‘Frank, I’m . . . I’m afraid I’m expecting,’ she told him over his brandy and cigars.

‘What?’ Frank rocked back in his chair, his eyes intent on her face. ‘You what? But I take precautions, Dor. Always.’

Should she say that accidents happen, then try and say the kid came early or something when it finally put in an appearance? She almost did, right there. But no. Dora pressed on. Somehow she felt this kid was precious; it was Dickie’s, after all.

‘I just . . .’ she started, but Frank cut her off.

‘Well damn this is good news though.’ Frank was chewing his cigar and something that looked almost like a smile was trying to shape itself on his liverish lips. ‘French letter must have split, I reckon. Damn! First kid I ever sired.’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Well, that I know of, anyway.’

The way he said that made her cringe like an oyster squirted with lemon juice. Frank and his tiny cock? She didn’t think he could ever make a woman pregnant.

‘And he’ll be a looker, won’t he. With a mother like you,’ Frank was droning on.

‘Frank, I . . .’ Christ, she had to stop him. Tell him the truth.

‘Nah, don’t worry about a thing, baby doll.’ Frank let out a shout that she suddenly realized was a laugh; she’d never heard him laugh before.

‘Frank! The baby’s Dickie’s,’ she blurted.

Frank froze with a smile like a clown’s pinned to his face.

‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ she said quickly.

In slow motion Frank leaned over and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. Up on the stage, the act – a dark-haired girl in a bright red cocktail dress – was singing about a lost love. Dora cringed at that, too. She had a lost love. But she had to be sensible. No way was her and Dickie’s romance ever going to last out a twenty stretch; instead she was trapped with this murdering thug who was now staring at her like he’d never seen her before.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right.’ Then he clicked his fingers and made a writing sign in the air, and the waiter brought the bill. Frank had a brief word and a handshake with the Krays, then they left.

30

Frank was silent all the way back to the flat. Frankenstein was driving, his big square clunky head staring straight ahead. There was a dead, brooding silence in the car. When they got home, Frank and Dora went inside, took off their coats. Dora poured them both a brandy; the occasion seemed to call for it. After all, she’d had a worrying time fretting over telling him; and Frank’d had a nasty surprise.

She brought him over the drinks as he stood in the centre of the room she had furnished with such care, made so homely, so pretty. Then to her shock he knocked both cut-crystal glasses out of her hands. Brandy swooshed down over her expensive gown, and spattered the cream carpet.