Civvies

CHAPTER 36

Harry drove into the Roche Laundry Services' car park and parked the security wagon on the diagonal yellow stripes outside the main office. He put on his visored helmet and tightened the chinstrap, hoping, praying, that it might muffle or even, praise be, cut out Cliff's endless yakking completely. No such luck. Getting out and walking round to join Harry, Cliff kept it up.

'… I tell you, if I'd known what it was gonna be like, I'd never have agreed, she's goin' nuts. I'm workin', right, and I get back to bleat-bleat, you think she was the first woman to get pregnant. She keeps havin' fittings for the weddin' gown, rehearsals for the weddin' – terrified her Dad'll find out.'

'Well, they'll all know six months after yer weddin', she'll be in the maternity ward,' Harry said, for something to say. 'Why not just tell 'em?'

They went through reception to the Wages office, where the canvas sacks, fastened and sealed with dated lead slugs, were piled on a trolley awaiting them. They showed their IDs.

'Huh!' Cliff retorted. 'You think I want that bugger round – he hates me!' He shook his head, gave a long-suffering sigh. 'You got the right idea, Harry – stay single!'

One pulling, the other pushing, they wheeled the trolley out and started loading up. The sacks were heavy, and it was hard work, but at least it kept Cliff quiet for a while. Harry was grateful for small mercies.

Across the main road from Roche Laundry Services, on the second floor of what had been, pre-recession, the Streatham branch of a company supplying contract carpets to city offices, a man in a black boiler suit watched the loading operation through binoculars, speaking into a short-wave transceiver fastened with parcel tape to his right shoulder.

'Right on schedule… stacking the dough… I count twelve sacks, no, thirteen, unlucky for some… okay, they're closing the doors… '

'I've had more rehearsals than they have at an amateur dramatics,' Cliff grumbled, slamming his door shut and operating the dead-lock bolt. 'The bridesmaids are now up to seven, there's kids, pageboys, it'll look like a pantomime.' Harry pulled the wagon round in a tight turn, blue smoke bellowing. '… It's gonna be a real embarrassment. Frank's gonna be best man, she wants everyone in top hats

Harry halted at the gate, checked both ways, pulled out. He pushed the visor up with his thumb but kept the helmet on.

'They're on their way, turning right, that means they'll be using the A23 route. Over and out.'

At the next roundabout the wagon took the right-hand fork and slid into the flow on the A23 southbound. Harry filtered through into the fast lane and put his foot down flat to the floor.

'… I said to her, wouldn't it be a better idea if we took a honeymoon at a later date, like she's sick most mornings.'

Harry nodded, both hands gripping the wheel. Something Cliff had said ten minutes ago distantly registered, tickled him. 'You won't get Frank in a penguin suit – an' you'll look a right prat. They don't have toppers your size!'

Harry glanced over and laughed, more at Cliff's glum face than at his own weak joke. Serve him right, getting hitched. Dickhead.

At Thornton Heath he switched back down the lanes, ready for the Croydon turn-off. A convenient gap in front of a large removals van doing under fifty let him into the slow lane. As they were leaving the A23 a lorry loaded up with logs came down a slip road to their left and instead of stopping, kept on going, causing Harry to brake. He thumped the horn, gave a long blast.

'Stupid git… you see that? Cut right in front of us!'

'Hey!' Cliff was staring into the nearside wing-mirror. 'You got a big vehicle right on your tail, Harry – overtake!'

Harry flicked his indicator on, clocking the removals van in his wing-mirror. It was closing in. Then it flashed its lights, as if warning him not to overtake. The lorry in front had slowed down, the security wagon boxed between the two. About to swing out, Harry realised that the removals van was coming up alongside. It drew level. The open passenger side window was only a couple of feet away, a man with a ski mask covering his face leaning out, a sub-machine-gun cradled in the crook of his elbow.

'Pull over… Pull over!'

Harry eased down on the brake slightly, as if to show willing. The removals van did likewise, keeping dead level.

'Hang on, Cliff,' Harry muttered, and side-rammed the removals van with the wagon's armour plating. The van rocked but kept with them. Harry rammed it again, harder, and had the satisfaction of seeing the van sway alarmingly, lose speed and drop behind.

Cliff was bashing the horn, urging the lorry in front to get a move on. He might have been pissing into the wind for all the difference it made. He grabbed Harry's arm, as a warning, but Harry had already seen it. The tailgate of the lorry, attached by a rope to the cab, was suddenly released, the logs slithering out and tumbling into the road. Harry wrestled with the wheel as the wagon bounced like a bucking bronco. A log jammed under the front bumper, the wagon slewing left and right as Harry fought to keep on the road.

The removals van came up behind, gave them a terrific shunt up the backside. It came again, the wagon shuddering under the impact, its rear doors buckling. The log had worked itself up into the wheel housing, and there was a horrible grinding, splintering noise as the front wheels locked solid, bringing the wagon to a jolting halt.

Two men leapt from the back of the van and raced forward to the buckled rear doors, one of them lugging a holdall. The raider with the sub-machine-gun jumped down and ran up to Harry's window. 'Hands on your heads!'

Harry shoved Cliff back as the lad leaned across, all fired up, ready to have a go. 'Don't be a hero, they're armed.'

A mite impatient, the raider smashed the gun's metal butt against the mesh-reinforced window.

'Hands on your fucking heads!'

The wagon shuddered and rocked – the dull boom of an explosion, a gush of white smoke as the rear doors were blown off. In the wing-mirror Harry could see the sacks being tossed from hand to hand. It was done a damn sight quicker than it had taken him and Cliff to load them. The man at the window never budged his eyes once, the large bore business end of the weapon pressed against the glass. Harry heard the distinctive thwack-thwack-thwack of a silenced automatic as the men pumped bullets into the tyres. The security wagon sank slowly onto its rims.

The raider in the ski mask jerked his head at his companions. 'Go – go – go! All clear!' They dived into the back of the van and pulled the big doors shut behind them.

Covering Harry and Cliff, the raider backed away a step. He glanced behind, judging the right moment to turn and jump aboard. The van came up alongside. The raider half-turned, getting ready. Harry threw the dead-lock bolt. He kicked the door open, catching the end of the submachine-gun, and leapt out. The raider staggered but kept on his feet. He turned and started to run for the van. Harry lunged, got a hand on his shoulder. The raider took a swipe with the weapon, missed, and Harry grabbed it off him. Still holding onto the raider's jacket shoulder, Harry tossed the gun to Cliff. The raider was half-in, half-out of the van door, Harry hanging on like grim death, both of them being dragged along as the van picked up speed. Cliff brought the gun up, sighted, but the two men were too close together to risk a shot. He saw Harry clawing at the raider's head, ripping the mask up so that Cliff snatched a glimpse of the man's left profile. Frantic now, the raider back-heeled, and lucky for him, unlucky for Harry, found a soft target in Harry's balls. Harry let go, dropped, rolled, curled over, hugging himself. Cliff let one off, aiming for the tyres. He missed with the first, bagged a rear tyre with the second. The van veered left, then right, straightened up and was off.

Harry was on the ground, bent over, clutching his property.

'You okay… Harry?'

Harry pulled his helmet off. His face was green. His lips were tight against his gritted teeth. 'Me voice sound higher? Ohhh… Kerrrist!' He started to heave, then held his breath to stop himself vomiting.

From the back of the wagon, Cliff yelled to him, 'they cleaned us out, Harry. Harry…?'

Harry was on his knees on the grass verge, bringing up last night's Murphy's stout and vindaloo. He wiped his mouth and gingerly climbed to his feet, walking back towards Cliff doing an impersonation of John Wayne riding an invisible horse.

He gestured for Cliff to hand the gun over and checked it out. He thought it looked familiar. It was an L2A3 Sterling 9mm sub-machine-gun, a standard British Army weapon issued to tank crewmen and artillery support services. Harry tucked the triangular metal frame butt against his shoulder and blew out the wagon's windscreen. He fired again and shattered the driver's window. While Cliff stood gaping at him as if he'd lost his marbles, Harry walked up to the wagon and head-butted the armour-plated side panel. He staggered drunkenly backwards, a gash pouring blood.

'Go get the cops,' he told Cliff, sinking to the ground. 'Mess yourself up a bit!'

'For the law…?'

Harry was in agony, clutching his head. 'No, you prat! The bloody laundry wages have gone! We got to look like we almost got ourselves killed for it!'

'What you mean, almost?' said Cliff indignantly.

'They were bloody pros, I tell you that much. Knew what they were doin', an' they could handle themselves.'

The same notion had occurred to Cliff. 'One of 'em,' frowning and shaking his head, 'I'm sure I've seen him before…'

Dillon picked up the Sterling from the desk and glanced at Harry, sitting looking sorry for himself with an ice-pack on his head.

'Cops knows about this?'

'Na, I stashed it under a hedge.'

'What about the laundry company, they know?'

Harry snorted. 'Guv'nor was grovellin' his thanks to us in front of the cops – you know, how we risked our lives, what's money!'

Cliff was drying his neck and hands on a towel. 'He's insured, won't hurt him.'

'Screw him!' Harry said. 'Our wagon's a write-off, Frank. They were good, an' you know somethin' – I think they were Army trained.' He indicated the gun. 'That's Army, similar to the one we used.'

Dillon said angrily, 'You should've handed it over!'

'We're insured, aren't we?' Cliff said with a shrug.

'Yeah, we're insured,' said Dillon grimly. 'Third party, fire and theft!'"

'Thank Christ for that.'

Dillon rolled his eyes to the ceiling. 'Theft of the vehicle, you prat! Oh Jesus, this is all we need…' He put the gun down and stared dismally at the dismal view of the basement steps. 'I don't believe it. Why is it every time we make two steps forward we take ten back? Why?'

'You think we'll lose the account?'

'We got no wagon, Cliff.'

'We got the Mercedes – an' I tell you,' Harry stabbed a finger, 'if we'd had that they'd never have got us trapped. I mean, our top speed in that bus was eight…' The phone rang and Dillon answered. 'An' then it shuddered, we were easy pickings.'

'Stag Security… hang on.' Dillon thrust the phone at Cliff. 'Shirley!'

Dillon paced up and down, rubbing his forehead. He said to Harry, 'This is a real downer, you an' me'll have to see if we can get another wagon.' He tapped the Sterling on the desk. 'Bloody get this out of the way an' all.'

