Kelly walked to his chair and stared down at him.

‘Yeah? Go on.’

‘I arranged to pick her up from the phone box in Portaby Road. Only when I got there - I was a bit late like - she wasn’t there.’ Kevin could see Kelly’s slate grey eyes hardening by the second. ‘So I come here, thinking she’d got a cab or something.’

‘What time was you supposed to pick her up then?’

‘Eight o’clock.’

‘And what time did you finally get there?’

‘About twenty to nine.’ Kevin’s voice was so low Kelly couldn’t hear it.

‘What time? Speak up, lad, for Christ’s sake.’

‘About twenty to nine.’

Kelly’s face screwed up in abject disbelief.

‘What do you want for Christmas, son? A Rolex or fucking Big Ben hung round your neck, eh? You left my baby standing outside a phone box for forty minutes in this weather!’

Throwing the brandy glass to the floor Patrick Kelly delivered a stinging blow to the younger man’s ear, knocking him off the chair.

‘You ponce! You little ponce! My Mandy could be fucking dead because of you. Start saying your prayers, boy, because if I don’t locate my baby soon, you’ll be dead. Do you hear me!’

Kevin wiped his running nose with the back of his hand. He was absolutely terrified.

‘Y-Y-Yes. I’m sorry . . .’

‘You’re sorry, are you? You’ve been driving round in my Mandy’s car for weeks. Oh, I know all about it, sonny boy. I’ve had you watched. Now I don’t doubt you’ve heard some stories about me. About my businesses up West, and the heavies that work for me. Well, you take all you’ve heard and times it by ten and you’ll get a little inkling of what you are so desperate to marry into. I make the Godfather look like Little Red Riding Hood. You remember that, boy, because if anything, anything at all, has happened to my little girl, you’ll be deader than an Egyptian mummy!’

Kelly’s face was contorted with rage. He had the same sick feeling inside him he had had the day Renée had died. It was like history repeating itself.

She had been killed driving home from her mother’s in West Ham. She had been over two hours late and he had known deep in his heart that something had happened. Her Mini that she loved so much she had named it Jason had been hit by a lorry on the A13, outside the Henry Ford public house. But his Mandy wouldn’t be in a car accident, because this pratt in front of him had her bloody car!

He went to the phone and picked it up. He dialled a number and turned back to face Kevin, who had pulled himself off the floor and was now sitting back in the armchair crying.

‘Bloody real, ain’t it? Patrick Kelly, the most feared man in London, phoning the Old Bill!’