The last of these was the worst worry of all; nothing was worse than an old has-been just released from stir, who still pledged allegiance to the old Faces, trying to settle a score that was not only pointless, but was also completely without provocation. That was the trouble with a long sentence, if the person wasn’t careful they got caught in a time warp. They stormed out of the nick, all pumped up with adrenalin and hatred, determined to right old wrongs, twenty years too fucking late. The world had changed too much for them, they had no idea how to fit in any more; they were fucking dinosaurs who still thought you could buy a pint, go to the pictures, have a meal and still get change from a fucking groat. He was sorry for them, understood their dilemma, but he also knew how dangerous they were, not only to themselves, but to the people around them. Because of that, Peter had made a point of contacting all the old Faces who had found themselves proud possessors of long sentences. He made sure they had a few quid, and that they were well looked after. He felt they deserved respect. These men were often forgotten, and that was wrong.

Peter Bailey was a man who always looked at every angle, even when he was at home in his bed, cuddling his wife. He still made sure that no one could penetrate his home. He was overly careful, but believed he had to be. The bigger you got, the more you had to lose.

As he slipped into the office he sighed with relief. ‘What a fucking racket! Call that music?’

Daniel laughed. ‘Well, I don’t, but the youth of today, who spend a good wedge in here, think it’s the dog’s bollocks. This place is a fucking money machine, I tell you.’