‘Lenny Axelford. You were meant to attend an interview at my club. Twice, actually. And you didn’t show up. Both times. So where the fuck were you?’

‘What?’ She gazed at him blankly.

‘Listen. I’m not as nice as your cousin Tom. I’m not used to being pissed around. He said three o’clock, right? Twice. So where were you at three o’clock? Let’s forget about the first interview. Let’s focus on the second one. Three o’clock today. Was there a reason you couldn’t attend? Couldn’t phone? Send me a fucking smoke signal or a carrier pigeon or something?’

At three o’clock today, Angel had been in the flat, alone and in shock.

He raised his eyebrows and spread his hands, expecting an answer.

‘Who . . . what did you say your name was?’ asked Angel.

He heaved a sigh. ‘Lenny Axelford. I’m the bloke you were supposed to be having an interview with at three. Today. And yesterday. But you didn’t show up, so I suppose there has to be a reason why you didn’t.’

‘Who gave you this address?’

‘Tom of course. My assistant manager, your cousin, who’s taking a lot of flak over you. So where the fuck were you?’

‘Go away,’ said Angel, and shut the door in his face.

95

Lenny Axelford had dinner that night at the Shalimar. Chicken in the basket with the old mate of his who owned it, Max Carter. Max was a local face who controlled Bow and a stretch of Limehouse. In their usual fashion, they chewed the fat over deals going down, what their mates were up to.

Lenny was getting there, doing well for himself, but Max was already one of the big beasts, firmly at the top of the pile and treated with extreme respect. He was imposing and physical, a very striking man. Muscular, well-groomed, compact; with black curling hair, a piratical hook of a nose and dense, dark navy-blue eyes that skewered you where you sat. Lenny was in awe of Max; they’d known each other since schooldays, when Lenny had been in Max’s gang. If ever you were in trouble, you could depend on Max to haul your arse out.

Max was thinking that Lenny looked wound up. He didn’t question it, though; mates didn’t talk about personal troubles, they didn’t gabble on like women. Football scores and under-the-counter deals, that was about the size of it. Then about halfway through the evening, Lenny said: ‘I met a woman today. Well – a girl.’

Max took a sip of his whisky. Then he said: ‘Oh?’

Lenny dragged a hand through his blond mane and eyed his friend for a moment. ‘She was really something,’ he said.

‘As in you wanted to shag her?’ asked Max with a sigh. He leaned back, clipped the end off a Cohiba and lit it.

‘Well, yeah. That goes without saying. She was fucking stunning. You know Tom, my boy at the club? She’s his cousin. She was supposed to be coming in for an interview, twice, and both times she didn’t bother to show up. I was hopping mad and I was over that way so I called in.’