Aleksy Kozaczuk was called Król by those who knew him, a name meaning ‘king’. He had run gangs as a teenager in Szczecin, Poland, inspired by his father’s tales of Polish criminals making money and earning respect alongside Al Capone and other notable gangsters during America’s Prohibition era. It all had to do with some loose family connection to Bugs Moran. Król didn’t retain most of what the drunken old fool spouted, but he did like the fact that he was allowed to steal and beat other kids, and his father only reprimanded him if the police got involved. The old fool taught him early that a man without a rich family, a serious talent or massive luck could only strike it rich through crime. He had yearned to set up a new life in America, running guns and girls.

He got to London after the expansion of the European Union in 2004, still eyeing an empire in America, but here he still was more than a decade later. He didn’t mind because he was running a gang and sometimes there was a girl he could pimp and now and then he sold a gun. He was tall, skinny, only twenty-eight but had a buzz cut and a face of stubble that was iron grey. It made him look older, but, he felt, meaner. His face was known on the streets. His gang was mostly kids, shorter and stupider, and he liked that they called him their king. Like some Fagin of the modern world, he sent them out to do his robbing so that he could remain untouchable. Of course, theft was in his blood, so he still went on the odd excursion himself.

He lived in a bedsit above a laundrette in Fulham, accessed by an entrance in the side wall and a set of stairs that terminated right at his door. Not exactly the palace he had dreamed of, but paperwork issued by the benevolent British government said he alone owned the keys.

His eyes flickered awake at the sound of the first door being kicked in. His brain oriented itself as footsteps thudded up the stairs. He was sitting up in bed in just his boxer shorts and holding a knife as the inner door was booted open.

‘Put that away or I’ll store it in your arse,’ said the silhouette in the doorway. The intruder yanked on a grimy cord hanging from the ceiling, and a weak bulb cast jaundiced light over the room.

Król recognised his visitor and tossed the knife on a small bookcase beside his bed, on top of which sat his mobile phone and an ashtray heaped with cigarette butts.

‘What you doing here?’

There was a cheap plastic clock hanging on the wall beside the door. The intruder yanked it down and skimmed it like a Frisbee, striking Król hard in the chest. ‘What time does that say? Is reading the time the same in fucking Poland?’

Król tossed the clock aside after a glance at it – barely past seven in the morning – and rubbed his chest. ‘I’ve had one fucking hour’s sleep, Mick. Fuck off.’

Mick strode into the room and stopped at the foot of the bed. ‘Same here about the sleep, Król, you piece of shit. Know why? Because I was waiting up for you. You were supposed to call when it got done, remember? Not just piss off home. So, I’m figuring it didn’t get done, right?’

‘I got burned, man.’

‘One of them recognised you?’

Król thrust out his right hand, fingers splayed. ‘Nah, I mean I got fucking burned.’ Mick stared at the man’s fingers, which were red and blistered. ‘Some fucking weird electrified security shit on that house in Chiswick. Must have the fucking Crown Jewels in there.’

‘That all you learned since you sneaked in my country? That fucking foul language? Which house? So, you didn’t get inside?’

‘Gave it up, man. You see my fingers? You’ll have to go see the guy yourself.’

‘Well, that’s why I need you again. Get your stolen shit shoes on and let’s go.’

Król shifted so he could sit up against the headboard. He lit a cigarette stub plucked from the ashtray and sucked hard on it. ‘One hour’s sleep, Mick. You listening?’

‘I’m listening to you whine, that’s all. Let me tell you what else I listened to, Król. Earlier, I heard about some boys in blue being sent to Muswell Hill. Apparently some guy and his wife were attacked in bed. The man got all cut up bad, and now he’s in the hospital. Shit, I thought, there’s some bad people out there. Not like my man Król, who I sent to ask some questions. Not like Król, who went in there simply to scare someone and find out one little piece of information. Król’s smart, and he wouldn’t have done anything like that because he knows that someone who’s threatened in bed but left unhurt will probably keep his promise to keep quiet about the break-in if he thinks the guys will come back if he talks. Right?’

Król shrugged, finished his butt and grabbed another. ‘He was messing with me. But it worked, cos he talked, and I don’t think he’s your man. Must be the other one.’

Mick strode to where the clock had been tossed, grabbed it and skimmed it again at Król, who complained with expletives when it burst into shards just inches above his head.

‘Now that guy has no choice but to talk, you fuckwit, because it’s obvious to everyone he got attacked at home. Some nurse called the police. You might get caught for this one, and then you might rat me out.’

Król shook his head. ‘Nah, I was playing cards all night with my own pals, and they’ll say so. Alibi.’

‘Scum like you don’t have friends. You’re all backstabbing arses who don’t even trust each other. And if there’s DNA, the word of a bunch of kids who think you’re the dog’s bollocks won’t count for anything. You owe me, so get your Oxfam rags together and let’s go.’

And yet again, to be reminded that he owed Mick, Mick brought out the knife. Just a picture on a phone this time, of course, because last time Mick had brought the actual knife, and Król had tried to wrestle it away from him. This time he’d get nowhere near it.

‘Clothing, Król. Or a call gets made to Scotland Yard. A concerned member of the community just found a knife close to where that old Asian shopkeeper was stabbed four months ago.’

‘You’ll never give me that back, so why should I help you?’

‘Is that a no, Król?’

It was never a no, was it? Three times recently this arsehole had blackmailed him into doing a job, and each time he’d been promised the knife would be destroyed. And each time it had reared its ugly head again. Król didn’t doubt that this process would continue for some time yet, unless he managed to get some dirt on Mick to balance the scales.

Mick said: ‘You didn’t do the job you were asked to do. Lucky for you I did some research to help you redeem yourself. So, if you want to sleep here tonight instead of a prison cell, get dressed and let’s go finish it.’

Just then Mick’s phone trilled. Król started to get up as Mick read the text message, but a moment later the big guy rushed forward. Król flopped back onto the bed, hands over his head, protesting, wondering what the hell had been in that text message. In shock, he watched Mick, instead of attacking him, pluck a couple of novels out of the bookcase.

‘For being an arsehole, I’m having these. You can’t even read English.’

Król could barely read his native Polish, either, but he was still worried. At what future crime scene might the cops find one of those paperbacks with his prints all over it? What the hell was Mick up to?