Civvies

CHAPTER 22

Dillon stood in his boys' bedroom, looking over their board with all the photographs. There was one in the centre of Steve, his arms wrapped around Dillon laughing, there was another with his trousers dropped mooning to the camera. Dillon removed the picture of the two of them, touched Steve's smiling face. He whispered softly, 'Goodnight Steve, sleep quiet…'

Jimmy barged in carrying a black plastic rubbish bag containing all of poor Steve's possessions. He seemed completely unaware of what Steve's suicide meant to Dillon.

'We best get a move on. What you want me to do with his gear?'

Dillon shrugged, said there was no one to collect it, give it away, anything but he couldn't deal with it.

'What about his mother?'

Dillon shook his head, didn't want her to see Steve's few pitiful belongings, knew it would hurt her. She had his medals, she had those to remember Steve, that was better than sweat-stained T-shirts, old sneakers and a baggy coat.

'Okay, but we should get going, got a busy day.' Jimmy said impatiently.

Dillon nodded, wanting Jimmy out, needing him to go and leave him for just another second, but then he turned and followed him down the stairs and out into the courtyard. Jimmy tossed the black plastic bag into the bins. Dillon said nothing, he couldn't, he just touched the pocket where he had slipped. Steve's photograph, touched it, as if to say, it's okay, I cared, I care Steve.

'I want to go to the crematorium.'

'Shit, we already been there!'

'I want to go again, ALL RIGHT? THAT ALL RIGHT WITH YOU?'

Jimmy slammed the door shut. 'Fine, that's where you wanna go, that's where we go…'

They drove in silence.

It was a simple plaque, set in a small square plinth of smooth grey stone. Wreaths of clustered dark green leaves and flowers wrapped in clear cellophane, each with a message of condolence, were placed beneath it in a bed of red stone chippings. The biggest wreath had the Regimental crest as it centrepiece, with the motto Utrinque Paratus woven below in tiny white flowers.

Clad in his worn black tracksuit and his wrinkled Pumas, Dillon crouched on his heels, surveying the display of grief. He looked at the motto, and his lips silently mimed the words, 'Ready for Anything.' Anything but civvies, Dillon reflected bitterly. First Taffy, now Steve. A roll-call of battle honours, in reverse. Which one of them next? Jimmy? Dillon gave a small sour grin. Definitely not Jimmy, Mr Jim'll Fixit – not if Jimmy had anything to do with it. More likely himself. Much more likely…

He stood up as a middle-aged woman in a straight fawn coat with large round purple buttons approached along the path. For a long moment she gazed at the plaque with sad brown eyes, then rested her gloved hand on Dillon's arm.

'I never had the chance at the service to thank you. I'm just going to keep…' Mrs Harris made a vague gesture towards the condolence cards. 'My poor boy, he – he lost his way. I couldn't help him, but I know you tried.'

'Frank – hey, Frank!' Jimmy hailed him from the gated archway to the crematorium, beckoning urgently. No respect for the dead; not much for the living either, come to that.

Ignoring him, Dillon said, 'Me and a few of the lads are starting up our own company, security work.'

'That's good, good.' Mrs Harris nodded emphatically, large brown eyes fixed on him. 'You stick together.'

Dillon gave her a quick, tight hug and hurried away. Jimmy was sitting in the jeep at the kerbside. As Dillon got in, he said, 'It was on the cards, Frank.' There was contempt in his voice. 'If he hadn't topped himself some bugger would have done it for him. He was a waster!'

Dillon didn't respond. He wasn't sure who he was most angry with – Jimmy, Steve, or himself. In the early spring sunshine they drove through Bethnal Green and up into Hackney. Somewhere near the London Fields mainline station Jimmy took a left off Mare Street, and in a few minutes drew up outside a row of rather shabby-looking shops and basement offices. There was a betting shop, greasy spoon cafe, and a travel agent's – super shine travel agency – with flyblown posters in its grimy windows. Dillon wasn't impressed, and even Jimmy's breezy enthusiasm failed to dispel his doubts.

'It's not the greatest, I know, but it's a start. Lick o' paint here an' there…' he swept out his hand as if unveiling the find of the century, '… we're in business!'

Jimmy skipped past a couple of overflowing dustbins and a small mountain of black plastic bags spilling rubbish onto the pavement and went down a short flight of stone steps bordered by rusting iron railings. 'Come on, follow me, sunshine…'

Inside, the dark passageway smelled of vintage cat piss. It was littered with bricks and half-empty cement bags gone hard, and everywhere thick with dust. 'All this'll be cleared,' Jimmy assured Dillon, bustling ahead. 'Harry's gettin' a skip, right…' He produced a key and unlocked a door that a puff of wind would have blown off its hinges. 'Here we go!'

Dillon nodded dubiously to the floor above. 'That Super Travel place looks like a knockin' shop,' he said, following Jimmy into a small dingy room with a plain wooden desk and few hardback chairs. The filthy window gave a grand view of the iron railings, rubbish tip, the legs and ankles of pedestrians. Above the bricked-up cast-iron fireplace, Jimmy had nailed the stag's head to the bare plaster.

'We got it for one hundred a week, plus there's a bog outside, washbasins, and -' Jimmy threw open the doors of a cupboard with a flourish. 'Ta-rrraaaaaaa!'

'Christ!' Dillon exclaimed, goggling at the two shelves of office equipment – telephones, answering machine, Xerox, fax, computer and laser printer, all brand-new, still in their boxes. 'Where did all this come from?'

'All legit, it's bankrupt stock,' said Jimmy smoothly, and before Dillon could even draw breath, he was onto the next item on the agenda, fingers clicking, busy-busy-busy. 'What you think? White walls, get some pictures up, carpet down – be a palace!'

Harry Travers blundered in carrying two four-litre drums of paint, two smaller cans under his arms, paintbrushes and rollers stuffed in his pockets. Jimmy did a double-take on the labels, glared at Harry.

'Pink? Pink?'

Harry shrugged. 'The white was double, an' we got one gallon free. Whack it over that corridor… it's not a bright pink,' he reassured them earnestly, 'it's soft shell…'

Dillon, wearing baggy blue overalls spattered with paint, trudged up the steps and heaved three bulging black plastic bags into the skip that was half on the pavement, half in the gutter. Cliff was sweeping up with a broom, his black face and short wiry black hair covered in a film of cement dust. Glancing left and right with a pugnacious frown, he said, 'Every bugger in the street is tossin' their rubbish on – I go inside for a minute an'… look,' he burst out angrily, 'that's not ours, that armchair.' Dillon turned to go back down. 'Hey, Frank, how's it lookin'?' Cliff asked.

'If you got a pair of sunglasses, I'd wear 'em,' Dillon advised.

He went along the passage, eyes half shut in a painful squint. The pink couldn't have been pinker. It coated every surface – walls, ceiling, skirting boards, including the wires running up by the door frames and across the ceiling. Even the cast-iron electric box Jimmy was working on, standing on a ladder, a screwdriver in his teeth. Holding a torch, he was poking round inside, a spaghetti of coloured wiring trailing down.

'You know what you're doin'?' Dillon asked him apprehensively.

'We got the telephones all connected, no charge,' Jimmy mumbled past the screwdriver.

'Until the GPO suss us.' Dillon sighed, wagging his head. Everything was moving fast, too fast. He wanted time to stop, to think, to consider, and Jimmy was charging on, as only Jimmy could, full steam ahead. Throwing caution and everything else to the winds.

'Ah!' Jimmy chortled triumphantly, and threw a switch. The fluorescent striplight in the passage buzzed and came to life. Dillon shielded his eyes against the shrieking pink glare. Jesus Wept. Like a bleeding boudoir. Or a Bangkok cathouse.

Jimmy hurtled past him, yelling excitedly, 'Cliff – Cliff, is the sign lit up?'

The four of them gathered on the pavement, grinning a bit self-consciously, looking up proudly at the glowing neon sign, a red arrow strobing the way down to the basement.

STAG SECURITY COMPANY

No one but a Para would know it, Dillon realised, but the name was sort of appropriate -'stag' being the term for sentry duty in the Parachute Regiment. Thus: 'stag on – stag off,' alternate periods on guard and standing down.

'Well, we got the premises, we got the phones,' beamed Cliff. 'How we doin' with the kitty, Frank?'

It was an innocent question, but it stung Dillon on the raw. He felt he was on a treadmill that was spinning faster and faster, and he couldn't keep pace, couldn't even pause to catch his breath.

'Still got a few quid!' he snapped irritably.

'Few quid?' Harry's eyebrows shot up in his big beefy face. 'What we gonna drive – dinky toys? We've not even got a motor, never mind a security wagon -'

'Friend of mine's got a garage,' Jimmy winked. Of course, Dillon thought, rely on Jimmy to have a friend who just happened to own a garage. 'He's got somethin' to show us,' Jimmy said, already vaulting into the jeep. He bashed the horn. 'Come on you dozy buggers!'

The treadmill was spinning out of control.

The 'garage' turned out to be more of a wrecker's yard. Half an acre of quagmire piled six-high with junked cars, vans and lorries. But Jimmy was confident that his mate Fernie would have just what they were after. He shoved open the double doors to the main workshop and disappeared inside, his voice echoing from the cavernous interior: 'Oi, Frank, come an' look over this baby, it's a cracker… armour-plated. Frank!'

Dillon stood with Harry and Cliff peering into the open bonnet of a metallic-gold Ford Granada with crimson stick-on speed stripes, Y reg, 94,000 miles on the clock. He glowered at the open workshop doors as Jimmy kept yelling for him to come take a look-see.

'I dunno, Frank,' said Cliff doubtfully, bent right over, his nose nearly touching the spark plugs. 'A lot of oil in here…'

Harry said scathingly, 'There would be, you soft git – that's the engine.'

A sudden shattering, stuttering roar, accompanied by a series of farting backfires, made them all spin round. An old rust-streaked security wagon, dents and scratches in every panel, radio antenna dangling over the smeared windscreen like a broken reed, chugged into the open, surrounded by a miasma of blue fumes. Jimmy leaned out, waggling his thumb. 'Hey, Frank – look at this mother!' He jumped down and at the third attempt managed to slam the door shut.

