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  Tony carried on pulling, settling into a good smooth rhythm. He was enjoying the exertion. 'What was?'

  'In the phone box.'

  Tony shrugged. 'Don't know.'

  'Look, we know you were at the farm. We know you probably got a drink out of it. We know that on the day after we collared Roy's mechanic, someone dumped the money. Panicked, most likely. It's gone toxic.'

  Tony laughed at the expression. 'What does that mean?'

  'Corrosive. Poisonous. It's like King Midas, except everything it touches turns to shit.' Tony blew out his cheeks, as if accepting this was true. 'Roger Cordrey cops it by flashing too big a roll of money. Charmian Biggs, she spends too much of it and gets herself noticed. The money left in Dorking woods – who was that for? Either way, he or they didn't make it in time, did they? Some guy with his trousers round his ankles found it. Ten-grand reward and a right earful from the wife for going off into the woods in the first place. Bobby Welch. We get a call that he is in a betting shop near London

  Bridge. Now who would tell us that? Maybe the bloke he left his stash with. Take Bobby out of the game, he can do what he wants with it because Bobby is looking at a fifteen, twenty jolt. Who else? Oh yeah, another Bobby – Bobby Pelham, the mechanic. Done for receiving. And you. I think your man panicked when he heard about Pelham and dumped the cash in the phone booth. What do you reckon?'

  Tony had a good view of the ugly palace itself, with the transmitter mast that beamed out the evening BBC news. He began to describe a long, lazy circle around the edge of the lake. 'I reckon I remember you when you were some wet-behind-the-ears tenderfoot. About six months ago, that was. Now here you are lecturing me like you're Tommy Butler.'

  Billy ignored that, saying, 'The thing is, you lot don't have much of a choice, do you? You either give your cash to someone who isn't in the life, in which case they are likely to panic. Or you leave it with some villain who, because they are by nature thieving bastards, either takes it all or charges you an extortionate minder's fee. Right Shylocks some of them, so I hear.'

  Tony stopped rowing. A duck paddled over, in search of food. It quacked plaintively then moved on. Tony fixed the copper with a hard stare. 'What is this about?'

  'I'll tell you another interesting thing. The count written on the wrappers of that stash in the phone box added up to forty-seven thousand pounds. But there weren't forty-seven in notes. Only forty-two. It was five grand light. So whoever dumped it took a little sweetener and skipped. Am I right?'

  Tony sighed. He was sure that wasn't the case. Or perhaps it was. Money changed everything. 'Can you blame him? It's a free-for-all.'

  So someone had stiffed him, thought Billy. 'Roger, Charlie, Bobby, Ronnie, Tommy, Jim Hussey, Bill Boal-'

  'What's this? Some kind of rollcall?'

  'All I'm saying is, it's only a matter of time before we get the rest. Bruce, John, Buster, Roy, Jimmy White, Gordy and… you.'

  Tony began rowing again, pulling deep and hard. Did they have his fingerprints? No. Otherwise he would be in Aylesbury right now, facing Butler, Williams, Fewtrell or Hatherill or at Cannon Row with Slipper or one of the other DIs.

  Billy placed a small brown bag, the top rolled over several times, on the seat between them. It looked like someone's packed lunch.

  'What's that? A bribe? Doesn't look enough, Mr Naughton.'

  'I'm meant to be spinning your place right now. In there are some flakes of yellow paint which, in the course of my perfunctory search, will find its way onto the bottom of a pair of your shoes.'

  'Yellow paint?'

  'From the garage at Leatherslade.'

  Tony stared down at the bag, as if it was radioactive. He nudged it with his foot. 'I don't understand.'

  'I'm meant to daub that on the sole of one of your shoes. Tomorrow, under the same warrant, a forensic officer will be sent over. He will discover said paint and take the shoes away for analysis.'

  'Why are you telling me this?'

  Billy hesitated. He wasn't 100 per cent sure himself. But he wanted to get rid of the temptation to ape Len once and for all. 'I'll just say this. You ever see George Hatherill in a

  pub, you send him over a drink.'

