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  'Charlie Delta Three? This is Control. Come in, Charlie Delta Three.'

  'Clear though school, Control. Charlie Delta Three left onto Stanley Lane, by the gasworks. He's on the wrong side

  of the road! He's swerving back over. That was close. No, he's clipped a lorry. All over the shop now. Steam. No, smoke. Smoke. He's got a puncture! He's slowing!'

  'Control again. Reminder that suspects may be armed and dangerous, Charlie Delta Three.'

  'Roger that. We are pulling over outside Marlowe House. They're getting out!'

  'This is Tango Bravo Two. I have suspect Jaguar in sight, ready to assist Charlie Delta Three. Have DS Edward Boyle, an authorised firearms officer, on board.'

  'Right. Charlie Delta Tango leaving vehicle to continue pursuit on foot. Fuckin' move it!'

  'Charlie Delta Three. Please observe on-air protocol. Over.'

  Forty-three

  London, 7 August 1963

  The sabotaging of the Mk. 2 HVP armoured carriages presented little difficulty. Tiny Dave and Tony both wore overalls and carried toolkits, and nobody questioned their right to be moving among the coaches in the middle of the day. In fact, it would have been a brave man who questioned Tiny about anything, given his size and the scowl on his face, which suggested he had been sent to perform some horrible task and was not happy about it. Tony had slid under the gleaming HVP while Tiny Dave kept a lookout.

  With new, clean fittings still uncontaminated by dirt and grit, it was a simple matter to undo the nuts, free the pipes and stuff a mixture of Swarfega and iron filings into each pipe. Stan assured them it would play havoc with the vacuum, and the Post Office would switch to an older coach. Engineers would then take a day or so to come from BR or the GPO to see what was up with their new babies.

  Still, by the time he climbed from under the carriage and headed back to the Morris Oxford with Tiny Dave, Tony's

  face was streaked with grease and his hair felt like wire wool. He needed a shower.

  As they drove away, he let out a sigh. 'Dave, do you mind if we swing by my place? We got plenty of time.' 'Where's that then?'

  He gave him the address and Dave frowned. ' Holloway Road? Bit out of the way.'

  'Nothing happens at the farm for another eight hours. Come on, Dave. The wife's about to drop one.'

  'Yeah?' Dave looked sideways at him, to see if he was having him on. 'What's this job then? A christening present?' 'Something like that.' 'All right.'

  'And I've got some brown sauce. The missus developed a bit of a thing for it for a few weeks. Bought loads of bottles. Now she can't even stand the smell of it.'

  'My Jackie was the same with the boy. Marmite it was with her. Makes her gag now.'

  They slid into the traffic, heading for his new house. It was a warm day, London finally bathed in full August sunshine, and Tony wound his window down. 'What will you do after this, Dave?' 'Bangkok.'

  'Bangkok?' Tony asked, not sure where it was. 'I was in the Army in Malaya for a bit. Shootin' Commies. Went to Bangkok. Man, what a place.' 'You'll take Jackie?'

  Dave looked at him as if he had just let one rip. 'Fuck off. Few months in Bangkok, on me tod, then I'll move to Hong Kong and send for her and the kids.' 'You kill any?' 'What?'

  'Commies.'

  'Fuck, yes. Shed-loads. That's one thing I don't understand about Bruce. Why we can't have guns. He's a funny fucker.'

  'I don't think the GPO will agree after tonight.'

  Reminded of what was at stake, Dave lapsed into silence, his meaty hands on the wheel, the car threading through London towards Tony's new place.

  It was close to five by the time they arrived at the house. Tony slid out of the car, closed the door and put his head through the open window. 'Want to come in? Cup of tea?'

  'Don't want to break up a nice domestic scene,' he said. 'I'll have a fag.'

  'Won't be long. Get out of these overalls, grab the sauce, kiss the missus and be out.'

  'Take your time.' Dave pointed down the road to the corner shop on Holloway Road. 'I'll get a paper.'

  Tony took the five steps up to his house in one jump, wondering how it was going to be carrying a pram up and down. Maybe they should have gone for something without a raised porch. Like he'd had much say in it.

  He put his key in the lock, stepped in and at once smelled strangers. Cigarette smoke, whisky and something stale wafted down the hallway.

  'Marie?'

  'Tony? That you?' The voice from the lounge was querulous.

