‘He wasn’t protecting me, Paddy, and you know it! He just didn’t think I warranted telling, that’s the truth of it. I saw a man earlier on who told me Georgio had looked after his wife and children while he was in prison for murder. I suppose he didn’t tell me about that either in case I might have worried!’

Paddy sighed, his craggy face soft in the red glow from the pool lights.

‘You’re wrong, Donna. So wrong. Georgio Brunos worshipped the ground you walked on. He thought you were the greatest thing he had ever achieved in his life. To him, Donna, you were class. A bit of class. He bragged about you constantly to everyone. My Donna, he’d say, could cook a meal fit for the Queen. “She graces the table,” was his expression. He thought of you all the time. He didn’t tell you things because he didn’t want you worrying. You’re not of the calibre of, say, Carol Jackson or even Dolly. You’ve never been brought up in this environment.

‘Coming from Canning Town, Georgio knew old lags before he knew how to walk. Pa Brunos was a lad in his day. All the Greeks stick together. Oh, he’s respectable enough now, but in his younger days he was a right tearaway. The Greeks ran the cabbing in Piccadilly for years. That’s how old man Brunos got the money for his restaurant. Admittedly, he wasn’t in the league of Georgio or even Stephen, but he did his share of ducking and diving.

‘For all Georgio’s faults, he never robbed anyone, never hurt anyone. He supplied cars, that’s all, and if he hadn’t then someone else would have. He supplied guns once, and even then they were without ammunition. It’s as simple as that. As for not telling you . . . be fair, Donna. Put yourself in his position. Your brother is a bloody lawyer, you come from a good middle-class home. You couldn’t have coped with it all. I only hope you can cope with it now, because now, you know the lot. Everything.