Cliff was holding the phone away from his ear. Finally he managed to get a word in. 'Don't scream at me like it was our fault, I'm still shakin'. We were held up, yeah!'

Dillon gave Harry a look and walked out.

'I'll tell you everythin' when I see you…'

Harry tossed a bunch of keys onto the desk. 'Tell her now. You man the office, me and Frank'll see if we can sort a replacement wagon.' He lumbered to the door.

'Hey, Harry!' Cliff covered the receiver. 'What about tonight's job?'

'I'll be back. Get hold of Wally and Taylor, we need four blokes.'

Cliff gave the thumbs-up and went back to telling his fiancee about the morning's raid.

Shirley stared at herself in the full-length mirror, biting her lip. She smoothed her hands over the waist of the brocade and lace wedding gown and felt her stomach. Couldn't have grown that much in twenty-four hours, could it? What did she have in there, the next heavyweight boxing champion of the world?

'You'll have to let it out another inch, Norma,' she told her friend, kneeling at her feet with a mouthful of pins. Norma glared up at her, and Shirley spread her arms helplessly.

'Shirley!' Cliff pounded up the stairs. 'It's me!' Shirley let out a small scream and dashed to the door. As it opened she slammed it shut, nearly flattening Cliff's nose.

'Go away! You can't come in, I'm having a fitting!'

'I'm workin' tonight…' Cliff banged on the door. 'Shirley? Did you hear me?'

'Yes, I heard you,' Shirley snapped bad-temperedly. 'Go away!' She looked round. Norma was crouched double, clutching her throat, coughing, or trying to. 'Oh my God… are you all right? You haven't swallowed a pin, have you?'

'Don't bother to ask if I'm okay!' said Cliff furiously, thumping the door. 'Shot at! Held up in an armed bleedin' robbery! But don't bother -'

Shirley threw open the door. Cliff's furious expression sagged. He stood there with his mouth hanging open, and then he gave as low smile of rapturous wonder.

'Oh man… that's beautiful.'

CHAPTER 37

Harry thought, Typical bloody cock-up. Down here in docklands somewhere, hired as bouncers for an acid house party gig, and they couldn't even find the place! Cliff was driving the Granada, he was supposed to know but of course he didn't have a clue. Berk!

They drove round the badly-lit, deserted streets, Wally and Taylor in the back, looking for signs of life. Trouble was, there wasn't a soul to ask – high gaunt buildings, not a chink of light to be seen, some of them derelict, boarded-up, everything sealed up tight. Not even a stray cat on the prowl. At last Harry spotted a phone booth and told Cliff to pull over. He was glad to get out of the car for five minutes, a brief respite from Cliff's latest wedding bleeding saga.

'Poor cow's clutchin' her throat, swallowed two pins, she was doin' the hem, so we had to get her rushed to the infirmary… can be dangerous, you knows, pins!'

Wally got out to stretch his legs. 'We all invited to this do, then?' he asked Cliff through the window. 'Who's your best man – Frank? Is he the best man?'

Taylor laid spindly arms along the back of the passenger seat. He was a thin, wiry bloke with close-set eyes and a pock-marked face, a compulsive nail-biter. Not a ladies' man. 'I wouldn't get married mate,' he said gloomily. 'Two mates just lost their houses, these mortgage rates.' He sniffed up a dewdrop. 'We gettin' cash tonight, Cliff? These acid house parties can get heavy, y'know…'

Harry came out of the phone booth and walked back to the car, his broad frame silhouetted in the lights of a vehicle coming down the road towards them. He leaned in. 'We're close, said it's a warehouse over by the docks, they're expectin' about two hundred kids. It's off an alley – give us the A to Z, Cliff.'

Wally strolled round the car and started a quiet natter with Harry, who banged on the roof of the Granada. 'Cliff, you deaf? Look up Gables Yard.'

Cliff pinched his nose between finger and thumb, goggling as the vehicle rumbled past. It was a large removals van. The radiator grille was damaged, as if it had been bashed in. Or had maybe done the bashing. And the geezer he thought he'd recognised was behind the wheel. Cliff shot out of the driving seat for another butchers.

'Harry!… Hey, Harry! Get in! Get in the car!'

'WHAT?' Harry turned back to Wally, finger on his chest. He had wanted a private confab since they'd arrived at the office, but there had been no opportunity. He knew he had to warn Wally, just in case anyone should get wind that they had been given a tip-off about the safe house.

Wally looked Harry directly in the face. 'I dunno what you're talkin' about sunshine, I've not been up the base for months.'

Harry winked. 'Good, just remember that, you never told me nothin'.'

Cliff was hysterical as he yelled, 'Harry get in the friggin' car.'

Harry still took his time, easing his bulk into the passenger seat. 'What you gettin' your knickers in a twist about, we'll be on time.'

'Behind you, didn't you fuckin' see it?' Cliff jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'It's that van from this morning… let's move.'

'What the bloody hell you doin'!' Halfway in the rear door, Wally hopped on one foot as Cliff did a tight U-turn, and scrambled in as the Granada screeched off down the road.

'It's Cliff! Yeah! Is Frank there?'

One ear covered by his hand, the other ear glued to the portable phone, Cliff did his best to make himself heard above The Happy Mondays. He was a big Diana Ross fan, and this lot sounded to him to be in the throes of terminal agony. Cliff shut his eyes to cut out the flashing strobe lights, face screwed up in a painful grimace. The narrow passage was only feet away from a vast, heaving, sweating mob of youth, the noise and heat wafting over him in waves.

'No, no, he's not with me, you know where he is? I've tried him on the portable an' I'm gettin' no answer. Listen, if he comes in, love, will you tell him it's urgent, I'll wait for him at the office… yeah! Yeah, I know what time it is. Okay, tell him it's urgent, an' I'm with Harry…'

'Come on, come on,' the young guy who was promoting the gig bellowed, beckoning to him. 'There's kids trying to get in by the back door.'

Cliff finished the call and scurried off.

'Oi! Me phone.'

Cliff handed it back. 'Thanks, mate.'

Dillon was doing his flunkey act, holding open the rear door of the Merc. He'd already taken the entire staff of the Chinese restaurant home, nine waiters and waitresses, dropping them off at their respective addresses, and now it was the turn of the manager and his wife. They settled themselves inside, and Dillon opened the front passenger door to get at the bleeping portable on the dashboard.

'Dillon… eh, can't hear, just take your time.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll be back at base in about an hour… Okay, hang on.'

He leaned in and spoke to the Chinese man and his wife, reclining in luxury. 'You'll have to call another cab.' They both blinked up at him, totally bewildered. 'Out. Go on – out!'

Dillon slammed the door after them and said into the phone, 'Gimme ten minutes.' He climbed in and zoomed off, leaving the manager and his wife on the pavement staring at him, not quite inscrutably.

This had better be worth it. Three-thirty in the morning and they want a pow-wow. Plus losing the chink custom. And he needed his sleep, badly. If this was all over nothing…

Cliff opened the basement door and launched right in, gabbling ten to the dozen and waving his arms around. He followed Dillon into the office, where Harry was sitting with his feet on the desk, a mug of coffee in his fist.

'… so we're lost, right, Harry's tryin' to find the address, he's in a call box, over by Tower Bridge, the wharf, when I see the truck -'

'What truck?'

'The one from this morning' – the bleedin' furniture van, went straight past me.'

'What you do? Call the cops?'

'I called you! Where the hell you been?'

'With the bloody Chinese…'

'We tried to follow but we lost it, then we had to get to this gig!'

'Probably be stripped an' dumped by now,' Harry reckoned. 'There's a couple of crusher yards around that area, an' it -'

'Well, let the cops sort that out – it's nothin' to do with us.' Dillon rubbed his eyes. 'I better get home.'

Harry banged his mug down on the desk, slopping coffee.

'Tell him!'

Cliff jerked his head rapidly. 'Frank – the driver. I knew I'd seen him before. It was that Barry Newman's heavy…'

'Colin,' Harry said. 'One that picked your kids up,' he added softly, looking straight at Dillon with his shrewd baby-blues.

Cliff was nodding, more arm-waving. 'An' if you put two an' two together, I mean, he knows what business we're in – he even owns this place, right, he could have… he could…' He puffed out his cheeks. A thousand possibilities. Take your pick.

Dillon's head was down, staring at the floor. 'Here we go again.' He swiped the air viciously. 'Why is it, every time I get a goddamned leg-up, something – somebody drags me down?' He stared at the desk for a second, nostrils flaring, breathing audible. He stared for a second more, then jerked his thumb at Cliff. 'Go out back, get some ropes an' that gear Jimmy left.' Dillon's eyes were suddenly hard, like shiny black pebbles. 'I'm gonna sort this bastard out once and for all.'

It was well after four, and Newman's warehouse was in darkness. Dillon and Harry got out of the Granada, looking up and down the dark empty street. Harry collected the gear from the boot and carefully pressed it shut. Dillon leaned down to Cliff in the driver's seat. 'We'll have a shufty around. Park it a good distance.'

The whites of Cliff's eyes gleamed. 'You mean walk back here?'

'Anythin' happens, our logo's on the side of the car, you pillock!'

Harry tapped on the roof, advising Cliff he'd got the rope and other stuff, and Cliff drove off. They approached the high gates, chain-link reinforced with iron bars, fringed along the top with razor wire. There was a snarling alsatian in a triangular metal sign with GUARD above and DOG beneath.

'Dog!'

'I can read, Harry! But I didn't see one when I was here, did you?' Harry shook his head. 'Just a front, cheap bastard,' Dillon said.

They moved further along, past the gates to a wall topped with broken bottle glass set in cement. 'Okay, my old son, how we gonna work it,' Harry said, unslinging the coil of rope from his shoulder. 'This wall's a piece of cake, an' I got a crowbar…'

'Let's just check out for alarms, no ruddy heroics. We've had enough for one day. We just sort the place out.'

Dillon's fear of alarms was unfounded, at least as far as the external windows were concerned. Harry jemmied the catch and the three of them slipped inside. They moved on rubber soles along the aisles, hands cupped around the torch glass so the light was focused into tight beams. The shelves were chock-a-block with Newman's Third World trade. One rack was completely filled with elephants, some without their decorative head-dresses, some in the process of being replaced with beads and coloured glass. At the far end they came to Newman's office, a partitioned structure of wooden panels up to waist height and panes of frosted glass right up to the ceiling.

