‘Now, did you find them a hotel where they can get tooled up?’

Vincent nodded. ‘It’s in Southend. Small place off the front, where a crowd of men from Manchester won’t be too noticeable.’

Derek grinned his usual amiable grin, the one that hid the hard man inside him. ‘Good lad. We can’t have them noticed by Lily Law around this gaff, know what I mean? They want to get in and out in a few days. You know the route, and we’ll talk them through it together, OK? But they are relying on you to get them away. Have you arranged the chop?’

Vincent nodded. He’d already put everything in place to exchange the main motor for a more sedate model that the police would not be looking for. It was an honest motor, a family saloon, but with a revved-up engine in case of emergencies, such as the police recognising them and giving chase. ‘All sorted, and all in place.’

‘Excellent. I think you’re going to be a useful addition to this oufit, young Vincent.’

Vincent was beaming at the praise. ‘Thanks for the chance, Derek, I appreciate it.’

As he spoke, Bertie Warner pulled up outside. Bertie had taken on the mantle of boss with ease, and he was now at the top of this very lucrative game. As he swaggered into the small Portakabin, he was all good-natured bonhomie.

‘Afternoon, my old mockers! I heard a great joke today: Why do brides wear white? Because all fucking kitchen appliances are white!’

Vincent and Derek both laughed, as was expected.

‘My mate Peter Bailey is a funny man, no doubt about it. Shame he didn’t go on the stage really – he could give that Jimmy Jones a run for his money.’

The phone rang and Derek answered it; he listened for a few seconds then passed the phone to Vincent saying, ‘Fucking hell, no wonder they need a good driver. They can’t even find their way to the Bow Road!’

As Vincent directed the men to the Portakabin, he felt the rush of adrenaline. This was the life, this was the life he had always craved, and it was within his grasp at last. He felt like the luckiest man alive.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Cynthia Callahan – she had dropped the name Tailor after she had left East London – looked around her flat and felt the rush of pride her home always gave her. She was living in a new development called Chafford Hundred, and she had a penthouse that looked over the Thames. She could see the boats plying their trades, and the shores of Kent. It was a lovely setting.