'It's a bargain!'

The three of them looked at it in silence, and then at each other. Dillon scratched his head. Bargain? More like a death-trap on four bald wheels.

He fretted about the money situation all the way back to base. They needed ready cash to buy transport, and they needed transport in order to make some ready cash. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Jimmy had something cooking on the back-burner; but why was it, Dillon brooded, that Jimmy's cooking always had a bit of a niff to it? They bought two six-packs of Red Strips at the local off-licence and sat in the pink office with the stag, two silent telephones, and an empty filing cabinet for company.

'I see the toothpaste and sleeping bag's still here,' Jimmy said, returning from the lavatory, zipping up his flies. He gave Harry a meaningful look. 'You not found a place to kip yet?'

'It's tough with no dough!' Harry protested.

Jimmy put his jacket on. At the door he said to Dillon, 'If you want to think about it, call me later. But it's money in the hand, enough to put down on the Granada and the wagon.' His tone said, if you can't shit, get off the pot – let's do it!

Dillon finished off the can, crumpled it in his fist. 'You known why!' he said, spots of colour appearing in his cheeks. 'I want us to be legit – we start off doin' dodgy runs, and we screw up -'

'How?' Jimmy leaned over the desk, arms spread wide. 'Tell me how? It's carryin' gear from A to B, and it's five grand cash!'

'Nobody gives nobody nothin' for free, Jimmy. An' I told you, anything to do with this Newman sucks.'

Jimmy made a dismissive gesture, as if wafting away five grand. 'Fine, say no more…'

'So how dodgy is it?' asked Cliff. 'I mean, what is this A to B crap? What do we have to do?'

Jimmy sighed and chanted off, 'We pick up gear from Heathrow Airport warehouse and we take it to the East End. How can it be dodgy? It's all been through Customs.' He tapped his open flat palm. 'Five grand cash, in the hand…'

Harry perked up, sucking Red Stripe from his moustache. 'Sounds the business to me! What's your problem, Frank?'

Dillon closed his eyes, rested his forehead on the tips of his fingers. 'Okay,' he said wearily, 'let's go for it.'

CHAPTER 23

Dillon emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around him, still faintly steaming from the shower. He explored the cleft in his chin where he'd nicked it while shaving, and looked at his fingers for blood. From the tranny downstairs in the kitchen the Radio 5 weather-woman was cheerfully telling the nation to expect sunny spells and the chance of showers, and above her voice he heard Susie calling, 'Frank! Frank, are you coming down?'

She ran halfway up the stairs and caught him on his way through to the bedroom. 'Didn't you hear me? Mr Marway's here with Jimmy. Come and meet him.' Suddenly her face lit up in girlish exuberance. The job with Marway's MiniCabs seemed to have released fresh reserves of energy, renewed her zest for life. She'd been and had her shoulder-length russet hair layered and re-styled, and wore make-up every day, not just at weekends. But Dillon wasn't charmed by this new, younger, liberated Susie; the world was uncertain enough without finding you'd swapped an old reliable model for an updated, streamlined version with a fresh paint job.

'I did a perfect three-point turn!' Susie beamed at him, and beckoned with red fingernails. 'Come and say hello to Mr Marway…'

Dillon opened the towel. 'Like this.'

Susie rolled her eyes and went back down.

In the living-room Jimmy was sitting in an armchair, little Phil on his knee, listening raptly to Marway. Success always impressed Jimmy, and it was obvious that the Sikh businessman had achieved it, in the way he dressed, his refined voice, most of all his sense of composure, perfectly at ease with himself. And he seemed quite happy to pass on the secrets of his success.

'If you can prove you'll employ more than six men, then you'd be in line for a government small business loan,' he was explaining, and added frankly, 'That's how I started.'

Free money. Jimmy was interested. 'How much are these loans?' he asked.

'Depends on your collateral,' Marway smiled. 'But anything up to fifty thousand…'

Jimmy pursed his mouth in a silent whistle, more impressed than ever. Fifty Big Ones. Worth investigating.

'You ready?' Dillon said to Jimmy from the doorway, shrugging into his leather jacket. He jerked his head and turned to leave.

Susie stood up. 'Frank, this is Mr Marway -'

'How ya doin'?' Dillon gave a distant nod without looking at the elegant businessman in the pale cream silk turban. And with a curt 'Let's go,' he was on his way out. Jimmy ruffled Phil's cropped thatch, jet-black as his Dad's, and went after him.

Technically the security wagon was 'on trial', and rusty old crate that it was, at least it was transport. Jimmy drove them up to Hackney, while Dillon stared sullenly out, grousing, 'What does he know he's just givin' the wife drivin' lessons!'

'Way you carry on, you'd think he was givin' her a lot more than -'

Jimmy nearly swerved into a bus as Dillon cracked him one across the knuckles.

'What in Christ's name's the matter with you…! I was jokin' – an' he seemed an all right guy.' Jimmy glanced across at Dillon's stony profile. 'We should try this government loan gig. He said -'

'I'm not interested in what he said.'

Jimmy snapped at him. 'Well you should be. He's in the same business. We can use him – and Susie can palm us a few jobs.'

'She won't be workin' for him long,' said Dillon, more a dire threat than a vague promise. He had to brace himself against the dashboard as they pulled up outside Stag Security. Jimmy blasted the horn, then slammed the door as he got out. His portable telephone beeped. He went over in a huddle next to the basement railings. Harry thudded up past him and opened the passenger door.

'Where's Cliff?' Dillon asked.

'He rung in, he can't make it. Somethin' to do with that mealy-mouthed chick of his…'

Dillon glared. 'He's gettin' married to her!'

Harry was somebody else not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness this morning. 'I don't care if he's workin' out with Sylvester Stallone – he should be here!' Squashing his big arse in next to Dillon on the bench seat.

Jimmy came round the front of the wagon, folding his portable phone, and climbed in. 'Little change of plan… we hold the stuff here until the morning. Newman's not got the space cleared yet.'

Dillon punched the windscreen, which visibly shifted in its rubber mounting. 'This stinks already!'

Jimmy twisted the key to start up, and as the wagon moved off in a haze of swirling blue smoke, he said tightly, breathing through his nostrils, 'I'm just tryin' to get things organised, Frank…'

Nine large tea chests, which at Dillon's conservative estimate must have weighed two hundred pounds apiece. While Jimmy signed the release dockets under the watchful eye of two Customs officials, Dillon and Harry slid the last one into the back of the wagon, already sagging down to the axles. 'That Cliff's a connivin' sod, I'm knackered!' Harry grumbled, mopping his face. Dillon said so was he, and told him to belt up. Back at base they had it all to do over again, in reverse. It was after six when they'd finished, the crates overspilling the passageway into the office, and now they really were knackered.

'Okay, that's the last,' Jimmy said, ticking it off. 'Want me to lock up?' he asked Dillon.

Harry answered. 'Naaa, I'm dossin' down here.' Slumped on a crate, fanning himself, he looked up and down. 'If I can find room for me sleepin' bag.'

Footsteps coming down from the street, and Barry Newman walked in, bringing the bracing tang of Gucci aftershave into the ripe sweaty atmosphere. His minder, the thickset guy with the widow's peak that Dillon had seen in Newman's office, lurked by the door.

Newman wore a dark-blue double-breasted overcoat and held a thin black cheroot in his gloved fingers. 'Any problems?' he asked Jimmy in that soft, silky voice that had been soaked overnight in Dettol.

'No.' Jimmy was suddenly all bright attention, doing his three-bags-full act. 'You know Frank, and this is Harry Travers.'

Newman ignored Harry. He slid his hand into his overcoat pocket and took out five grands' worth of brown envelope. 'I appreciate this, Frank.' He indicated the crates with the envelope before tossing it over. 'Be off your premises by the morning.' Faint glimmer of a glacial smile then, and the narrow, deepset eyes roamed up to the ceiling. 'My girls upstairs'll give you a special rate…'

Dillon's face changed. His eyes went from Newman, bored into Jimmy. 'Outside. Now.'

As he strode out, Jimmy behind him, Harry wore a delighted grin. 'It's a knockin' shop upstairs, isn't it? I knew it, what did I tell you…?'

Dillon was standing stiffly on the pavement, one hand clenched round an iron railing. Jimmy bounded up, saying brightly, 'Frank, listen -' and Dillon cut him off, eyes blazing. 'This is his place, isn't it?' he said, low, throaty.

'He owns the building, yeah,' Jimmy admitted, shrugging, a bit sheepish.

'What's in the crates? And don't give me the Indian artifacts crap -'

'Frank, he's opening market stalls…'

Before Dillon could respond to that load of bull, Newman came up the steps, trailing cheroot smoke. In his arms he carried a large glazed Indian elephant with an ornate woven headpiece of gold, black and azure blue, set with beads in the shape of pearls, diamonds and rubies of coloured glass. He plonked it on Dillon.

'Give it to the wife, Frank.' Newman removed the cheroot and blew out a plume of smoke, not quite in Dillon's face. 'Tell her it's a gift from an old friend.' He nodded to Jimmy. 'Thanks, son.'

'I couldn't get out of it, Frank – I mean, with the weddin' comin' up we got to get the place fixed up. This yours, is it?'

Cliff was studying with interest the monstrosity of an elephant on the kitchen dresser, where Dillon had dumped it the night before and not looked at it since.

Dillon sat at the table, a frown on his face, an open accounts book and wads of notes, neatly separated into three piles, in front of him. Through a mouthful of toast, Flora and marmalade, he said, 'Have it as a weddin' present. We got half a ton at the office.' He slipped rubber bands on the money, stood up wiping his hands on his jeans. 'Okay, let's pick up the Granada, put the deposit on the wagon… Cliff, you set?'

Cliff nodded, dead chuffed, the elephant tucked under his arm.

By the time they'd collected the Granada and done battle with the rush-hour traffic it was gone half-ten; even so, Dillon was surprised to see the crates had been moved, Harry sweeping up straw and polystyrene bubbles in the empty passage. Jimmy was leaning in the office doorway, leafing through a sheaf of pamphlets, every pastel shade under the sun.

'You got any collateral, Harry? Harry?'

