‘Why not?’, chipped in Clark. ‘At least it would show we meant...’ and was abruptly silenced by a look of such ferocity and malice that it would have knocked a lesser man off his seat.

For what seemed an age, Gallagher glared unblinkingly at the man opposite him. Mad Dog was not accustomed to a sense of fear but he had learned over the years that his boss was at his most dangerous when in a cold fury. Shouting and bawling was fine, but when Frank lapsed into silence, anything was possible and often probable. He could feel the sweat begin to trickle down his back.

For Christ’s sake, speak, Clark thought to himself while Gallagher sat as if caught on the freeze-frame of a video-recorder.

The others in the room strove not to move a muscle, bat an eyelid or even be seen to be breathing lest the slightest gesture be misconstrued. The silence enveloped them.

‘I’ll tell you why not, Mr Marlon fucking Brando. This is Glasgow, no fucking Chicago.’

The film buffs among the listeners were puzzled. What had Marlon Brando got to do with Chicago? Surely that was Al Capone? But no one was inclined to correct Gallagher’s inexactitude.

Gallagher warmed to his theme.

‘You’re tubes, no fucking Mafia hit men. You lot seem to think we’re a bunch of fucking gangsters.’

This latter assertion came as no surprise to anyone present. A bunch of gangsters was precisely what they thought they were. They awaited the next salvo – it did not arrive.

Gallagher burst into laughter and everyone instantly followed suit, although they were not entirely sure what they were laughing at. The air of tension was replaced by one of near hysteria.

‘Aw right. Aw right. Calm down, will ye. This is no gettin’ us anywhere. I can just see me as the Godfather – Don Bridgeton – talking a’ that Italian shite. I’d sound like that fucker Vince from the chippie round the corner: “Gonna stoppada selling drugs, Kevin, or a ma boy’s a gonna make-a ya swim widda fishes, by-a the way.” !’

The company collapsed into paroxysms of laughter – all except Charlie. He was only too well aware that he was the brunt of all this merriment. He did not appreciate having the piss taken out of him quite so publicly. Frank Gallagher stopped laughing and the company followed suit.

‘Right, we don’t want to start World War Three.’

He glanced towards Charlie.

‘We don’t want the polis climbing all over us but I do want you to start leaning heavily on Boyle’s people. Pay them visits. Let them know our intentions are serious and if they won’t do business for us, hurt them. Any way you like, but no comebacks.’

Again he glanced at Charlie who by this time had worked himself into his own version of his father’s silent fury.