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Garry Armstrong allowed the phone to ring six times, knowing his dad, Steve would pick it up before 1571 cut in. He did and they started their hour-long Thursday evening conversation. Seventy year old Steve was proud of his son, regardless of his reputation. Forty-year old Gary had left school at sixteen with a head for figures but no inclination to pursue further education. A powerfully-built lad with a forceful but pleasant nature, he knew his future would rest in the hands of a small number of men who wrote their own rule book. Living in Marlin Court high-rise municipal flats two miles from Newcastle upon Tyne England with his mum and dad, Gary accepted that their postcode prevented him from being selected from job applications. It was a rabbit warren of survivors. Police rarely entered the building that was run by a villain who ensured his popularity by providing high spec televisions and furniture at prices affordable on social security handouts. Their gratitude was shown by covering his involvement with drugs and prostitution. Gary admired the man who in turn acknowledged the boy’s potential and signed him up for an apprenticeship in crime. He became proficient, rapidly rising through the ranks, until he took charge, becoming rich very quickly. Unfortunately he became careless. The police did not know of him but it was just a matter of time, so while anonymous he bought a villa in Spain. That was a long time ago. Residents came and went, Steve’s wife died, leaving him to become a lonely old pensioner, known by everyone as, ’Granddad.’ Nobody knew of his son Garry and he said nothing. Steve loved children and there were always two and three in his flat eating sweets and biscuits. Days of the mafia style leader passed. Individuals became self sufficient and hard. Drugs were just items for the shopping list, used needles and stained silver paper an everyday sight in the elevators. Steve hated it but kept his nose