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  So they had put out enough hints that they were going to turn over cargo at Gatwick to keep the police's eyes looking the wrong way, enabling them to do the Comet House job. Had there been a sniff of new faces or a stake-out at Heathrow, Charlie would have pulled them. When they did the job they were 90 per cent certain the tosspots had bought the dummy. It made it doubly sweet: a successful blag and red faces at the Yard. Shame the boxes weren't full. Still, the shortfall in cash wasn't down to Degsy. He'd earned his little bung.

  As the young man reached for the cash, Charlie grabbed his scrawny wrist. 'And you aren't tempted by the reward?'

  Derek tried his hardest to look shocked at the very thought. His hand was shaking and he could feel the pulse. It reminded Charlie of a hamster's heart hammering away when you picked it up. 'No, Charlie. Never.'

  'Six grand?'

  With his free hand, Derek tapped his stack of newfound wealth. 'At least I'll live to spend this.'

  'That's right, my son,' Charlie agreed, releasing his grip. 'Go on, fuck off, see you in twelve months. Sure I'll have something for you then.'

  Derek wrapped the money with an elastic band, folded it into his inside pocket and left. Charlie was still sitting in the snug, drinking, when Len Haslam, sporting a face like a sack of hammers, and two uniforms came in to arrest him.

  Sixteen

  London, December 1962

  The steam in the sanatorium at the Savoy Baths on Jermyn Street was so thick, it was as if super-heated cumulus had fallen to earth and been manhandled into a cupboard. Through the swirling clouds, Bruce Reynolds couldn't tell whether there was anybody already in the room. He sat down on the hot, wet marble bench and waited while Buster made himself comfortable opposite. Neither spoke for a while, letting the vapour scour their lungs.

  Eventually, when they were sure they were alone, Buster spoke. 'Fuck, eh?'

  'Yeah. Fuck.' Bruce thought about the relatively poor haul. A few months' grace, that was all it would give him, before they would have to do it all again. 'On the bright side, it worked, didn't it?'

  Buster laughed. Bloody optimist, he thought. Bruce could be a regular Pollyanna. 'Yeah, it worked.'

  'Shows what can be done with a little planning. Good, tight teamwork.'

  'Yeah. True enough.' Buster took three deep breaths, feeling his airways burn and almost enjoying it. 'Didn't really do it for the camaraderie, Bruce.'

  'No?'

  'Nice though it is. A bit more cash wouldn't have gone amiss.'

  'Yeah.' Sweat began to trickle into his eyes, and Bruce leaned forward. The moisture gathered on his nose and dropped onto the floor with a loud plop. 'Any news on Roy and Mickey?'

  'Identity parades,' said Bruce. 'But they only pulled them because of who they are. You know that. Anyone drives a bit handily, there are only six names on the Squad's list. Roy and Mickey are at three and four. Might have even been promoted to one and two.'

  'You heard from Charlie?'

  'Nah.' Bruce wasn't worried. Charlie often went to earth after a job. 'Probably taken Pat off to Jersey.'

  Buster grunted. 'Been there once – never again. Full of stuck-up rich gits. Everyone seemed to be over sixty. Give me Brighton any day.'

  They sucked more hot air for a minute, lost in their thoughts. 'Where do you think you'll be when you're sixty, Buster?'

  Buster wiped his forehead. It was slippery with sweat. He was already looking forward to a cold shower. Bruce had a bit more stamina for this kind of thing than him. Man must have been a lobster in a former life. 'Parkhurst at this rate.'

  'You miserable cunt,' Bruce said affectionately. He didn't understand the gloom that could afflict Buster. It was a mystery. Buster hated the idea of prison and he suffered deep bouts of melancholy about it, even on the outside. 'It might never happen.'

  Bruce accepted pokey as part of the deal, the same way that life and death were intertwined; you couldn't have one without the certainty of the other. For him, his chosen path – the criminal way, some might call it – was a state of mind. It moved life to an intensity that was only rarely achievable in other ways. A film might do it, a few bars of Bill Evans, sex, of course, but nothing else sustained that feeling of being larger than life, beyond its quotidian dullness, like being in the midst of a great take-down. Quotidian. That wasn't a word you heard every day. He had read that in JP Donleavy. He'd had to look it up, but he liked it. The Quotidian Life. It was what they all kicked against, some harder than others. Like Dangerfield in Donleavy's novel, or Marlon Brando in The Wild One, which Bruce had seen in France, he wanted to live these few years on earth at full tilt, not succumb to an anaesthetised greyness.

