As Arty left the house to fetch some food and drinks, he spotted Lance on his mobile, walking up and down the drive. His face was taut and his eyes moody. The second Lance caught sight of Arty, he placed his hands over the phone and beckoned him over. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting some burgers.’

‘Be quick, then. I don’t want the girls left alone . . . and I mean it. You can handle yaself, lad, can’t ya?’

Arty nodded. ‘Is their father a lump then, or what?’

Lance sighed. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. All I know right now is I want those girls looked after, and if you, Stafford, and Ritzy in there are anything like your fathers, then my girls are in safe hands!’

Arty frowned. ‘Your girls, did ya just say?’

Lance gave a slow, meaningful nod. ‘Yeah, I did. They’re mine!’

‘Okay, Lance, no worries. We’ll look after them.’

‘Good. See ya later.’ He turned his back on Arty and returned to his conversation on the phone. ‘So, tell me, what does this geezer look like and what does he drive?’

Arty knew Lance was finished with him, and so he left with speed in his step, unsure of how dangerous this situation actually was. He wondered who Lance was talking to on the phone, who this man – the girls’ father – was, and what all this had to do with Ricky. Once he was in his car, he called his father’s number. The phone was still turned off.

***

Mike left Staffie and Willie guarding Randy and Dez, while he drove Woodrow back to London.

The journey had a very different feel about it. For a start, Woodrow was sitting in the front – as a free passenger – and, secondly, there was no gun aimed at his stomach.

‘How the hell are you so cocksure that I won’t go to the Ol’ Bill?’ His question wasn’t meant as a threat; he was just very curious.

Mike laughed. ‘Seriously, mate, don’t underestimate me. I have my reasons, but you’re the one that should be asking yourself that question.’