  Tony walked in. Marie was on the settee. Two men were sat in the armchairs. On the coffee table in between them were teacups and biscuits. He recognised the man on the left. It was the detective who had come with the Stolen Car Squad to the garage.

  Marie pushed herself up to her feet, the strain making her face flush. 'Oh, Tony.'

  'What is it?' he demanded of the two policemen.

  But it was Marie who answered. 'It's Geoff. The silly bugger went and did a smash and grab.'

  'Geoff?' Tony asked, not sure he was hearing correctly. 'Your brother?'

  There was a strange noise and for a moment Tony thought a tap had been left running. Then Marie groaned with a mixture of shock and embarrassment as the carpet beneath her feet darkened. Her waters had broken.

  Assistant GPO Inspector Thomas Kett walked along the platform at Glasgow station, watching the final preparations for the TPO's departure. It was his job to make sure the sorting ran smoothly during the journey, that each of the sixty-seven sorters in the ten regular coaches knew what had to be done. Each coach had its own supervisor, the majority old hands, so he had no concerns. The mail would get through to London and the south-east, as it did almost every night of the year, barring snowstorms and Christmas.

  He reached the HVP, where British Transport Police and the GPO Inspectors were overseeing the loading of the last of the bright-red High Value mailbags containing cash. 'How many, Frank?' he asked.

  Frank Dewhurst, Postman (Higher Grade) and in charge of the HVP carriage, consulted his clipboard. 'Ninety-two here. Another twenty or thirty to be picked up on the way down south. Bloody cage is going to be bursting. When do we get the new buggers back?'

  The new coaches were fitted with much larger secure lock- able areas, so the HVPs weren't crammed in like passengers on a rush-hour Tube. 'I dunno, few days at least, so they reckon.'

  Thomas grumbled. The older HVP was draughty and noisy, as well as scuffed and threadbare after years of continuous service. Some of the pigeonholes were disintegrating, too, so if you weren't careful you ended the shift with a handful of splinters. The new ones had high-density plastic sorting trays. They had been given a teaser of what a modern coach could be like – decent kitchen, comfy seats – and a couple had run with a different crew the previous night and now they were told they were withdrawn. 'Who's with you in there?' Thomas asked.

  'Just Les.'

  Leslie Penn, a good lad, but still learning the ropes. 'What, just the two of you? To do all the sorting?'

  'We'll pick up Joe Ware and Johnny O'Connor down the way.'

  'Where?'

  ' Tamworth.'

  'Bloody hell, Tom, that's almost the end of the line.'

  Frank Dewhurst made a show of pushing up his sleeves, secretly pleased at having something to do other than walking up and down between the other coaches during the journey. He reached for the grab rail and hauled himself aboard the HVP. It smelled of old wood, leather, glue, string and brown paper. It was a kind of homely mix, Frank thought. 'If you don't mind, I'll lend a hand. Put the kettle on, Les.'

  Frank looked at his watch and leaned back out the door, shouting up the platform to the driver climbing into the cab of the beefy English Electric diesel loco. 'Let's get this bloody thing moving. There's our mail to deliver!'

  The driver, Jack Mills, a veteran of these night runs, smiled, let go with his left hand and flashed a not unfriendly V-sign. There was always banter between BR and the GPO. 'Hold

  yo
ur horses. It might be your train, mate,' he yelled, 'but it's my effin' engine that has to pull it.'

  'I counted ninety-two sacks into the HVP, although that is likely to be added to. Second carnage as always. And one of the older types. How much? I don't like to speculate. Over one million, clear. Maybe one and a half. Will that do you? I thought so. Right, that's me out of here. I'll tell Brian where he can leave my whack and Mark's as well. Plus drinks for the lads up here. The ones who fixed the coaches. No, I'll stay away from Glasgow. Mark will collect his down there. I'm coming south, too. Just in case Glasgow gets too hot for me. They are bound to know someone tipped you the wink. Right, there she goes, out of the station. A minute early, too. Over to you boys. And by the way, good luck. It's your train, now.'

  Forty-four

  Leatherslade Farm, near Oakley, Bucks, 7 August 1963

  Bruce couldn't make sense of what he was hearing. While he thought, he scratched the skin beneath his gloves. It had been an oppressively warm day in the farmhouse. With the curtains drawn and no open windows, the temperature had climbed. It was early evening and most of the men had stripped down to vests or singlets. Gloves were still on, but they were becoming increasingly irritating. Still, Bruce didn't relent, bawling at anyone who so much as took them off to get some air to hot, sweaty palms.

