Carol Cullen was shaken by Jed’s perception of her life. Apart from the fact that she didn’t have a dog, he was virtually right about everything else. ‘You’re very wrong, actually,’ Carol lied. She hated this flash little shit with a passion and would never admit that his portrayal of her existence was almost spot on.

‘Jed, you’ve said enough now. Go upstairs or you’ll have me to deal with,’ Alice shouted.

‘No, why should I? I’m sick of this shit and I’m only telling the truth. What Mrs Cuntsmouth here don’t realise is by the time Georgie girl is eighteen, she will be married to a nice travelling lad that has my stamp of approval. All Georgie needs to learn is how to cook, clean, produce chavvies and be a good wife and mother, so why should she be forced to sit in some poxy classroom until she’s sixteen years of age? I ain’t gonna let her settle down with a mush that don’t come from a wealthy family and ain’t clued up, so she ain’t gonna want for fuck-all, is she?’

‘I love babies, Daddy. When can I have one?’ Georgie asked excitedly.

‘When you’re sixteen,’ Jed said, stroking his daughter’s long dark hair.

Carol Cullen took in the situation before her. In some ways the travelling culture reminded her of the Indian way of life. The fathers married their daughters off young to chaps chosen by them and who came from families they approved of.

‘I’d best make a move now. Thank you for your time,’ Carol said, standing up. Trying to get through to Jed was like talking to a brick wall and she was just wasting her breath.

Alice followed Carol into the hallway and slammed the living-room door shut. ‘I’m really sorry about Jed. He’s obviously had a few beers and you know what rubbish men spout when they’ve been out boozing. He’ll think differently tomorrow and Georgie will go back to school, I promise you that.’

When Carol nodded curtly, Alice shut the front door and stormed back into the lounge. She then slapped her drunken son as hard as she could around his silly, smirking face. ‘If them chavvies are taken away from us, I will personally fucking kill you. Now get out my sight, you dinlo.’

Over in Holloway, Frankie was not in the best of moods. DI Blyth had just informed her that unless they had sufficient DNA evidence to link Jed and Sammy to Harry Mitchell’s murder, then they would not be able to arrest them just yet.

‘Well, when can you arrest ’em? Don’t the police believe me?’ Frankie asked in a dismayed tone.