Stuart smirked. ‘A decent bloke never kisses and tells, lads.’

The banter continued for another few minutes, until Raymond said something that killed the humorous conversation stone dead. ‘That’s Baldwin’s Land Cruiser, boys. He’s a couple of motors in front of us.’

‘It’s only eleven o’clock. I thought you said he didn’t get home till after midnight? You sure it’s his?’ Eddie asked.

‘Of course I’m fucking sure. I’ve been stalking the cunt for days,’ Raymond replied sarcastically.

‘Raymondo, overtake him so we get to his house before he does,’ Ricky ordered.

Eddie disagreed. ‘We’re in a poxy old Renault van, not a fucking Porsche! Just keep him in sight, Ray, follow him home, then we’ll leap out and ’ave him as he pulls up.’

Terry Baldwin’s stomach was still giving him terrible gyp. He’d dropped the motorbike off back at the garage, but had had to stop twice on the journey to squat behind a tree. Feeling the griping pains shoot through his stomach once more, Terry knew he was going to have to stop again before he got home. It was either that or shit himself. Seconds later, he spotted some trees: he pulled over and clenched the cheeks of his arse together as he waddled towards them. He spotted the white van slow down, but after glancing at the writing on the side, thought nothing of it.

Feeling nothing but relief as his bowels opened for the fifth time that evening, Terry pulled his trousers up. Seconds later he was approached by two angry-looking men in black hooded jackets.

‘Move now,’ one hissed at him.

‘Bollocks. Don’t fucking start with me, I ain’t no mug, you know,’ Terry replied angrily. He didn’t recognise the blokes, so just assumed they were going to mug him or nick his motor. Wishing he now hadn’t hidden the gun at the garage, Terry froze as he clocked Eddie Mitchell appear from the shadows. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled.

‘Me and you need to have a little chat, Baldwin. Now, you have two options, number one is follow me and get in the van nicely, or number two, I’ll blow your brains out here and you die in your own shit.’

Terry Baldwin immediately chose option number one.

Over in Rainham, Joycie Smith’s conscience had begun to prick her. Jock hadn’t been able to help Stanley move the bedroom furniture today and had offered to do so on Thursday but, determined to make her husband pay for his recent sins, Joyce had insisted that she couldn’t wait that long and Stanley must move the furniture and take the old carpet up alone, which somehow he’d managed.

Seeing Stanley’s legs buckle for the second time, Joycie stood over him. ‘You’d better not be putting all this on to get out of laying the new carpet tomorrow,’ she said suspiciously.