  Slowly, Bruce repeated what he had been told. 'So Tony went in for a cup of tea. You went back to his house? For a fuckin' cup of tea?'

  The disapproval hit Tiny Dave like a slap across the face. Bruce made it clear he thought they should have driven straight back. 'And to get the sauce for Bobby.'

  'Oh well, yes, the sauce. What's more important than brown

  sauce? So you stop outside and then Tony comes with two coppers?'

  'And his missus. Holding her belly.'

  'They got into squad cars?'

  'Yup. But I reckon they was going to the hospital.'

  'The Flying Squad do a lot of things,' said Charlie quietly, 'but they don't deliver babies. That's a different 999.'

  'Could be they were after Tony for something else. This, maybe,' offered Roger.

  'Not likely,' said Bruce, sensing a flash of the jitters from the signalman. 'Or we'd all be in it.'

  'Tony's solid,' said Roy. 'You know that.'

  'He'd better be,' muttered Gordy, expertly shuffling a deck of cards, despite his gloves.

  'Forget Tony for a minute, can we?' Roy said. 'What about the train, Bruce?'

  'Oh, yeah.' Bruce had neglected to tell them about his call to Glasgow. He had arrived back at the same time as Tiny Dave, discovering they were a man down. 'It's left on time. Close to a hundred HVP sacks. One point five million.'

  Ralph, normally the quiet one, gave a low, appreciative whistle and laughed. 'Fuck me.'

  'But what about this business with Tony?' asked Roger, refusing to be swept along by the ripples of avarice spreading throughout the room. 'Should we wait for another night? Or forget it altogether?' The initial euphoria the signalman had shown for the enterprise had dissipated. He was nervous and sweaty now, complaining about missing his wife, outraged that he was expected to lie low at the farm with the others. Charlie had been designated to make sure he didn't fold on them. He only had to give Roger one of his looks and the whingeing died on his lips.

  Bruce glanced around the room, at faces made yellow by cheap, low-watt bulbs and a half-dozen candles. He knew that some were thinking that, even now, police cars could be moving into position around the farm. 'We'll take a vote. All in favour of going ahead, raise their hands.' He waited until each man had made their decision. Charlie glared at Roger until the latter half-raised his arm.

  'Right, then. It's unanimous. We go tonight.'

  'The thing is, Tony,' drawled Len Haslam, 'it was your van waiting for the transfer.'

  Tony was sitting in the interview room at Paddington Green, opposite Duke Haslam and Billy Naughton. He was both relieved and annoyed. Relieved because this was nothing to do with the farm or Bruce and the lads. Furious because his piece-of-shit brother-in-law had dragged him into this mess. Now he would miss out on his whack. The robbery would go ahead without him.

  'What van?'

  'Your Hillman Husky. There it was, parked up, just waiting for the loot to arrive. Classic switcher-oo. Oh, and Geoff had the keys in his pocket.'

  'I told you, I bought the Husky off Geoff. He begged me to. Then while I was away…'

  'Away where, Tony?' Billy Naughton asked.

  'Southampton. Buying cars. Looking under them, examining engines. That's why I'm so dirty. You can check-'

  'We will,' said Len Haslam.

  Tony wasn't worried about that. As Bruce had suggested, he had set up a good alibi, well rehearsed, with his old pals in Falmer. He would have to kick it into play as soon as he got out.

  'But about the Hillman Husky,' prompted Billy.

  'It's mine, yes. But as I am sure my wife will have told you, Geoff came and borrowed it back. Or at least, I assume that is what he did.'

  'And the Jag used in the robbery? Nice one, brand new.'

  Tony shrugged. 'Not down to me. Look, have a heart, gents. My wife is about to give birth.'

  'And you want to be there with the big cigar.'

  'Yeah. Is that a crime now?'

  The two policemen said nothing.

  'I know you'd like to haul me in while you're at it, but I had nothing to do with it. Smash and grab? Is that my game? I might clock the odd motor now and then, but really. Talk about barking up the wrong tree. Now, can I get cleaned up and go and see my wife?'

  'Go on, fuck off,' sighed Haslam. 'But don't go off on any more expeditions, all right? Stay close to home, son.'

  'I'm about to become a father. Where else would I be?'

