They were all wearing expensive leather jackets, Armani jeans and limited-edition Nike trainers, and had dreadlocks hanging halfway down their backs. The driver was Carlton Richie: he had just turned thirty and was taking his friends to an illegal drinking den in Willesden, north-west London. Sitting next to him was Glenford Barrow, the youngest member of the crew. Barrow’s nickname was Shotty because of his predilection for resolving disputes with a sawn-off shotgun. In the back seat was Kemar Davis, the biggest of the three men. He tipped the scales at a little over a hundred and twenty kilos and it was all solid muscle. Davis looked at his watch. ‘Are we there yet, man? I need a piss.’ ‘How old are you – six?’ asked Richie. ‘Why didn’t you go before you got into the car?’ ‘I didn’t want to go when I got into the car,’ said Davis. ‘Now I do. And if you don’t get me there soon I’ll be pissing all over the back of your seat.’ ‘Like fuck you will,’ said Richie.
