‘Gissa look at the photos then. I promise I won’t get the horn. I’m interested to see what your old woman looks like.’

Georgio sorted through the photos and found one of Donna in a sundress in their garden, her face glowing with good health and happiness. He passed it to Timmy who took it in his meaty paw and smiled widely.

‘Crikey, she’s a lovely little thing, ain’t she?’ His voice held genuine admiration.

Georgio was pleased at the other man’s reaction. ‘Yes she is, Timmy, and I’m not just saying that either. She’s a decent type of woman, you know. Respectable. Well-spoken, well-educated and everything. She took an Open University degree, got it and all. In Sociology.’

Timmy was doubly impressed. ‘Brains as well as beauty, eh? Lucky bastard. My wife looks like the back of a number nine bus. Her arse is so big she wouldn’t get in the cell door! Mind you, she’s never done the dirty on me to my knowledge, and even though she’s ugly as sin there’s blokes out there who’d fuck their own grand-mothers if it was dark enough.’

Georgio nodded at the truth of the statement. Most men’s biggest fear in prison was who was in their bed at home. A majority of them knew that someone was keeping the old woman company. It was whether or not the wife would want that man permanently that bothered them. If you lost the wife, you lost access to the kids. A love poem in a prison was eagerly bought for precious cigarettes and lovingly copied out in the next letter home. Most of the prisoners’ wives were courted only when their husbands were inside. Their idea of romance was a poem, a promise of love everlasting, and an oath that the old man was reformed. Most took this for what it was worth; others lived their whole married life in hope.

‘My Donna’s a quiet type, you know. Not one of these chatty women. She was an asset to me, in my business and that. She could arrange a dinner party as good as anything you’d get in Kensington Palace. Knew what to wear, what to say, how to conduct herself. An all-rounder, was my Donna.’

Timmy studied the photograph again as Sadie walked into the cell.

‘I just came to say goodnight, lads. Oh, photos! Let’s have a butchers.’

Timmy handed her the photograph and she smiled happily.

‘Now that’s what I call a beautiful woman.’ This was spoken with a friendly envy. ‘Look at that hair and those eyes! Who is it?’

‘That’s Georgio’s little wife,’ Timmy muttered.

‘I thought it was your daughter, Georgio - no offence meant, like.’