  'In the Scrubs if we find out you're lying,' said Billy. He looked up at the ceiling, as if a thought had just occurred to him. 'You know anything about a big job going off, Tony?'

  'Yeah.'

  'What's that?'

  'My wife squeezing a kid out. Biggest job of all.'

  Len managed a thin smile. 'Nothing about a Bank Holiday tickle? That was the whisper.'

  Tony scratched his ear as nonchalantly as he could. 'Nobody's whispered to me.'

  'Right. Piss off then.'

  After he had gone, the two men lit cigarettes. 'What do you think?' Len asked.

  'The Bank Holiday is a bit thin.'

  Billy shrugged. It was a small nugget, but a nugget just the same, picked up in a pub. 'That's all I heard. Heavies wanted for a Bank Holiday job.'

  'I hope you didn't dip into the fund for that. Still, Bank Holiday isn't till the end of the month.' Len took out his pocket diary and flicked through it. 'Twenty-sixth.'

  'It's likely to be a bank vault, eh, Len? They might be after sledgehammer men. Which is why they need muscle.'

  Haslam nodded, impressed by the boy's thinking despite himself. 'A three-day weekend. Gives them an extra day to break through walls and what have you. A bank, yeah.'

  'But we've got time on our side. Whatever it is should leak between now and then, Len.'

  'True.' He inclined his head to indicate the departed suspect. 'You fancy Fortune for the jeweller's?'

  'Not really. His brother-in-law confirms he had nothing to do with it.'

  'Yeah, right,' he said. 'Probably as thick as Pinky and Perky, those two.'

  'I don't get that impression.'

  Duke Haslam dropped his cigarette into the tin mug in front of him. It hissed as it hit the half-inch of cold tea in the bottom. 'You don't get that impression?' he repeated. 'Mr Hatherill teach you impressions, did he? Go on, do Max Bygraves.'

  Billy's time spent with the Commander was a sore point. Len felt his protege had been purloined and he had sensed a sea change in the younger man after his jaunt to Devon. After the West Country, Billy had been sent on a doping stakeout at Sir Gordon Richards's stables, at the request of the trainer, who was worried about some of his thoroughbreds' performances. Bi
lly had not only caught a jockey administering powder to a favourite, but had picked himself up a strapping stable lass too. Billy was growing up.

  'I can do Henry Cooper,' said Billy with mock severity, clenching a fist and waving it.

  'What – bleed a lot?' Len sneered. He had been there at Wembley when Cooper had floored Cassius Clay, only for the latter to be saved when Clay's cornerman had protested that his fighter's glove had split. The delay enabled Clay to come back at Cooper and open up a cut on his eye, which led to the fight being stopped. All England was outraged for Our 'Enery, but Len felt the best fighter had won, even if he was an arrogant black bastard.

  'I'm not saying Fortune is clean,' continued Billy. 'He doesn't smell right, I'll grant you that.'

  Haslam bit his tongue. 'Doesn't smell right' was a prime piece of Hatherill Ham, fresh off the bone.

  'But not for this. Geoff Barrow is an idiot. Not sure you can say the same about Tony Fortune. Still.'

  'Still?' echoed Haslam. 'Still what?'

  Billy Naughton raised his eyebrows and smirked. 'Still, let's put a tail on young Tony, eh?'

  By midnight the tension in the farmhouse was building towards unbearable. All had changed into their outfits, the drivers and Bruce dressed as soldiers, most of those who would be on the track in boilersuits and balaclavas, although Roger had opted to dress like a vagrant, in case he was surprised on the gantry, and then he could pretend to be sleeping rough.

  Bruce, outwardly calm and controlled, had to admit to some nerves. He checked and rechecked that he had everything he needed, that his walkie-talkie was functioning and that he had his balaclava, that the uniform – genuine ex-Army but altered

  by Franny to fit better – would pass muster. Yes, he had to admit as he looked in the full-length mirror in the bedroom, he did have something of the officer class about him.

  It was hard to believe, after the months of speculation, planning and scouting, that it was about to go down. Even more incredible was the thought of the amount of money that could be his – theirs – by the end of the evening. He'd be rich. Properly rich, not just enough for a flash motor and a few good dinners. But seriously, stonkingly rich. Maybe for life. That would be good. Bugger the Aston; if there was more than one million, he'd go for a Ferrari GTO. True, they cost a fortune to run. But he intended to have a bloody fortune, didn't he?