The Sweeney, as they were known, were not averse to fitting someone up, that was public knowledge, and they were also loath to strike unless they had the person bang to rights in their minds, meaning the fit up was watertight. Sometimes they had a genuine capture, which was less often than they let the public and their bosses believe. Dicky knew for a fact that Freddie had been in possession of enough amphetamines to keep the whole of London up for a week and still have enough left over to do the same again in Glasgow. He should know, he had supplied them to him in the first place.

So how was it that they were hearing that Freddie had got bail? Was it because he had been overzealous with his explanations to Old Bill? Being overly helpful with the filth was becoming more and more acceptable these days, at least that is how it looked at the moment to Dicky Williams. Especially where a dealer like Dwyer was concerned. The courts had started handing out such outrageous sentences that some of the members of their world were unwilling, or more pointedly, unable to cope with that amount of time in prison. He was convinced that Dwyer was one of those people. The dirty, filthy, two-faced fucking rat.

In short, he now strongly suspected Dwyer had offered up some choice information in exchange for a guaranteed sentence and if that was the case, what the fuck had he said? And, even more to the point, how much of his chatter involved him and Pat? If Terry had been taken out and Jamie the Book, then Old Bill were obviously using old scores to take the onus off Freddie's grassing. The Flying Squad often used old scores to take out people they knew they had no chance of nicking.

Freddie was a useless ponce, everyone knew that. But he was also a necessary evil where they were concerned because he made sure that any contacts he managed to secure were guaranteed earners. But, no matter what anyone said about bent filth, you had to procure them long before you finally used them with any degree of confidence, and the fact that they were tucking up their own mates and colleagues spoke volumes. With bent filth it was all about baiting the trap and making sure you grabbed the fucker painfully and with malice aforethought by their gonads, therefore ensuring their full and frank cooperation. Freddie had no filth in his pocket, he relied on Pat and the Williamses to smooth out anything that might cause him aggravation. But the amount of speed he had in his possession would have been the collar of the year to Lily Law and they would have locked him up and thrown away the key before he had even seen his brief. His sojourn in whatever nick they decided to bury him in should have been a foregone conclusion, it was too much gear to even contemplate getting any kind of result, let alone fucking bail. This was fucking freaky, there was no doubt about that.

As Dicky Williams had pointed out to Patrick not an hour ago, if Fucking Freddie Dwyer had grassed him or anyone close to him, he was a fucking dead man. Because Terry's demise was such an affront none of them could believe it was to do with business. Who would be mad enough to take them on?

Patrick's car pulled up outside Dicky's house in Bow and he was already in possession of a large Scotch before he had even walked inside. It was placed in his hand as he stood on the doorstep.

Like Dicky Williams, Pat was also going over the events in his mind once more. And he had to agree with Dicky. Who would be mad enough to take them on? Pat had sighed to himself when he had heard that gem of wisdom, there was nothing like stating the bleeding obvious, but then the Williamses were not renowned for their command of the English language or their intelligence, even as a group, so Pat had overlooked the idiocy of Dicky's words and instead decided to concentrate on finding out what the fuck had gone down. Terry's death had to be avenged and he wanted that vengeance as much as they did, even if it was for a different reason. Dwyer was not a big enough fish for them to bother about; he was a dealer, no more and no less, and he had no real muscle or respect except what he garnered through his relationship with them.

Pat believed that Dwyer was the catalyst for this day's work, but whoever else the filth had brought on board obviously thought they were beyond reproach, and for that reason alone, Pat wanted to obliterate them. He had to think this through and he had to make sure that no one was topped off before they had some idea of what this was all about. Everyone was a suspect now, but he wanted the real suspect not a plastic one. The brothers, however, were on red alert; anyone could be wiped out on the smallest piece of evidence.

Like any soldier, Pat wanted a strategy and you couldn't work one out until you knew exactly what you were dealing with. He would find out if it was the last thing he did on this earth and, the way things were going, that could be exactly his fate before this day was out.

'Look, Dicky, no disrespect, but we need to find out who took out poor Terry, right? Find out the score.'

Dicky nodded solemnly. 'They are fucking amateurs. I mean, think about it, if they had half a fucking brain they would have come after us mob-handed.'

Pat looked into Dicky's open face and saw the pain and the uncertainty there. 'I think Jamie the Bookie was a blind. I think whoever did it wanted us wondering what the fuck was going on. What we need to do now is open this fucking town up and get the answers we need. I have a few Faces I can talk to, you start getting everyone together, then wait till I come back and we'll have a plan of action, all right?'

Dicky nodded once more, relieved that Pat was taking it all over. The reason the Williamses were happier working with Pat was because he was a rational thinker and they were unable to think beyond the last thought that might have invaded their heads, even collectively. They were shrewd enough when it came to earning a crust, no one disputed that, but Pat was the real brains of the outfit and he knew he had to try to sort this out before the Williams brothers started shooting first and asking questions later. Much later.

Lil was happy. Pregnant again, she was happier than she had ever been. Her life was everything she could have hoped for, and more. Patrick was fussing over her as always and, like her, his children were the focal point of his existence. Both had experienced such neglect and utter misery in their own childhoods that they wanted to make sure their children were happy and cared for. They were united in making their children the mainstay of their whole lives. Pat, thanks to his erratic working hours, was able to spend a lot of time with the boys and it showed. Pat Junior was his double; he emulated everything his father did, and at eight years old he was already a force to be reckoned with. His Holy Communion had ensured his place in local folklore because it had been such an event. No one had ever seen the like of it, before or since, and Pat Junior had been like a little angel throughout. The party afterwards had gone on long into the night, and people had talked about it for weeks afterwards. Pat was a happy, popular child who was already showing signs of his father's fighting spirit and his mother's determination to get what he wanted. But his strength was tempered with an innate kindness that she knew his father saw as a flaw, even though deep inside he was pleased that such a generous and big-hearted boy had sprung from his loins. In their world men could not be soft, it was seen as a weakness and Pat wanted his sons to be seen as being strong and as reflections of himself.

Lance, however, was another story. At six he was a big boy for his age and he was still not what she would call normal. He was quiet and surly and he was also very temperamental, causing untold problems when the fancy was upon him. He would argue black was white and her mother, as always, would back him to the hilt.