Laughton grinned at the look of shock in Jimmy’s face. ‘You know why you’ll never make the big time, don’t you? You’re too open, too trusting. Only you would park your car away from the entrance to a pub. A big villain would have a decent car, not a French tart’s motor, and he’d leave it where he could keep an eye on it. See what I mean, eh? You got no class, Jimmy. Now put away your car keys and let’s me and you go and have a little chat.’

Jimmy frowned. ‘I ain’t going nowhere, Mr Laughton. You got a warrant for me?’

Laughton shook his head. ‘Course not. This is me, Laughton, not fucking Paul Condon, you prat. Since when did I need a warrant - or anything else, come to that?’

Jimmy took a step backwards, straight into the arms of two uniformed officers.

‘Bollocks, Laughton! I ain’t getting in no motor with you . . .’

Laughton spat noisily on to the tarmacadam. ‘Get him in the car, lads. I ain’t got all fucking night.’

Jimmy was sandwiched between the two officers inside the blue unmarked Daimler, while Laughton sat in the front seat. Leaning nonchalantly back he smiled into Jimmy’s frightened countenance.

‘I want the score on Georgio Brunos,’ he said. ‘And before you begin, Jimmy, if push comes to shove I’ll smash your face in without a thought for blood, AIDs, gristle or bone. Do you get my drift?’

Jimmy shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know Brunos. I mean, I know of him, but not personally like. All I know is, he’s a face. But I don’t know anything about him. What’s he supposed to have done?’

Laughton lit up another cigarette and looked out into the car park for a few moments, as if debating with himself over his answer.

‘Never mind what he’s done. I want you to tell me what he’s done. You, James Crossley, Grass of the Year and prize prat. Now tell me all you know about Brunos because I’m beginning to get annoyed. I’ve collared Wilson, and according to him you’re a bit of a face lately. So just open your fucking trap and we can all get home for a kip.’

Jimmy kept his eyes on the dashboard, not trusting himself to look at Laughton. The smell of the cigarette was making him feel ill. One of the uniformed men had been eating garlic, and the combination of odours was causing the beer to rise up in his stomach. He swallowed nervously.

‘Look, Mr Laughton. If I knew anything . . .’

Laughton sighed. ‘Belt him one, Stanley, the night’s drawing on.’