‘Late-thirties, well-dressed - I’d say she was wearing an original. Slim, not too tall, and she has good legs. Very good bone structure, classic beauty, light makeup. And she is very determined.’

Alan grinned. ‘Then send her up!’ As Ricardo walked to the door, Alan added, ‘What size shoe do you reckon she wears?’

Ricardo paused and thought. ‘A tenner says she wears a size four.’

Alan laughed. ‘You’re on!’

Five minutes later, Donna was on her way up the thickly-carpeted stairs, her drink carried on a small salver by Ricardo, who ushered her courteously into the large office.

Donna’s first reaction to Alan Cox was one of absolute astonishment. He was so big he seemed to fill the entire room with his presence. His hair was gold, a dirty-sovereign colour, thick and luxurious, and cut into a college boy style that suited his tanned face beautifully. His eyes were a deepsea blue that was practically violet. His mouth was full. Only his Roman nose was at variance with his other features, a lasting reminder of his years as a bareknuckle boxer.

Alan Cox had earned his first real stake, five hundred pounds, at the back of a shoe factory warehouse in East Tilbury. Twenty-six fights later, he had made himself a small fortune, had travelled abroad to fight, and had lost only twice, once in Los Angeles to a huge Irishman called Rourke, and once in France, in a barn outside Toulouse, to a Frenchman called Pardou. He could not remember the name of any of the men he had beaten in the other twenty-four fights.

When he smiled at Donna, she saw white teeth, the only flaw being that his two front teeth overlapped slightly, but far from taking away from his general handsomeness, it seemed to enhance it.

‘So you’re Georgio’s wife, then. Pleased to meet you, Mrs Brunos.’ His voice was deep, clear, and although not pronounced, an East London inflection was there nonetheless. He made no attempt to disguise it. Donna felt her hand being shaken firmly but gently by a large meaty fist.

‘How do you do, Mr Cox.’

Alan Cox smiled with delight. Brunos’s old woman, he thought to himself, weren’t a bad little piece.

‘Sit yourself down, love. You can refresh our drinks, Ricardo, and hold the calls.’

The waiter bent slightly from the waist and Alan saw the smirk on his face and grinned to himself. Ricardo knew him better than he knew himself.

Donna sat down in a deep leather chair and crossed her legs. She noticed Alan Cox’s interest and cursed under her breath. She should have worn trousers. Alan Cox looked the type of man who ate women for breakfast, broke their hearts by lunchtime, and was thoroughly bored with them by supper.