Harry held up his hand. 'Hang about…' He did a slow sweep with the torch round the edge of the door. 'You see any wires?'

Dillon ran his fingers along the top and down both sides of the door frame. 'I'd say we're okay.'

Harry moved back a pace or two. He switched off his torch and craned upwards, peering through the frosted glass. 'Don't go in,' he warned Dillon. 'See that red dot? We got to find the main electricity circuit. We cross that beam an' all hell breaks loose. I'll go, just stay put.' He flicked on the torch and went off.

Dillon and Cliff hunkered down, backs to the wooden panels.

Down in the basement Harry followed the circuit cables along the wall, which led him eventually to the mains box. He opened the cast-iron cover and propped his torch at an angle to provide illumination. He leaned in, lifting two wires clear with his screwdriver, clippers poised. 'Our Father which art in heaven…'

He snipped. Nothing happened. He isolated two more and snipped again. Still nothing.

'Lovely,' Harry grinned, and carried on pruning.

Hunched against the wall of the office, Cliff shone the torchbeam on his wristwatch. Ten after five. 'It's gonna be daylight soon!' he hissed at Dillon. Drops of moisture filled the air. 'Christ!' Cliff stuck his hand out. 'It's raining…'

Dillon squinted up, his face wet. The sprinklers had come on. The wavering beam of a torch through the racks marked Harry's return. He came up grinning, dead chuffed with himself.

'I clipped every wire, turned off every main switch.'

'Yeah, an' put the sprinklers on.' Dillon got up, rubbing his knees. 'Can we go in now, or not?'

CHAPTER 38

Dillon and Cliff knelt in front of the safe, a squat, old-fashioned green job with a brass handle, their heads close together as they studied the combination dial in the pale wash of light filtering through the windows. Harry was rummaging in the desk, still using the torch to peer into drawers, even though the office was brightening by the minute.

'Try it again… turn it left, left,' Dillon said. Cliff twiddled the dial. 'If we can't open it, we'll blow it. Harry, turn that off, or stop flashin' it around!'

'Hey, look at this -' Harry reached into a drawer, a greedy kid who's discovered a cache of Mars bars. 'It's a 9mm Beretta. Oh very nice… it's got a custom-made silencer.' He checked it was unloaded, clicked the trigger on the empty chamber. 'I'm havin' this…'

'Leave it!' Dillon shot him a fierce look. 'We're not liftin' anythin', we're just lookin' for evidence.'

Cliff twiddled some more, then shook his head, mouth turned down. Dillon took out two small packs of plastic explosive, a wad of putty, and from a separate pocket a detonator with trailing wires. He nudged Cliff aside. 'Get back, lemme stick it.'

Harry rooted, searching for cartridges. Dillon set the charge, attached the detonator wires. 'Get under the desk,' he said to Harry. 'You too, Cliff.'

They took up positions. 'Okay. Here we go.' Dillon scuttled behind an armchair and put his head in the crook of his elbow.

It wasn't a huge bang, more like a heavy door slamming shut in the wind. Short and sweet. They waited till the puff of grey smoke had cleared and had a peek.

'Beautiful, Frank,' breathed Cliff. 'Neat as a whistle. That Jimmy's gear?'

Colin half-turned in the driver's seat, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. 'I sorted it personally, Mr Newman. The van's crushed, you could carry it in a holdall.'

At his ease, Newman sat in the back of the Jaguar Sovereign, gloved hands lightly clasped, resting in his lap. The car moved along the dingy street, passing a few parked vehicles; it stopped in the middle of the road and backed up. Newman operated the window and leaned his head out into the chill morning air. 'That's Dillon, isn't it?'

Colin went round to the Jag's boot, took out a short crowbar, walked across and broke the Granada's windscreen. He smashed the rear window and was about to start on the side windows when Newman said curtly, 'That's enough.'

Colin returned to the car. Newman leaned forward, rapped him on the shoulder. 'Let's go, they gotta be close… get some back-up round fast!' The car sped off.

'Take a look at what we got here!' Dillon slid open a deep metal tray, packed to the brim with small brown envelopes. He picked one up and tossed it to Cliff. 'The lazy so-an'-so's didn't even take it out of the wage packets.'

Cliff unzipped his windcheater and took out a foldaway bag. He batted it into shape and he and Dillon started scooping wage packets into it. Newman must have stashed the rest of the money elsewhere, Dillon thought, because this was only a fraction of the stolen payroll. But that didn't matter. The fact that Newman had some of the laundry wage packets in his possession was the real clincher. Let the slippery bastard try to wriggle out of this one!

Harry's eagle eye had lighted on a metal box, and his itchy fingers were in there quick as a shithouse rat. He rattled it and prised it open with his thumbnail. All shapes and sizes, several different hues, the heaped diamonds sparkled in brilliant profusion. Harry hissed in a breath between his teeth.

'No, put them back! I mean it, Harry, put the box back,' Dillon ordered sternly. 'You're worse than a ruddy kid! Do as I say – just get the evidence.'

'Okay Sherlock!' Harry obeyed, though his heart was weeping.

The floor in the main warehouse was awash. Coat collars up around their ears against the sprinkler jets, the three of them legged it for the main entrance. Dillon slid back the bolts, eased the door open a fraction, then quickly slammed it shut.

'Newman's outside. He's out there!'

Cliff did a sliding turn, feet slithering on the wet floor. 'We go the back way across the roof!'

They set off down the central aisle, heading for the fire exit door. Newman and Colin burst in. As he ran, Dillon grabbed one of the racks and brought it crashing down behind them. Harry and Cliff got the general idea and did likewise, bringing shelves of elephants, brass trays, fertility totems, candlesticks, temple bells and earthenware pots tumbling down.

'Dillon – wait!' Newman ran forward, kicking an elephant out of the way. 'Dillon!' He stepped on a tray and went skidding into one of the racks, bringing the whole lot down.

Colin came panting back. 'The roof – they're goin' to try and cross by the roof, the crazy bastards. It won't hold their weight…'

Limping and cursing, Newman followed Colin into the yard. They stared up in the grey light to the three figures running as nimbly as cats along the apex of the old warehouse roof, crumbling yellow brick supporting a slanting metal-framed structure of skylights. They were balanced on a lead strip no more than six inches wide, sloping glass either side, so that a single slip could be fatal. Dillon, bringing up the rear, yelled down, 'I warned you to stay off my back, you bastard!' He hoisted the bag high. 'I got the wages, an' I'll have you, Newman!'

As he turned to run on, Dillon's foot caught the lead flashing. He slithered down, a swinging foot smashing through one of the skylights. As the glass gave way he lost his hold, Harry snatching his wrist and hauling him back up. Cliff had the rope unfurled. He secured one end, tossed it down, and moments later all three of them vanished from sight over the rear of the building.

A truck piled high with the heavy mob pulled into the yard with a squeal of brakes. Colin ran up, waving his arms. 'We'll get 'em – back up, turn around! They'll be headin' for their car…'

'Leave them.' Newman walked back to the main door. 7 said leave it!' He beckoned Colin. 'Get them inside.' As the men jumped down Newman said, 'One of you try and track Dillon, see where he is an' get back to me… Move!'

Three streets away, Dillon, Harry and Cliff were running like the clappers. As they rounded a corner Harry glanced behind, checking for signs of pursuit, but there wasn't a soul to be seen. 'We did it!' he exulted. 'Come on… come on!'

Even the sight of the Granada's shattered windscreen didn't wipe the smile from his face. He brushed the broken bits from the bonnet and unlocked the door. 'Get in – let's get out of here!'

The rooftop escape had infected the three of them with an adrenalin high. Dillon especially was abuzz, the joy of triumph so sweet he could almost taste it. 'We got enough evidence here to get that bastard ten years,' he chortled. 'Hey! That laundry offerin' a reward?'

Driving off, they were too busy laughing like drains and congratulating one another to notice the black Jaguar Sovereign creeping out from a side street and ghosting behind at a discreet distance.

Newman straightened up from the safe, the metal box in his gloved hand. He could practically tell by the weight of it that the contents were untouched, but just to make absolutely certain he did a cool, professional appraisal of the stones in their padded velvet lining. Snapping the lid shut, he slid the box into his overcoat pocket. Colin was hovering by the door, cracking his knuckles.

'I want this place cleaned up – like now!' Newman said, his voice as lethal as cold steel. 'If it takes ten or twenty men, get 'em. This never happened, understand me?'

Colin glanced behind uneasily. The sprinklers had been turned off, but the warehouse was a total shambles, water inches deep in places. 'Barry, what about the lads, their cut? They won't go for this -'

'They'll go for anythin' I tell them,' Newman sneered, his thin, wide mouth twisting contemptuously. 'Fuckin' ex-soldiers are all alike, they're conditioned to take orders, why you think I use them?' He suddenly kicked out at the desk, livid with a furious spite and overwhelming rage. 'I made a point of helpin' the bastards, handin' out work to them. I did it for Billy, my Billy… well, not any more. An' that Dillon.' He spat the name. 'I tried! I'd have given that stupid bastard more money than he'd ever dreamed of, because he was good to my Billy – but no! Legit. He wanted to be legit. Well, we'll see how he gets himself out of this one!'

Breathing hard, Newman wiped spittle from his moustache. His voice sank to a murmur. 'He was never here, understand? And you get on the first plane…'

'I dunno.' Colin cracked his knuckles. 'What about my wife?'

'You don't know, son,' Newman sighed, managing to sound fatherly and patronising at one and the same time. 'I do. I survive, an' I got,' he patted his pocket, 'one-point-five million here. An' if you want your cut, you do as I tell you – you weren't here tonight. Nothin' went down here tonight.' He raised his eyebrows. 'Get over to Spain, call it a holiday!'

Colin nodded unhappily. It had the ring of a friendly invitation but he knew it was a command.

CHAPTER 39

Dillon bounced into the office, dumped the bag on the desk.

'Cliff, get the motor over to Fernie, see if he can fix it up by tomorrow afternoon. Harry, check over the jobs we got lined up.' He unzipped the bag. 'We get cleaned up, then first thing I go to the cops.'

Eyes all aglow, Dillon scooped up wage packets and held them high, tightly bunched in his fist. 'We got that bastard!'

