‘You see, Peter, I want what you’ve got. That is, I want you to tell me what I want to hear. Now it won’t be the first time, will it, eh? Me and you go back a long way, don’t we? Remember the tellies a while back? I let you walk that one, because you were helpful. I like helpful people. I can be nice to helpful people. Whereas, when people are like you are now, annoying me, I want to hurt them and lock them away. I enjoy locking people away. It’s my job, and I get pats on the back and things like that, see? Now, at this moment in time, I am in a good mood, but I can feel that mood gradually slipping away and that ain’t good news for you, because it means I might really take it on myself to hurt you. Do you get my drift, shitbag?’

The quiet sing-song voice was more frightening to Peter Wilson than anything else Laughton could have done. Peter had grown up in children’s homes and foster homes, each worse than the last. He was used to the worst. Abused by his father and others over a fifteen-year period, Peter was a small-time hood, small-time husband and small-time father. He could barely read or write, and used words of only one or two syllables. He was a gofer, nothing more and nothing less. He had a haphazard sort of friendship with the people who used him to do the little jobs they couldn’t be bothered with themselves. He was a drug user, an abuser of alcohol, and also a nonsense case, having three convictions for tampering with neighbours’ children and his own. He was a loser of the first water and inside himself he knew all this. Had first had it knocked into him as a child, then repeatedly since becoming a grown man. As he listened to Laughton he knew in his heart he would do as he was asked. Eventually.

‘But what about me, Mr Laughton? What will happen to me?’

Laughton laughed. ‘What usually happens to you, Peter? You get pissed on, of course, like always.’

‘Is there any money in it?’

Frank smiled. In his heart of hearts he hated Wilson more than he hated Brunos and the others he put away. At least Brunos was going after the big rents.

‘There might be.’

Seeing a quick few quid, Peter smiled craftily. ‘I ain’t got a very good memory, though. If it’s difficult like, what I have to say . . .’