  'And where will you be?' asked Buster, interrupting his thoughts.

  'Me? Saint Tropez. Acapulco. Watching Frank at The Sands in Vegas and flying over to see Terry Downes fight and Rod Laver play.' He leaned forward and tapped Buster's knee. 'You got to have ambition.'

  'My ambition is for Gordy to hurry up so I can get out of here.' Through a gap in the steam, Bruce could see Buster's pudgy face, red and glistening, with rivulets of sweat gathering at his chin. 'You thought about that other thing – for the next tickle?'

  'Tickle? More like a belly laugh, Buster.'

  'Is that a yes?'

  Bruce shook his head, even though he doubted Buster could see the gesture. 'I'd love to do the Bank of England,' he said, 'but come on.'

  Buster had been approached by an ex-messenger at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, who had given him details of the Watch. This was the system by which a rotating roster of staff members stayed the night at the Bank of England. Every employee gave up one night a month plus four weekends and a Bank Holiday a year. Each night at 6 p.m., every bank key – a hundred in all – had to be checked in and the bank secured. A convivial supper and rooms were provided. The odd guest was allowed in, but males only. The source had told them that the men-only rule was subtly undermined by smuggled mistresses in tuxedos or even kilts.

  'You got to be able to hide in a place that size,' said Buster. 'My bloke says there's a dozen hidey-holes that could avoid the Sweep.'

  At 10.45 each night patrols reported to the Bank's Security Control that every corner of the Old Lady had been swept and was free of stowaways intent on mischief.

  'And the Guards? Just our luck we'd get the fuckin' Gurkhas.' The various Guards regiments took it in turns to supply the military presence overnight at the bank; but the Gurkhas occasionally did a stint. Bruce could imagine being gutted by one of those little bastards with his kukri.

  'Who's being negative now?' Buster asked petulantly.

  And what, thought Bruce, was the jolt for trying to rob the Bank of England? Ten years? Fifteen? Christ, a hanging judge might go as high as twenty. For a man who was bird- averse, like Buster, it didn't bear thinking about. But banged up they would be, because there was no way on God's earth Prime Minister Macmillan and Co would let anyone get away with tickling the Old Lady. Only politicians got to rob the country blind.

  Bruce, not wanting to encourage his friend into despondency, said: 'You're right. Set up a meet with your man. It's worth dropping a bit of cash to see if he's on the level, if he can get us plans and the like.'

  'Will do.' Buster made a blowing sound, like a whale breaching. 'I've got to get out of here, Bruce.'

  Buster stood, just as the door opened, allowing steam to billow out into what suddenly seemed like an icy corridor. Standing there was Mannie, one of the attendants at the baths.

  'Mr Reynolds. Mr Edwards. Sorry to interrupt your steam but there're a couple of gentlemen here to see you. When you are ready, they said. And not to worry about Mr Goody, they said. They have dealt with him already.'

  A couple of gentlemen? Buster looked down at Bruce. 'Fuck.'

  'Yeah. Fuck.'

  'It doesn't look much like a villain's drum,' said Billy as he walked into Gordon Goody's neat, clean flat. There was G-Plan furniture, a Bush TV, Axminster carpets – none of that Cyril Lo
rd tat – a well-stocked drinks cabinet and a sideboard containing some fancy Wedgwood tableware. In the kitchen was a nice new stove and the biggest refrigerator Billy had ever seen, taller than him, but that was probably the flashiest item in the place. What kind of villain spends his ill-gotten gains on a fridge? he wondered.

  'That's because his mum lives here, too,' said Len. 'WPC Waring has taken her off to tea and Bingo.'

  Billy and Duke stood and watched as the mostly uniformed team went methodically through the place, unzipping cushions and carefully lifting carpets. Billy was impressed. On too many of the warrants he'd witnessed being served, the searching officers had acted like Desperate Dans. Big and oafish. These lads had finesse.

  'Nothing so far, guv,' said the DC from the local nick to Duke.