  Gordon Goody parked the borrowed Morris Minor Traveller and checked himself in its mirror. His hair was several shades darker and he now wore tortoiseshell glasses. There was nothing he could do about his height except stoop, but he didn't look like any picture of him they might have circulated. Just because one hadn't appeared in the press didn't mean the police weren't pushing them around to stations throughout the country. Gordy's was one scalp they wanted very, very badly.

  Satisfied with his new appearance, he fetched his holdall from the back seat and walked into the Grand Hotel, looking forward to seeing Sue Crosby again. She had been a hostess at Marbles, one of the better London clubs, and then won a Miss Brighton contest and had set up a small clothes shop in her hometown of Leicester. She and Gordy had not seen each other for two years, but they had the kind of relationship that could be picked up – or curtailed – without any recrimination or consequences.

  Gordy approached the reception desk and beamed at the young woman behind it. 'Morning.' He couldn't keep the cheeriness from his voice.

  'Afternoon, sir.' Well, it was two o'clock he supposed, so technically she was right. The girl had a black beehive with a slight flick at shoulder level and kohl-blackened eyes. She reminded Gordy of Susan Maugham, the singer of 'Bobby's Girl', and if he hadn't been here to see Sue, he might have spent some time on her.

  'I believe my wife booked a room. Susan Crosby. I'm Mr Crosby.'

  'Let me check, sir. Yes, here we are. Six-oh-two. You are the first to arrive, but I'm afraid it isn't ready as yet.' She pointed to the clock behind her. 'Check-in is at three, but

  I'll see what I can do to hurry it along. Would you like to take a seat? Or have a drink in the bar?'

  Gordy looked at the row of glistening optics he could see through the archway to his left. 'How long?'

  'Twenty minutes at most, sir.'

  'I'll wait in the bar.'

  'Very well, sir.'

  As soon as the big man was out of sight, the receptionist burst through the door into the office and began to rummage around on her desk. Peter, the Duty Manager, looked up, perplexed.

  'What's wrong?'

  'Call the police.'

  Peter rose to his feet. 'What's happened, Brenda?'

  But Brenda had found the newspaper she was looking for and tore through it. The pictures had long vacated the front page, but often put in an appearance whenever an arrest was made. There, next to a story about Great Train Robbery money being found in a phone box, were the mugshots of the three wanted thieves. The top one stared out at the camera from behind hornrimmed glasses. 'It's him.'

  'Who?'

  'You won't believe this.' She showed Peter the picture of the bespectacled robber and tried to keep the thrill from her voice, the excitement of having a story she would repeat ad nauseam for the next few days. 'Bruce Reynolds has just checked in!'

  Part Three. PROS & CONS

  Fifty-four

  Bedford Prison, October 1963

  Charlie found his prison visits bittersweet. It was wonderful to see Pat, to hear about the kids, but the inevitable moment of separation brought home to him just what might lie ahead: years of being apart from his family. The thought made him angry, but as he stood in the holding pen waiting for his name to be called through to the visitors' room, he tried to contain the fury building in him. There had almost been an incident in the kitchen that morning, a temptation with a pan of boiling water and a sneering screw, but Charlie had just smiled and walked away.

  'Fourteen years,' the cunt had whispered in his ear. 'Fourteen on the Forty-Four.'

  Special Order 44 was used to stop known associates gathering and communicating in prison, just in case they got up to their old tricks. Or new ones, such as prison breaks. The screw was suggesting he would get fourteen
years and never see his old mates again. As if the latter part worried him.

  'Charles Wilson, table seven.' At least, being on remand,

  he had no number for them to bark out and he was wearing his own clothes. He still felt at least partially human. More so than the institutionalised screws, he thought as he glared at one of those sad bastards who slashed the peak of his hat so it came down partially over the eyes. You aren't in the Guards, mate, he thought. You are just a grown-up babysitter in a shitty gaol.

  He passed through the gate and into the depressingly bare visitors' room, where he expected to see John Matthew, his brief. As he recognised who it really was sitting at the other side of the table, Charlie kept his face impassive. He was good at that. Hadn't so much as glanced at Ronnie Biggs when they crossed in the exercise yard.

  He sat down and, in a ritual repeated at tables across the room, the two men leaned in close, foreheads almost touching, voices low.

  'Fuck me,' said Charlie.

  'I registered as Joe Gray.'

  'Gordy, what are you doing here?'

