‘Calm yourself down, lad. If you go out too soon you’ll get another fucking capture. They will be keeping an eye on you for a good while yet. They will be aware of your known associates and they will even be monitoring your calls. Now, you remember what I told you about mobiles, don’t you? Never, and I mean never, use your mobile for work – you always talk business from a fucking public phone or an untraceable pay as you go. The Filth are using scramblers and all sorts to listen in on conversations, so be aware.’

Vincent could barely keep the impatience out of his voice as he answered heavily, ‘You have mentioned that before, Bertie.’

Bertie Warner, annoyed now, said sarcastically, ‘I’m sure I have, clever bollocks, but just in case you are a bit dense I thought I would mention it again. Only you lot seem to think you are technological wizards because you can fucking dial a phone number. Well, my technological wizards, who are shrewder than you lot put together and then some, have warned me of the pitfalls of tapping. The signal is winging its way through the air, and can be intercepted at any time. Now, I may not be Alexander Graham fucking Bell, but I know enough to listen to the people who do know about these things. So if you ever ring me cold again like you did today, I will see to it that your fancy new mobile gets shoved so far up your jacksie you’ll have to shove your hand down your throat to answer a call!’

He was bellowing now; he could be heard all over the scrapyard. And it took Vincent O’Casey all his considerable willpower not to knock the man on his arse. But he knew that for the mug’s game it would be – Bertie would have him sliced and diced without a second’s thought. Bertie was a lot of things, but even-tempered was not one of them. He could be moved to tears at the plight of a starving child in Africa one moment, only to become murderous if the noise of a child’s actual crying interrupted him watching the news. He was a mass of contradictions, and it was best to let him get his anger out of his system.

‘And for the fucking record, Mr Big fucking Earner, you work for me, and I say when, and if, you go back out on the street.’

Vincent licked his dry lips, and bit back the retort he was dying to make. Instead, he bowed his head, feeling like some kind of errant schoolboy.