‘You will realise then that I cannot be responsible for letting this man walk out of here on his own recognisance - or anyone else’s, come to that. I assume you read the conspiracy to murder charge?’ Blatley watched Georgio’s solicitor redden and then said smoothly: ‘The prisoner will be taken to Chelmsford prison. Bail denied.’

‘You what!’

Georgio jumped from his seat and Watkins tried to restrain him.

‘I never done nothing!’ he shouted. ‘You hear me? Nothing! This is a fucking fit up. I’ve heard better stories on Jackanory!’

Blatley peered over his pince-nez while Georgio was restrained by two officers of the court.

‘Mr Brunos, don’t you think you’re in enough trouble as it is, without a contempt of court charge against you?’

Georgio’s face was twisted in temper. Watching him, Donna felt her heart sink down to her boots.

‘Bollocks to you, and to Laughton, and the rest of you! I’ll prove my case, you just watch me. Call this British justice, eh? Three people saw me in my car lot - three people! You’re going on the word of a smalltime hood. I’m a businessman, I pay me taxes, I’ll see me day with the lot of you. When you’re paying out my compensation you’ll wish you’d never heard of Georgio Brunos . . .’

Judge Blatley bellowed across the courtroom, his face contorted, ‘Have you quite finished, Mr Brunos?’

Georgio stared at the men around him, as if memorising their features, burning them into his brain.

‘Yeah, I’ve finished.’

Peering at Georgio for a few moments, as if unable to believe what he was seeing, the judge said peremptorily: ‘Take him down.’

Jimmy Crossley was well-built and blunt-featured. He looked what he was, and he made a point of acting the part: a smalltime villain with dreams of the bigtime.

As he stepped out of The Bull pub in Hornchurch, he pulled the keys to his Renault out of his pocket. The six pints of beer he had consumed were lying heavily on his belly and he belched loudly, putting a large hand up to his mouth as if he was a fastidious person, which he wasn’t. As he lumbered towards his car, he saw a figure getting out of a dark blue Daimler.

Sighing loudly, he stood and waited for the figure to approach him before saying loudly, ‘Hello, Mr Laughton, and what can’t I do for you?’

Frank Laughton laughed gently, showing his brown-stained teeth and a yellow-coated tongue.

‘How are you these days, Jimmy? Still taking it up the arse for the big boys, eh?’