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  'Fair enough. But I might be in a position to help you out in a couple of months.'

  'A couple of months? That long? Must be a big one, eh?'

  'Just being careful. You know how it is. I don't think Franny wants to see me across a metal table again.'

  He could see curiosity in Ronnie's eyes, the conflict of a man who wants to know more but is scared to ask. It would be like describing a gourmet feast to a starving man, so Bruce just said, 'Another?'

  When he returned with the refills, Bruce asked: 'You OK for the moment though?'

  'Scrabbling a bit. Working for this old geezer. Hasn't got a lot of money. House is in a right state. He pays me half in cash and half in bloody kind at the yards. Actually, you should bring your Nick down. Both the boys could have a go. The two Nicks.'

  Like Bruce, Ronnie had called his son after Nick Adams, the Hemingway character. A love of Papa was something else, along with the jazz, which they shared. Hemingway, Miles, Brubeck, Orwell, Jamal, Fitzgerald, Mingus, Cheever, Dexter, Capote – it was their common language.

  'Have a go at what?' Bruce asked.

  'Driving the train.'

  Bruce slopped a mouthful of beer onto his slacks. 'Shit.' He took out his handkerchief and blotted the mark on his thigh. 'What train?'

  'That Stan Peters I was talking about – the bloke whose bungalow I'm doing up. Well, he's getting on a bit so he only- does some of the shunting once or twice a week now. But he takes Nick along on the footplate sometimes. Lets him do the horn, everything.'

  Bruce couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. 'Footplate?'

  Ronnie was puzzled and slightly alarmed at how Bruce's demeanour had suddenly changed. His body had become taut, as if he'd received an electric shock, his eyes were bulging and a pulse was throbbing visibly in his temple.

  'So this… Stan,' Bruce asked, leaning forward, the pressure in his chest meaning he could only take shallow breaths. 'He's what, exactly?'

  'I told you. A train driver.'

  Thirty-five

  Cornwall, June 1963

  The headless corpse had been transported to Truro and examined there by the local Home Office pathologist. In fact, as Billy Naughton discovered, it wasn't just headless, there was precious little of the rest of it left on the slab of the overlit mortuary. The internal organs had mostly disappeared as well as one arm, and the remaining limbs looked like sections of a barrage balloon, all bloated and blue.

  It was so far from being the body of a young woman that Billy found he was almost able to distance himself from it as having once been human. He could look upon the remains dispassionately, as if it really were just flotsam, albeit of organic origin. Only the rich chemical brew that infused the room's atmosphere made him feel nauseous.

  Norman Carter, the pathologist, was wearing a double- breasted suit with a hospital gown thrown carelessly over it, as if he had rushed in from lunch.

  'Well, of course, if we had got it when it was first spotted, we might have had more luck,' said Carter, who had travelled from Bristol for a second time to go over his findings and was clearly none too pleased with having to venture so far from home again. 'As it is, the saltwater immersion has ruined the fingerprints. There is, of course, no face.'

  'What do you mean, if you had got it when it was first spotted?' asked Hatherill. They had only arrived the night before and were billeted in a pub near the beach where the body had been washed up. He had read through the preliminary reports on the finding, but none had mentioned a delay in contacting the authorities.

  'You don't know the background?' asked Carter, looking over his half-moon spectacles.

  Hatherill ignored the slight sneer in Carter's voice. 'I thought we had better see our victim first, and get your reaction. I've read the report of PC Trellick who found her.'

  'The bobby might have found her, but she was seen on that beach a good week before – when she still had two arms and, I'll wager, all her internal organs.'

  'Bloody hell,' said Billy. 'So why wasn't she brought here then?'

  'Good question, lad. She lay on that beach for eight days.'

  'Where is the head?' asked Billy.

  The pathologist shrugged. 'Missing in action. As I said in my notes, there appear to be saw-marks on the cervical vertebrae that remain.'

  'Saw-marks?' Hatherill asked. 'You sure?'

  'Well, there are striations. You want to take a look?'

  Hatherill stepped forward and Carter swung a magnifying lens over the stump of the neck. Billy held back, not wanting to see the gore in any greater detail. Hatherill made grunting noises.

