Satisfied by the boy’s outward deference, Bertie lowered his voice and said amiably, ‘I done a lump and half, son, and I know how you’re feeling, but believe me when I say you have to lie low for a while. I mean, be honest, do you want to get captured again? Because this time, mate, it will be a lot longer than four years behind the door. Next time round you become what the courts call a serial offender, and they’ll throw away the fucking key, son. So, tighten your belt. You’re on a fucking decent earn – many men work a month to earn the poke you get a week – and the garage will pay off. Take my advice and stop giving it the large – you’ve plenty of time for all that when you’re properly established.’

Although Vincent knew he was getting sound advice, he still couldn’t let his wants go. He liked the life of a criminal; he liked the kudos and, most of all, he liked the money. He was determined to get some serious poke if it was the last thing he ever did in this life.

When he left, Bertie Warner sighed in annoyance. He had seen them all come and go – real hitters who, if they had a bit of patience, could have gone right to the top of their game. Impatience, Bertie had learned, was the scourge of the villain; it was the downside of easy money. So many of these young lads blew their wages in a week and were soon looking for another earn; if they saved a bit for the rainy days they would be quids in. He watched them in the pubs and clubs – big diamond Rolexes and eighty-grand motors and they were still signing on, for fuck’s sake! The naïvety of these young men was laughable. He blamed the education system – they taught them how to add up, but not how to invest their money and save the bastard, or at least some of it, anyway.

Bertie lived well, but not as well as he could, and that was because he knew the Old Bill loved nothing more than someone who lived it large with no real means of employment. A local Face driving a prestige car, with all the rent paid, while still on fucking Jobseeker’s Allowance did tend to raise the red flag. But these young lads wouldn’t listen, none of them.

Well, he had said his piece – it was up to Vincent O’Casey now. But he hoped the lad used his noodle. He really had a knack for the driving and, if he could just wait a while, he would be set like the proverbial jelly.