Harry leaned on his broom. 'What do you mean?'

'You own anythin' – flat, house – you can borrow against?'

Dillon stood with the log book and car keys, taking it in.

Harry considered, scratching his moustache. 'My Auntie left me a house in Manchester, but me sister lives in it…'

Dillon jangled the keys. 'Got the Granada, put the deposit down on the wagon. Elephants out?' he said, eyebrows raised. 'Where you goin'?' he asked Harry, who had propped up his broom and was putting his jacket on.

'Get movin', Jimmy said to Harry, jerking his thumb, and to Dillon, 'Few cards I got made up, stick 'em round the pubs, clubs.' They went into the office, basking pinkly in the slanting sunlight. 'Me and Harry shifted the crates first thing… Here, present.' Jimmy took out his cordless phone and placed it on the desk. 'My contribution, nothin' to do with Newman. Where's Clifford?' He bellowed past Dillon's shoulder, 'Go on, Harry, don't hang about!'

Like a bleeding puppet-master, Dillon thought. Did he never let go the strings, never ever let up, not even for a second?

'What you want the deeds of Harry's house for?' Dillon asked, pinning up a large-scale street map of central London.

'Collateral. An' I got these forms from the bank, to apply for a government grant.' Jimmy tossed the pamphlets on the desk. The phone rang, and it was as if they were both frozen for a moment, stunned with the shock of it actually ringing.

Jimmy picked it up. 'Stag Security and Chauffeur Drive…' He listened, nodding, then glanced at Dillon, giving the thumbs-up. 'I'll just see if we have a car available.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'Taxi…'

Big ecstatic grin from Dillon, who grabbed a notepad and pen, shoved them across the desk.

'We have a Ford Granada available, yes… and the address? Yes… destination?' Jimmy scribbled. 'Fine… be with you in ten minutes.' He put the phone down and stuck out his hand for Dillon to shake. 'We're in business – that's our first fare! See? It's workin' out – Oi, Cliff!' Jimmy tore off the sheet, handed it to Cliff as he came in the door. 'Can you pick up at 12 Thresherd Street, a Mrs Williams, going to Bond Street.'

Jimmy was fizzing like a Roman Candle. Tossing the car keys, reaching for the cordless phone, mouth working overtime.

'Use the Granada, an' take this, it's a portable. You got money for petrol?' Snatched aside to Dillon: 'We'll have to get a kitty box organised, all receipts, etcetera…' And even while Dillon was patting his pockets: 'Okay, Frank, I got it, here's twenty.'

Cliff stuffed the noted away, and as Dillon went past him, 'Where you off to, Frank? We need the phones manned…'

'Takin' a leak,' Dillon said, not looking back, 'if that's okay with you, Jimmy!'

The puppet-master stared after him, but for once kept his trap shut.

CHAPTER 24

Having got the boys sorted, sitting in front of the telly watching Neighbours, plates of fish fingers, beans and potato waffles on their knees, Susie went into the kitchen to the smell of burning bacon. On top of a long, hard day saying 'Marway's MiniCabs' ten thousand times, it was just what she needed. 'I told you to watch the pan!' Idle bugger hadn't even budged, elbows on the table with his back to the stove, a can of Tennents Export in his hand. Susie took it out on the eggs, cracking three into the hot fat, breaking one yolk.

'You're not workin' for that Paki any more.'

'Oh no? That an order is it?' Susie looked over her shoulder, teeth pressed together. 'You think you could get yourself a plate, knife and fork?'

Dillon's chair scraped as he got up. He made a performance of slamming open the drawer, clattering inside, grabbing a plate from the draining rack.

Susie counted to ten but only got to five, unable to help herself.

'The rent is due! The milk bill, the kids need new gym gear. Got the money, have you, Frank?' She slid two rashers and the two unbroken eggs onto his plate, then did her own. She stood holding the empty pan. 'There's no money coming in from you, Frank… who you think's been paying the bills while you were gallivantin' all around Scotland?'

Dillon stared down at his plate, decided he was too hungry to pick it up and hurl it at the wall. It hadn't been a good day up to now, and he could do without Susie rubbing salt into an open wound. Two calls they'd had so far. Two measly, stinking calls. All afternoon they'd sat around the office, dozing, scratching their arses, waiting for the phone to ring. Finally, Jimmy had suggested putting in a call to Newman. Work was work, another five grand in the mitt, just for doing the airport run… What about it, Frank?

Dillon folded a slice of bread, dunked it in the eggs. 'I was workin' in Scotland, started up the business with the cash,' he reminded her. He took a bite, chewed, glared at the Daddies Sauce bottle. 'Not that you've shown any interest. Not even been to see the place…'

'I'm not actually flushed for time, Frank,' Susie said, attacking the bacon. 'I shop, cook, clean the house, as well as washing, ironing. You think your shirts walk into the wardrobe?'

'I don't want you workin'.'

'We need the money from Marway -'

Dillon swiped his plate off the table, along with the cutlery, salt and pepper, sauce bottle. He wrenched a bunch of crumpled fivers from his pocket and flung them on the table, white to the lips.

'Take it, take it – an' get on that phone, tell your Mum, tell her not to come, I want you here lookin' after my kids!'

Jimmy pulled up in the metallic gold Granada just as Susie was leapfrogging across the central courtyard in an L-plated Nissan Micra, gripping the steering-wheel in both hands, a frown of concentration on her face. Marway sat beside her, composed and calm as ever.

Grinning, Jimmy did a sweeping bow, ushering Susie on her way. 'Left hand down a bit, love!' he laughed, and then caught a glimpse of Dillon in the flat above, lurking behind the bedroom curtains.

'Big Brother's watchin' you, Susie!' Jimmy waved. 'Hi, Frank!' and hooted again as Dillon ducked out of sight.

Dillon was livid. Susie had paid no attention to the 'I will be obeyed ' act and it pissed him off. She had started getting at him, not listening to him, and he felt inadequate. She'd even got her ruddy mother coming over even though he told her that he didn't want her in the flat, but the frustrating thing was, deep down, he knew Susie was right, they did need the money. He just hated feeling impotent.

The boys were in the bath, and Jimmy got roped into towelling them down while Dad sorted out clean pyjamas. He emerged from the bathroom carrying young Phil wrapped in a towel, bouncing him up and down.

'Second one all clean an' ship-shape, Sergeant! Where you want him?'

In the boys' room he found Dillon, wearing a plastic apron and a scowl, wet shirt sleeves rolled up, buttoning Kenny's pyjama top. The doorbell shrilled, and Dillon said, 'That'll be your Gran… get 'em in their bunks, Jimmy, then we gotta get a move on.'

He was halfway along the landing on his way to answer the door when Jimmy's mocking voice floated from the bedroom. 'Don't forget to take your pinny off, Freda!'

Dillon dragged it off and furiously flung it over the banister. After all he'd said – after giving it to her straight, and she hadn't taken a blind bit of notice. Well, we'll see, he thought, thumping down the stairs. We'll bloody well see about that.

'Awww shit! These bloody elephants are givin' me a hernia!'

Sweat running down his neck, Harry staggered through the doorway into the passage, a tea chest clasped in his arms. He nearly tripped, grazed his elbow on the pink wall, and lost his grip. The corner thudded against one of the tea chests already stacked there, the side split open, straw and plastic bubbles spilling over the floor.

'… five, six, seven,' Dillon counted, checking them off on his clipboard. Jimmy and Cliff panted in, carrying one between them. 'Eight,' Dillon said. 'This the lot, jimmy?'

'Yeah, this is it…' Jimmy mopped his face, then noticed the gaping split. 'Which cack-handed twat did that!'

'I just dropped it,' Harry said lamely. 'Weighs a ton…'

'You're tellin' me!' Jimmy used the side of his foot to tidy up the straw. 'Get it back together, come on, they'll be here…'

'I'm off,' said Dillon, handing over the clipboard. 'Check the cash, Jimmy. Knowing Newman, he's probably printin' it hisself.' And swapped Jimmy's dark look with an even darker one of his own. 'I don't wanna see him, okay?' He went out, banging the door.

Jimmy squatted on his haunches. An elephant with no nose was sticking through the tangle of straw bulging from the split. He yanked it out.

'Its trunk's off!'

Cliff leaned over. 'I got the same back at the flat. We just switch it over, they won't know.'

Jimmy jerked his arm out, pointing. 'Go an' get it – move! They'll be here…'

The panel buzzed, lights flashed. In her little plywood-and-glass cubby-hole Susie swivelled round in the typist's chair, mug of tea to her mouth. She put one on hold, flicked a switch. 'Marway MiniCabs. Oh, hi, where are you, Tom? I've got a fare holding.' She flicked over. 'Sorry to keep you waiting… Heathrow. Do you need a collection return service? Okay, thank you… right, about fifteen minutes.' She flicked back. 'Tom, 12 Ranleigh Crescent to Heathrow, basement bell, Mrs Dunley.' Buzzing, flashing. 'Marway MiniCabs… I'm sorry, I'll just check where the driver is – will you hold?' Flick of the switch. 'Car 14, come in, Car 14 to base, please.' Crackle. Hiss. Voice from Mars. 'Car 14, I'm in Edgware Road. There's an overturned lorry…'

Susie laughed. 'Yeah, I'm sure. Can you get the fare in Ladbroke Grove or not?' She paused, her hand on the switch, as Dillon walked in, lightly perspiring in a red vee-necked sweater with no shirt under his black leather jacket. He came up to the counter, stood there, feet planted, and she didn't need to ask what mood he was in; his face was eloquent testimony to that.

The glass-panelled door to the inner office opened. Marway peered out. Dillon ignored him.

'Susie, get your coat.'

'Nothing wrong, is there?' inquired Marway, raising an eyebrow.

'Not yet!' Eyes front and centre, voice deadpan.

Susie didn't move, watching him carefully, waiting for the eruption. Instead Marway said in his pleasant, modulated voice, 'I've got some details of insurance companies for you.' He indicated behind him, a graceful wave of the hand, gold cuff-link glinting. 'You want to come upstairs?'

Dillon shot a glance at the Sikh. His eyes clouded, more in confusion than anger. Susie didn't know what he would do next, and neither, she realised, did he.