  'Sir, isn't it an offence not to report a dead body?'

  Carter looked up at him with pity in his eyes. 'Have you been to Cornwall before, son?'

  'No.'

  He gave a wan smile. 'You'll learn.'

  Hatherill clapped his hands together. 'Right. Can you try and get us some dabs?'

  'Off this?'

  Hatherill gave a flattering smile. 'Well, you pathologists have your methods, I know.'

  Carter thought for a few moments, stroking his chin as he did so. 'I could dissolve away some of the tissue on the fingertips, see if I can get an impression of the underlying ridges then – if you don't mind me removing the hands and taking them back to Bristol.'

  'I don't, and I think she is past caring. Don't you, Detective?'

  'Sir,' Billy agreed.

  'And palm prints?' Hatherill asked.

  Carter tossed one of the hands back and forth, like a flipper. 'They might be easier to obtain, yes.'

  The Old Man turned to Billy. 'People forget palm prints. They're just as distinctive though, as any fingerprints. So, DC Naughton, any thoughts?'

  Billy felt himself blush as the two older men stared at him. I wish I were back in London, he thought. Even turning over queers in public toilets is better than this. But that wouldn't do as an answer.

  'That the head was sawn off to prevent identification.'

  'Then why not the hands?'

  'Because… well, if the woman had no criminal record, the murdered would know we wouldn't have anything on file.'

  Hatherill shook his head. 'But once we have a list of missing women in the area we could dust those houses. The murderer, if there were one, wouldn't know how long the corpse would be immersed, would he? If it is a he.'

  Billy tried to think of something pertinent to say, but nothing came.

  'Let's get the list of everyone who might have seen the body during the week it was there. Dog-walkers, beachcombers, fishermen, holidaymakers. We'll interview them all, reinterview if they have already been done.' Hatherill took out his cigarette case and placed a Senior Service in his mouth. He was enjoying himself. 'Then I want you to phone the Met in London.'

  Billy assumed he meant Scotland Yard. 'We need more men?'

  'Not the Metropolitan Police, the Meteorological Office. We are at the seaside, remember. I want a weather forecast.'

  It had been raining persistently for two days until that morning and the sky was still a flat pewter colour, threatening more of the same. Clapham Common was greasy underfoot, the grass beaten into submission and dotted with muddy patches the size of small ponds. Bruce Reynolds was concerned. He knew how competitive some of these men could be. He imagined Charlie going for Jimmy, or Buster taking on Gordy and it all ending in grief.

  'I want you to think about what you are doing.' Bruce tapped his temple forcefully with his right index finger. 'Think why we are here. We don't need any broken legs now, do we?' he warned them as they gathered on the edge of the pitch. 'It's not Yugoslavia versus Russia. And I don't want any Mujics. Got it?'

  Tito's lads and Khrushchev's boys had faced up to each other in Group One of the previous year's World Cup in

  Chile. It had been a scrappy match in all senses of the word, with on-pitch fighting and a broken leg sustained by Dubinski thanks to a heavy-footed tackle. The photo of the Russian's agony flashed around the world; Mujic was sent hom
e in disgrace.

  Bruce looked at the group of men gathered for a kick- about. Some, like Roy, had gone to town with their kit. He looked like a pocket-sized Roy of the Rovers. Buster, on the other hand, in his long black gym shorts and vest, looked more like Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track. Most were somewhere in between.

  'Right, let's get the important bit over first. Gordy, pick your men. I'll have Roy and Tony.'

  'Oh no, you don't,' said Gordy. 'Two fast wingers, I bet. You can have one of them.'

  In the end, it was Bruce, Roy, Buster, Jimmy White and Charlie to take on Gordy, Tony, Ralph – a friend of Bruce's who would help with the signals if need be – Tommy and Roger. Brian Field, the solicitor, opted to stay on the sidelines. 'I'll peel the oranges at half-time,' he said with his cheeky grin.

  'You can buy the pints at fall-time,' said Buster, pointing towards the Plough.

  'Before we get started,' said Bruce, looking at Roger. 'I may have solved the problem of moving the train.' He suddenly had their complete attention, and felt like Alf Ramsey giving a pep talk. 'Ronnie Biggs knows a driver.'