  'Fair enough. He's the careful sort, is Gordy. Why don't you go and get a cup of tea?'

  'Tea?' the DC asked, as if he never touched the filthy stuff. 'We've only the bedrooms and the loft to do.'

  'And I want them done properly. Not the sudden spurt at the end when everyone thinks it's time for a cuppa. Come back refreshed.' He pointed at Billy. 'We'll hold the fort till you get back.'

  The DC pointed down to the nylon sports bag Duke had brought along. 'Off to the gym?'

  'Oh aye. Judo. Couple of throws on the mat. Nothing like it at the end of the day.'

  The DC looked sceptical, but he waved his uniforms out.

  Duke took out a fiver. 'Get them a sandwich, too.' The DC hesitated before he took it.

  After they had left, Duke crossed to the cocktail cabinet and opened it. 'Bird's eye maple, this. Pricy. Oh, looky here. Nice drop of Laphroaig. Fancy some?'

  'Nah.'

  'Come on.' He examined the bottle. 'It's not like he's marked it. Bent bastard isn't going to miss two snifters. Probably swag anyway.' He splashed out a generous measure into each of two cut-glass tumblers. 'Secret with this is, a drop of water.'

  He returned from the kitchen beaming and handed Billy one of the glasses. 'Cheers.'

  Billy just gave a tight smile. He wasn't sure he felt like toasting with the guy who had dropped him in this particular pile of shit. He sipped his drink, his eyes watering at the rich, peaty aroma released by the few drops of water.

  Duke grabbed an arm, steered him over to the sofa and pushed him down. He stood over him, a lopsided grin slapped onto his face. Billy felt an urge to punch it. 'Now look, Billy boy, I know you are pissed off. Black mark and everything. But just imagine if that little shit's tip-off hadn't been moody. The power and the fuckin' glory you would have got. Would you be sharin' that with me now? Would you fuck. But listen, old Millen is sayin' to George Hatherill, "Well, he's a new boy. Happens to us all. Give him some slack." More than they would for me. "Cocky cunt," they'd have said about me; "should have seen it comin'. Should have smelled it".' He sniffed his drink to emphasise the point and the grin returned. 'But all that could be water under the bridge if we make this stick on someone. That's all they care about. Arrests have been made – that's good. But what have we got so far?'

  'A couple of IDs.' 'Right.'

  'And the bolt-cutters.'

  'Also correct. We have a man who fits Gordon Goody's description down to a T buying a massive pair of bolt-cutters. Now, Gordy will claim they were for home dentistry. And by the time we come to court, the hardware bloke will have changed his mind.'

  'What makes you say that?'

  'Oh, I'd put a few bob on it. He'll get a visit from the chaps. Then he'll contract terminal amnesia. I know the type. He just wants to go back to his brown coat and his pound of nails. Not all of them will roll over, mind. But for Gordy… we need more than his word against a witness.'

  'Such as?'

  'Such as you going to take a peek under the bed?'

  'He doesn't seem like the kind of man to put his loot under the mattress.'

  'You'd be surprised. Go and have a butcher's.'

  Curious, Billy went to the bedroom, got down on his hands and knees onto the soft cream carpet and peered at the space under the bed. Empty. Not so much as a dust ball. He got up and went back out, bored with Duke's games.

  'There's nothing th-'

  The bowler hat came flying across the room at him, spinning almost at face level. Billy reached up to pluck it from the air and felt his fingers pushed back and a stab of pain in his wrist. 'Ow. Shit.'

  The hat made a dull thump as it hit the carpet.

  'There will be if you slide that under.'

  It was one of the steel bowlers recovered from the scene. No prints, no indication who made them. Useless. 'Why?'

  'I checked,' said Duke. 'Seven and three-eighths, give or take. Have a look at the trilby in the hall. Same size.'

  Billy felt his stomach shrink when he realised what the DS was suggesting. 'Duke-'

  'You know and I know that Gordon Goody is right for this. All we have to do is convince a jury of that. He bought the cutters three miles from the airport and he has previous. Oh, and guess where his neighbour used to work?'

  He knew – the bloke had been a janitor at Comet House, but the neighbour had insisted it was mere coincidence.

  'Circumstantial.'