Shirley was up a ladder, paste brush in one hand, scissors in the other, when Cliff arrived at the flat. He stepped round the furniture, draped in dust sheets, the trunkless elephant under his arm, giving his fiancee's endeavours the once-over.

'That bit over there's crooked,' he said, and started rummaging amongst the paint cans and decorating paraphernalia on the newspaper spread over the floor. 'Where's the strong glue?'

'Crooked?' Shirley backed down the steps, her long legs and shapely rump camouflaged under a baggy check smock. 'You'll get this brush wrapped around your head… Ahh!' Seeing the elephant, she gave a cry of anguish. 'Did you break it?'

'It's just the trunk,' Cliff reassured her, prising the top off the small plastic tube. 'I'll fix it.'

'That's not the same one -!' Shirley bent down for a closer look. 'That's got green eyes, the other one had brown. I don't like that one! Where's the other one?'

Cliff applied epoxy double-strength quick-drying glue to both surfaces and pressed the trunk back into place, using his finger and thumb as a clamp. 'I had to take it back.' He waited a couple of moments and then tried to let go. 'Oh!' Stuck. 'Shit!'

'Which colour do you like?' Shirley opened a sample book of curtain material, marked with slips of paper. She held it up to the light. 'This one… or that one? I like this one,' tapping a lemon polyester with faint green stripes.

'Yeah, great.' Cliff said through his teeth, attempting to unpeel himself from the elephant. He yanked hard, bringing tears to his eyes. One intact elephant. Minus two fingerprints.

Mrs Marway poured tea into bone china cups from a silver teapot with an S-shaped spout. She leaned across the low table, and with a smile handed Dillon his tea, a bracelet of gold inlaid with lapis-azuli on her slender brown wrist, matching the heavy necklace displayed against her cashmere sweater. Perched on the edge of the sofa, Dillon tried to get his finger through the S-shaped handle, and couldn't, so he gingerly held the cup in both hands, scared to death of dropping it.

Susie, seated next to him, watched with bated breath. She nodded and smiled at Mrs Marway, who nodded and smiled back. The room seemed very warm, almost claustrophobic. It was lavishly decorated, with embossed wallpaper and fringed wall hangings and framed prints, rich fabrics and furry rugs everywhere, cabinets with built-in spotlights showing off shelves of china, crystal and copperware. Expensive, quite impressive, but a bit overwhelming for Susie's taste.

'He's been fair to me from day one,' Marway was telling Dillon frankly. He leaned back at ease in his winged armchair, fingers clasped together, legs elegantly crossed, a crease in his trousers that could have sliced cheese. 'And if you open an account, show a good cash flow…' He spread his hands. No problem. Plain sailing.

'We made over five grand, first week,' Dillon revealed after a slight hesitation. '… No thanks,' he said politely, refusing the small silver tray of cakes and biscuits proffered by their hostess.

'That's good, just one car.' Marway was impressed. 'Word of advice. Don't ask for just the amount you need, you'll have to give yourself manoeuvrability. If I were you, I'd specialise. With the army experience your men all have, terrorist training… make that your speciality.' He pursed his lips, eyes gazing meditatively at a hanging brass lantern. 'At a low, thirty. But try for forty.'

Dillon nearly dropped his cup. 'Thousand?!'

Marway nodded. 'But you can't have my receptionist.'

Dillon's head went forward at that, and Marway's grave face broke into a smile. 'Just joking. But I believe one of the reasons my business runs smoothly is because I use my family – my three brothers, a cousin, two uncles – all drive for me. It's a family concern.'

Dillon finished his tea and gratefully put the cup safely back in its saucer. 'My lads are my family,' he said, standing. He put out his hand and Marway got up to shake it. 'Thanks for this,' Dillon added, meaning it, 'and for…' He indicated Susie. 'She driving yet?'

'Test next month, isn't it, Susie?' Marway said with a smile.

Dillon looked quickly at Susie, gawking a little. Susie smiled at the carpet, flushing.

Later, as they were undressing in the lamplight, Dillon said, 'So you think you'll pass?' His feelings were at sixes and sevens, not sure whether he felt proud, or threatened, or what.

'I don't know.' Susie crawled into bed and lay down on the pillow, eyes closed. 'I can still have lessons then?'

'I'm sorry… he's an okay bloke.' Dillon sat on the edge of the bed in his jockey shorts, elbows on his knees. 'Things have been getting on top of me – well, Jimmy. He means well.' He sighed, shaking his head. 'It's just so easy for him, he's been out longer. Well, to be honest,' Dillon admitted in a rare moment of confession, 'he's arranged most of it…'

'What about the others – Cliff, and, and -' Susie yawned.

'Harry. Harry Travers. He's okay, and Cliff. It's just… Jimmy.' Dillon picked at some loose skin on his thumb. 'There was a night, in Northern Ireland, there were ten of us, me and my lads, and we were…'

A soft snore made him look round. Dillon reached over and drew the bedcover up around his wife's shoulder. He gently touched her cheek. He said in a whisper, 'I'm trying, Susie.'

By shoving the desk forward a couple of feet and pushing the chairs to the wall, Harry had found a space for his doss bag. With a chicken vindaloo, mushroom pilau and two brinjal bhajis keeping the lid on five pints of bitter and two large Jamesons, he was well away, snoring loudly. From above, the faint sound of Annie Lennox, the murmur of voices and laughter, but Harry slept on.

Two shapes slid past the window, silhouetted in the streetlight. The clink of something metallic, the protesting groan of timber, and then a sharp crack as full leverage was applied.

Harry stopped a mid-snore. His eyes came open. He held his breath, listening. The splintering of wood from the passage confirmed it; he hadn't been dreaming. In one movement he slid out of the sleeping bag, kicked it under the desk, rocked himself up. Barefooted, wearing his old maroon tracksuit with the blue regimental crest and the word 'Airborne' on the left breast, he moved to his bergen and from a side pouch slid out a nine-inch iron bar with a bulbous end.

A slit of light appeared under the door as someone flashed a torch.

Harry crept round the desk, flattened himself against the wall. Torchlight fanned out under the door. A floorboard creaked. Harry raised the iron bar. The knob twisted and the door slowly opened.

Harry waited just long enough to check out there was more than one, and as the torchbeam swept the office, let the first man have it, downward smash, on the back of the head, knocking him cold. He swung round to face the second man, a big sod, framed in the doorway, and beckoned to him with a smile.

'Come on, you bastard… come on!'

The man lunged. Something glinted in his hand. Harry pivoted on the balls of his feet, chopped the wrist as the blade went for him, and heard a clatter of metal. The man stumbled forward under his own momentum. Harry clipped him with the iron bar, and the man collided with the desk, sending it crashing over. He was up fast, hurling the telephone, a chair, anything he could lay his hands on. Then it was Harry's turn. He saw the right hook coming, parried it with his left arm, brought up the iron bar and clouted the man across the ear. The man staggered, nearly fell, regained his balance. Harry followed in with a heel to the knee-cap and finished it off with a head-butt. It was a job well done, neat, tidy, professional, and Harry, softly rifting vindaloo fumes, felt quite pleased with himself.

CHAPTER 25

Cliff's jaw sagged as he took in the shambles. 'Bloody hell, does Frank know yet?' he asked, stepping over a broken chair. He looked round, shaking his head, and then saw the two figures hunched against the wall, shirts pulled up and knotted over their heads, arms between their knees, hands and feet tied together.

Harry leaned against the overturned desk. One sleeve of his tracksuit was rolled up, his forearm bandaged and taped. He straightened up as Dillon walked in and stopped dead in the doorway, staring. Susie appeared behind him, peering round his shoulder.

Scratching his head, Harry launched in, 'They broke in last night. I didn't even feel it,' pointing to the bandage, 'but one of 'em slashed me arm, so when I done the business… Hello, love,' he greeted Susie, 'I went to the hospital. I just got back.'

'I'll go,' Susie said. She looked up into Dillon's face. 'I thought it all sounded too good to be true.'

'Susie!' Dillon called as she stumped out. He half-turned to go after her and changed his mind. He looked at the wrecked office and then at the two men, trussed up like IRA suspects. 'You didn't call the police?'

'No.' Harry moved across to them. 'I might have been a bit nasty, I gave 'em both a hell of a whack…' It sounded more apologetic than boastful. 'And then when I turned the lights on -' reaching down and yanking up one of the shirts ' – I recognised him!'

So did Dillon. It was Newman's minder, Colin, the one with the widow's peak and the permanent five o'clock shadow, only now it was a nine o'clock shadow the morning after. His hair was matted with blood, and it had caked down one side of his face. There was a sock stuffed in his mouth, which was why his bulging-eyed fury was restricted to apoplectic gurgles and choking grunts.

Dillon was puzzled. 'What did they want? Did they get our cash? I mean – why wreck the place?'

'Ask him! Or whichever -' Harry tore off the shirt, revealing the other man's head, which had an open gash along the jawline and two bloodshot eyes separating a yellow bruise ' – you want!'

Jaunty steps down to the basement and Jimmy breezed in, whistling. As the whistle died away to silence, the phone rang. Jimmy kicked the broken chair aside. 'What the hell's been goin' on?'

Dillon threw his hands up. He snapped irritably, 'Answer the phone, Cliff!'

'I'm lookin' for it, all right?' Cliff said, down on his hands and knees, crawling through the wreckage. He found the wire and traced it hand over hand to the corner behind the filing cabinet.

Dillon pulled the sock out of Colin's mouth and narrowly avoided being spat in the face for his trouble. The man was berserk, frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling.

'You bastards! I'll have this place torched! You bastards – crazy bastards -'

'Hey Frank, Frank,' Cliff yelled. 'This is business, it's Shirley…'

'Get rid of her.' Dillon clamped his hands to Colin's face. 'You shut it!' he snarled.

Cliff was still yelling. 'Jimmy, can you get your hands on a roller for a weddin'? It's Mavis's sister, friend of Shirley's, she's been let… Jimmy?'

'You make your soddin' weddin' plans another time,' Dillon shouted. 'Get off the phone!'

'It's not my weddin – it's a job!'

