Maeve’s eyes opened to their utmost. ‘What’s he done now?’ This was said in a flat voice and Donna felt a moment’s anger, but it flickered and died. Maeve had loved her children wholeheartedly but she had never harboured any illusions about them.

‘He hasn’t done anything, Maeve.’

Mrs Brunos pushed her lank grey hair away from her face in a gesture of defeat. ‘Then why has he been arrested?’

Donna looked up into the older woman’s face. She pointed at the newspaper on the table and whispered, ‘He’s been accused of being behind all this.’

Maeve blinked a few times in consternation, then taking a deep breath, she said quietly, ‘I don’t think I grasp what you’re saying, child. Behind all what?’

‘Behind the robbery in Essex. The robbery yesterday where the security man died.’

Maeve sank down into her chair, her face pale and tightly closed like a nun’s prayerbook.

‘He’s what?’

Her mouth was open and a thin line of spittle was hanging from her top lip. Then Donna heard a loud keening, a thin high-pitched wail that gradually became louder as the seconds wore on. Putting an arm around her mother-in-law’s shoulder, Donna pulled her head to her own breast, glad of the warmth of Maeve’s body against hers, glad to be doing something for someone else instead of waiting, waiting, and knowing that nothing she could do would change the situation.

Donna heard Pa Brunos’s steps coming heavily up the stairs and a minute later she relinquished the hysterical woman to her husband. Then, sitting back at the table she watched them both, dry-eyed. Unable to cry any more. Because the shock had worn off, and she was back again in what Georgio called ‘the real world’.

Georgio stood in the courtroom listening to the charges against him being read out. His black eye was evident, as was his broken finger and his dirty clothes, yet no one mentioned them, or indeed seemed to take notice. He smiled grimly at his wife and shook his head in a gesture of denial.

He was being accused of providing cars, guns and plans. Of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.

Georgio’s solicitor, Henry Watkins, stood up and cleared his throat loudly.

‘Your Honour, this man has never been in trouble with the law before. He is innocent of any crime and I would like to propose bail on his own recognisance . . .’

Judge Blatley interrupted: ‘You will recall, Mr Watkins, that a young man died. That your client has been accused of conspiracy to murder because he allegedly told the perpetrators of the robbery to shoot to kill. I take it you have read the statements?’

Henry Watkins nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but was once more interrupted.