Danny read the message and gave a little whistle through his teeth.

‘Well, if this fails to put the fear of God into the bastards then I don’t know what will,’ he said.

Slack’s office was above a pub/restaurant the firm owned in Rotherhithe, a quiet suburb of South East London.

It was used as their base of operations and had round-the-clock security.

There was a meeting room next door and from its rear window you could see across the Thames to the spectacular skyline of Canary Wharf. One of the high-rise buildings had been home to Slack for the past four years. It was where he stayed when he was in London, which these days was most of the time.

It was just after nine o’clock and usually when he was here this late he would go for a meal downstairs. But tonight he had no appetite – at least for food.

‘Call Mike and let him know I’m ready to go home,’ he said to Danny. ‘And tell him I’ll be making the usual stop along the way.’

Mike Walker was one of his regular drivers. Long gone were the days when Slack drove anywhere himself.

He put on his suit jacket while Danny made the call, and filled his pockets with his phone, wallet and pack of Havana cigars.

‘Mike’s warming up the car,’ Danny said. ‘He says he’ll ring Jasmine to tell her you’re on your way over.’

Slack nodded. ‘That’s terrific. The last job for you tonight is to tell the lads that I want them here for a meeting tomorrow at eleven o’clock. I need to warn them that the shit’s about to hit the fan.’

They headed off in different directions – Danny to his house in Streatham and Slack to the home of his mistress in Vauxhall.

Jasmine Tinder lived in a flat he paid the rent on and it was an arrangement that suited them both. He wasn’t interested in another long-term relationship because he knew that no bird could ever match up to his Julie.

But it didn’t mean that his sex drive had hit the buffers, and so he made sure he got his end away on a regular basis. He was lucky in that the nature of his business meant that horny little muffins were always on tap.

Jasmine was one of several he currently had on the go, and the moment he entered the flat he realised yet again why she was his favourite.

‘I was hoping you’d drop by, babe,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘The thought of you fucking me senseless has had me dripping between the legs for hours.’

She stood before him in nothing but a black bra and panties, a twenty-one-year-old sex siren from Manchester with metallic red hair, tits the size of melons and the face of an angel.