Dolly shook her head. ‘Georgio was fitted up - he said so himself. Once we prove that, everything will be fine once more. Do you want a drop of scotch in that tea, love? You’re looking very white.’

She poured a good measure of cheap Tesco whisky into Donna’s cup. ‘You get that down your neck, girl. It’s going to be a hard few months. Before I forget, Davey Jackson rang. He’ll be round on Sunday morning.’

Donna sipped the warm tea, the bite of the scotch burning her tongue.

‘What am I going to do, Dolly?’ she asked hopelessly. ‘I feel as if my life is on hold without him. I hadn’t thought of him being sent to prison, I only thought of him coming home. How could they believe Wilson? Everyone knows what he is. Yet in a suit, with his hair all washed and cut, he looked so respectable. The things he was saying about Georgio! That Georgio had told them to shoot to kill, and threatened them all that if they botched up the job he would kill them. It was all kill, kill, kill. I know Georgio, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Christ Almighty, he cried when we had old Sam put down. He loved that dog.’ Her voice broke again, and she swallowed back her tears.

‘Wilson was saving his own arse, love. I expect Laughton did a deal with him for a reduced sentence. He’ll get his comeuppance in the nick. No one likes a grass.’

Donna smiled through her tears. ‘You sound so knowledgeable, Dolly, like an old jailbird yourself!’

‘After years with my old man, I know all the jargon, my love. Now if he had got eighteen years, I’d be celebrating me drawers off. How about I run you a nice bath, put in some Radox, and while you’re soaking, I’ll cook you a light meal? An omelette, say. You’ve got to eat, to keep your strength up. The appeal will take up all your time, and the businesses. Come on, I’ll run the bath while you get stripped off.’

As they stood up Donna grabbed at the older woman’s hand. ‘I’m so glad I’ve got you, Dolly. This house is so empty without him.’

‘I know my little love. Believe me, I know.’

Davey Jackson turned up at eight-thirty on Sunday morning. Donna was in her conservatory, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, when she heard Carol Jackson’s strident voice. She closed her eyes wearily. Davey Jackson was all right, she could cope with him, but Carol Jackson was a different kettle of fish. Donna loathed her and she loathed Donna.

‘How you feeling, Donna? Gutted, I bet. Bags of shit, the lot of them, bags of stinking shit!’

Donna was surprised to see genuine concern in Carol’s face.