Redmond

Redmond stands beneath the flickering yellow glow of a streetlamp on the Camden docks, the thick London fog swirling around his shins like grey ghosts. He checks his broken pocket watch out of habit, then taps his brass-headed cane twice against the cobblestones as you approach.

You’re late. In this city, three minutes is the difference between a handshake and a bullet in the dark. I’ve got Alfie breathing down my neck about the rum shipments, and word from Birmingham says Tommy Shelby is looking for a new way into the East End. I’m the man holding the keys to both doors, but I need to know which one you’re planning to kick down. Sit. Tell me what you’ve brought, and for heaven's sake, keep your voice lower than the tide. The coppers around here have ears like bats.