Which was what was happening now.

And that, in Frank’s mind, just wasn’t done.

They were in the Bull, his local, the pub where the snug was always closed off, given over to him and his gang of mates, so that they could talk in peace and know they weren’t going to be listened to.

Frank sat there, seething. He was so bloody mad, the rest of them wouldn’t be surprised to see steam coming out of his ears. Everyone around the table was silent. Truth was, they were unwilling to be the first to speak because Tony Dillon had moved in on three of Frank’s Pension restaurants, threatening the owners if they didn’t pay up to him instead of Frank. This was a direct challenge, and one Frank could not let pass – or everyone would be shitting on his doorstep and thinking that was OK.

On either side of Frank sat the twins, Bruno and Baxter Graves, two great ugly hulking men who’d had successful spells in the boxing ring in their youth and then decided that the gangs would pay better. They hated each other – there was a rumour that the huge scar across Bruno’s forehead had been put there by Baxter – but they were both loyal to Frank.

It was Baxter who had broken the news about Tony Dillon. Dillon was a handsome bastard, a winner with the ladies, always flashily dressed and wearing his trademark Trilby hat, and Frank hated the bloke even more for that, because Frank was no beauty. He was squat, plain, vile-tempered, and even his own mother wouldn’t say he was a looker.

‘What we are going to do is this,’ said Frank, and then the door opened. Frank thumped the table hard enough to make the pint glasses on it jump. ‘What the fuck?’ he demanded, pushing himself to his feet.

Dickie Cole was standing there in the doorway.

‘What?’ yelled Frank, eyeballing the man.

Dickie went pale. ‘I . . . sorry, Frank, I thought I’d call in, see if you had anything going,’ he said.

‘You fucking moron, you knock on that door first, you don’t just fucking open it – have you got that?’ roared Frank.

‘Yeah, Frank. Sure. Sorry.’

Slowly, Frank sank back into his chair, shaking his head. ‘Well come in now you’re here,’ he said. ‘And put the ruddy wood in the hole.’

‘Sure, Frank.’

Frank watched Dickie coldly as he came in, pulled up a chair, sat down. ‘So you want a job, do you?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, Frank. Anything.’

Now Frank started to smile.

‘Just so happens, I got something for you,’ he said.

10

When Dora next met up with Dickie at the memorial for their weekly trip to the pictures, he seemed off with her, jumpy. He was sweating, and it wasn’t even a warm day. It wasn’t long before she asked him what the matter was. Personally, she felt a bit low. She couldn’t get William and Donny Maguire out of her head. And the things William had said . . .