Donna opened her briefcase and took out a file from her Talkto portfolio, handing it to him along with her driving licence.

Henry glanced at them perfunctorily and then said, ‘Should have brought along a wedding photo, only in all the years I’ve been here I ain’t never seen you before, lady.’

Donna snatched back the file and said, ‘My husband was never doing an eighteen-stretch before. Now if you want to phone Big Paddy, I’m sure he’ll verify who I am.’

Donna’s heart was beating in her chest for fear that Henry might decide to do just that. Then on an inspiration she said, ‘Or I’ll tell you what. Suppose I nip round the corner and get Alan Cox? Will that be enough proof of who I am for you?’

She saw his face blanch and smiled gently to herself.

‘It’s no trouble, I can easily bring him here,’ she went on. ‘I run all Georgio’s businesses now, even his businesses with Alan Cox, so don’t worry about putting him out. He’ll understand.’

Henry shook his head and smiled graciously.

‘There’s no need for that, love, but you must understand that I have to be a bit circumspect, what with the filth crawling all over us. Come through and I’ll take you down to the bar for a drink.’

Donna replaced the files in her briefcase and walked through the booths with Henry. The music was louder inside the building and Donna felt the throb of heavy rock vibrating through her temples.

‘These are the booths where the peeping goes on, love. Want a shufti?’

Donna nodded, dreading what she was about to do.

Taking one of the fifty pences from the bag in his hands, Henry walked into the nearest booth and put it in the slot, grateful that Siddy had wiped the semen from the walls, seat and floor. That was all he needed, Georgio’s wife covered in some wanker’s cum.

Donna watched as the grid rose up. Wrinkling her nose at the sour smell, she put her eyes gingerly to the slit. It was the size of a letterbox in length, but was wide enough to get a hand inside, or a face. She watched a huge girl gyrate to loud music, her face blank. Her hand disappeared between her heavy thighs and Donna straightened up, nausea assailing her as she swallowed deeply. But she was grateful at least to see a woman in the booth. She realised she had half-expected to see a child.

‘What’s the average age here?’

Henry laughed. ‘They lie about their age. Toms lie about everything, even what they had to eat - it’s a part of their lives, see? But the average age here is from seventeen to about forty-five. We have one woman in her fifties who we use on Wednesdays because it’s quite slack then, if you’ll excuse the pun!’