  'Will he let us at him?' Roy asked.

  'No. It's his shout. I said I'd bring Ronnie in.'

  Buster gave a loud sniff. 'None of us have worked with him. Not really.'

  'I told you. He's reliable.' said Bruce, with feeling. He'd seen Ronnie beaten by screws till his testicles were like purple rugby balls, and he hadn't given an inch. 'He's keen.' The truth was, once Ronnie had realised the scale of the job, all his concerns about upsetting Charmian went out of the window. She wouldn't be miffed when she saw a heap of fivers on the bed. When he and Franny had left, Biggsy had given him a clear message. No Ronnie, No Stan the Engine Driver.

  'He can be very useful,' Bruce went on. 'Ronnie's a big strong lad. Once we get the train to that bridge, we are going to need to get the bags down to the lorries.'

  'Lorries?' asked Roy, dismay in his voice.

  'I'll come to that,' said Bruce. 'And besides, Tony has worked with him before, haven't you?'

  All eyes turned on Tony, but Tony examined Bruce's face. He had never even met Ronnie Biggs, let alone worked with him. 'Yeah. He's all right.'

  'I can drive the bleedin' train,' said Roy, with a hint of petulance.

  'What? You bought a Hornby Dublo?'

  Roy glared at Buster. He had bought a train set, but hadn't told anyone about it yet. Besides, it was a Triang. 'No, I haven't got a bloody Hornby, but I've got the Railwayman's Handbook. Looks easy enough. I drive a racing car – how hard can a train be?'

  Bruce flicked from face to face, gauging the mood.

  'It would be nicer to keep it tight,' said Gordy. 'And not bring in too many outsiders.'

  Bruce knew that wasn't going to be an option. On paper he had worked out they needed eighteen people to do this; sixteen at a stretch. They were still short. 'Well, we'll see if you can,' Bruce said to Roy.

  'How do you mean?' asked the wheel-man.

  'We'll go and find a train to drive. You lot have been doing the yards. You must know ways in.'

  Several of them nodded. 'Security's piss poor,' added Gordy. 'Pair of overalls, you can walk right in and out, no questions asked.'

  'And we've found the mail train,' said Buster with a grin, unable to keep the news to himself. 'Up near Wembley, in the sidings. As your man said, the HVP is not connected to the rest of the train by a door or corridor. It's self- contained.'

  'Good. But I'll need to take a look for myself,' said Bruce. All they had to do then was figure out how to unhook it from the body of the train. But, as Roy would say, how hard could that be? Stan would know. If they brought Stan and Ronnie in, that is. 'And then we can let Roy play choo-choos.'

  'Fuck that. Are we going to play football or what? It's going to rain soon.' It was Charlie who, as usual, had been listening without saying much. 'I paid two guineas for these.' He pointed down at his shiny new Puma Pele Signature boots.

  Bruce picked up the ball. 'You're right. That's enough villainy for now. Twenty minutes, then half-time, another chat about the transportation we'll need, and change ends. OK? Right – my lads over here. I want to give you a proper talk without those dirty bastards overhearing.'

  When Tony Fortune walked up the stairs to the flat, he was fully expecting a bollocking. Although he had changed after football – 4-2 to Gordy's team – his face was still mud-streaked and he smelled of sweat and beer. There had been two pints in the Plough and then most of them had adjourned to Bobby Welch's place in Camberwell for an after-hours session. Charlie, Bruce and Buster were still there. Tony, his head swimming with alcohol on an empty stomach, had headed back, no doubt to a ruined, cremated lunch.

  'Marie,' he shouted as he came in, his nostrils twitching. Lamb. And it wasn't burned.

  'In here, luv.'

  His wife was in the lounge, watching television. 'Sooty?' he asked as he walked in, dumping his kit, just in time to see Harry Corbett get a squirt of water in his eye.

  'Just waiting for Oliver Twist to come on.' She struggled to her feet, her belly weighing on her now.

  'Sit down. Sorry I'm late.'

  'Knew you would be. Didn't put dinner on till late. Be ready about six.'

  'Lovely.'

  'Shall I run you a bath?'

  Even in his slightly befuddled state, Tony sensed something was up. A campaign was under way. 'What is it?'

