Buster grunted. 'Been there once – never again. Full of stuck-up rich gits. Everyone seemed to be over sixty. Give me Brighton any day.'
They sucked more hot air for a minute, lost in their thoughts. 'Where do you think you'll be when you're sixty, Buster?'
Buster wiped his forehead. It was slippery with sweat. He was already looking forward to a cold shower. Bruce had a bit more stamina for this kind of thing than him. Man must have been a lobster in a former life. 'Parkhurst at this rate.'
'You miserable cunt,' Bruce said affectionately. He didn't understand the gloom that could afflict Buster. It was a mystery. Buster hated the idea of prison and he suffered deep bouts of melancholy about it, even on the outside. 'It might never happen.'
Bruce accepted pokey as part of the deal, the same way that life and death were intertwined; you couldn't have one without the certainty of the other. For him, his chosen path – the criminal way, some might call it – was a state of mind. It moved life to an intensity that was only rarely achievable in other ways. A film might do it, a few bars of Bill Evans, sex, of course, but nothing else sustained that feeling of being larger than life, beyond its quotidian dullness, like being in the midst of a great take-down. Quotidian. That wasn't a word you heard every day. He had read that in JP Donleavy. He'd had to look it up, but he liked it. The Quotidian Life. It was what they all kicked against, some harder than others. Like Dangerfield in Donleavy's novel, or Marlon Brando in The Wild One, which Bruce had seen in France, he wanted to live these few years on earth at full tilt, not succumb to an anaesthetised greyness.
'And where will you be?' asked Buster, interrupting his thoughts.
'Me? Saint Tropez. Acapulco. Watching Frank at The Sands in Vegas and flying over to see Terry Downes fight and Rod Laver play.' He leaned forward and tapped Buster's knee. 'You got to have ambition.'
'My ambition is for Gordy to hurry up so I can get out of here.' Through a gap in the steam, Bruce could see Buster's pudgy face, red and glistening, with rivulets of sweat gathering at his chin. 'You thought about that other thing – for the next tickle?'
'Tickle? More like a belly laugh, Buster.'
'Is that a yes?'
Bruce shook his head, even though he doubted Buster could see the gesture. 'I'd love to do the Bank of England,' he said, 'but come on.'
Buster had been approached by an ex-messenger at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, who had given him details of the Watch. This was the system by which a rotating roster of staff members stayed the night at the Bank of England. Every employee gave up one night a month plus four weekends and a Bank Holiday a year. Each night at 6 p.m., every bank key – a hundred in all – had to be checked in and the bank secured. A convivial supper and rooms were provided. The odd guest was allowed in, but males only. The source had told them that the men-only rule was subtly undermined by smuggled mistresses in tuxedos or even kilts.
'You got to be able to hide in a place that size,' said Buster. 'My bloke says there's a dozen hidey-holes that could avoid the Sweep.'
At 10.45 each night patrols reported to the Bank's Security Control that every corner of the Old Lady had been swept and was free of stowaways intent on mischief.
'And the Guards? Just our luck we'd get the fuckin' Gurkhas.' The various Guards regiments took it in turns to supply the military presence overnight at the bank; but the Gurkhas occasionally did a stint. Bruce could imagine being gutted by one of those little bastards with his kukri.
'Who's being negative now?' Buster asked petulantly.
And what, thought Bruce, was the jolt for trying to rob the Bank of England? Ten years? Fifteen? Christ, a hanging judge might go as high as twenty. For a man who was bird- averse, like Buster, it didn't bear thinking about. But banged up they would be, because there was no way on God's earth Prime Minister Macmillan and Co would let anyone get away with tickling the Old Lady. Only politicians got to rob the country blind.
Bruce, not wanting to encourage his friend into despondency, said: 'You're right. Set up a meet with your man. It's worth dropping a bit of cash to see if he's on the level, if he can get us plans and the like.'
'Will do.' Buster made a blowing sound, like a whale breaching. 'I've got to get out of here, Bruce.'
Buster stood, just as the door opened, allowing steam to billow out into what suddenly seemed like an icy corridor. Standing there was Mannie, one of the attendants at the baths.
'Mr Reynolds. Mr Edwards. Sorry to interrupt your steam but there're a couple of gentlemen here to see you. When you are ready, they said. And not to worry about Mr Goody, they said. They have dealt with him already.'
A couple of gentlemen? Buster looked down at Bruce. 'Fuck.'
'Yeah. Fuck.'
'It doesn't look much like a villain's drum,' said Billy as he walked into Gordon Goody's neat, clean flat. There was G-Plan furniture, a Bush TV, Axminster carpets – none of that Cyril Lord tat – a well-stocked drinks cabinet and a sideboard containing some fancy Wedgwood tableware. In the kitchen was a nice new stove and the biggest refrigerator Billy had ever seen, taller than him, but that was probably the flashiest item in the place. What kind of villain spends his ill-gotten gains on a fridge? he wondered.
'That's because his mum lives here, too,' said Len. 'WPC Waring has taken her off to tea and Bingo.'
Billy and Duke stood and watched as the mostly uniformed team went methodically through the place, unzipping cushions and carefully lifting carpets. Billy was impressed. On too many of the warrants he'd witnessed being served, the searching officers had acted like Desperate Dans. Big and oafish. These lads had finesse.
'Nothing so far, guv,' said the DC from the local nick to Duke.
'Fair enough. He's the careful sort, is Gordy. Why don't you go and get a cup of tea?'
'Tea?' the DC asked, as if he never touched the filthy stuff. 'We've only the bedrooms and the loft to do.'
'And I want them done properly. Not the sudden spurt at the end when everyone thinks it's time for a cuppa. Come back refreshed.' He pointed at Billy. 'We'll hold the fort till you get back.'
The DC pointed down to the nylon sports bag Duke had brought along. 'Off to the gym?'
'Oh aye. Judo. Couple of throws on the mat. Nothing like it at the end of the day.'
The DC looked sceptical, but he waved his uniforms out.
Duke took out a fiver. 'Get them a sandwich, too.' The DC hesitated before he took it.
After they had left, Duke crossed to the cocktail cabinet and opened it. 'Bird's eye maple, this. Pricy. Oh, looky here. Nice drop of Laphroaig. Fancy some?'
'Nah.'
'Come on.' He examined the bottle. 'It's not like he's marked it. Bent bastard isn't going to miss two snifters. Probably swag anyway.' He splashed out a generous measure into each of two cut-glass tumblers. 'Secret with this is, a drop of water.'
He returned from the kitchen beaming and handed Billy one of the glasses. 'Cheers.'
Billy just gave a tight smile. He wasn't sure he felt like toasting with the guy who had dropped him in this particular pile of shit. He sipped his drink, his eyes watering at the rich, peaty aroma released by the few drops of water.
Duke grabbed an arm, steered him over to the sofa and pushed him down. He stood over him, a lopsided grin slapped onto his face. Billy felt an urge to punch it. 'Now look, Billy boy, I know you are pissed off. Black mark and everything. But just imagine if that little shit's tip-off hadn't been moody. The power and the fuckin' glory you would have got. Would you be sharin' that with me now? Would you fuck. But listen, old Millen is sayin' to George Hatherill, "Well, he's a new boy. Happens to us all. Give him some slack." More than they would for me. "Cocky cunt," they'd have said about me; "should have seen it comin'. Should have smelled it".' He sniffed his drink to emphasise the point and the grin returned. 'But all that could be water under the bridge if we make this stick on someone. That's all they care about. Arrests have been made – that's good. But what have we got so far?'