Peter Bailey told his son Petey about the capture of Billy Allen as they were sitting together in his BMW 6 Series, driving quickly towards the scrapyard. Peter was glad his brother had refused to unload the yard now; he’d been absolutely right – he had always said they would need its privacy one day.

‘From what Danny’s said, the man is a fucking phenomenon. You have to give credit where it’s due – my brother has taken off every finger on his right hand, but he still won’t fucking say a dicky bird. He is threatening them with all sorts.’

Petey could hear the genuine admiration in his father’s voice, and he knew he had to say something. ‘Why have they dragged him in, though? Who grassed him up?’

He saw his father shrug as he answered carefully, ‘I don’t know yet. All I do know is my brother heard a whisper, and now he wants me there. My guess is Daniel would really much rather sort this himself – it is his wife who’s dead, after all. But, by the same token, he also knows that I was the intended target. As if any of us are ever going to forget that.’

Petey nodded absently. The fear was growing inside him; he had been less than honest about his dealings, with his greed as usual taking precedence over his common sense. The Allens could easily cause him untold trouble, and the enormity of that fact was finally hitting him. He was thieving off his own – in more ways than one. He was only too aware of his father’s opinion about what he saw as weakness of any kind; his father, who in reality should not even still be here, who should be dead, would see his actions as tantamount to mutiny.

‘Like a fucking bull, that Billy Allen! I remember years ago he was jumped by about six geezers, and they each said afterwards that they had never had a fight like it in their lives. They battered him in the end, but he made sure they fucking worked for it.’

They were approaching the scrapyard, and Petey felt sick with apprehension. As they waited for the gates to be opened, he saw his father glance at him; he sensed his dad was picking up on his nerves.

Once they were parked up, he had to force himself to walk towards the Portakabin. It was raining hard and, as he followed his father through the maze of man-made iron walls, he was impressed by his uncle’s planning. If they were raided right this second, the Filth would have no idea whatsoever how to negotiate this place. It was like a rabbit warren, and the scrap was used as its main defence. It was brilliant how his uncle had thought it out.