'Well, does the team think?' Duke said, savouring the phrase. 'Not much, Y'Honour. Can't teach an old slag new tricks. Can you, Billy?'
A slyness had crept into Duke's voice and Billy realised he wasn't as pissed as he was pretending to be. He punched the older man on the shoulder. 'You cunt.'
Duke took that as a compliment and flashed his nicotine- stained teeth. 'You know this place used to be called the Bucket of Blood? Because of all the bare-knuckle fights outside. Back in…'
But Billy wasn't having any of that old flannel. 'Spare me the history lesson, Len. There'll be more blood on the floor if you don't tell me what you picked up.'
Duke reached into his pocket and took out a small square of paper which he unfolded and laid on the bar towel in front of them. There were two registration numbers on it. 'Bingo,' he said. 'All the three point fours, nickety-nick.'
Billy picked up the scrap and stared at it. 'What you on about?'
'Last weekend, just gone. Two Jags go missing within half a day of each other. And not any old Jags. Three point fours again. What does that tell you?'
Billy didn't need to think too hard. 'The Comet House boys?'
'Precisely. The City gents. Old fuckin' habits, see? Jaguar three point fours. The motor of choice for the discerning wheel-man everywhere.' His eyes were suddenly sober, the glassy stare replaced by something altogether more steely. 'They took the piss, didn't they? So now we take a good, long look at Roy James, Buster Edwards and especially Gordon "Big Head" Goody, and this time we catch them doing a bit more than scratching their bollocks.' He pointed at Billy's empty glass. 'Fancy another, son?'
Twenty-seven
London, May 1963
Tony's stomach was burning as he parked the Hillman in a side street lined with tall Edwardian houses, a ten-minute walk from the lock-ups at Lee where Jimmy White had stashed the two Jaguars. The idea was to move them closer to the job, which was scheduled for that night. A train. Robbing a bleeding train. It was like the Wild West, with Bruce Reynolds as Cheyenne Bodie. No, he was a good guy. Paladin, that was the bloke, a gunfighter with a dark streak in him. Have Gun, Will Travel it said on his calling card. Except Bruce said no guns. Using a shooter was like Double Your Money, he had told them, only here it was called Double Your Jolt.
Marie had sensed there was something up. She had never stopped asking questions. Where are you going? What are you doing? Why are you staying the night? Is it a woman?
No, it's not a woman. Well, she believed that. Because it was the truth. If only. No woman would churn his insides like this. His cover story – alibi, he supposed – was that he was going to buy a Ford Zodiac and a Zephyr in Southampton
and would be staying over before driving one of them back, with his new pal Jimmy White chauffeuring the second. (Who the hell is Jimmy White? she had asked.) He had already ordered them to be delivered by low-loader, so should she check in the showroom over the next few weeks, they would be there. He would probably sell them, too. Z-Cars had just swapped their Ford Consuls for the newer models, and sales had received a boost.
He walked quickly down towards the parade of shops and two pubs – the Old Tiger's Head and the New Tiger's Head – that faced off against each other and formed the heart of Lee, which for most people was little more than a crossroads on the A20 to Lewisham. He glanced at the pubs, suddenly thirsty, but kept his head down and continued across the lights.
Tony lit a cigarette as he went. He'd started smoking again, a pack a day. Marie could smell it on him and complained that he was stinking the flat out, even though he never lit up indoors. It was hormones that made her hysterical, he supposed. Everything for the good of the baby. Well, why did she think he was doing this?
And then those strange words when he had left. 'Make sure it's worth our while, Tony.'
He could see Jimmy up ahead, waiting for him, also smoking but leaning against a lamp-post, loose and relaxed. An old pro, Bruce had said. Best key-man in London. He raised a hand as he recognised Tony, who tossed his cigarette away. Before he reached him, Jimmy detached himself from his post and walked up the track that led to the lock-ups, where the Jags were stored.
Tony watched Jimmy's back as he strode down the lane between the houses and turned left towards the row of garages, disappearing from view. If Tony took one step onto the rough driveway, he was committed. He could just walk on now if he wanted. Say the Old Bill had spotted him and he'd become spooked. Say his bowels had turned to liquid. Say he had a feeling Marie needed him. Say anything.
Make sure it's worth our while.
She knew. Marie knew he was up to no good, as she used to say, and she didn't care. Just as long as the risk was worth the reward. Well, Bruce was talking fifteen, twenty each. They could live in Hampstead for that.
Jimmy's head reappeared, followed by an arm beckoning him on, a gesture ripe with impatience. They had two ringed Jags to deliver to Bruce & Co for their tickle. A train, so he had heard. But he was just a delivery boy, Tony told himself. Drop off the Jaguars and you're done. Take the fee and walk away. Tony realised he had stopped walking, his legs suddenly leaden. Jimmy waved at him again.
Tony sniffed nervously and took his first, heavy step on the road to robbery.
The observation van, a scruffy old Transit, stank of long- eaten Wimpys, greasy chips, sweat and ripe farts. It was a potent combination that always resisted even the steam hose deployed at the end of a particularly long stint.
The tatty Ford had been moved into position three days ago, when Roy James had been spotted at a disused bus garage in South London. Through the ventilation grills on the side, a policeman with binoculars could keep a log of the comings and goings at the depot.
That morning it was all comings. Bruce Reynolds – in some flash motor as always, this time one of the new Lotus Cortinas – Roy James, Buster Edwards and three men that Duke didn't recognise. No Goody or Wilson, which was disappointing. But something was definitely up. There was no way that lot was thinking of going into the public transport business. They had already brought in a Bedford van, sliding back the big main doors to allow it in, and then slamming them shut again. Duke could only imagine what was inside, but he'd wager his arse- hole it involved pickaxe handles and masks or something similar.
A couple of streets away were two Flying Squad drivers with two detectives, ready to either move in or follow, depending on what Duke decided.
'I need a piss,' said Billy Naughton.
'Go in that bucket.'
'I can get out quietly.'
'Fuck off. You'll be spotted. Who's to say they're not clocking us from the top floor now.' He moved the binoculars up to the shattered panes of the metal Crittall windows and refocused them. There was no movement, but that didn't signify anything. 'You can go out when you need a shit. Before that, use the bucket. Hold up.'
Billy moved close to Duke, but he couldn't see much through the grill. 'What is it?'
'Someone's coming out.'
The small access door cut within the larger gates opened and Bruce Reynolds stepped through into the feeble sunlight. Even so, Duke could see him squint at the unaccustomed glare. Must be dark within the old garage, Duke figured. Reynolds glanced at his watch – some fuck-off Swiss one, Duke didn't doubt – then looked right and left. He's waiting for someone, thought Duke. It's going down. He stared at the radio, the one he could use to call in reinforcements. Did they break it up now, or try and catch them red-handed?