Jimmy whirled on him. 'Say yes, get off the phone!'

'Order a hearse, you're gonna need one,' Colin muttered, dark murder in his eyes. Dillon used the back of his hand to smash Colin's head against the wall.

Cliff had finished the call and hovered near the door. 'Burt it's tomorrow, Frank… they want a Roller.'

With a glaze over his eyes Dillon grabbed Cliff by the collar, shoved him into the passage and slammed the door, screaming, 'Get off the fuckin' phone!'

He turned back. Harry was swinging his leg. His toe thudded into Colin's ribs. Colin, already hunched over, hunched deeper, howling. Dillon said, 'You got ten seconds. What you after?'

Colin's strained, agonised face came up. 'He just wants the bloody elephant back…'

Dillon went down on one knee, gripped Colin by the throat, fingers digging in. His voice was lethal.

'You tell that prick Newman – he wants somethin' from me, then all he had to do was ask!'

He stood up, eyes glittering, yanked his jacket straight, and went to the door, jerking his head for Harry to follow.

'What you doin'?' Jimmy asked, confused.

Dillon said coldly, 'They're your friends, take ' em to Newman!' and went out.

Shirley was doing the tricky bit round the window frame when Dillon and Harry showed up. She let them in and went back to her scissors, straight edge and paste brush. 'Did you get that Roller organised?' she asked Dillon, who was standing near the door, looking round the room. It took him a second to cotton on.

He nodded, lifting a dust sheet. 'Cliff's handling that personally.'

'Well that's all right then.' Shirley peeled away the edge of the wallpaper, snipped three times, pressed it back. '… Mavis is givin' me my dress at cost price, if Susie wants anythin' run up, shirts, blouses, she'll -'

Dillon spotted it, under a sheet of newspaper on the sideboard. 'We've just come to pick up the elephant.' He grabbed it, stepped over paint cans on his way to the door.

'Oh!' Shirley glanced round with a surprised smile. 'Can you change it?'

Dillon looked at her and then looked at Harry, who shrugged. What's she on about? Down in the street, Harry opened the rear door of the security wagon and they climbed in. Sitting opposite one another on the steel benches, Dillon held the elephant in both hands and gave it a gentle shake, then a harder one.

'Is it hollow?' Harry sucked at the fringes of his moustache. 'You don't think it's drugs, do you?'

'It's not hollow, doesn't sound hollow.' Dillon snapped the trunk off where Cliff had fixed it and tapped the solid part with his fingernail. He held the elephant up, turning it this way and that. 'Can you see joins?'

Harry had a brainwave. 'Ivory, it's illegal – he's bringin' in ivory! Is that ivory, the tusks?'

'Harry,' said Dillon wearily, 'the tusks are an inch long – he'd need twenty tons of them. Come on, let's get back to camp.'

Harry reached for the handle that wasn't there; the inside of the door was smooth welded steel with a horizontal slit near the top.

'Ohhh shit! You can't open the doors from inside,' Harry suddenly remembered. 'It's a security device…'

Dillon closed his eyes.

'It's okay,' Harry said, peering through the slit. He whistled. 'Oi… Oi, Shirley!'

About to dump a black plastic bag in the bin at the garden gate, Shirley looked round. Harry's eyes squinted at her through the slit.

'Can you just open the door, Shirley… we're locked inside.'

Shirley doubled over, shaking with laughter. 'Call yourselves a security firm…!'

There must have been ten thousand items in the warehouse. Rack upon rack of carved wooden figurines, brass ornaments, beaded cloths, ashtrays, beaten copper tea trays, ebonite letter openers, brass wind chimes, pregnant fertility goddesses, tigers, elephants and snakes of baked terracotta with bits of coloured glass for eyes. The peoples of the Indian sub-continent were paid starvation wages for churning out the stuff. Barry Newman imported it by the container-load and slapped on a mark-up of twelve hundred per cent. It was what was known as enterprise initiative.

Newman moved along the racks, his gaunt, hollow face as stiff as one of the carved heads. Jimmy walked behind him, stepping lightly as if he were treading on eggshells. 'Frank said you gave it to him!' Jimmy protested, not liking the wheedling tone of his own voice, especially after the third or fourth time.

Newman stopped. Seized by a sudden fit of rage, his bony hand shot out, sent one of the metal racks toppling, hundreds of cheap and nasty artifacts and ornaments crashing to the concrete floor.

'I am gettin' tired of repeating myself, Jimmy,' Newman said flatly, not even raising his voice above the clattering echoes. 'He was given one from the first shipment, but the missing one came from the second! What did he do? Switch them?'

Jimmy backed away, hands raised. 'It's just a mix up, leave it with me and I'll sort it. You'll have it tonight!' he promised.

He turned and hurried out as two of Newman's men started to clear up the debris. What bloody game was Dillon playing? Messing with Newman, he wanted his bumps feeling. Newman had been mates with the Krays and had picked up one or two of their nice little habits. And added a few neat twists of his own. Like carving his initials in people's faces, using knee-caps for target practice. Dillon wasn't part of the Maroon Machine any more, he was in civvies, and if he didn't wake up quick to that fact, he'd soon wake up dead.

'Go on,' Dillon urged Harry, who was standing over the elephant with a hammer. 'Smash it!' Jimmy walked in and saw the elephant on the desk. He said in a relieved voice, 'Frank, you got it!' and then saw Harry, hammer raised high. 'No! Wait…!'

Horrified, he watched as Harry clouted it one, smashed off a chunk and knocked the elephant to the floor. Dillon picked it up, set it back on the desk. 'Hit it again…'

'Come on, don't mess around,' Jimmy said, frantic. 'Give it me!'

Harry brought the hammer down, this time the arse-end and one of the back legs fell off. 'It's solid, Frank,' was Harry's considered opinion.

The phone rang, over in the corner. Distracted, Jimmy looked round and saw it was on top of the filing cabinet where Cliff has left it. He snatched up the receiver, eyes fixed on Harry, who was hefting the hammer for another crack.

'Yeah?' Jimmy almost snarled into the phone. 'What? Shit…' He covered the mouthpiece. 'It's a geezer wantin' a cab to Gatwick… Don't smash it, Harry!'

Jimmy flapped his arm desperately. 'Harry – wait!'

Too late.

'I need it by eleven in the morning, but it's got to be white,' Cliff said to Fernie. They were standing outside the main workshop doors, a weak sun playing hide-and-seek behind some threatening clouds.

Fernie wiped his hands on an oily rag, looking round the yard. 'That's all I've got,' he said finally, pointing a black-rimmed fingernail. Cliff goggled. It was a hearse. Chromium-plated cherubs supporting the coffin guide-bars in the long rear window.

'I can put seats in the back,' Fernie offered helpfully.

The portable phone beeped on the Granada's dashboard. Cliff reached inside to answer it. 'Who? What? Gatwick?' He frowned into the phone. 'But I'm out of gas! Hang on…' He patted his pockets, pulled out an Oddbins receipt, and turned to Fernie. 'Can you lend us twenty quid till tomorrow?'

Fernie just stared at him.

The last of the stragglers were heading off home when Susie arrived at the schoolyard. She went through the gates, struggling with two Tesco carrier-bags laden with shopping, a skirt she'd just collected from the dry cleaner's in a plastic wrapper under her arm. Stupid woman had got the tags mixed up, which was why she was late. The last of the kids had gone by now, the yard empty except for two boys aimlessly kicking a football about.

She went over to them. 'Do you know Phil and Kenny Dillon?' One of the boys shrugged, while the other simply ignored her, balancing the ball on his instep.

The caretaker came out with a bunch of keys. Same question, and pretty much the same response. Susie trailed back to the gates, a breathless, fluttery sense of panic in her chest. But they couldn't have gone far, they'd been told time and again not to wander off. They were good kids really. She looked worriedly up and down the street… just wait till she got her hands on the pair of them!

One of the boys called out, 'They were picked up, 'bout fifteen minutes ago.'

Frank? But he was working. Then who? Susie started running.

CHAPTER 26

The pressure was on. Dillon felt he was in the middle of a Marx Brothers movie, not sure whether he was Groucho, Chico, Harpo, or Karl. First Cliff rang in: transport for tomorrow's wedding job sorted, which was one headache less, at least. The instant Dillon put the phone down it rang again. Marway. Appointment with the bank manager fixed up. Could they make it for ten in the morning, on the dot? 'Yeah!' Dillon was excited. 'Yeah, we'll be there…'

With the elephant under his arm, Jimmy was halfway to the door.

'Wait…!'

Harry, who was on his way out, came back in.

'Not you, Harry, go on, get out – put that back!' Dillon said to Jimmy, pointing at the desk. He spoke into the phone. 'Sorry, Mr Marway… yes, okay, and thank – thank you very much.'

He banged the phone down and darted for the door, yelling, 'Harry! Harry – wait!' and caught up with him in the passage. 'We got an appointment at the bank with the manager.' Dillon counted the tips of his fingers. 'Now, we'll need all your deeds, an' all our commendations from the Army, an' -'

The phone rang. Jimmy shouted from the office, 'Frank, it's Susie!'

'Ask her what she wants,' Dillon called, not quite through. He was still on his third finger, trying to remember what it was. Somebody knocked on the door, making him forget completely. 'See who it is, Harry,' Dillon said, turning back.

'Bloody hell, what you think I am, a yo-yo?' Harry grumbled, opening the door. 'Tell me one thing, then -' Two engineers in trim grey overalls, British Telecom logo on their breast pockets. 'Frank!' Harry yelled over his shoulder. 'Hey, Frank, better come out here…'

Halfway through the door, Dillon swayed back from the hips, got a peek, and dived into the office. Jimmy was saying into the phone, 'He's just comin'… what? No, we bin here all afternoon.' He held out the receiver to Dillon with one hand and picked up the elephant with the other.

'Put that back!' Dillon ordered, grabbing the phone off him. He jerked his thumb. 'There's two blokes out there from the GPO, take care of them!' Jimmy opened his mouth as if to protest or perhaps explain, but Dillon wouldn't give him the chance. 'I warned you about connecting the phones – just sort it out.'

Reluctantly, dawdling, Jimmy turned away.