Newman paced along the aisles, head swivelling left, then right, left, right again, noting every tiny detail, every slight discrepancy. He adjusted the position of a set of brass candlesticks, nudged a china figurine back into line with its fellows. The boys had done good. Just over the hour it had taken them, and you'd never have guessed that at six-thirty that morning the place looked as though a bull had rampaged through it and pissed all over the floor. Three blokes were finishing off the mopping up at the far end; once the floor dried it would be as if nothing had happened. Newman pursed his lips and smiled. Nothing had.

He strolled back to the office. Derek, the guy he'd put on Dillon's tail, came in the main door and hurried over.

'Dillon went straight to his gaff,' he reported.

'You see him carry the gear in?' asked Newman quietly.

Derek nodded. 'You want us to pick him up?'

'No, but I'll get him picked up, all right,' Newman smirked. He held open the office door. 'Come on, you got a call to make!'

Derek stared at him, mystified, and in he went, scratching his head. Newman and his smirk followed.

'Morning!' Harry was using his electric shaver when Susie breezed in with a bag of shopping and a cheery smile. 'As Frank didn't make it home, I reckoned you had a busy night, so…' She held up three paper bags, their contents seeping through '… breakfast! Bacon butties!'

There was the sound of running water from the washroom, where Dillon was engaged in his morning ablutions.

'How you feelin'?' Harry asked, unplugging the shaver. 'You okay now?'

'Yes, I'm fine.' Susie showed him her hand, now out of plaster, and waggled her fingers, almost as good as new. 'I'd have started back days ago but Frank wouldn't hear of it.' She opened a cupboard. 'No coffee? Any milk?'

Harry nipped out behind her back to forewarn Dillon. Susie switched on the overhead light and shook her head at the state of the place. Leave three fellas alone for a few days and they could turn a palace into a pig-sty.

Dillon appeared, drying his hands on a towel. 'Hello, love, you're early.' He gave her a peck. 'I was just havin' a wash. Kids get off to school okay, did they?'

'Yes.' Susie loaded a tray with dirty coffee mugs. 'Kettle's on. I'll get some milk. Looks as if I came just in time.'

'Cliff not back?' Dillon asked Harry as he came in.

Harry shook his head. His eyes flicked a sidelong look at Susie. 'How do you want to work it this morning?' he asked Dillon, making it casual.

Dillon gave a quick frown, gestured towards the passage. He said, 'Can I borrow your shaver? An' get me a clothes brush…'

Susie was standing with an armful of empty beer cans, about to drop them in the waste basket. 'Frank!'

Dillon whipped round in the doorway.

'Is something going on?'

He blinked at her, wide-eyed innocence. 'No…' and went out.

When Harry came through into the washroom with the electric shaver Dillon had done a lightning change into a clean white shirt, black tie and neatly pressed grey trousers. Dillon turned on the tap and started shaving. Under the sound of running water he whispered, 'I don't want Susie to know what went down last night.' He noticed his cuffs, slightly puckered, and fretted, 'Should have had it laundered!'

The phone rang and they heard Susie answer it. Harry rubbed his palms briskly. 'What we do? Go to the cops? If there's a reward, maybe we can do a deal -'

Dillon nixed that with a swift chop of the hand. He had other worries on his mind. 'We're bound to have repercussions from Newman…' He frowned towards the door. 'I don't want Susie left down here, that bastard could try to get my kids again. Soon as I'm cleaned up I go straight to the cops, no deals. Get that shooter they used, we'll need that.' He smoothed his hand over his chin. 'Gimme me jacket… tie okay, is it?'

Harry unhooked the chauffeur's grey jacket from behind the door and tore off the plastic cover. He helped Dillon into it, then climbed up on the lavatory seat, reaching inside the big old-fashioned wooden cistern. 'I stashed it up here.'

Dillon twitched as the phone went again. He fumbled with his jacket buttons, a bundle of nerves. 'We're doin' the right thing, Harry, trust me. I won't let you down. Cops'll want to question all of us.' Harry stepped down with the Sterling, wrapped in The Sporting Life. Dillon looked him in the face. Now it came, what was really troubling him. 'You and me made a terrible mistake.' he said in a hoarse whisper. 'One we have to live with, but, we're for it if so much as a word gets out about what we done, right?'

'Yeah.'

'So, that's finished, that never happened, we never discuss it, agreed?'

'Yeah.' Harry nodded. 'I hear you, gov'nor. I'll put this with the dough.' He grinned. 'You're lookin' good…'

Dillon turned to the door, whitewash all down the back of his jacket.

'Hang on!' Harry batted it off. 'Whitewash on the back… s'okay now!' He brushed Dillon's shoulders. 'You sure about this, Frank, maybe we can do a deal – not with Newman, the geezer from the laundry, he hadda be insured.'

'I said no deals.' Dillon ground it out so that it stuck. 'We play it straight. So far we been lucky! Don't push it, Harry. I'm going in, that's final.'

He took down his chauffeur's cap, flicked off an imaginary speck of dust. He opened the door and Cliff came barging in, face shiny, out of breath. He'd changed too into his chauffeur's gear. 'I've left the motor at Fernie's. Where's the dough?'

'Where's Susie?' asked Dillon, fractious and fussing. 'I look okay?'

'Gone for some milk.' Cliff squinted sideways at his shoulder, brushing it. 'Mind the walls… whitewash comes off!'

'Come on then,' Dillon said decisively, 'before she gets back, let's get this sorted between us -' Cliff started to move as the telephone rang, and Dillon hauled him back. 'Just leave it, we got to talk.' Dillon emphasised his words with his bunched fist. 'When we go to the Old Bill, we got to all have the same story. Why we went to Newman's, why we got that gun…'

Cliff's eyes shifted uneasily to Harry, who was sucking his moustache. Two very unwilling volunteers, the pair of them couldn't have looked less enthusiastic if they'd rehearsed. Dillon faced them, attempting to chide and jolly them along. 'Come on, this is the only way… we sort this out, well, like Harry says, might even get some kind of reward, right? But what is important, and it's gonna stay that way – we're legit, an' we stay legit, an' I reckon we got a future, one we can all be proud of…'

Dillon's fist shot up.

'We made it! an' we're gonna go on makin' it! What's past is past, agreed?'

He spread his raised hand. 'Harry?'

Harry whacked it.

'Cliff?'

Cliff whacked it.

'Yes…!'

Dillon was convinced himself. Edginess, uncertainty, doubt were banished, he was psyched up and raring to go. A new confident Dillon now, on his way to the top, and nothing on the planet short of a thermonuclear warhead could stop him. At last he was in control. He had a grip. He felt great!

'I'll level with them, tell exactly what went down, an' then we're in the clear. We learn from our mistakes. Only one way to go now, an' that's up!'

'Frank…?' Susie's voice started low and ascended the scale like the shrill whine of a thermonuclear warhead homing in on its target.

'Frank – will you get in here!'

Harry appeared in the doorway, sent to forestall nuclear armageddon.

'Where's Frank? You get in here, now!' Susie was blazing.

Cliff came in behind Harry and she let them both have it.

'Fernie left a message for you. He said – and I won't repeat it word for word – but he said unless you pay what you owe him he's keeping the car, smashed up as it is, but it's nothing to what he intends doing unless he gets paid -'

'Oh…' Harry feebly waved a pacifying hand. 'We had a bit of a prang last night…'

'I haven't finished. He also said he's keeping the portable phone! And-'

'Oh man,' Cliff moaned. 'We need that!'

'I haven't finished Cliff! The bank called, wanted to know if there was a problem. There's not been one repayment on their loan, and the Stag Security account is overdrawn up to…' Susie snatched up her notepad. 'Three and a half thousand pounds. And don't either of you tell me that's Frank's business -'

'I dunno anythin' about the loan, Susie,' said Cliff lamely.

Susie yanked a drawer open. 'Do either of you know about these betting slips?' He glare would have blistered paint. 'Or is that Frank's business as well, like the account at the betting shop. Eight hundred quid outstanding! My friend went out on a limb for you lot, is this how you repay him?! Don't you understand what'll happen to him?'

Harry stepped up to the desk, hands raised. 'Just calm down, love…'

'Calm down!' The nuclear warhead was about to explode. 'They'll take his taxi firm – he's guaranteed your loan!'

Dillon came in, smart in his chauffeur's grey uniform, bag of money in one hand, the Sterling sub-machine-gun wrapped in newsprint under his arm. 'Okay, we all set…?'

All four heads jerked towards the window. The sudden loud wail of police sirens, the screech of brakes in the street outside.

A look of bewilderment on Dillon's face. 'You didn't call 'em, did you?' he asked Harry.

Car doors slammed and the basement steps were immediately filled with dark blue trousers, the thump of heavy boots, a fist hammering on the door. 'This is the police! Come on, open up, we have a warrant to search the premises. This is the police!'

Dillon was rooted to the spot, staring blank-eyed at Harry and Cliff. Harry and Cliff, blank-eyed, stared back at Dillon. Standing behind the desk, Susie's face had drained to a whiter shade of pale.

'This can't be about the Newman business,' Harry muttered, blue eyes vague and confused. 'Can it…?'

More hammering, the shouts getting louder and angrier. These weren't bumbling PC Plods, they were the hard squad, as tough and ruthless in their methods as the villains they picked up.

Dillon felt a sick fearful panic knawing at the pit of his stomach. He had a terrible vision, seeing once again the door open, the pale blue light splashing into the hallway, the man framed in the doorway with the TV flickering behind him, frantically pushing the door shut, and then the blast of the rifle, the body hitting the floor, the electric fire turned on its side. He gripped Harry's arm, fingers digging in. 'How much you tell Wally? He wouldn't have opened his mouth, would he?'

'He knows nothin', I swear, Frank. I told him nothin'.' Harry was shaking his head, all at sea. 'It's got to be about last night, nothin' else…'

Dillon recovered himself, his face hardening. He looked at the two men, holding their eyes with a deadly fixed intensity. 'Say nothin' – hear me!'

Susie came slowly around the desk, not a shred of colour in her face, arms lifting up beseechingly.

'Oh God, Frank, what have you done?'