  'I came to tell you what's going on. I got picked up because some silly bitch thought I was Bruce. How fucking ironic is that? I was blond, then brunette, but underneath, I was a natural dickhead. Butler interviewed me, then I got released. On bail.'

  'I heard.'

  'Thought you might have thought it… you know, iffy.'

  Charlie frowned, but said nothing.

  'Butler had a pair of my shoes with yellow paint on them, from the garage at the farm. I'm on remand while tests are carried out.'

  'No prints?'

  'At Leatherslade? Nothing. I was worse than Bruce with the gloves.'

  'What about the shoes?'

  Gordy leaned in closer, until he could smell Charlie's sour breath. 'I never took them with me to the farm, Charlie. I'm sure of it. Butler's done me up like a kipper. I just wanted you to know I didn't do any kind of deal.'

  'You silly cunt.' Charlie's face darkened. He made fists and the knuckles turned white. 'I know you're all right. Jesus, I'm not worried about anyone grassing. Not in our firm. That bleedin' driver of Ronnie's maybe, but not us.' Charlie thought for a minute, considering all he had just heard. His expression relaxed and his fists uncurled. 'You sure this is Butler's style? He might verbal you a bit, like he did me, but planting evidence? Not sure.'

  'Doesn't matter if it's Butler or one of the others. That paint ties me to the farm, I'm cooked.'

  Charlie didn't disagree.

  'How you holding up?'

  Charlie rubbed his forehead. 'So far, OK. They're talking about double-digits for it.'

  'Come on,' said Gordy. 'It was a tickle. You only get that for murder now.'

  Charlie shook his head. 'We didn't think what we was robbing, mate. We thought it was a train, didn't we?'

  'It was a train.'

  'Ah, but it wasn't British Rail. It was the Royal Mail.' He said it again, emphasising the first word. 'The ROYAL Mail. We nobbled the Establishment. The Establishment will want to nobble us back. Even if it does mean painting your shoes yellow.'

  'Christ. What are we going to do?'

  Charlie came in very close and spoke in a murmur. 'Ronnie and me passed a couple of messages back and forth. We get

  fourteen years?' His eyes darted right. 'We're goin' over that fuckin' wall.'

  Bruce returned to the flat in buoyant mood. It was the first time for weeks he had been out, but the smart moustache he had grown had given him confidence, as if it was a full-face mask. He had risked taking Franny into town, where he treated himself to a new haircut at Trumper's in Curzon Street, as well as a trim for the face furniture, followed by lunch at the Mirabelle, which cost a whopping fourteen pounds. Afterwards, slightly tipsy on a nice Fleurie, he had called at Coombs & Dobbie in Jermyn Street and ordered a pair of handmade shoes – under an alias, of course. They were twenty- six pounds. It would take two months to complete the order, the master cobbler reckoned. So he told them he would forward an address abroad where they could be sent when they were ready. The afternoon ended with champagne cocktails at the Ritz, reminding him of happier times when they had celebrated the acquittal of Gordy and Charlie.

  One day, well over fifty pounds down. But it was worth every penny: he had become used to sending Franny out with an 'escort'. She was a young woman, and needed to get out of doors, so Bruce had arranged a series of 'chaperones'. And anyway, even a hundred quid was nothing compared to what was being leeched off him by 'friends' and 'associates' keeping him in hiding till he and Fran could skip.

  So, pleased and still buzzing, he hailed a cab all the way back to the new place at Croydon. As soon as they opened the door, they knew something was wrong. An unfamiliar breeze was blowing through the flat.

  'Did you leave a window open, Fran?'

  'No.'

  'Neither did I.'

  The draught was coming from upstairs. Bruce took the steps two at a time, and found the open window in the spare bedroom. As he went to close it, he spotted the ladder that had been propped against the wall outside. He looked around the room with fresh eyes. It had been turned over, cases pushed aside, cupboards opened.

  Burgled.

  The bloody cheek of it. How fuckin' dare they?

  'Coo-ee. Hello.'

  Bruce looked out of the window, at the neighbour waving from the garden next door. 'Are you all right?' the woman called. 'I saw it happen.'

  'What, love?'

  'The thief. I called the police. They should be here any minute.'

  You interfering old cow. He bit his tongue. 'Thank you. Very kind of you. I don't think anything has been taken.'

