Terry knew that Petey was baiting him; that was Petey’s biggest failing – he never knew when to shut his big trap. But Terry needed Petey more than ever now that everything had fallen so spectacularly out of bed. He took a deep breath to control his anger, before saying. ‘So, what’s the next step then, Pete? Have you sorted me out a refuge until such time as we can put plan B into action? I don’t think we should look towards Spain or the Algarve. I think there’s too many people we know there. But how about Southern Ireland?’

Petey smiled easily. ‘It’s sorted, Terrence. I’ve got you somewhere no one will ever get to you.’

Terry grinned; this was more like it. ‘I knew I could fucking count on you, Petey. Once your dad and his brother are out of the way, we can fucking clean up.’

Petey laughed with him. ‘True, but that’s also the bugbear, ain’t it? I mean, how am I going to explain you away to the boys? Liam, my brother, maybe might swallow, but I doubt it very much. He’s never liked you – thinks you’re a cunt actually. But my cousins won’t be so easily persuaded of your innocence. Their old mum died, remember? My Auntie Lena, the East End’s original Pat Butcher. If nothing else, at least no one will have to witness her fucking appalling dress sense any more. Every cloud, eh? But, back to my cousins. They will not be willing to forgive and forget, will they? Dessie from the pub put you two right in it, I’m afraid, so, basically, you have no fucking chance of redeeming yourself – not as far as I can see anyway.’

‘But they don’t know that as gospel, do they? Surely they would listen to you?’

Petey sighed theatrically. ‘I’m not sure they would, Terrence. That’s the melon scratcher really, don’t you agree?’

Terrence Allen was tired, wired and half pissed, but the general gist of Petey’s conversation was not lost on him. He felt the sick dread wash over him; this was the only ending that Petey Bailey had ever envisaged. Now that he was without a use and knew far too much for comfort, Terry was no more than another job to be done. He had left his weapon in his coat, and his coat was in the kitchen. He looked at Petey Bailey and said honestly, ‘Just do me one favour, Petey – let my body be found. At least my mum will be able to bury one of her sons.’

Petey nodded; that seemed more than fair to him. ‘Consider it done, mate.’

Petey took out a sawn-off shotgun from a long pocket his tailor had sewn especially into the lining of his overcoat. It was almost undetectable to the naked eye – unless you knew what you were looking for, of course.