Harry was taken out, handcuffed to a uniformed officer. Cliff was next, handcuffed to another. Dillon followed, hands cuffed behind his back. Going up the steps he yelled out, 'You don't say a bloody word! Let me explain it… you don't say nothin'. You don't know anythin' -'

For that he got his face rammed into the iron railings. The officer jerked Dillon's arms up his back, nearly pulling them out of their sockets. Then he was shoved, staggering, into the street towards the open door of the police car.

Finally, an officer came out carrying the zippered bag and the Sterling, its muzzle peeping through The Sporting Life.

Susie trailed after him. Her arms hung limply at her sides, head thrown back as she sobbed her heart out. Coming up the steps, she was met by the lowering bulk of Detective Chief Inspector Reg Jenkins. He looked like the kind of copper who enjoyed pulling the legs off tarantulas. Waving the search warrant in her face, he gestured her back down. Standard procedure that someone had to be present when premises were searched, and in this respect, at least, Detective Chief Inspector Jenkins always went by the book.

CHAPTER 40

A cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, DCI Jenkins leaned against the window sill, arms folded, squinting through the smoke at the tagged evidence arranged on the table, some of it still bearing traces of fingerprint powder.

Item: Black ski hood, slits cut through for eyes.

Item: Black ski hood, identical, also with slits.

Item: Blue plastic bag with zip. No markings.

Item: Wage packets marked 'Roche Laundry Services', sealed.

Item: Sub-machine-gun with magazine, classified by ballistics as a 9mm L2A2 Sterling, as used by the British Army in Northern Ireland and elsewhere. Recently fired. Four cartridges missing from the 34-round magazine capacity.

Jenkins pushed himself up. Unhurriedly he removed the cigarette from his lips, blew out a plume of smoke, and made the slightest of shaking movements of the head. This was almost going to be too easy.

There were footsteps in the corridor and Detective Inspector Briggs came briskly in carrying a document file. Jenkins took a deep drag, holding out his hand. 'That from their statements?' He opened the file on the corner of the table and fanned out the reports so he could refer back and forth.

Riggs stood by Jenkins' shoulder, trying to avoid the cloud of smoke. He might at least open a window. The place stank. Jenkins skimmed through. 'Dillon's been held before, you read this?' He sucked in another satisfying lungful. 'Let off with a warning! Wrecked a patrol car… he still refusing to talk? Well, we got 'em bang to rights on this caper.'

'You see who owned the car he and…' Riggs craned forward. 'Driven by Steve Harris, but the motor they were driving was owned by…' He tapped the report.

'One Barry Newman.' Jenkins read on, nodding, flakes of grey ash drifting down. 'No charges. What about bringing in this Steve Harris, see what he has to say?'

'Be pushed, he's dead. I've already checked.'

Jenkins leaned across to stub out his cigarette. He braced both arms on the table, head sunk between his shoulders, gazing down at the documents. 'Dillon and Travers won't budge, let's go for the black bastard… somethin' stinks.' His eyes roved up to the ski hoods, money, gun. 'None of 'em'll get bail this time! Not with that lot…'

Not gloating exactly, but with the deepest satisfaction.

Dillon was wiping up bacon fat with a piece of bread when a small, round-shouldered man with thinning sandy hair pushed open the door of the holding cell. Clutching a rather tatty briefcase in pale, freckled hands, he blinked at Dillon through a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with thick, distorting lenses. In other circumstances he might have been taken for someone trying to flog an endowment policy or double glazing on the never-never.

'Mr Dillon? I'm Arthur Crook. I've already spoken to Mr Travers and Mr Morgan.'

Dillon pushed the tin tray further along the bed and made space for him to sit on the grey blanket.

'I've been appointed to represent you.' The voice was bland and diffident, as colourless as he was. 'Is this acceptable to you?'

'I have an alternative?' said Dillon, testily.

'If you don't wish me to represent you, that is your prerogative, I can ask for someone else. But I am experienced in criminal -'

'They got no right to hold me here!'

Dillon's outburst set the little man to blinking once again. Almost in a tone of apology, he said, 'Mr Dillon, they have some very tough evidence against you.'

'An' I explained how we came to have it. I told them…' Dillon stared at Crook, his mouth suddenly dry. 'There's nothin' else, is there?'

'I've read your statement, Mr Dillon.' Either Crook didn't understand the question or had chosen to ignore it; Dillon couldn't decide which, and he was frantic to know. 'Unless you are prepared to name the man who you say instigated the robbery, well -' A small shrug of the rounded shoulders. 'If you name him, then we can check out your story.'

Dillon rested his elbows on his knees, hands working restlessly, gazing at the wall opposite. 'I got two kids,' he said in a low, harsh voice. 'I start naming names while I'm in here, who's gonna protect them? You get me bail, then I'll talk.' He swung his head at Crook. 'But I need to take care of my family first!'

Crook opened his briefcase and took out several typed sheets. Dillon watched with hooded eyes as the solicitor looked through them, and then he tried again. 'They're not chargin' me with any thin' else, are they? Just the robbery…?'

'I'd think seriously about giving the name of this man,' Crook advised in his bland legal tone. 'If he's a suspect, the police will protect you…' He had the typewritten sheets in order, placed neatly on the briefcase resting flat on his knees. He cleared his throat. 'Now, I have been asked to tell you that there have been three robberies, all carried out in a similar way, and – the police believe -with military precision.' The pale blue eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, bulged up at him. 'Mr Dillon, they are ail very aware that you and those arrested with you are ex-Parachute Regiment soldiers.'

It was Dillon's turn to blink. He'd been worrying himself sick about the Irishman in the derelict house and suddenly he was being dumped on from a different direction entirely. What the hell was happening?

'Now, these robberies took place in Surrey, Brighton, and Whitechapel.' Crook held out the top sheet. 'I will need to know where you were on these dates.'

Dillon looked at them blankly. He shook his head, thoughts in a whirl, unable to take this in.

'Look, check my diary. We've been runnin' a business. I dunno where I was right off, but the diary gives all the jobs we done.'

Crook took the sheet back. 'They have also found a weapon at your office.' He looked gravely at Dillon. 'You have anything to say about that?'

'You mean the gun used in the hold-up?'

Crook gave a slight nod.

'I can explain that,' Dillon said, starting to feel very sick again.

'Mr Travers, they have the sub-machine gun used in the robbery,' Crook said. 'The same gun had been determined as the one used to damage your security wagon. They have black hoods, they have the wage packets you insist were stolen -'

'I'm not sayin another word. Frank will tell you what went down. Ask Frank Dillon.'

The line-up was already in position, Harry the second man along, as Dillon was led in. His handcuffs were removed and the officer indicated he could stand where he wished. Dillon chose roughly midway and faced the darkened viewing window which reflected the twelve men under the spotlights. Some wore jackets, some were in shirtsleeves like him, but only Harry and himself were unshaven, he noticed. Perm any two from twelve, so long as they got five o'clock shadows, Dillon thought sourly.

'We're in the clear, they don't know nothin',' Harry called to him, and then louder, 'How ya doin', Frank!'

'No talking! Look straight in front, eyes to the front!'

Behind the window, a uniformed inspector ushered in a portly middle-aged man in a smart pinstripe suit.

'Just take your time, sir. You say you got a good look at the man as he approached the bank tellers. If you seen him, want him to turn right or left, just say so.'

The portly man nodded and took his time, studying each face for several seconds. Twice he leaned forward, his gaze lingering, before passing on. He came to the end of the line, and after a brief pause, shook his head.

The inspector spoke into the microphone. 'Thank you, gentlemen. You can go!'

That was the only time he'd seen Harry since their arrest, and he hadn't seen Cliff at all. Obviously, Dillon thought, they were grilling each of them separately, cross-checking their stories, trying to break each of them down. But if the other two said nothing, left it to him, what was there to fear? He could explain everything, given the chance. As for the other robberies, the evidence was purely circumstantial. Wasn't it?

He was taken out to the Black Maria and handcuffed to the iron guard rail which ran along the side of the van above the slatted wooden seat. Two teenage boys, who looked comatosed on drugs or glue or something, sat huddled together in the corner next to the cab. A uniformed officer, a bear of a man with no neck, climbed in and sat opposite Dillon. He pulled the door shut, so the only light came from the two narrow slits in the rear doors.

'How many more line-ups you bastards want me in?' Dillon asked, not expecting a reply, and not receiving one. The officer sat back, folded his arms, and contemplated eternity, or maybe his pension.

By raising himself slightly off the seat, Dillon could see through the slit. Another Black Maria had pulled up in the yard, and Cliff was stepping down, handcuffed to an officer. He seemed more bewildered than frightened, and Dillon wanted to yell out, tell him to keep stum. If the kid lost his nerve, did something stupid, he could land them all in it.

'Sit down,' the bear with no neck said. 'Sit - down!''

Dillon slowly sank back, but then leaned forward sharply. At the wheel of his black Jaguar Sovereign, Newman was rolling to a halt. He slid the window down and reached out his hand, a faint smile on his thin lips. Detective Chief Inspector Jenkins strolled forward. Dillon stared as the two men shook hands. He pressed himself closer to the slit, feeling the flesh of his face tight to bursting, and a large hand shoved him roughly back onto the bench.

'Sit! You deaf?'

Dillon slumped down, his heart trip-hammering in his chest. The door opened and a sheaf of folded release papers was thrust in. The door was closed, the handle locked, and the officer banged on the side to indicate all present and correct. The van jerked forward, dragging Dillon by his handcuffed wrist against the guard rail, and moved off. Dillon hardly felt it. What he did feel was a crawling panic in his bowels. Barry Newman and the cops, all mates together. Was he being fitted up? What was Newman telling them? What the fuck was going on?

CHAPTER 41

'Believe me,' Newman said, 'if somebody had broken in here I'd know it. Besides, who'd want to nick this stuff, weighs a ton.'

Jenkins looked along the aisles, at the racks and racks of artifacts which to his eye were the kind of cheap trash you might see in a fairground, prizes for getting three double-tops in a row or potting clay pipes with a.22 that had had its sights doctored. Three of his uniforms were poking about, but probably they had less idea what they were looking for that he had.

'What about the office?' he asked, nodding towards the partitioned glass-panelled enclosure.

'Follow me!' Newman beckoned, the good citizen only too happy to co-operate with the law. 'Watch your footing, I've had problems with the sprinklers.' As they walked along he pointed up to the cables running along the walls. 'Alarm system. Anyone trying to get in here and this baby would go off like a time-bomb.' With an indulgent wave of the hand, Newman called across, 'Any of you lads got kids, take what you want. Business is bad, I can't give this gear away.'

