Frank wiped a hand across his face and sighed heavily. Glancing at the big electric clock once more, he realised it was three-fifteen in the morning and he hadn’t eaten for over eight hours. He could taste the cigarettes and tannin on his tongue and suddenly, feeling a rush of temper, he crashed a huge fist into the boy’s face, sending him flying back against the wall with tremendous force, and knocking over the plastic chairs.

Leaning over the trembling form, he said quietly: ‘Don’t annoy me tonight, Peter. I have one difficult customer already, and you’re going to help me put him away, as and when I tell you to - get it?’ Straightening up, he brushed down his suit jacket and tidied his hair.

Peter Wilson watched him from the floor. As Laughton reached the door, Peter said timidly, ‘Who’s the face, Mr Laughton? Tell me that at least.’

Laughton grinned, knowing the boy was his now, as he had known all along he would be. Turning, he said, ‘An old friend of yours, Peter. Georgio Brunos.’

He walked from the room, grinning.

Peter lay on the floor, his hands protectively holding his wedding tackle, and two big fat tears rolled down his face.

He was a dead man, and he knew it.

‘What do you fucking mean, what’s going on? Do you think I’m here for the beer or something?’

Georgio’s voice was high and indignant and Donna closed her eyes before answering him.

‘Don’t swear at me, Georgio, I’m not the enemy.’

He wiped a heavy hand across his face and sighed. ‘It’s a fucking setup, Donna, you know it is. What the fuck would I be doing at a blag, eh? Especially one with loaded guns and a fucking bunch of ice creams doing the actual blagging.’

Donna drew in a deep breath before speaking, trying to calm down the erratic beating of her heart. ‘Look, Georgio, all I know is, they’ve turned the house over . . .’

He pounced on her then, grabbing her thin arms above the elbows and shaking her. ‘Did they take anything? Say anything?’

‘Georgio, for God’s sake. Calm down! You’re hurting me.’

He stared down into the beautiful strained face of his wife, then, pulling her into his arms, he crushed her against his body. Burying his face in her hair he breathed in her scent.

‘Laughton’s after me, Donna. He wants my face in the frame and I can’t do a fucking thing about it.’

Donna hugged her husband to her, feeling for the first time ever a sense of unease about the man she had married.

‘But why would this Laughton want you so badly? What have you ever done to him, Georgio, that he should do this to you?’ She pulled herself from her husband’s embrace and looked into his face. ‘It just doesn’t make any sense.’