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  'You need some better stock.' Bruce pointed at a split-rear- windowed left-hand-drive Beetle. 'Not bloody German bombers.'

  'What can I do for you, Bruce?' There was a price to be paid for unleashing Gordy, they both knew that. Bruce didn't stray far from his normal South London patch of the Elephant and Casde, Wandsworth, Battersea, Camberwell and Peckham without good reason – unless it involved Bobby Tambling and Chelsea. He was here to collect.

  'Jags,' he said, peering inside the Ace. 'This one straight?'

  'Had a prang,' Tony admitted. 'Insurance write-off. Drives OK. Well, pulls to the left a little when you brake. Can't seem to sort that out.'

  'Chassis?'

  'Maybe. Have to put it back on the rig. Or sell it to some chinless wonder. I thought you used Yul for cars?'

  John 'Yul' Jones was a slap-headed chiseller whose only resemblance to his namesake, Mr Brynner, was the absence of hair. 'That bald cunt is currently chatting to Tommy Butler about a little job he pulled in Penge that he neglected to mention to me. So we might not see him for a while.'

  He said the policeman's name with a mix of disdain and admiration. The CID's Tommy Butler, who relished his nickname of 'the Grey Fox', had a way of getting confessions and convictions from even the tightest-lipped villains. And Yul's mouth was not that firmly zipped.

  'What kind of Jags?' Tony asked casually. 'And how many?'

  'The usual kind.' Nicked, he meant, and untraceable. 'Two.'

  Tony hesitated. He knew that to ask any more questions would pull him deeper into whatever scheme Bruce Reynolds had in mind – and not necessarily to his benefit. Like the futile escape Bruce had organised from the Gaynes Hall borstal, which had ended with them doing a jolt at the much harsher Wandsworth unit. This time around, he didn't want to end up having a 'chat' with Tommy Butler like Yul. But Bruce was right: he needed better stock. A bit of cash to inject into the cars would come in handy, plus there was that Jolson business to square. 'Anything special? The Jags, I mean.'

  'Well, perhaps. I'd like you to talk to my man about it. He's particular, he is.'

  Tony didn't like the sound of that. Some wheel-men were so superstitious they insisted on the same colour upholstery in their getaway vehicle each time, let alone whether the motor was booted with crossplys or radials. You could waste days trying to find or create exactly the right spec. 'Send him along.'

  Reynolds grimaced. 'Let's not do it here. What you doin' Saturday?'

  Tony shrugged. 'I was going to see Lawrence of Arabia.''

  'He's busy.' Bruce took off his glasses and polished them with a spotless handkerchief before replacing them. 'We'll go up to the Midlands and watch my driver race.'

  'Race? Who is it – Graham Hill?'

  They both laughed but then Reynolds looked serious. 'One day, he could be. Mark my words. His name is Roy James. Pick you up here at about nine?'

  As soon as he nodded, Tony Fortune knew that Bruce had snared him once again.

  Franny Reynolds was behind the counter of the antique shop when he walked in. She was playing 'Let's Twist Again' on the HMV record player, her eyes closed, lost in the swinging motion of the dance.

  Charlie Wilson stood and watched her for a while. It was a gaze of appreciation, rather than lust. She was married to one of his oldest friends; he had known Bruce since 1943, when they had shared an Anderson shelter. Bruce was the man who had once saved him from a chivving at the hands of a razor gang outside the Wimbledon Palais. Charlie had been all for taking them on, but Bruce reckoned that fourteen to one – he didn't count himself as a fighter – was not good odds, even for a little maniac like Charlie. Bruce, already tall for his age, had towered over Stevie Pyle, the leader, and talked them out of striping young Chas. Bruce had even ended up discussing Catcher in the Rye, The Naked Lunch and The Manchurian Candidate with one of the tearaways later, at the coffee stall on Battersea Bridge.

  It was why Charlie trusted Bruce, though: he didn't think like the rest of them. Charlie, Buster Edwards, another South London thief, and to some extent Gordon Goody ran on tram- tracks. You knew where you got on and got off with them. Bruce had a series of branch lines, which meant his mind went in different directions.

  Chubby Checker was nearing the end of his invitation to the dance when Charlie finally spoke, his voice an imitation of Bruce's lighter cockney accent. 'What do you think this is? The Scotch Club?'