A few paces behind, Jenkins said casually, 'Your boy was a Para, wasn't he? A soldier…'

And noted the stiffening of Newman's spine. Newman stopped to face him, but he wasn't angry or defensive, the inspector saw, he was proud, even a little defiant.

'Yes. I got a medal to prove it! He was killed in a club, he wasn't even on duty. Nineteen years old.' Newman looked away, and in profile the hollow cheeks and scrawny neck made him look old and haggard, a distinguished roué long past his sell-by date. 'His mother never got over it… his name was Billy.'

'So you know Dillon then?'

Newman walked on. 'He was his sergeant! I met up with him when he first came to civvies, while back now.'

'Meet some of his pals too, did you?'

Newman paused at the office door. He turned slowly, gave Jenkins his full dead-eyed stare. Touched a spot there, Jenkins thought, half-expecting a flat denial, but didn't expect what he got, an acid, withering bitterness, a raw open wound that had never healed and never would.

'Look, this Dillon. I tried to give him a leg-up, know what I mean? The thanks was, he borrowed my motor and totalled it, an' that's been my only interaction with him. Maybe I should've tried to do somethin' for him, but that was thirty grand's worth! I reckoned whatever he'd done for my boy, we were quits – an' I'm not a charity.' Newman held up his thin hand, pointed a long skeletal finger. 'I'll tell you who should watch out for these lunatics, the ruddy government. Most of them need rehabilitation, they're all screwed up.'

Whatever lies he might tell, whatever descriptions he might perpetrate, Newman was on the level with this, Jenkins thought. It came straight from the heart, no question. Newman gestured brusquely. 'Here's my office, come on through.' Jenkins followed him inside.

She wouldn't cry. Susie had made this promise to herself. She had to keep Frank's spirits up. The last thing he wanted to see was a red-eyed bawling wife. But it took every ounce of self-control as the woman police officer led her into the interview room not to let the calm outer surface crack wide open. It was the sight of him sitting hunched in the chair, hands clasped on the bare table, shackled by handcuffs. He looked so lost and helpless. From somewhere Susie summoned up a pallid smile. She sat down opposite him, while the WPC took up a position behind her and a male officer stood with arms folded at the door, like a bouncer itching to sort out the troublemakers.

'I've been here every day but they wouldn't let me see you. Mr Crook arranged it in the end.' Susie wore a plain dark skirt and a pale yellow blouse under her coat that she knew Frank liked, but he hadn't even looked at her. She reached out, not quite touching the bunched hands, fingers squeezed tight. 'Are you all right?'

'This is all a mistake.' Dillon stared sullenly at the table. His cheeks were smooth and pale, freshly shaved, dark rings under his eyes. 'I haven't done anythin' wrong. They can't keep me here without chargin' me.' His lips thinned. 'I haven't done anythin'.'

'Mr Crook's tried for bail, Frank, but it was turned down at the Magistrates Court. He said he'll have to wait a few more weeks before he can apply again -'

'You think I don't know?' He raised his head sharply. His mouth twisted as the anger spilled out. 'He's a useless twat!'

Susie hesitated. 'He says you're not helping.'

T didn't do anything wrong!' said Dillon hoarsely.

'You know Cliff told them about Newman?' Dillon glared at her. 'What are you protecting him for?' Susie asked, genuinely puzzled.

'You don't understand.' Dillon was nodding to himself, an ugly smile smearing his features. Tm gonna give you some names, friends, if that bastard shows his face-'

'Frank!' Susie leaned towards him. 'He said you never worked for him, he says his place was never broken into… that it was lies, all lies.'

'Marvellous innit – they believe that villain, but not me? I told Cliff to keep his bloody mouth shut. Typical. But what can you expect, he was only on transport, he's never seen any action. They won't get Harry to -'

Susie's fist drummed impotently on the table. 'I can't believe I'm hearing you right! Cliff was going to be married, don't you care? He's in a terrible state… Shirley's pregnant.'

'You think I'm allowed to see him? See Harry?' Dillon didn't hear, didn't care. His eyes were a bit wild, his brain locked on the single track it had been on, ceaselessly, every waking moment. 'Bastards have segregated us. Four lineups they had me in – I been in four line-ups, for what? They're tryin' to pin every robbery pulled in England on us. It's crazy, it's all crazy…'

He calmed his breathing and looked at her from under his brows. 'They not said anythin' about anythin' else?' he asked uneasily. 'Have they… Susie?'

A fist rapped on the door. The officer unfolded his arms. He waved to Dillon to stand. Susie pleaded, 'Ah, not yet! Please, not yet…!'

The officer got Dillon on his feet. He opened the door. Dillon said desperately, 'Are the kids all right?'

'Yes…' And the promise she had made herself was broken as a sob came up, nearly choking her. Still she struggled to hold on. Dillon tried to turn back. The officer would have none of it. He had Dillon under the armpit, and the officer outside grabbed the other arm and he was bodily hauled away.

Susie laid her head on her arms and had to let it all come out, promise or no promise.

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three…

Sweat dripping off his nose, Dillon pushed himself up from the cell floor. Susie had brought in some of his gear, and he wore a singlet, track-suit bottoms, and his faithful old Pumas. If he shut his mind to everything, it was like doing Basic again. He was back at The Depot.

Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six…

Do eighty of the bastards and he'd be ready for a pint with the lads in the NAAFI. Have a sing-song, good old Taff booming out in his big Welsh voice, the prat. Get Steve up on a table, doing his Tom Jones with a baton down his inside leg. Jimmy fiddling the one-armed bandit. Harry remembering that long day's tab up to Wireless Ridge, when Wally's frostbitten toes dropped off.

A bell rang out and the caged wall light went out, plunging the cell into darkness.

Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two…

Susie moved silently into the boys' room, careful not to disturb them. She left the door slightly ajar so that she could see by the landing light. There were one or two gaps on the walls where Dillon had taken down the photographs. And what Dillon had started, Susie now finished, dropping them one by one in the cardboard box. His face looked out from nearly all of them. Sometimes clean and shiny, sometimes streaked with brown camouflage cream and dirt. Mostly unsmiling, but in a couple there was that rare Frank Dillon grin. It was there, broader than usual, in a photograph of him and his lads, grouped round a table in a bar, brimming pints of Guinness and Murphy's in front of them. Six young Toms, just kids, sitting at the table, with Dillon standing behind, flanked by Jimmy Hammond, Taffy Davies, Steve Harris, Harry Travers. They looked to be having a great time, and probably were. The very best of times.

Susie took it down and looked at it. Then she dropped it in the box with all the rest and shut the lid. She went to the door and paused, gazing round. The little room seemed empty and desolate, the walls naked. Just pale rectangles and pin-holes to indicate where the gallery of memories had once been. The boys would miss them, no doubt, but it was time to move on, to grow up. You couldn't live in the past for ever. Susie went out, closed the door on it.

CHAPTER 42

It was called the Visitors' Room but it was more like a public meeting hall or a large works canteen. Not dissimilar to a canteen, with tables spaced equidistant on the squeaky composition floor, except the tables were quite small, with plain grey plastic tops, room enough for just one remand prisoner, one visitor. The kids had to stand or play on the floor. Four uniformed wardens patrolled the perimeter, constantly on the move, eyes alert for any communication between prisoners – strictly forbidden. Two senior wardens sat like tennis umpires on high chairs, keeping a general watch on the proceedings. The prisoners were rotated in batches of twenty, over a hundred in the hall at any one time. Once seated, their visitors were allowed in, while the previous batch of visitors streamed out, so there was continuous noise and bustle and movement, the scampering and crying of children, the muffled weeping of women, the rumbling hum of a hundred conversations.

Shirley was in the first batch. She came in with other wives, girlfriends and mothers, heads craning for their loved ones. There were a number of black prisoners, but she spotted Cliff at once, his hand slightly raised, a shy, almost painful smile on his face. Like all the others he was dressed in a blue shirt, dark trousers without a belt, black slip-on shoes with soft soles.

'How you keeping?' asked Cliff, eyes very large and suspiciously bright, fixed on her as she sat down.

Shirley placed a paper bag on the table. She slipped off her shoulder bag and put down the styrofoam cup of coffee she'd only taken a couple of sips of before the name Morgan came up over the PA.

'There's chocolate, crisps and cigarettes.' She pushed the bag towards him.

'I don't smoke,' Cliff said.

'Susie said to bring them in, you can trade with them. She takes in some for…' Shirley glanced around the crowded room. 'Have you seen him yet?'

Cliff shook his head. 'They keep us segregated. I got a message to Harry, but he…' Cliff gulped, and the tears that were there, waiting to be shed, suddenly filled his eyes. '… he sent it back. I just had to tell them what went down, Shirley, this is all a mistake, we didn't do it.' Out it poured in a frantic gabble: 'You see I saw the van, the furniture van that was used in the robbery, and I saw the guy drivin' it, it was me that told Frank, that Newman's put us all in the frame. I had to tell them, but they twist it, they twist it around. I know they found the gear at our place, but we'd come from Newman's, we were gonna hand it in. I think Frank's scared that Newman'll do somethin', he reckoned we'd get bail you see, an' -'

'Cliff – Cliff, you've told me all this, you tell it to me every time, but why won't they give you bail?' Shirley searched his face. 'None of this makes sense to me. Why are they askin' about other robberies unless…' She leaned over until their faces were nearly touching. 'Cliff, don't protect them, will you?'

Cliff's mouth was quivering. Tears had made wet pathways down either side of his nose. He was looking at Shirley but he wasn't seeing her. The inside of his head was spinning like a merry-go-round, the same endless, obsessional whirl of facts, events, places, names blurring in front of his eyes. She tried to stop him, to stem the flow, but he was unstoppable.

'… I said to Frank we should go straight to the cops, but we had to clean ourselves up an' then there was the car, windscreen was wrecked… now the gun, Harry took it off the blokes, I mean I nearly got myself killed. I explained all this. I told them all this. I recognised one of the guys, I said to Harry, I said…' He blinked, tears splashing down. 'I dunno why he kept it, we should have handed that gun back. It'll be sorted. It'll all be sorted, we'll be out of here…' Cliff wept openly. 'Shit, why didn't we hand over that bloody shooter…?'

