The door to the Boyle home opened and two men in full black morning dress and black silk top hats emerged followed by a coffin laden in flowers and carried by six other men similarly attired. Had they been followed by Edward G. Robinson, George Raft, Humphrey Bogart and the Kray Twins, no one would have batted an eyelid. This was to be a gangland funeral in the grand manner worthy of a classic gangster movie.

It was as if some unseen director had shouted, ‘Action!’. The crowd of extras edged imperceptibly forward as if attempting to get their faces on screen. The principal players emerged from the house.

Annie Boyle, her face hidden by a black veil, walked upright and elegantly beside an old man who was stooped and shuffled forward with the aid of a silver-handled walking stick. No one who knew him could fail to notice that Hugh Boyle had aged many years in the few days since the death of his first born. He appeared to stumble and two pairs of hands grabbed him to prevent what would otherwise have been an undignified fall. Paul and Hugh Junior took their father’s arms and with their aid he struggled to walk. Annie displayed no reaction to her husband’s plight. She offered neither helping hand nor word of comfort.

At a suitably respectful distance, the rest of the official mourners made their way from the house to take up position behind the waiting hearse.

The brothers left their father’s side and stood opposite each other at the vehicle’s rear doors to assist in placing the coffin inside between wreaths of white flowers spelling out the words ‘SON’ and ‘BROTHER’. When they had taken up station behind their parents, the cortège moved off. Slowly and sedately it began its sombre journey towards the cemetery.

As it left the street, known locally as ‘Boyle Boulevard’, the crowd of watchers began to disperse. Some headed for home or the nearest pub, satisfied that they had done their duty. Others out of curiosity or enforced loyalty and a few, a very few, out of genuine sympathy, joined the end of the procession along with the police. Kevin Boyle was leaving home for the last time.

The journey was short. Whereas his life had been lived amid violence and disorder, his departure from it was a model of peace and tranquillity. The freshly-dug grave awaited no hero, despite the abundance of floral tributes carefully placed around it. An enormous headstone of grey granite already stood at its head, bearing the legend, ‘Kevin Boyle, a beloved son, a gentle brother and a loyal friend, at home with the Lord. Missed by all.’

As a wag subsequently remarked, ‘At least they got the bastard’s name right.’