‘Would you like a piece of homemade fruit cake, Eddie?’ his wife asked.

Stan flopped into his armchair and studied the object of his daughter’s affection. He’d been right all along. He didn’t like the look of him one little bit. Jessica had told him that Eddie was twenty-five, but the bastard looked old enough to be her dad. He was broad-shouldered, with dark hair and was wearing tailored grey trousers with a long black Crombie coat. As he turned his head, Stan noticed the massive scar that ran from the outside of his left eye to the corner of his mouth. Stan knocked back his bottle of Double Diamond and opened another. Eddie looked an out-and-out villain. He certainly wasn’t the sort of chap he envisaged or wanted his beautiful daughter going out with.

As the conversation flowed, Stan could tell that Mr Fucking Charming Bollocks had Joycie eating out of his hand.

‘That fruit cake was amazing, Mrs Smith. So much better than the cakes I’m used to,’ the smarmy bastard said.

‘You’re ever so quiet, Dad. Are you OK?’ Jessica asked, as she handed him and Eddie another beer.

Knowing that he was expected to join in the conversation, Stanley cleared his throat. ‘Jessica said that she met you at a local party. Do you come from round here, Eddie?’

‘No. My family are out of Canning Town and I live up that way. I share a flat with me brother, Ronny. It’s nothing special, we live above a pet shop along the Barking Road.’

Stanley carried on prying. ‘And what do you do for a living? If you don’t mind me asking?’

Eddie smiled. The old boy didn’t like him, he could sense it a mile off. ‘My dad owns a load of salvage yards. He’s retired now, so me and my brothers run them for him.’

Stanley felt fear wash over him. Canning Town? Salvage yards? Surely he wasn’t one of the Mitchell boys – please God, no.

Dreading the answer, it took Stan a while to pluck up the courage to ask the all-important question. ‘Before I met Joycie, I used to live in Canning Town myself. I remember a lot of the old school. What’s your father’s name?’

Eddie smirked. ‘Harry Mitchell. You probably know him, most people do.’

Stanley took a large gulp of his drink and started to choke. Unable to breathe properly, he fell off the chair and onto all fours.

Aware of her husband going redder and redder in the face, Joyce stood up and repeatedly thumped him on the back. Embarrassed that he’d made a show of her in front of Eddie, she tried to make a joke of it. ‘He spends so much time watching them bleedin’ horses on telly, he’s started to behave like one now. Giddy up, giddy up,’ she said, laughing.