Everything about him repulsed Bolton. The faint brown sweat-rings under his armpits. The way that everything he said came out half-sniggered. The fact that he had the balls to try and get one over on him. He ignored the double negative in what Murray said, and bent down so he was in the younger man’s face, inches away.

‘Of course you didn’t, Mr Murray. That’s why you went back to clear out the stash as soon as you heard what happened to your little pal.’

‘Nah, nah, you’ve got it all wrong, boss. I was gonna bring that to you, see. I heard him talking. Knew he was up to something, so I guess he got what was coming. I’m your boy, though. I was gonna come straight to you with it.’

‘Of course you were, son. Course you were.’ Murray flinched as Bolton patted him on the knee, then stood up. ‘That’s why you’d packed yourself a bag isn’t it. You were going to come to see me, then pop off for a little break somewhere for a bit of R & R?’

‘I was just gonna pop and stay with my mum for a few days. She’s not getting any younger, you know, bless her.’

‘And she’s lucky to have a son like you,’ said Bolton, wandering over to a desk by the far wall. He took his jacket off, settling it on the back of the chair as carefully as if he was dressing a mannequin in Harvey Nics’ window. He unbuttoned both cuffs with his back still to Murray.

‘So I was wondering, when can I get back to work, boss?’ said Murray, aiming for chirpy, but sounding pleading.

‘What about visiting your poor old mum?’ said Bolton. ‘You’ve forgotten about using her to try and talk your way out of this one, haven’t you?’ He turned round, shook his head, sighing as he approached Murray. ‘I wish it was that simple, son,’ he said, rolling his sleeves back to just below the elbow. ‘You see, Mr Carter had been talking to the wrong people. Who’s to say you won’t do the same given half the chance? Maybe you have already?’

Murray’s head started to shake side to side, like he was watching tennis on fast forward. ‘No, no, no. Not me, boss, I wouldn’t. I would never—’ The open-handed slap caught him across the cheek, toppling him like a bowling pin.

It boiled down to fear and respect. People respected Locke. They feared men like Bolton. They didn’t make an enemy of him. That’s the difference between him and Locke, he thought to himself. He’d take fear over respect any day.

‘Just like you would never mix in baby milk or fucking talcum powder into my perfectly good cocaine?’ Bolton growled. ‘More to sell. More to line your grubby little pockets with.’