  'He was only in there five minutes. You must have disturbed him.'

  Just then he heard the doorbell ring.

  Shit.

  Franny was behind him, wide-eyed with fear. He watched as she took a grip on herself. 'Get into bed, Bruce.'

  Unused to taking orders from her, he hesitated. 'What?'

  'Get your kit off and get into bed. Leave this to me.'

  By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, Franny had undone her blouse and ruffled her hair. She yanked the front door open to reveal two uniformed Constables.

  'Sorry to disturb you, miss.' The one who had spoken caught sight of her wedding ring and corrected himself. 'Madam. We had a report of a burglary at this address.'

  'Yes, Officer. I mean, no. Someone did come in, but well, we made a bit of a racket and I think he got frightened. Nothing has been taken.'

  'Do you mind if we take a look?' asked the older of the two coppers.

  'Well…' She glanced nervously up the stairs, but snapped her head back when she realised her mistake.

  'When you say "we",' asked the other one before she could formulate a decent excuse, 'who exactly do you mean?'

  'Your husband?'

  Right bloody Tweedledee and Tweedledumb, Franny thought. 'Not exactly.' She took a deep breath. 'Come in, Officers. We have the top two floors.'

  They removed their helmets and entered, their boots thumping as they climbed the stairs.

  'Second bedroom. Down the corridor at the end.'

  Only one of them went into the spare room. The other hovered outside as she came up. He pointed down the corridor. 'What's in there, madam?'

  'The master bedroom.'

  'Mind if I take a look?'

  He was in before she could object and she heard his exclamation of surprise at the sight of a naked man in bed at five in the afternoon.

  'Blimey,' said Bruce. 'Is sex with a woman against the law now?'

  The policeman laughed. 'Not yet, sir. And you are?'

  'He's not my husband,' said Franny, blushing a deep red. 'We were in here when we heard a noise. Thought nothing of it, so we carried on.'

  Bruce nodded to confirm her story. 'That's right. Then we heard a crash, I got up, but whoever it was had scarpered.'

  The policeman looked puzzled. 'And you came back to bed?'

/>   It was Bruce's turn to look baffled. 'We hadn't finished.'

  'Right.' The officer put his helmet down. 'And your husband?'

  'Works on the ferries. To the continent.'

  'I'll take a name if I may, sir,' the copper said, with all the disapproval he could manage.

  'Cassavetes,' Bruce said, blurting out the first name that came into his head. 'John Cassavetes.'

  'Cassa-what? Can you spell that?'

  Bruce did so.

  'Address?'

  'Forty-eight Margrove Close, Purley.'

  The younger policeman poked his head into the room. Bruce sank further into the bed, feeling very vulnerable in only his underpants. 'You sure nothing was taken?'

  'No, Officer,' said Franny. 'It's only junk in there.'

  'Very well,' said the copper, closing his book. 'We may send someone round to dust for fingerprints, just in case.'

  'Good idea,' said Bruce. 'You can catch a lot of villains with prints, so I hear. Those that make a career out of it, I mean.'

  The copper just frowned at him. 'And your name, madam?'

  'Frances Craddock.'

  'But her friends call her Fanny. Obviously,' said Bruce. 'Do you mind if I get dressed?'

  'Of course, sir. You might be hearing from us. We will need your prints too.' 'Oh?'

  'Just to eliminate you from any at the scene.'

  'Only too happy to oblige,' said Bruce.

  When she had shown them out, Franny rushed back upstairs

  and leaped onto the bed next to Bruce. The pair of them burst out laughing.

  'Fanny Craddock?' he asked.

  'John Cassavetes??'

  'I almost said Stirling Moss.'

  'You pushed your luck there. What if he had been a film fan?' She watched as Bruce's smile gradually faded. 'What is it?'

  He jumped out of the covers, knelt down and pulled out the attache case from under the bed. He opened it and looked inside. The money was untouched. It was only what Franny called pin money, about three grand, but still, its loss would have hurt. 'I haven't been out for weeks,' he said bitterly. 'The one time I do, someone turns the place over. Too much of a coincidence, you ask me.' The money was a magnet. Some idiot obviously thought he slept with a hundred and fifty grand under the mattress.