‘And you and your brother both served life sentences for murder,’ Edie said. ‘For removing your lawyer’s tongue.’

‘The evidence was circumstantial,’ he said. ‘But my point is that our generation – those days when family firms ran London – ended fifty years ago. We all went away for a long time, and we either died inside or we came out into a changed world. You know – lovely modern multicultural Britain, where the blackies, the Pakis and the Iraqis all deserve their slice of the pie or it violates their human rights.’

‘Yes,’ said Edie. ‘If only we could go back to the good old days when Reggie and Ronnie Kray were helping little old ladies across the street.’

He waved a dismissive hand.

‘Now you’re just taking the piss,’ he said, sounding almost bored. ‘But if you honestly think that the world is a safer place these days than when Reggie and Ronnie and Charlie and Eddie and Danny and myself were young men, then you are kidding yourself, young lady.’

He leaned forward and looked from Edie to me.

There was no warmth in him now.

‘Do you actually know what happened to little Daniel? My grandson? He was riding his little bike over a zebra crossing when that bastard came along in his fucking Porsche and mowed him down. Daniel was in a coma for six months before they turned off the life support. Do you know why we’ve got the dog? Why the dog’s with us? Because Daniel’s mother – my youngest – can’t look after a dog any more because she has never been right since her boy died. She has the lot. Depression. Pills. Panic attacks. Self-harming. Falling to bits. Can’t even walk a dog twice a day. Can’t get out of bed to feed old Bullseye. Can’t get out of bed to wash herself or take her daughter to school. She can’t see the point to any of it – you know. Fucking living. That bastard wrecked lives, Max. Served two years for what he did to a child. I served twenty years for what I did to grown men.’

‘But nobody has the right to kill him,’ I said. I found that I would not say the name of Hector Welles in this house. I did not understand if it was out of respect to young Daniel Warboys, or his grandfather, or if it was because I hated him too.

Paul Warboys shook his head.

‘That’s your law, Max. It’s not mine.’

He leaned back. Edie Wren closed her notebook. She looked at me and I nodded. Time to go.

Paul Warboys walked us to the front door in silence. There he placed one large hand on my arm. I looked at his face and his pale blue eyes were shining with tears.

‘You ever hear of a man called John Favara, Max?’

I shook my head. ‘Who was he?’