Determined to catch her husband red-handed, Joyce pushed Raymond’s arm away, got out of the car and marched towards the pub. Opening the door, Joyce immediately spotted Brian. He was a member of the same pigeon club as Stanley and was standing at the bar alone when Joycie walked over. Brian recognised her immediately. Who wouldn’t? With her bouffant auburn hair, five-foot-nine frame and big mouth, Joycie was very hard to miss indeed.

‘Where is he?’ she screamed.

‘Who, Stanley?’ Brian asked dumbly.

‘Yes, that dirty, stinking, cheating, bastard of a husband of mine.’

Totally embarrassed that the twenty or so customers in the pub were all looking their way, Raymond ordered his mum to sit down and led Brian towards the gent’s toilets. Once inside, he turned to him.

‘Sorry about that. As you can imagine, my mum’s very upset over all this. You know my dad well. Tell me what’s going on with him and this Pat woman.’

Brian didn’t want any aggravation, so tried to be as diplomatic as possible. Everybody in the pigeon club knew that Stanley was a harmless old soul, but they were also aware that his son was a bit of a rogue and worked for the notorious Eddie Mitchell.

‘Her name is Pat, she’s a member of our pigeon club and Stanley was in here yesterday with her. I don’t think there is anything going on between them, but I think he’s stopping round at her house. They are probably just good friends.’

‘What’s this Pat’s address?’ Raymond asked pleasantly.

Brian liked both Stanley and Pat and didn’t want to get either of them into any trouble. ‘I don’t know,’ he lied.

Raymond’s pleasant persona changed instantly. He’d learned from Eddie that the quickest way to get information out of people was by putting the frighteners on them and it seemed to work every time. ‘I said, what’s the fucking address?’ he spat, as he grabbed the collar of Brian’s jacket and shoved him up against the wall.

Brian was petrified. ‘It’s Hemley Road, but I ain’t sure of the number,’ he stammered.

Raymond let go of Brian’s jacket and politely smoothed the collar down. The number of the house didn’t matter. As long as he knew the road, he would find the gaff easily enough, because his father’s car would be parked outside. He smiled at Brian. ‘Cheers, mate. Nice to meet ya.’

Pat the Pigeon was an expert when it came to cooking a decent roast dinner. Her husband Vic had been a massive fan and reckoned her crispy potatoes cooked in goose fat were the best he’d ever tasted.