Nobody he knew would have stolen Keith Kinsey’s car. That car was sacrosanct, like his house, his holiday villa on the south coast, his children, his wife, his space at the greyhound track, even his seat at West Ham.
So, walking out of his Essex home at seven thirty on a September morning and seeing a Jaguar-sized space where his car had been the night before was a shock. He didn’t want to take the Range Rover into the West End. He had no wish to use the Porsche in Soho because of the kind of wankers who used Porsches in Soho.
Kinsey stood and looked at the spot that recalled his 1972 white E-type and went momentarily blank. Fumbling, he pulled the mobile phone from the inside pocket of his overcoat and speed-dialled Tommy Mallion.