talk, but would need a glass to hand in a real fight. They were the kind of people that Vincent was determined not to be – local bully boys who thought the world began and ended on their council estate. He wanted more than that. Vincent knew he had the nous, the inborn cunning, necessary to achieve in the world he wanted to be a part of. Now he had a champion of sorts in Derek Greene, and this was his one and only chance of breaking free of his background and environment. If this all went tits up he would be like his father and brothers – just another fucking mook from East London, a blockhead, and he was not going to let that happen without a fight.

Tonight he was washed, shaved and in his best clobber, ready for literally anything. As he drove into the scrapyard in Bow, he was whistling with suppressed excitement. He was driving an old but spotless 2.8 litre Ford Capri, which had been a nice silver colour, until he had stolen it three nights previously. Now it was dark blue, and the plates were not the originals. The plates were actually off a 4.2 litre Jag, but that was nothing to worry about.

He parked up as arranged by the side of the Portakabin and, shutting the engine off, he waited as he had been told to do. He didn’t even light a cigarette, unsure whether it would attract attention.