  'What's what?'

  'Whatever it is that you have to tell me.'

  She smiled at him, showing too much gum. 'Oh nothing, Tony. It'll wait. I'll run you a nice hot bath. There's a pale ale in the kitchen, if you fancy.'

  He didn't really want the beer, but he dutifully sat in a soapy bath cradling it, going over what had happened that day. Although things had developed in fits and starts, some kind of shape was taking place to the tickle. Jimmy White was quartermaster, to source any gear needed for what Bruce was calling 'the mission'. Roy was, perhaps, to drive the train. Brian was to explore the possibility of establishing a base near the spot where the train was to be stopped, but not too near. Charlie and Gordy were to come up with ways to move more than a dozen men around without attracting attention. Roger was to go back and check the timings of the TPO mail trains and that the signals would present no unforeseen problems. And Bruce? Bruce was going to pull it all together.

  'More hot water?'

  His wife came in and turned on the Ascot, which ignited like one of the Americans' space rockets, spitting steam before a thin stream of scalding water came out.

  She sat on the edge of the bath as it roared away. 'I have been thinking, Tony.'

  Here we go.

  'I've been thinking we should move. I know we were joking about the doctor saying we need a bigger place, for the baby. But it's true. A garden would be nice, wouldn't it?'

  Well, he couldn't say he hadn't seen that one coming. She had been talking about a nursery for the boy or girl, been collecting colour cards from Woolworths. 'Y'know, when business picks up…' he began.

  'Thing is, my sister Alice has heard about this place for sale.'

  'For sale?' He sat up, sending water slopping over the rolltop, and switched off the Ascot. 'I can't afford to buy anywhere.'

  'You could get a mortgage.'

  'Not once they have seen the books. It's been a bad six months.'

  Her voice hardened. 'Oh, I'll tell the baby that, shall I? "Sorry we are living in a shit-hole with a gas heater that might kill us all one day and one bedroom with a nasty patch of damp in the corner. Been a bad six months, see".' Her long- lost Irish accent always surfaced when she was angry. He saw her touch the bump and grimace slightly.

  Tony blew out his cheeks and slumped back, sliding down until the water was up to his chin.

  'I'm trying. Trying to make it right.'

  She leaned forward, so her face was level with his. 'I know you are. I'm not daft. I know you have something in the works, something I am not to know about. Since when did you play foo
tball? On a Sunday? And go drinking with the lads?'

  'It's all right. I'll knock it on the head. There're dozens of blokes who would kill for a sniff of this.'

  She swirled her hand in the water. 'Don't be too hasty.'

  'What?'

  'I said, don't be too hasty. About knocking it on the head.'

  'What about all that "I don't want my baby growing up with his father in pokey" stuff.'

  'Well I don't, it's true. But maybe he won't. Maybe it's something worth taking a chance on.' She flicked some suds at his face. 'Is it?'

  Tony suspected a trap. She was waiting for an admission of guilt, and then she would bring the house down around his ears. He kept quiet.

  'Come on, I'm your wife. Shouldn't this be a joint decision?'

  All he offered was a shrug.

  'Look, this place, it's nothing too grand. Off the Holloway Road, not far from Alice. But she'll be able to help with the baby, and the landlord is willing to rent it for six months till we have enough of a deposit saved…'

  'You've seen it?' he asked.

  'Yes. You know those nice roads, on the left as you go down towards the cinema?'

  He did. They were expensive, for that area at least. Neat

  Victorian terraces with, as she said, gardens, albeit small ones. 'So who's keeping secrets now?'

  'I was just waiting for the right time to bring it up, Tony. Just like you were waiting for the right time to tell me.' Her hands plunged into the water and he felt her grip his testicles and give a light squeeze. 'It's something big, isn't it?'

  She was smiling, but even so, he slapped her arm away. 'Yes. Yes, it is.'

  'Good.' She stood up and brushed the suds from herself. 'Dinner's almost ready. You can tell me all about it over a nice Sunday lunch.'

  Fuck a very large duck, thought Tony. Wonders would never cease. 'Tell the wives nothing,' Bruce had advised. Easy for you to say, Tony thought. You don't have one like Marie.

  Thirty-six

  Cornwall, June 1963