Now he used that same system – and others – to import his cocaine through his cartel associates in Bogota. Eighty kilos was worth about twenty mill on the streets, which was a big deal to the English gangs but chickenshit to the mega-wealthy Colombians.

When even bigger loads were being imported, Charlie turned his attention to the docks in Southampton where he already had people set up on the take and knew he could get containers coming through unchecked.

‘The Matias bunch keep flapping over security, but it’s sewn up tight,’ Charlie told Terry. ‘I own the ports. I own the police. I’m in charge. There’s no problem.’

Everything was working out nicely. These days, Charlie could only wonder at the modest beginnings of his life of crime. Now here he was – king of the entire fucking world, just like he’d always planned. Living a grand life in a grand mansion out in the sticks, but – he had to admit this was true – his heart was still back there on the old East End manor he’d been born into, wrapped up in the lifestyle he’d once known.

He didn’t mix much with the locals out here, and Nula didn’t either. Their old mates from the manor came out sometimes, but they never stayed long.

Their cash was welcome here, though. There was always somebody banging at the door asking for handouts. For the church spire. For the community centre’s new bogs. For the replacement of the village hall’s decaying porch. Charlie stumped up plenty at first, thinking that this was a route in and that it might please Nula to be part of it all.

But gradually the penny dropped. They were seen as dodgy newcomers, unwanted outsiders, and were asked repeatedly what line of business they were in. Charlie gave his stock answer to this one – he was importing wood for sofa frames, textiles for armchair covers, padding, springs from China, all that shit, and manufacturing and assembling furniture in his English factories. But the people around here never seemed convinced. The community withdrew from the Stones, and frankly Charlie was relieved.

In fact, after having been in love with the idea of a grand country manor, of literally ‘lording’ it among the yokels, he now felt that the whole ‘moving out’ business had been a big mistake. Yes, he’d fallen for the idea of living it large in the country, but the reality was, he didn’t care for it. He caught himself longing for the dirty streets of the city with that exciting air of seedy danger. He missed the rough sleepers, the even rougher old spit-and-sawdust pubs, the place that he truly, in his heart, still called home.