  Franny nearly leaped out of her skin. Charlie began to laugh at her flustered fumbling with the arm of the record player. It made a loud scratching noise as the needle ripped across the grooves. She turned and faced him. 'Chas! You bastard!'

  Charlie smiled at her. She was lovely all right, even devoid of make-up as she was now. Bruce had once dated her older sister but it was Franny who had written to him while he was inside, sixteen-year-old Franny who was waiting, all grown up, when he got out. Today, in slacks and a stripy top, she could still pass for a schoolgirl.

  'You ought to get a bell on that door,' he told her. 'Anyone could sneak up on you.'

  'We don't get that many customers.'

  Charlie looked around the store. It was called Milestones and it was meant to be an antique shop, although most of it was tat. There were bentwood chairs piled high, a pair of old joannas, a couple of oak tables, bed headboards, a wall of wardrobes, chrome fireside sets made redundant by High Speed Gas, and canteens of cutlery in velvet-lined boxes. But nothing you might call an heirloom. It was hard to imagine anything in the shop being a Milestone in anyone's life. That wasn't the point; its job was to give Bruce a respectable front, like Charlie's work at the fruit and veg market or Gordy's hairdressing. 'Anything new in?'

  'This record player,' she said, sliding an LP of Nina Simone out of its sleeve and putting it on the turntable. That would be Bruce's influence, of course. He loved all that American jazzy stuff. She changed the speed with a flick of the dial. 'And some Clarice Cliff stuff Bruce is excited about.'

  'She a singer too?'

  Franny hesitated, unsure whether he was pulling her leg. 'Pottery. It's out the back if you want to see.'

  'Just in Time' came out of the HMV's speaker, the voice cool yet brittle, giving the song a slightly menacing edge.

  'Nah. Only making conversation,' Charlie said. 'Bruce about?' She shook her head. 'Know where he's gone?'

  'Didn't say.'

  Charlie put his hand in his pocket and brought out a handkerchief, which he placed on the counter. He flipped it open to reveal a ladies' timepiece. 'Put that in your display, will you, Franny? We'll go fifty-fifty on it.'

  Franny picked it up. It was a Cartier gold bracelet watch, probably from just after the war judging by the patina on it. It caught the light beautifully as she draped it over her wrist.

  'Where'd you get this?' she asked.

  'I know and you don't have to. Looks good on you, Fran.'

  She smiled at him. There were plenty of people frightened of Chas Wilson and those steely blue eyes of his. Bruce had taught her not to be. Charlie, he explained, had watched his father squander any money the family had, then had suffered the belt when the last of it had gone and his dad couldn't afford the pub. Charlie's aims in life were simple: never to be poor and scrabbling like his father, and never to let anyone get the upper hand, at least physically, ever again. Charlie had worked hard to earn his reputation, Bruce said, and now that rep did most of the work for him.

  'It's pretty,' she said. 'Classy, too.'

  Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh, as if he had just been browbeaten into a decision against his will. 'Oh go on, you can have it.'

  Her jaw dropped and she gave a little squeak. 'Charlie, I couldn't.'

  'I only got it in payment for a debt.' This was true. Although the man would be in deep shit once his wife found out how he had settled the loan. 'You must have a birthday coming up.'

  'Not for months.'

  'Early present, then.'

  'No. Bruce'll-'

  'I'll square it with Bruce. I'll tap
him for twenty sovs, so he'll know it was business.' She had already fastened the catch. 'Although seeing it on you gives me a certain amount of pleasure.'

  She looked flustered, not sure if he was flirting or not. It made her momentarily uncomfortable. 'Charlie…'

  'Rather than the fat cow who owned it, I mean. You couldn't see it in the folds of her flesh at all.'

  'What about Pat? Wouldn't she like it?'

  Charlie smiled. 'Pat's got enough tom to start her own shop.'

  Franny unclipped the bracelet and laid it down on the white cotton square once more. She admired it for a few moments. 'I'll ask Bruce before I wear it. Just in case.'

  'Very wise,' he said, with studied solemnity.

  Franny sighed. 'This all right, is it – this work he's doing with you? Whatever it is.'

  Charlie shrugged. 'Be fine.'

  'But you're worried about something, aren't you? Is that why you came to see him?'

  Very perceptive, he thought. She wasn't just a pretty, well- scrubbed face. 'Nothing serious. Just a little problem with one of the boys, is all. Tell Bruce I'll be at the Lambeth later.'