Shirley could hardly hear him for all the racket going on around them. Not that it mattered. She'd heard it ten times before. She simply sat and gazed at him, at the merry-go-round spinning madly out of control.

A bell rang, signalling a changeover of batches. Twenty in, twenty out. There was a clicking and crackling from the PA, and a voice announced in a monotonous drone: 'Allen, Alcott, Allerton, Anthony, Daneman, Dillon, Dupres, Hoyle, Knight, Morris, Mayfield, Mayell, Netherton, Normans, Orchard, O'Rourke, O'Neill…'

Dillon was brought in and directed to a table on the far side of the room from Cliff. He sat down and looked expectantly towards the door as the visitors filed in, eager for his first glimpse of Susie. The clamour was tremendous, women moving along the aisles, many with toddlers in tow, some carrying babies. Around the human arena the wardens kept up their steady pacing and relentless steely-eyed scrutiny. At last he saw her, moving through the tables, and something strange happened. He thought he was strong, that he could face anything, had built up his resolve to get him through each minute of every day as a prisoner on remand. But the moment he saw her his strength and resolve just crumbled away. His insides seemed to shrink, and he had to turn away because his face was too naked and vulnerable. Tough guy Dillon who could throw himself out of a Here at 800 feet, and yet this particular ordeal nearly did for him. He understood now how a man's reason could snap, as easily and suddenly and fatally as a brittle pencil point.

'They made me wait almost two hours.' Susie gave him a quick smile, sounding out of breath. She had a paper bag with her, and from her handbag produced a manila envelope. 'I brought all your letters from the C.O. You'll give them to the lawyer?'

Dillon nodded. He couldn't trust himself to speak. He took the envelope to give his hands something to do. His mouth was dry as dust and his palms were cold and damp.

'Is there anything else you need?'

'No,' Dillon croaked. He cleared his throat. 'I got everything.'

'He said the trial will be in ten – ten to twelve weeks.'

'Yeah. That's right.'

'He said you'd moved cells. You're sharing now. All right, is it?' Susie raised her eyebrows. It was stupid small talk, but what else was there? You couldn't talk about the weather to a man inside.

'Guy's a nutter, but I'll make out,' Dillon said, making an effort. He found the strength to look into her eyes, and that gave him hope. He said, 'We been set up, it'll just be a question of gettin' the facts right, that Newman's got to be palmin' somebody. He denies we were in the warehouse, he's a liar, he's got them in his pay. I sussed that out.' His voice hardened as his confidence grew. 'Cliff saw the furniture van, he saw it, that's why we knew he was involved, right? That's why we went to his place, that's where we got the wages, they were still in the packets.' Faster now, gathering pace, urgent. 'I mean, if we'd been gonna rob somebody, we had every opportunity. He had the stolen gems, diamonds. If we'd been gonna pull a robbery we'd have, we'd have…'

His voice faltered, tailed away. Susie waited a moment. Then she said, as gently as she could with all the racket going on, 'Frank, you said this last time I was here… it's me, and I believe you. You don't have to prove anything to me, you know that. I believe you.'

Dillon nodded. He glanced away, as if embarrassed. 'Sorry, it's just that's all I keep thinking about. I'm sorry.' He looked at the envelope, rolled into a tight tube in his hands, and then up at her. 'They not mentioned anythin' else to you, have they? The cops?'

Dillon looked relieved when she shook her head, though Susie had no idea why. It was something he kept harping on, every time she visited, and she was too scared to ask the reason. What else could there be?

'We'll be out,' Dillon said, and this time his confidence seemed real, as if he actually believed it himself. 'They can't keep us in here. Me and Harry'll get the firm back on its feet in no time.' He even found the old Dillon grin. 'I can keep Harry in line – I told him he should've handed over that ruddy gun, but… but…' His head dropped, eyes shut tight. 'Sorry, I'm sorry.'

Susie looked away. Her face had gone bright red. She bit her lip and stared at a toddler on his mother's lap. She opened her hand and discovered a wadded-up tissue, but didn't dare use it.

'Do you want to see the boys?' Susie glanced again at the toddler and back at him. 'Frank?'

'No. Not here. I don't want them to see me in here. Besides, I'll be out soon, lawyer's very confident, well as confident as a twat can be. Did you bring all my papers, letters from the C.O.?' He then remembered he was holding them. 'Oh yes, yes, thanks… cigarettes?'

Susie pushed the bag towards him. Dillon stared at it, eyes glazed, nodding like a mechanical doll. There was a silence between them, a dreadful chasm of silence too wide to shout across. Susie's fingers crept forward, nearly touching his, then curled up, like a plant withering in the frost. Dillon was dumb, no words left in him, no sounds at all, except screams.

Susie burst out brightly, 'I've got a job – restaurant. Pay's not bad, and Mum's been… I'll look round for something better. Mr. Marway's sorting things out with the bank, his family have rallied round. I don't think he'll lose his business. I passed on any accounts we still had left. Not much, but…' Huge glistening tears rolled down her cheeks, dripped off her chin. '… the Chinese an'…'

Susie gulped but kept right on.

'Shirley and me came here together, she's really showing now. I see her when I can, an' – oh Harry, he gave her his microwave an' I gave her the Hoover from the office. Mum was uptight, said she could've done with it.' Susie used the tissue to wipe her face, blotchy red and swollen. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

The bell rang. Two minutes to changeover. Twenty in, twenty out.

Dillon came back to life. He took a deep breath and said breezily, 'Well, that's it. Thanks for coming all this way. Give the boys my love. You tell them I joined up, gone abroad. Maybe tell 'em I'm with Jimmy in Colombia. I can get the lads to send cards, put my name on for me…'

'I won't lie to them, Frank.' Susie's eyes were moist but she wasn't crying any more. 'There's been enough of that. I'll see you in two weeks' time. You sure there's nothing you want…?'

The bell rang again. Final warning.

'… they said I can send in paperbacks.'

'No.' Dillon was deathly pale. 'I'm fine.'

Susie pushed herself up, the wet tissue tight in her fist. She came round the table and bent to kiss him. Dillon averted his face, and she kissed his cheek. A warden passed by, making sure nothing was exchanged except this brief, formal token of affection, and carried on pacing, eyes on the next couple.

Women were moving along the aisles towards the main door. Some of the children were crying. Susie followed the woman and the toddler from the next table. She turned back, raising her voice above the shuffle and squeak of feet on the composition floor.

'I forgot to tell you – I passed my driving test!'

Sitting with his hands clasped on the table in front of him, Dillon slowly turned his head. He nodded, and with a supreme effort, forced a frozen smile. Susie looked at him across the unbridgeable chasm of perhaps ten feet that separated them. She took a pace towards him. Her hand came up, pressed flat against her chest, fingers splayed. She turned and followed the woman and toddler out.

Dillon looked straight ahead, no expression on his face, no movement in his body, arms and shoulders locked solid, his spine an iron bar, holding onto himself with a rigid, unbearable tension, so that the single thin strangulated sound that escaped from him seemed to come from nowhere, from the ether, or a part of him that has no name in human anatomy. A silent cry from his heart, as if it were slowly being torn apart, his sense of loss consumed him, remaining locked tightly inside as he was led back to his cell. There the loss remained, as if held in by steel straps. He was sitting on his bunk, dead-eyed, unaware of where he was or of the man lying prone on the next bunk. Held inside him, as if bound by mental steel straps, was the mounting fury, like a fever. He had no one and no place to let it free. He knew he had brought this on himself, it was his fault, no one else's.

Dillon refused his evening meal. He remained in his cell and it took all his will power to uncoil his stiffened body and lie flat, rigid, eyes staring at the ceiling.

Harry Travers also lay on his back, his head resting on his hands, staring at the ceiling. He had no visitors, he only had his sister in Manchester, and she hadn't the money to come down, not that he had even told her where he was. Apart from her he had nobody. He'd written to Susie, told her to give his microwave to Shirley, for safe keeping, as he didn't want the Pakki landlord nicking it whilst he was inside. There were only a few other things he'd mentioned to Susie to keep safe for him, he had nothing else. He was going to write to Trudie, but didn't bother. He wasn't foolish enough to think she cared what happened to him – he was a fifty-five-quid full job, nothing more. Well, he had been given a few freebies, but mostly he paid up, paid for his loving, always had. In the darkness of his cell he began to remember all the tarts, in all the countries, he'd had some beautiful women, and some dogs, but he'd never had any long-term relationship, never had felt the need. He'd almost been snared once, a long, long time ago. The girl had lived next door to his auntie, a skinny little thing with a funny lop-sided smile. He had been her first and she had believed he would marry her, maybe he had even promised, he could no longer remember that far back, but he'd seen a lot of her just before he joined up. On his first leave he had called round, but she was going steady with a bloke from the local factory, he shoved over a few trinkets he'd bought for her, told her he hoped she'd be happy and got legless with a mate who'd arrived home to find his wife in bed with his best friend. Women were like that, couldn't trust them, and Harry reckoned he'd lost nothing, not missed out. He gave a few moments over to Jummy, wondered how he was getting on, and decided that when he got out, he'd sign up, do a mercenary stint. He wasn't cut out for civvies, not enough action, the action made up for the loneliness. He seemed to see the word printed in front of his eyes, and for the first time in his life he knew he was a lonely man. He turned over and buried his face in the pillow, suddenly wanting to have someone, even that funny, skinny little girl who had lived next door to his auntie's.

Cliff had been knocked around in the exercise yard, his lip was swollen, and he felt exhausted. Seeing Shirley had really upset him. The baby was showing now, and he knew her Dad had gone apeshit, and all the wedding plans had been cancelled. Well, there would be one person who was pleased, Shirley's Dad, he'd never liked Cliff, now he must be rubbing his hands together, saying to poor Shirley, 'I told you so, what did I tell you…'

Cliff wrote copious letters, every spare moment he had, he wrote to Shirley, explaining over and over that it was all a terrible mistake, that he would be out and they could still get married, she would have the baby and they would be okay. He would get a decent job, he would provide, he would make it, and Shirley had promised to stay with him, no matter what her father said. She knew he would be out in time for the baby, and even joked in her letters that poor Norma would then have to take her wedding dress in, as she would be back in shape.