'Sue?' Dillon said. And then through his teeth: 'Give that here, Jimmy!'

Sighing, Jimmy put the elephant down on the desk. The engineers were just outside the door, looking up at the electric box. One of them unclipped a pencil torch. 'Is there a problem, mate?' inquired Jimmy heartily. He glanced behind at Dillon and pulled the door shut. 'Only we just moved into the premises…'

Dillon sat on the edge of the desk, frowning at the elephant, what was left of it, with its decorative head-covering of tiny beads and glass baubles, vaguely trying to concentrate on what Susie's agitated voice was saying.

'Sorry, love, what…?' Not drugs, the thing wasn't hollow. Not ivory. He couldn't think what else. He said, 'Aren't they with your Mum? Well – I'd have told you if they were with me.' He listened, nodding, pushing a hand through his hair. 'Okay, call me back.'

Dillon put the phone down, still gazing at the elephant, now wondering about Kenny and Phil. He wasn't unduly worried, not at this moment, but it was yet another niggle he could do without, On top of this weird Nelly the Elephant business, the bank appointment in the morning, and now the damn GPO snooping around. He'd warned Jimmy, but Jimmy wouldn't be told. He knew all the angles. Which corners to cut. How to bend rules and regulations, con the VAT-man, dodge standing charges. Always shading the odds in his favour, living by his wits and a winning smile. Dillon looked at his hands, flexing his fingers. That's what Jimmy was to him, Dillon thought, like one of his own vital, indispensable hands that had turned rogue. Jimmy Hammond. His Bad Left Hand.

Jimmy pushed the door open with his own left hand, edging in backwards. 'They were already connected, we just got the one line,' Dillon heard him telling the engineers. 'I mean, why do we have to pay a connection fee if we're already connected?' Puzzled, querulous, an innocent child falsely accused.

He sidled round the door, and with a guarded look at Dillon, shoved one of the telephones into a drawer. Dillon slammed it shut. He hissed at Jimmy, 'We got to get all our references, we're in the bank ten sharp for the loan.'

Jimmy's face registered disappointment, even hurt. 'I was gonna set that up…'

'Well I've done it. So you sort them -' jabbing towards the passage. 'If we have to pay, then pay up.'

Having given an order, Sergeant Dillon marched out, double-quick time, the elephant under his arm.

He walked through his front door to hear Helen's voice from the living-room going on about calling the police or something. Then Susie rushed into the hallway, her face white as a sheet. 'Frank! Are the kids with you?'

'No, why?' Dillon said, the telephone receiver in his hand. 'The ruddy phones in the office are off, I've got to contact Cliff -'

It all came out in a rush.

'They've been missing all afternoon Frank I've called everyone I don't know what to do Frank I can't…'

'Al right, love.' Dillon went very still. Carefully he put the phone down. His voice was calm, his movements unhurried, even gentle, as he led her into the living-room. '… All right, I'm here now. How long they been gone?'

There was a knock at the door. Susie tried to pull away from him but Helen got there first. Jimmy came in -'Hi, Frank, you still got it?' – his gaze fixed on the elephant, which Dillon had placed on the sideboard.

Susie burst out, 'Nobody's seen them since four, a lad said they'd been picked up,' while Helen broke in, 'I been round the estate and back to the school three times-'

'One at a time, Susie – picked up by who?'

'What?' Jimmy looked quickly from one to the other. 'Somethin' happened to the boys?'

'I don't know…' Susie bent forward, hands clenched, and screamed at the top of her voice, 'I don't know!'

The phone rang. Dillon held up his hand as Susie made a move. 'I'll answer it.' He went into the hall.

Susie watched him, her eyes large and bright, her body straining forward as if waiting for the starter's pistol. 'Oh please dear God, please let it be them…' She saw his shoulders tense. He turned then, and when she saw his face, rigid, the muscles twitching in his jaw, Susie nearly had heart seizure. Barely moving his lips, she heard him say, 'You touch a hair on their heads an' I'll swear I'll -'

'What is it? Frank? Frank?'

Dillon put the phone down. His teeth bit deep into his lower lip, forcing the blood out, while his dark hooded eyes bored into Jimmy's with an intense smouldering anger. He said hoarsely, 'Jimmy and me'll bring 'em back.'

'Where are they…?' Susie whispered. 'Frank?'

'Stay put, Susie, it's just a misunderstanding… stay here! Mum, look after her!' Dillon slowly brought his hand up and pointed at Jimmy. 'You, with me. Move.'

Down on the second landing, Dillon said, 'That bastard's got my kids, Jimmy. He's got my kids.'

They reached the courtyard just as the black Jaguar Sovereign was ghosting in from the street, Newman's chief minder Colin in the passenger seat, his bruiser's mug bearing the marks of Harry's night ops. Kenny and Phil waved through the rear window, loaded up with Indian temple bells, papier-mache masks, brass candlestick holders and sundry other Third World trash.

Colin stood by the open door as they tumbled out with their spoils. 'Mr Newman just wanted to show you how easy it is, Frank.'

Dillon stepped forward, fists bunched, and Colin held up his hand, smiling. 'Not in front of your boys, Frank…' He got back in the car, slid the window down. 'You've got something that belongs to our Guv'nor. Hand it over – simple as that.' His eyes shifted from Dillon's face. 'Tell him, Jimmy.'

Dillon stood between the boys, hands on their shoulders, his face carved from stone. 'You tell Newman I'll bring it to him,' he said as the car pulled away. 'Personally.'

Harry was trying for his good housekeeping badge, tidying up what was left of the office, when Dillon and Jimmy walked in twenty minutes later. Dillon got the tool box from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and took out a hammer, chisel and screwdriver.

'I got me sister faxin' all the details direct to the bank,' Harry told them, sweeping rubbish into a nice neat pile in the corner. 'Cliff's out buyin' weddin' bells.'

'If that bank manager was to come down here,' said Dillon grimly, 'we'd not get a post office savin' book, never mind a loan.' He gripped the hammer, a frown of concentration on his face as he stared at the broken elephant. 'Newman kidnapped my kids for this…'

'For chrissakes, Frank,' Jimmy panicked, 'he just wants the bloody thing back!'

Dillon angrily shook off the restraining hand. 'Nobody threatens me, nobody gets my kids, frightens my wife, and I just take it!' His fierce glare made Jimmy back off. 'What went down when you saw Newman, Jimmy? And don't give me any bullshit -'

'Frank, I told you, I swear.' Jimmy held out both palms towards the elephant. 'He just wants that.'

Dillon raised the hammer, ready for an almighty swing, and then slowly lowered it. He blinked, and his jaw dropped. 'Oh man…' he said softly, almost mouthing it, '… it's staring at us in the face. Newman deals in gems, right? What if these were real?' He tapped the beads and coloured glass woven into the headpiece. 'Look at the bloody size of them.'

Taking the screwdriver, he prised out one of the fragments, a cold blue fire in its depths, and placed it in the centre of the desk.

'Okay, Harry – hit that with the hammer!'

Gripped in both meaty hands, Harry brought it down with all his eighteen stone. The desk split across the middle and caved in. All three down on their knees, muttering and cursing, scrabbling and searching. A glint amongst the debris. Dillon plucked it out and with a grin of triumph held it up – intact.

'Bingo!'

The warehouse was in darkness but there was a light burning in Newman's office. Dillon walked in without knocking. Under his arm he carried a shapeless parcel wrapped in newspaper. Jimmy stayed by the open door, trying not to look at anything specific, in particular Newman's face, a pale, gaunt death mask in the light of the desklamp.

Colin uncoiled from his chair, and Newman made a tiny fluttering motion with his fingers. 'S'all right.' He motioned the minder to leave. Colin went out, giving Jimmy a hard stare, and shut the door.

'Sit down, Frank. Want a drink?'

Dillon placed the parcel in the middle of the blotter and folded his arms. Newman unwrapped it. His face didn't alter when he saw the battered elephant, nor even the empty headpiece, the stones plucked out. He merely sat hack in his chair, his pointed tongue flicking out across the wide slit of his mouth.

Dillon took a small canvas bag from his pocket and dangled it.

'Eight crates. That was a big shipment, Mr Newman. Very decorative.'

'Very lucrative.' Newman reached out. 'Hand them over, Frank.'

'Five grand?' Dillon's face went ugly. 'We been caught, we'd have got more than five years each.'

'I can pick your kids up any time, Frank – understand me?' The soft voice, dipped in acid, was back. 'This isn't some two-bit racket, this is an organised -'

Enraged, Dillon said venomously, 'And I can have the law pick you up – Mister Newman – any time. You want to play it that way…' he nodded, 'fine by me. If I'm not out of here in ten minutes, I got one of my lads waitin' by a phone.' He held up the canvas bag, clutched tight. 'An' if you want to try an' get these by force -' Dillon lifted his head and bellowed, 'Harry!'

The door was kicked open. Framed in the doorway, Harry and a mate of his, built like a brick shithouse, had a furious, struggling Colin pinioned between them. Newman stared at Dillon, tight-lipped with fury, a tiny muscle twitching near his left eye.

'How much?'

Dillon sat down and leaned forward, forearms flat on the desk.

'I want a legit lease on the premises – four years'll do. We'll pay you a fair rent.' Newman tried to interrupt. 'I'm not finished. Plus, we want it re-wired, telephones installed, and an agreement to run a business on the premises. Then the damages to the furniture, re-decoration…'

'An' that's it?' Newman said after a little silence had collected. He reached for a cheroot and moistened the end of it.

Dillon nodded. 'One more thing,' and the husky softness in his voice made Newman pause in the act of lighting it. 'I see them near my kids -' Dillon turned his head and looked deliberately into Colin's face and deliberately back again ' – then it becomes personal. I'll do ten for you, Newman, understand?'

CHAPTER 27

I'll do ten for you, Newman, understand?

He'd understood all right. In the flare of the match as he lit his cheroot, Dillon had seen it in the flat grey eyes. And Dillon had meant it. Not big, empty words, running off at the mouth, but the complete, literal truth. One more move like that and he'd gladly, willingly, definitely do for the bastard.