  'I will.' She scribbled a note to remind herself. 'And thanks for this.'

  'You're welcome. I like things to go to a good home.'

  He turned to leave and Franny asked: 'Charlie, how bad is the problem?'

  He smiled and his ice-blue eyes seemed to darken. Franny remembered some of the stories she had heard about Chas from his younger days and suppressed a shudder.

  'Nothing I can't take care of,' he said.

  They drove up the Ml in the Rover, with the lanky form of Gordon Goody behind the wheel. Bruce Reynolds had turned up dressed in flat-fronted checked trousers and a Lanvin sweater over a pastel Dare & Dolphin shirt, managing to make both Tony – in his Dunn's sheepskin, and Goody, in his trademark long black coat – look dowdy.

  The Rover's V8 happily pulled them to 90mph, effortlessly passing the Hillmans, A30s and Morris Minors plodding up the middle lane. The Rover had a Smith's Radiomobile that was audible even over the tyre noise the big car generated at close to the ton. Saturday Club was on, with Eden Kane, but Bruce switched to the Home Service.

  '"Forget Me Not", indeed,' he said, naming the singer's signature tune. 'Chance'd be a fine thing.' He swivelled round in the front seat. 'You seen that film Too Late Blues?'

  Tony said he hadn't.

  'Good movie. About a jazz man. Bobby Darin's in it and… that little fella, you know who I mean. Played Johnny Staccato on the box.'

  'John Cassavetes,' grunted Gordy.

  'Blimey,' said Bruce, looking across at the big man with a puzzled expression. 'When did you turn into Dilys Powell?'

  Gordy just grinned.

  'Anyway, that's who Roy reminds me of. He's not a big bloke, but intense. Committed. Know what I mean?'

  'Yeah.' Although Tony had no real idea what he was talking about.

  The Ml, touted as the Highway to Birmingham, actually fell short of the city, ending in Northamptonshire. Their speed dropped as they came off the motorway and hit the A road, and Tony settled down in the leather of the rear seat and nodded off, just as Bruce retuned to Eamonn Andrews and Sports Parade and began to fret about Chelsea's new season in the second division, hoping they could bounce back up. As an Arsenal fan, Tony was used to disappointing Saturdays, although it hadn't yet come down to the ignominy of relegation. But the Gunners had never been the same since Tom Whittaker died in 1956. Now there was a manager…

  'Oi, Tony – Sleepy Bollocks. We're here.'

  He pushed himself up the seat, unmussed his hair and rubbed his eyes clear. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Out for almost an hour. They were on a B road now, in a short queue behind an MGA, a Morris Oxford and one of the brand new Ford Cortinas, which Tony hadn't had a chance to drive yet.

  At the head of this line, a young lad in a duffel coat was collecting the five shillings entry and parking fee. Next to him was a large sign telling them they were about to enter War Department property. Then a board proclaiming that this was RAF Hemswell, home to No 97 (SM) Squadron. Someone had scrawled the letters CND across the sign and underneath Yanks Go Home. There was, indeed, a US flag fluttering over the gate, indicating that USAAF personnel were deployed on the base. Tony had done his miserable National Service in the RAF. He knew what all this meant.

  'I thought we were going to see a race?' he said.

  'We are,' Bruce replied.

  'What, an arms race?'

  Gordy edged forward in the line as the Cortina drove into the site and then turned to look at Tony. 'What you mean?'

  'Don't you two ever read the front of the papers? This is a bloody nuclear missile base.'

  Two

  Holland 's Gym, Elephant and Castle, South London, September 1962

  Charlie Wilson counted the repetitions as he crunched his biceps with the twenty-pound dumbbells. He'd been doing the same routine for six months now, and although he wasn't yet Steve Reeves, he could see the difference in his physique. It was harder, leaner. Old Man Levy had been forced to let out the chest of his latest suit jacket, and allow more material in the sleeves so Charlie could flex his arms. Now, when he walked into the Mayflower or Donovan's, he could feel the dip in the volume of the conversation as the mugs looked him over. He'd always had a reputation, usually backed up with blades or a revolver. Now he didn't feel he needed anything other than his bare hands to make his point. He was even fitter than when he'd fought bare-knuckle with the pikeys in Barnet, and he'd been bloody hard to put down then.

