‘Dad’s going round to Paulie’s for dinner and I’m not sure, but I think Ronny and Sharon are going as well. Reg is going round Uncle Albert’s, I know that. You’re always welcome to come over to mine, Auntie Joan. I know I’m wasting me breath, ’cause I’ve asked you a thousand times, but the offer’s always there. I can pick you up Boxing Day and drop you back home whenever.’

Auntie Joan shook her head. ‘It’s nice of you to ask, love, but you know how set in me ways I am. I like me East London, I don’t do Essex, I’m afraid.’

Eddie smiled. When they made his aunt, they broke the bloody mould.

‘There is something you can do for me though, boy. You remember old Molly? Lives in the flat over the back here. Molly Jenkins – little woman with grey hair, walks with a limp.’

Eddie nodded. ‘I know who you mean.’

‘Well, I’m really worried about her. Michael, her son, is a bastard to her. Got a drink and drug problem he has, and he keeps turning up at her door asking for money. Poor old Molly only lives on a pension and she’s petrified of him. Twice he’s clumped her now and it’s not on, Eddie. He drinks in the Grave Maurice, always in there, he is. He’ll definitely be in there now. Somebody needs to have a little chat with him, if you know what I mean.’

Eddie knew exactly what she meant. ‘Leave it with me,’ he told her.

An hour later, Eddie stood up. Fishing in his jacket pocket, he pulled out an envelope and handed it to Auntie Joan. ‘I want you to treat yourself to something nice, Auntie,’ he told her.

Embarrassed, Joan flapped her arms about. ‘I don’t want your bleedin’ money. What do I need money for at my age?’

Eddie chuckled. They had this same argument every Christmas. ‘Please don’t insult me. If you don’t want it, give it to the fucking dogs’ home or something.’

Auntie Joan hugged him. ‘Me old winter coat’s going home a bit, maybe I’ll treat meself to a new one,’ she told him.

Wishing her a happy Christmas, Eddie jumped into his Land Cruiser and headed towards the pub. The Grave Maurice was literally minutes away on Whitechapel Road. Eddie had no idea who Michael Jenkins was, but he knew Alan, the landlord.

‘Eddie! What a lovely surprise,’ Alan said, shaking his hand.

Eddie accepted his offer of a drink and sat down on a bar stool next to him.

‘What can I do for you, son?’ Alan asked him.

‘I’m looking for a Michael Jenkins. He drinks in here, apparently.’

Alan nodded towards a scruffy-looking geezer who was standing alone at the opposite end of the bar. ‘Local pisshead, he is.’