In 1986 real trouble caught up with him for the one and only time. His son, Kevin, staggered home one night with blood pouring from wounds in his head and arm. He had been out making some collections when the unthinkable happened and he was mugged. Normally, members of the Boyle family did not go about unaccompanied, but the size of Kevin’s brain did not match the rest of his physical stature and he liked to strut about on his own playing the part of a hard man. In the East End he was untouchable, but when he strode into a pub in the centre of town and began flashing his money around, he was asking for trouble – and it came looking for him.

On leaving the pub the hapless Kevin was set upon by two youths who hit him on the head with a hammer, stabbed him in the arm and dragged him into a nearby lane, where he was robbed and abandoned like a sack of rubbish. In fact his injuries were not as severe as they had first appeared, but when he arrived home he was mindful that he would have to explain to his father the loss of the three grand. His performance was a bit hammy, but he gave a passable portrayal of the wounded hero.

Hugh Boyle was in a fury. He would have quite cheerfully strangled Kevin for being so stupid. On one hand, his son’s injuries would quickly heal. On the other hand, a member of his family, his eldest son, no less, had been publicly humiliated. This was unacceptable. His reputation was at stake. No one laid a hand on a Boyle – not unless they had Hugh’s express permission.

Unsurprisingly, the matter was never reported to the police but Boyle allowed some discreet inquiries to be carried out. One name was mentioned. Despite a plethora of offers from his lieutenants, Hugh decided this was a personal matter and as such should receive his personal attention.

Bobby Houliston, small-time crook and short-time local legend, was sitting in the corner of the crowded Tavern Bar in Glasgow’s Duke Street, surrounded by many new friends whose admiration and adoration he had secured thanks to the large quantities of drink he had purchased (paid for with Hugh Boyle’s money). Had he been facing the door of the bar he might have realised that the silence which descended on the pub ought to have caused him some concern.

‘Whit’s up? Has some fucker just died?’

Prophetic words.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder and began to speak. Hugh Boyle prevented him from doing so by filling Bobby’s open mouth with four bullets fired from a revolver. No one would ever know what Bobby’s last meditation on earth might have been. It should have been ‘Fuck me!’ After swallowing the four bullets, Bobby was well and truly fucked.