  Lately, he had built a fitness room in the shed at home in Clapham. His wife Pat joked he must be training for the

  Tokyo Olympics. He was training, that was true, but not for any athletics. With a new house, three kids and a wife, never mind the cars, clubs and the clothes to support, he needed more money than ever. That's what he was in training for.

  Although he had the home gym, it did him good to get out from under Pat's feet during the day and he liked Danny Holland's place. Danny had the best equipment, some of it Jack LaLanne from the States, as well as the standard punchbags and speedballs of boxing. Charlie relished the satisfying smack of leather on leather when they were used by a pro, loved the smell of liniment and sweat that was missing from his domestic set-up. But when he put down the dumbbells and wiped his face, all was quiet. There were no grunts, groans or thrown punches because there were no other clients. Danny had booked him an hour clear, all to himself.

  He heard the thud of footfall on the stairs. The heavier tread would be Ray Cauli, so-called because of the pair of misshapen ears bracketing his head that testified to a long but not very illustrious boxing career, sometimes in the ring but mostly in the field at the gash fights at Epsom and Epping Forest. The softer sound would be Derek, the lad Ray was 'escorting' to the meeting.

  Charlie stood up off the bench, put his foot on it, retied his Lonsdales and fetched himself a glass of water from the sink. At their meeting at the Lambeth Walk pub, Bruce had given him a free hand on this. It was Charlie who had brought the job to Bruce, but, as always, it was Bruce who had taken it and shaped it from crude concept to a workable plan. When, over pints of bitter, Charlie had told Bruce about Derek, however, he had deferred to him. 'Do what you think is appropriate,' Bruce had said. Just do it when I am not around was the second, unspoken part of the sentence.

  The two men entered the second-floor gym puffing and wheezing. Derek had on a shiny Levy Tonik mohair suit and Cecil Gee Italian suede shoes. They all did now. The first bit of money in their pockets, they copied the boss and went to Levy in Whitechapel for their first taste of Dormeuil. That was why, on Bruce's advice, Charlie had decided to take his custom from Levy to Dougie Millings on Old Compton Street, Soho. Dougie dressed pop stars like Billy Fury and Wee Willie Harris, making silly stage outfits, but he could also produce the genuine article. And Charlie wasn't going to shout about who made his stuff this time. Let them find their own bleedin'
tailors.

  'Charlie,' Derek squeaked when he had his breath back, nerves taking his voice up the octaves. 'Ray here said you wanted to see me.'

  Charlie rose to his full height. He had on a black Everlast vest and shorts. When he crossed his arms, he knew the biceps bulged impressively. He crossed his arms.

  'Nice to see you suited and booted. I approve. But a bit out of condition, aren't you, Derek? Too many Woodbines?'

  'No, I'm all right, Charlie. Straight up.' Derek had just turned twenty, making him a decade younger than Charlie, and he still had the pipe-cleaner thinness of a teenager. He was from that generation who were lucky enough to have just missed National Service. Or unlucky. Charlie had met some who claimed they had learned all they ever needed to know about thieving in the Army.

  Charlie slapped the wooden bench. 'Stamina, that's what you need. Lie down here. No, no, serious. Don't worry, you won't mess up your whistle. Here, let me take the jacket. Nice shirt. Turnbull and Asser? Oh, Woodall's. Nice, that is. 'Ere, lie down.'

  He threw the jacket across the room and it landed in a heap near the entrance.

  Ray Cauli stood and watched impassively as Charlie laid the youngster prone on the padded wooden bench. Derek had begun sweating, moisture glistening on his upper lip. 'What 'ave I done, Charlie?'

  'Nothing. Yet. But we'll sort you out. Ray, give us a hand, will you? Pass me that barbell and the weights.' He looked back down at a parchment-pale Derek. 'We'll work the chest first.'

  Between them Ray and Charlie made a pyramid of the various weights that could be slid onto the steel shaft of the barbell.

  'What's on it now?' Charlie asked himself. 'Sixty pounds. There you are. Take it. Go on, my son, take it. Arms straight. There we are. How's that feel?'

  Derek grunted.

  'I'll loosen your tie for you. There. How's that?'

  'Fine.'

  'Good. Now bend the arms and push it up again. Go on, like that. Let's do ten.' A tremor ran through Derek's arms as he lowered the bar to his chest then straightened them again. They all knew it wasn't the weight that was causing the shaking. 'Come on, nine to go.'