  Billy's face darkened. 'So is your career in the Squad at this moment. The hat puts him at the scene. The hat saves your skinny arse. Because we get a result and it isn't a fuckin' fiasco. You live to fight another day.' He finished his whisky. 'Up to you, son. No, really. I can put it back in the bag here and have it returned to the shelf where it will lie gathering dust because it is of no use to us. Or we can make it count.'

  Billy's mouth went dry and he was worried that, if he spoke, his voice would betray the tears he felt welling up inside. It wasn't the way he wanted to catch crooks, not what he envisioned at all. Oh, he knew it went on, the verbalising, the fit-up, but not him, he had always thought. Not Billy Naughton.

  Against that, he had to stack the cloud he felt oppressing him every day, the looks and the mumbles in the Squad room. The new dread of showing his face at work at all. A work he loved. Perhaps Duke was right. It was better to live and fight another day. He left the room to find a spot under the bed where the local DS would discover the steel bowler.

  Tony Fortune didn't like the atmosphere in the flat when he got home that evening. Marie had come back early from work at the bank and had made shepherd's pie. But she wouldn't catch Tony's eye as she laid the table. He opened the cupboard to fetch the sauce and found himself staring at a dozen bottles of HP.

  'We'll be all right for sauce when the bomb drops then,' he said.

  'They were on special offer. Just the peas to do. Want a beer?'

  'All right.' He sat and flicked through the Evening News, to see if there was any more on the Heathrow job. He also wondered if Shaw Taylor's appeal had generated any leads. He hadn't had the Jags for long and had worked on them well away from Warren Street. Everyone involved had been paid handsomely, so there was nobody disgruntled. But there was the reward, that insidious cancer which might eat away at the cash-strapped. Tony determined to do a quick ring around, make sure everyone was sound.

  Marie opened a brown ale for him, and then delivered the bowl of peas and the pie to the table. He sat up and stared across at her as she ladled out the food. She gave a thin smile. She looked tired, her brown hair needed a wash and she still had on one of those cheap synthetic drip-dry blouses she wore to work. Still, he felt a sudden burst of affection, possibly tinged with lust, for her. He didn't speak until he had tasted the pie and nodded his approval. 'Lovely. You all right?'

  She pushed the hair away from her face. 'Yes, love. Except… well, you know I had those pains the last couple of weeks?'

  Tony recalled something about stomach cramps and ulcers, but he had been too distracted by his own concerns to pay much attention. 'Of course.'

  'I went to the doctor, Tony.'

  He felt a stab of nervousness. His mother had died of some female cancer. Cervical, that was it. He put down his knife an
d fork and gave her his full attention. 'And what did he say?'

  'He says we're going to need a bigger flat.'

  She burst into tears, and it was a good few seconds before he made the connection. The realisation hit him like a sack of wet sand. He was going to be a father.

  Seventeen

  Cannon Row police station, December 1962

  The young copper popped his head into the interview room. 'Be ready for you in about fifteen minutes, Mr Reynolds.' The lad nodded towards the empty mug on the table. 'Need a top-up?'

  'No, thanks,' said Bruce. 'Tell you what though, wouldn't mind a paper. News or Standard. Might put a bet on later.' He tossed a shilling over.

  The uniform frowned as he caught the coin. For a few seconds Bruce thought he had been rumbled. He was just about to give an it-was-worth-a-punt smile when the youngster said, I’ll see what I can do.'

  'I'd appreciate it.'

  The door closed and he heard the bolt slide home with a clang that echoed around the bare, stuffy room. They were fishing. No, they were trawling, pulling in every one of the chaps they could. Roy James had warned him that humiliating the Flying Squad by selling them a dummy was not a good idea, that wounded pride made the detectives dangerous and reckless, much more likely to fit up whoever they fancied for the job. But Charlie especially had thought it too good an opportunity to miss, sending the coppers down to Gatwick while the firm did Heathrow. Priceless.

  As Roy had predicted, they did react in the fevered way they had whenever a policeman got shot. And in their Old- Bill-in-a-China-Shop routine they had scooped up Bruce, Charlie, Gordy, Roy and Mickey.

  Bruce had no idea what they had on him and acted as if there was nothing to be had. He was merely helping police with their enquiries. He hadn't even contacted a solicitor. Best be nonchalant, as if he really was giving every assistance, as if he was certain of his own innocence.