‘Well, well, well, if it ain’t Bertie Warner back from the dead.’ He injected as much humour as he could into the words.

But it was Bertie who got the laugh when he said, ‘No, not the dead, Jonny, me old son. Grenada.’ He looked at Linford then as he said seriously, ‘You’d like it there, son. A lot of fucking machetes, if you know what I mean.’

Jonny knew then he was on borrowed time and he said nonchalantly, ‘So you had a swerve. That’s all water under the bloody bridge now. What are you back for, fucking revenge?’

Bertie laughed now himself. ‘Oh yes, revenge, and to take back what was mine. Well, mine and Kevin’s anyway. He was my best mate, was Kevin. Me and him even did our National Service together, bet you didn’t know that? Back in the fifties when we were only kids. That’s where he got the nickname “No Face”. Playing poker in the stockade. But he was a good mate, a loyal friend, which is why you never approached me to have him over, you knew I wouldn’t swallow that. You knew I would chop your arms off, and then put you in the boot of a scrapped car and crush you alive.’

Jonny laughed at Bertie but it was a thin laugh. ‘You’re joking! That kind of thing went out in the sixties with all the old Mustache Petes. You can’t touch me without recriminations, you stupid old cunt.’

‘Oooh, hark at her! I can do what the fuck I like, mate, and the sooner you get your fucking thick head around that the better.’

Jonny Parker had forgotten how ferocious Bertie Warner could be. Bertie was a known headcase; he also had a taste for torture, and that had always been his ace card. No one had ever wanted to cross him, because the consequences were dire. He had once burnt a man alive for cutting him up in his motor. Linford was worried, Jonny could tell, and it seemed that history was repeating itself. Young Derek wanted what he had, so he was teaming up with the man that he had originally taken it from. It was like a fucking nightmare, and Jonny knew the chances of him leaving this room alive were minimal at best. But he was not going out without a fight, that was for sure.

He glanced around him at the men in the room; all were heavies, ready for anything, especially young Derek Greene. How could he have been so dense? Linford had smelled a rat and he should have listened to his friend’s instincts. But, in fairness, it had been an eventful few weeks, and he was not exactly at the top of his game because of that.