Dillon blamed himself. Everything Newman touched was corrupt, rotten, and yet he'd allowed Jimmy to get them involved, given way easily and weakly just at the moment when he should have toughed it out. Better to go to the wall, jack it all in, than sink into Newman's pit of slime. He wanted nothing more than to provide for Susie and the boys, but he'd be doing them no favours stuck in a prison cell for five years, Barry Newman's prize mug and fall guy for one of his crooked enterprises. And that's what would happen, as inevitable and predictable as clockwork.

He was still tensed up, an odd mixture of anger and elation jumping inside him, when he arrived back at the estate just before midnight. Driving into the courtyard, Dillon saw Jimmy sitting in the jeep. He was slumped down in his seat, as if he'd been waiting for some time, holding a quarter-full bottle by the neck. There was something going down; Dillon didn't know what, and he wasn't keen on finding out. His skin felt prickly, as if charged with static electricity, his chest tight. He locked the Granada, taking his time, and strolled across.

'I just dropped Harry off, then went to see if Cliff's all clued-up for the bank manager.' Dillon snorted ruefully. 'He's at his soddin' weddin' rehearsal.'

Jimmy wasn't pissed. He'd drunk himself beyond that, into a kind of sullen, dead-eyed edginess, just this side of hysteria. His voice wasn't at all slurred, but it was sneering.

'Ah ha! Cliff goin' into the bank, is he? I don't believe it. I get the premises, get everythin' set up…' He stared. 'Why, Frank? It should just be you and me at the bank, those two assholes'll screw up!'

He jumped out, suddenly manic, jabbing his finger into Dillon's chest. 'This was us – partners.'

'The deal was the four of us, Jimmy. We're in it together, but we want it legit – no scams.'

'You came out on top, an' you could have asked ten times the amount.' Jimmy's tone was scathing, as if talking to a cretin. 'Newman was laughin' -'

'You can't stay away from him, can you?' It was an effort, but Dillon kept his temper. 'Sooner or later you'll go down.'

Jimmy turned away, as if to get back into the jeep, then he hesitated. He didn't seem to know what to do, where to put himself, so he swung back, thrust out the bottle of vodka.

'No thanks.' Dillon watched him throw his head back, take a long swig. 'There's no easy money, no easy way, we got to do it by hard graft,' Dillon said. He looked into Jimmy's eyes, bloodshot in the corners. 'If it's not for you-'

Jimmy said nastily, 'Oh, I see – this is the kiss off, is it?'

Dillon's barely-controlled temper went up a notch or two.

'Nobody's kissin' anybody off. You want out, say so, you'll get whatever dough you put in.'

Jimmy swallowed hard, as if what he really wanted to do was cry. 'Have a drink with me, Frank.' Quiet, plaintive. 'Frank!'

'No, Jimmy, not tonight.'

'When then? When Frank?'

'I'll see you tomorrow.'

'You won't, I'm gone,' Jimmy said. 'I'm out of here.' He hurled the bottle against the wall.

Dillon tried to take his arm. 'Don't be like this, Jimmy…'

Jimmy yanked free. 'Get off me! Go in to your screechin' wife and kids -' He blundered forward swinging, a clumsy punch that knocked Dillon backwards. Jimmy's eyes were hot and wild, urging him to take a swipe, goading him on. Dillon wiped blood from his mouth. He said quietly, 'You're pissed, Jimmy.'

'Am I? What about just pissed off!' All of a sudden he seemed to cringe down, abject, pleading. 'I want you to have a drink with me.'

Dillon said nothing. He just shook his head slightly, as if his tolerance level had finally, at long last, been breached. He was as confused as Jimmy in a different way, feelings of anger, contempt, pity and compassion all jangled together, making no kind of sense.

As if realising he had overstepped the mark, Jimmy hesitantly reached out and touched Dillon's burst lip.

'I'm sorry… Frank, come on, you know, know I care about you. You need me…'

'No,' Dillon said, muted, 'you got it all wrong, I don't -'

He went stiff. Jimmy had his arms around him, hugging him. He was crying, sobbing, like a broken-hearted child. Dillon felt Jimmy's hot tears against his cheek, the scrape of his chin, and then the slobbering mouth as Jimmy tried to kiss him. Dillon stepped back, shuddering. He hit jimmy open-handed across the face. Jimmy took it and stood, head bowed, tears dripping down, and Dillon slapped him again, as hard and viciously as he could.

'I've always covered for you, Jimmy, now I'm warnin' you, you're out. And don't you come anywhere near my kids.' He wiped his mouth where the blood had smeared. 'You sick bastard.'

Dillon turned his eyes away from the wretched sight and walked towards the concrete stairwell.

'It was a joke!' Jimmy called out pathetically, attempting to laugh. 'No harm done, eh? I just wanted you to have a last drink with me…'

Dillon kept going.

'I've signed on the dotted line, Frank, I'm going to… Frank!'

Dillon entered the stairwell and started to climb.

'Stuff you – stuff the security crap!' Jimmy shouted. 'This time next week I'll be in Colombia,' his voice bouncing and echoing round the brick tenements and concrete landings. '… Frank?' Then raising both fists to heaven, he shouted with all his might, 'FRAAAAANK!'

The echo boomed and died away. Jimmy let his arms flop down. 'I love your kids, Frank,' he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

On the second floor landing Dillon stood with his back to the wall, head resting against the concrete, listening to the jeep revving up in the courtyard below. It set off with a squeal of tyres and screeched round and round, like a lone dodgem car in a deserted funfair, headlights flashing against the buildings opposite, flashing this way as it turned, making a swirl of patterns on the underside of the walkways.

Flashing lights of ambulances and fire engines on the ceiling of the upstairs room in Hennessey's Bar. Smoke seeping through the floorboards. Downstairs an inferno. Taffy, Jimmy, Steve, Harry, Dillon's lads, crawling through the smoke and flames, searching for the injured. Taffy lifting a beam to let Steve get through with Billy Newman. Harry holding up a table while Jimmy dived underneath to get the girl clear. All of them risking their necks, laying their lives on the line, not because of duty, not because of Queen and Country, but because that's the kind of blokes they were. While the Malones of this world shat their pants and scarpered, this breed of men put their bollocks in a vice and got the job done. It was a privilege to know them, an honour to have served with them, a matter of pride that he was one of them, his mates, his lads. Nothing could ever break the bond, whatever the crap Civvy Street threw at you. Nothing was worth breaking it for.

Dillon was running. He leapt down the stairs three, four, at a time. He cleared the last flight in a single flying jump and came charging into the courtyard as the jeep rocked on its springs in a last crazy turn and shot off into the street and vanished into the night.

Dillon heard it screeching far, far away in the distance. Jimmy Hammond. His Bad Left Hand. But he would sooner have cut off his own right hand than lose him.

'Jimmy… ah! Jimmy,' Dillon said, staring into the darkness, his face wet. 'I didn't mean it.'

Dillon waited in the hope Jimmy would make one last trip back, wanting, needing to tell him, he didn't mean it. The jeep never came back, and Dillon sat on the wall and looked at all the graffiti. He lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke slowly drift out of his lungs. He wondered if Jimmy would just forget it, waltz in the next day, give him that wink of his… Dillon knew that telling him not to see his kids would have cut into Jimmy's heart, he did love them, half the postcards on their board were from Uncle Jimmy. Every Christmas the gifts came, he never forgot one of their birthdays. Jimmy truly loved Frank's boys, maybe because he knew he'd never have any himself.

Dillon pulled on his cigarette and wondered if he should call Jimmy until it dawned: he didn't even know where he was shacked up, but that was Jimmy, his private life was always kept well out of access. It has been a strange sort of agreement they had made, even though it had been years ago.

'What you do in the privacy of your own time Hammond, is your business, but, I don't know about it, I don't want to know about it, and no one else is gonna know – well not from me!'

Jimmy had stood with head bowed, his thick thatch of blonde hair as always immaculate, he stood as if expecting Dillon to say more, but when nothing else was said he slowly raised his head, looking directly at Dillon. There was no shame in his eyes, almost an arrogance. 'I am what I am, Frank.'

'I know, but don't let the blokes get so much as a whiff or your career's out the fuckin' window.'

'Yeah, I know.'

Jimmy, the bloke with no fear, the first man to volunteer to defuse a bomb, the bigger, the more dangerous the better, as if he liked the adrenalin, needed it. Jimmy, the soldier all the blokes reckoned was gonna roar through the ranks, Jimmy Hammond earmarked for officer material, if it leaked he was a queer, he would be out, and Dillon was the only man who had sussed him. It hadn't been so much as sussed, he'd had a complaint from a recruit who never even made it through the training. Lucky for Jimmy, but it had been Dillon's job to call it… At first Jimmy had denied it, called the young bloke a wanker, but then when told if he didn't shut the fuck up and listen, it would go further, he had stood head bowed.

'The kid's useless Jimmy, he's out of here, that's why I am giving you this opportunity to come clean with me, to admit, admit whatever your kink is – and to keep it out of the barracks. Out… understand?'

Jimmy had given his odd smile, as if he still felt it was all a load of bull, but Dillon wasn't going to let him bullshit him as he was able to do everyone else. 'He was telling the truth Jimmy, he wanted to go over to medics, you beat the shit out of him, so don't fuck around with me…'

Jimmy crossed to the window, again showing not a sign of what he was feeling, no body language gave him away, he was seemingly relaxed and almost joking. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm an iron… what you want me to do, go to the CO, tell him, get chucked out?'

'You're not hearing me right Jimmy, I reckon you're one of the best men I've ever worked alongside, I don't want to lose you, this is just a warning, one between you and me, won't go any further. I'm just telling you to keep your private life private… that's all, nothing else.'

Jimmy remained standing with his back to Dillon. 'Na! I'll quit, I'm not having that bunch start screaming woofter at me!'

Dillon wanted to hit him. 'I'm not gonna spill the beans, like I said this is just between you and me, understand you great thick-headed bastard?'

Jimmy turned to Dillon then, there was a strange expression on his face, as if he was surprised, almost stunned. 'You'd do that for me?'

'You're one of the best, Jimmy, I'd go out on a limb for you, that's what I'm saying.'

'Well thanks, Frank

Dillon nodded, and was about to leave, when Jimmy laughed. 'I suppose a fuck's out of the question.'