Cliff wrote to his mother and father, his brothers and sisters, he wrote to everyone he could think of, desperate for everyone to know that it was all a terrible mistake. Hunched on his bunk, hardly able to see the page in the darkness, he started another letter, one he had begun over and over. It was to Frank Dillon, an attempt to make him understand why he had to tell the law about Newman, that he knew he should have kept his mouth shut, knew that Dillon was sorting everything out, but he had just been unable to keep quiet. The letter was written, rewritten and torn up time after time. He had sent round a note to Harry, and it had really hurt him when it had been returned. Dillon had not looked at him, or spoken to him, and that had hurt, he had always believed Frank Dillon was his friend, his best friend, and he tried one more time to put into words what he felt.

'Dear Frank, Please don't think any the worse of me, I only did what I felt was the best for all of us. I know we'll get out, and I reckon we can still make the business work. We are innocent, the case against us will be thrown out. Good luck, I guess I'll see you in court. Your Friend Cliff.'

The truth was, Cliff was the only true innocent, and because of Dillon he had lost his job, because of Dillon he had pooled his money from Scotland into the security firm, and because of Dillon he was banged up in a prison cell, but the latter Cliff would never admit was in anyway Dillon's fault. He loved Dillon and admired him, and he was ashamed he had not kept quiet, ashamed he had bleated out about Barry Newman. It seemed to obsess him even more than the cancellation of his wedding, and Shirley's pregnancy. Mr. Crook had said to him that he had better look out for himself, not worry about Frank Dillon, but Cliff did worry, he cried himself to sleep, because he knew he had let Dillon down.

CHAPTER 43

'Stand up the three of you.'

The judge pushed his gold-rimmed bi-focals more firmly onto his nose, eyes downcast on the papers before him. He looked up at the men in the dock. The court waited. The stenographer settled herself, hands poised over the keys. From outside, the faint hum of traffic from Camberwell New Road. Somebody coughed, and the judge waited a moment longer. Then he began.

'You have all been convicted after a long and difficult trial of a serious conspiracy to steal. You are also convicted of possession of a firearm for use in connection with the commission of that offence, and in your case, Dillon, that charge is made out because you supplied the firearm to Travers and Morgan. We have listened to the evidence in this case and I am appalled at the deliberate premeditated planning and execution of these offences, offences committed with military precision. You three men planned to steal money entrusted to you in breach of the substantial confidence placed in you, and to dress up your offences so as to incriminate others.'

The judge glanced at the papers and leaned forward on his elbows, fingers laced together.

'You, Dillon, until recently a sergeant in Her Majesty's Army, brought all your military training to bear in the preparation and planning of these offences. You procured equipment and drilled your men, Travers and Morgan, going so far as to require them to inflict violence upon each other and to discharge a firearm in a public place so as to mislead the police.'

From the tiered bank of seats to the judge's left, behind the two rows reserved for the press, Susie's eyes were fixed, dry and unblinking, on her husband's face. Beside her sat Helen, recently blue-rinsed and wearing a new chiffon scarf. Shirley sat two seats along, her head bowed, rocking slightly, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Marway and his wife were in the row behind, he in his turban, she with a silk shawl draped over her head. In the back row, an empty seat either side of him, Barry Newman sat with one gloved fingertip stroking the tip of his chin.

'Despite your absence from the scene at the time of the commission of these offences,' the judge continued, addressing Dillon directly, 'I take the view that you are the ringleader in this case, and that the most severe penalty must be reserved for you.' His gaze shifted to include the others. 'I have taken into account your exemplary military records, having heard from the many character witnesses that you have called. I'm sadly aware that all three of you have fought bravely for your country and have been decorated. I am also aware that none of you has appeared either before a court martial, or since your discharge from the Forces before a civilian court.'

The judge leaned back and straightened up in his chair. His voice straightened up too, stood to attention.

'For offences of this sort the court has no alternative but to pass an immediate prison sentence. That sentence must reflect the gravity of the offences, and it is all the more sad in this case that none of you has had the courage to plead guilty, despite overwhelming evidence against you.'

Dillon stood hands by his sides, Harry and Cliff either side of him. Since rising none of them had moved a muscle. Three uniformed officers stood directly behind the three men. In the well of the court, Detective Chief Inspector Jenkins watched the faces of the three leading actors in the drama. It had unfolded beautifully, he couldn't have written it better himself. Now he was anticipating with great relish the climax to the third act.

'Morgan, I take the view that your part in these offences was as culpable as Travers, but nonetheless I take into account your youth, and for the offence of conspiracy to steal I sentence you to six years' imprisonment and three years' concurrent in respect of the possession of the firearm. Take him down.'

Cliff's knees buckled. He might have fallen but for the officer, who gripped his arm and supported him. In a state of total shock, Cliff was too stunned even to look at Shirley, or to hear her sobs as he was led down the stairs.

'Travers, you will serve a sentence of eight years' imprisonment for conspiracy with three years' concurrent for possession of a firearm with intent to commit an indictable offence. Take him down.'

Harry glared. At everyone – judge, court, Jenkins, reporters, the whole swinish, double-talking, fixing, finagling, fucking lot of them. His final verdict as his head disappeared below the level of the dock was one enraged bellow of defiance.

'Bastards!!!'

Alone in the dock, Dillon awaited his fate. Susie's wedding ring cut into her flesh as she gripped her mother's hand. Two rows behind, gaunt face completely impassive, Newman stroked his chin.

'Dillon, the sentence of this court for conspiracy to steal is that you shall serve nine years' imprisonment; for possession of a firearm with intent to commit an indictable offence, three years to run concurrent. Take him down.'

Dillon stood his ground. He wouldn't be budged, this was madness. Handcuffed, his hands, with his fingers tattooed with the words 'love' and 'hate', clasped tightly. An officer came up the stairs to assist his colleague. Between them they wrestled Dillon round. He looked up to Susie but she bowed her head. Her mother clung onto her hand, crying; no matter how she had gone on and on about her son-in-law, she loved him, and she felt the betrayal of her trust in him as devastating as Susie did. It was Susie who patted and comforted her mother, watching her husband's straight back as they frog-marched him down to the cells below the court.

Not until he was in the holding cell did Dillon's shoulders slump, his head go down. He felt all his willpower and all his strength seep from him. There was no more fight left in him, the fight was gone. They led each man out, Cliff first, Harry second and then Dillon. Harry had to be pushed hard up the steps of the van, he stumbled forward cursing, Cliff, already inside, sitting dull-eyed, still in shock. Lastly Dillon stepped in, and they sat side by side, as the handcuffs were attached onto the steel bar.

The clang of the heavy doors left them in almost total darkness and the small slit windows high above their heads sent shafts of sunlight across the interior of the van. In the darkness, as the engine ticked over, their eyes searched for each other, locked, and then looked away again. There were no words, not at this stage, nothing to be said, they were all in shock at the harshness of their sentences, the loss of their freedom still not fully comprehended. They were mute, as if the stuffing had been punched out of them.

Dillon closed his eyes and the van became the old Hercules. He was standing at the open door, the wind rippling his cheeks, the lads lining up ready to move to the open door. 'Tell off for equipment check… shuffle forwards!'

He stepped out, and felt the rush of the howling wind, the explosion inside his chest, the exhilaration of the air itself, the tug to his guts as the parachute opened up, like a glorious white cloud, and suspended, with sky below and above, you were the hawk, you were the eagle, the swallow. You never mentioned this because they'd call you a wanker, but there was that moment when the feeling of freedom was the sweetest most precious thing in the world. Afterwards came the fighting, the killing, the anger, the feverish rage when your mates died, the blanking off of feelings, the sick jokes about the injured, because you were relieved it was somebody else's legs blown to smithereens. It was as if all those early days, those first jumps, merged into one mass. Why now, just as his freedom had been taken from him, did Frank Dillon remember, with crystal clarity, the way he had felt all those years ago, when he was young, he was healthy, he was a bit wild, he had his whole life ahead of him? And that life for eighteen years became the Army's, was the Army. He had placed it before his wife and sons, had given the Army himself one hundred per cent, and left little for Susie and his family. He knew he had been given chances, like the bank loan, but he was just ill-equipped to deal with it, he was almost as inept now as he was when he first enlisted, he'd never even had a job before he signed on the dotted line. How could he have cared and trained blokes and yet remained such a fucking walking liability in civvies? He shook his head in confusion, and turned to Cliff.

Cliff bowed his head, as if unable to meet Dillon's eyes.

'S'okay Cliff, you did right son, it was me that fouled up, and I'll…' he was going to say he would sort it, like he tried to sort everything, everybody. 'I'm sorry, sorry about Shirley and the weddin'.' Dillon leaned over and patted Cliff, who gripped his hand tightly.

'We'll get a re-trial, we will won't we?' Cliff asked.

Harry elbowed Cliff away. 'Not with that bloody Arnold Crook! We need a better friggin' lawyer, he couldn't get a hard on, never mind fight a bleedin' complicated case like ours, we was framed. Did I ever tell you about that time in Argie? Well, Dick the Armpit, you remember him don't you Frank? Well he's got a bag full of smoke right and…'

Harry nattered on, Cliff only half-listening, his eyes straying to look at Dillon, who sat staring ahead, deep in thought. As if he knew Cliff was watching he turned his head a fraction.

Harry continued… 'I said what you got in the bag Armpit? It smells like camel's shit! It is, he said, that bastard Blackie Hardcastle sold it me, said it was Colombian Gold, so I said to him…'

Dillon smiled, the smile Susie fell in love with, the smile that came across his dark features so rarely. It stunned Cliff, because he saw the vunerability, almost the youth of the man he had believed was so invincible, the man he had trusted. The smile disarmed him, he was no longer his sergeant, just an ordinary bloke. Harry continued, 'In shit up to his armpits, so I said…' Cliff leaned back and Dillon returned to leaning against the wall of the van as it continued its journey to the prison. They were in it all right, up to their armpits, and Harry realising no one was listening to his camel dung story went quiet. They remained silent for the rest of the journey, each wrapped in his own thoughts until the van stopped as Brixton Prison gates were opened. Their papers were checked, the door opened and the wardens peered in to view the three new prisoners. The door clanged shut again, and a disembodied voice was heard discussing the new arrivals. The driver leaned out, jerked his thumb to indicate the back of the transport van. 'Got the Army back here, mate!'