Smith had worked out very early in his career that crime, for a small percentage of the population, really did pay. There were certain people who understood the importance of having the enemy close by, even if you couldn’t control them. With people like the Baileys, who appreciated the significance of having people like him close, and who made sure that their enterprises didn’t impinge on the general public too much, you could at least ensure a degree of safety, know that there would be no civilians caught up in unnecessary violence. That would not be the case, however, if the streets were left to the mercy of anyone who had a shotgun and big ideas. Like the Krays and the Richardsons before them, the Baileys actually policed their own manors; they made sure that nothing untoward went on without their express permission and that everything was within their boundaries and guidelines. In a way, they were as necessary for public safety as the Home Guard in wartime. Families like the Baileys actually made the streets safer for the average person – not that anyone would ever admit that, of course. Without the big crime families taking that control, the pavements would be overrun with wannabes and loose cannons, would be at the mercy of every little crew who felt the urge to go out on the rob; it would be anarchy. The Old Bill all knew that, from very early on in their careers. They hated it but the bottom line was, better the devil you know.

Smith looked at the two men he had been dealing with for over twenty years, and he smiled genially. ‘I have my ear to the ground and, be fair, have I ever let you down?’

Daniel Bailey snorted in derision. ‘There’s always a fucking first time, Harry.’

Chapter One Hundred and Ten

Petey Bailey was sitting at a secluded table in the garden of one of his favourite pubs in Hainault. It had a nice outlook, the garden was very well landscaped and, best of all, there was a little clique of young birds in his eyeline. One of them was already giving him the glad eye, and he was more than happy to return the favour. He knew that his dark good looks, coupled with his expensive apparel, were a real pull for a lot of women. He had the brooding appearance of a young Bob Marley, or so he had been told anyway – not that he really gave a fuck. His old nana said he resembled his granddad more than the others. The way she told it, his granddad was a mixture of Kunta Kinte from Roots, and Sammy Davis Jr. A mixed bag admittedly, but as long as it attracted the birds, he was happy.