Dillon turned, couldn't help but laugh, he gave Jimmy a light punch, then clasped him in his arms. 'Watch yourself eh?… This is just between you and me?'

They shook hands, and in all the years the subject had never been brought up again between them. Nobody ever did suss that Jimmy 'Fearless' Hammond, was an iron, nobody would have believed it and Jimmy took Dillon's confab to heart, he never at any time referred to or discussed his private life. It remained his secret, and after he returned from any leave, he was the one with all the stories about how many women he had laid, only occasionally would he cast a hooded look at Dillon, but even that was a little furtive, as if he knew not to take it any further.

Dillon had nicked Jimmy's CV from headquarters, read that he had been brought up in a children's home, but that was about all the background anyone ever really knew about Jimmy Hammond. What the file did contain was his recommendations, his qualities as a soldier always written up in glowing terms. Hammond was very much earmarked for officer material, although he was aggressive and was often in brawls with his superiors, but his ability in combat, especially in the Falklands, had been noted. There was even a special recommendation from Frank Dillon.

Dillon tossed the cigarette down and ground it out, walking slowly up to his flat, up the stone steps, past the graffiti, and on to his own flat's corridor. He leaned on the railings, staring into the darkness. He would probably never understand the Jimmys of this world, or their sexual predilections, they were an alien species. Dillon could never even contemplate the fact that Jimmy Hammond was obsessed with him, loved him deeply, and wanted him to himself. All Dillon knew was that he had hurt Jimmy, said something he knew would hurt, and that he was sorry for that, but it had to be said. Jimmy was dragging them into Newman's world, and it was a world Dillon knew would be destructive. He went back into the flat, more at ease with himself, sure he had done the right thing, but deep down he sort of suspected Jimmy might not come back. He had in the end overstepped their rules, even though they were now in Civvy Street. Jimmy's pitiful attempt at an embrace had broken the agreement; in a way it was a relief, a sad one, but nevertheless Dillon was relieved and, unlike Steve, Jimmy was a winner, he wouldn't do anything crazy like top himself, he was too cool for that. Jimmy'd land somewhere, someplace on his feet, probably with a machine-gun in his hands, needing the rush of adrenalin, loving the edge of danger that cloaked in fury the small, abused, loveless child, who constantly searched for the father figure he never had. Not the mother, because it was his mother who had abused and beaten him, his mother who left him starving in a squalid bedsit for two weeks. Jimmy had been in care since the age of four in eight different institutions. His army records simply stated that he had been brought up in children's homes.

CHAPTER 28

The meeting the next morning with the NatWest bank manager wasn't exactly 'an interview without coffee' – Para slang for a telling-off by the C.O. – but it didn't bode well, not in Dillon's estimation. Along with Harry and Cliff, freshly shaven, all three tarted up in their best suits, he did his level best to present an image of sober respectability allied to a keen business brain. The only thing he lacked was the Masons' secret handshake. Whether the bank manager was taken in by the act was doubtful, but at least they were given coffee and biscuits.

Coming out into the street, though, Harry was cautiously optimistic, a bit puzzled by Dillon's obvious dejection.

'Well, he said he'd put the wheels in motion. I mean, that's something, isn't it, Frank?'

Dillon wrenched his tie loose, striding along with the buff document file jammed under his arm. He snapped irritably, 'Harry, without a guarantor we don't stand a chance in hell!'

'Should have had Jimmy with us!' said Cliff vehemently, and it was all Dillon could manage not to blow up at him too. 'I mean,' Cliff went on, 'who do we know that's got that much clout?' He stopped suddenly, smacked his forehead with his hand. 'Christ! … I forgot!'

Dillon's eyebrows shot up. 'You know someone?'

'The bloody weddin'!' Cliff broke into a trot. He flagged his arm frantically. 'Come on, follow me… I'm in the NCP car park!'

Dillon and Harry exchanged a look that would have bored holes in galvanised steel and set off after him.

Five minutes later, standing by the Granada, Dillon impatiently checked his watch, reckoning they might just make it by the skin of their teeth if Cliff didn't take all day getting the white Rolls-Royce. Harry sat behind the wheel, keeping the Granada's engine ticking over, ready for the off.

They both looked up at the sound of squealing tyres. But neither one could believe their eyes. Dillon actually thought he was suffering from a bad case of the DTs. Down the concrete ramp came Cliff, driving a long, black Daimler hearse tricked out with silver horseshoes and plastic wedding bells, pink and white ribbons fluttering from the radio aerial. As the Daimler bounced into the street, Dillon clasped his face in both hands, eyes bulging.

'You pillock! What the hell are you drivin'? White Roller… white?

Cliff scowled out pugnaciously. 'I know the difference between black an' white, mate! This was all I could get.' With a horrible clashing of cogs, he rammed into first. 'Now follow me, we're late!'

Dillon leaned weakly against the Granada's bonnet. Harry stuck his head out, blinking as he watched the disappearing Daimler. 'Hey, Frank,' he said, scratching his chin. 'That's a hearse…!'

Dillon slowly turned his head to look at him. Why, with his crown of thorns, was he surrounded by pricks?

The bride, her three bridesmaids, her mother, sister-in-law, her father, and the best man, who had returned from the church in a panic as the bride was over half an hour late, were standing in hysterics looking up and down the street.

The bride burst into floods of tears, as the chief bridesmaid went inside the house to call for a taxi. The bride's father was ready to kill, fists clenched he threatened and shouted, as rows of neighbours stood looking up and down the road. The cheer went up as, the car horn blasting, Dillon and Harry hurtled into view in the Granada the white ribbons already trailing the floor. Harry had been in such a hurry to stick them up, now they had blown loose.

The bride almost fainted with relief, the best man was shouting for the chief bridesmaid to stop calling the taxi when round the bend, at the top of the road, and hot on the heels of the Granada, with silver bells, bows, streamers of white ribbon, horseshoes and large strips of Christmas decorations the shop had thrown in for free, came Cliff, hat rammed on, car horn blasting. It's tough to actually disguise a hearse, even covered in decorations and two seats rammed in the back! As Cliff stepped out, trying to appear nonchalant, the father of the bride, already in a state of hysteria, lunged at Cliff.

'That's a fuckin' hearse!'

Cliff sat in the office, his head bent back, holding a bloody tissue to his nose. The bloody nose was a present from the bride's father. Occasionally he closed his eyes and uttered a low moan.

'Don't be a wimp, it's not broken,' Harry growled, leaning over for a look. He flopped down and sucked fresh life into the fat cigar he was holding – a present from the best man. 'It was just that you were drivin' the hearse,' he said by way of comfort.

'We got her to the church on time!' exclaimed Cliff furiously. 'Wasn't as if she had to lie down…'

'He apologised, didn't he?' Harry said. He gave Dillon a look. 'But if Jimmy was here he'd have a fleet of Rollers -' snap of the fingers ' – like that!'

Dillon flicked confetti off his shoulder. 'Jimmy's got us into enough crap. We're better off without him.'

'You think he really signed on then?' Harry blew smoke and watched it billowing up past the stag's head. 'I've often thought of doin' a mercenary stint meself, but some of 'em are crazy bastards. He should watch out -'

'He'll be okay,' Dillon interrupted sharply. He stared off somewhere. 'You know Jimmy…'

'Nobody ever knows Jimmy.' Harry ploughed on regardless. 'He's one of those weird guys – he was demoted more than any other bloke. He was officer material, could have gone right to the top, but… you know what he is?' His blue eyes sought Dillon's.

'I don't want to talk about Jimmy,' said Dillon, tight-lipped.

'Just gonna say he was a -'

'Shut it, Harry!'

'Kleptomaniac,' Harry said, puffing on his cigar.

Dillon cackled a sour, hollow laugh. The phone went, and with a tremendous, grudging effort he reached over to answer it. Newman had delivered on that much, at any rate, had BT reconnect the line. 'Stag Security,' he mumbled into the receiver.

Cliff sat up and threw the bloody tissues into the waste basket. 'That weddin' cost us the last of the kitty… maybe if I'm broke, unemployed, it'll get me out of me own weddin'.'

'Well it was good while it lasted!' Harry said, the wise, ancient philosopher. He gave out a long sigh, suddenly dejected, and slumped down in his chair. 'I'm goin' to miss old Jimmy.'

Dillon had finished the call. He sat with his head in his hands, staring unseeingly at the desk-top. He said to no one in particular, 'I don't believe it…'

'It's not Jimmy, is it?' Harry asked quickly.

'No,' Dillon said. 'No. No.' He arched back in the chair and then slammed his fist down on the desk. The other two looked at him, alarmed, but his face was alight, positively glowing.

'I think we're in with a chance for that bank loan,' Dillon said, eyes dancing. 'We got a guarantor…'

Harry sat up. 'You jokin'?'

'Thirty thousand quid.' Amazed. Incredulous. Gobsmacked. 'It's Marway.'

A movement above Dillon's head had caught Harry's eye. He said, 'Hey! Frank-!'

'No, listen – we're in business!'

The massive stag's head was ever so slowly tilting forward from the chimney-breast, its huge weight dragging the nails out of the plaster.

'But Frank -!'

'Shut up, because you know what?' Dillon exalted, dreams filling his eyes, words bubbling out of him. 'We're gonna make it the biggest, the most successful -' arms up, fists clenched,' – Taxi! Chauffeur! Security Company! – in London. Yesssss… we're gonna make it, I know it, I feel it!'

The stag's head jerked. With a quick nod to Cliff, Harry tossed his cigar butt to the floor, the two of them jumping up. Dillon bent down to pick up the discarded butt. Directly above him the stag's head came loose and toppled, grabbed by Harry and Cliff in the nick of time.

Puffing away, Dillon strolled forward, airily sweeping out the hand holding the cigar, the mogul at his ease, business tycoon of the year. He turned to find Harry and Cliff, red-faced and straining under the weight of the massive stag's head, holding an antler apiece. If it hadn't been for their quick thinking it could have crashed down on Dillon, and killed him.

Unaware of the near miss, Dillon turned. 'No, leave that up, lads,' he said, wafting a hand. 'It's lucky.