Well, it was hardly service with a smile. 'You're not racing?'

A shrug. 'Can't afford it, mate.'

'Tell me about it,' said Roy sympathetically. 'Rich man's game.' Hulme nodded. 'Shame though. You're b.l.o.o.d.y good. Can I see Ron?'

'Really, he's under the cosh, working on the cars for South Africa.'

'Yeah, right. 'Course he is.'

The South African would be the final GP of the year and would decide whether Graham Hill or Jim Clark would be World Champion. Although Brabham weren't in contention for the top two places, with Stirling Moss out of action after a hideous crash, Bruce McLaren, who had won at Monaco, just had to be in the points to stay ahead of Surtees and take third. It would be a real boost for the Brabham-Climax team.

'Just that I want to order a car.'

'A car?'

'To race,' he added redundantly.

Hulme looked down at the case at Roy's feet. 'You one of those rich men we were just talking about?'

'Had a bit of luck on the Spot-the-Ball compet.i.tion.'

'Congratulations. What you after?'

'Formula Junior. A BT6.'

'You done much racing?'

'Karts. British team. Ron can vouch for me.' I know what I am doing, is what he really meant.

'A BT6 is five and a half thousand, including Purchase Tax. You must be good at spotting those b.a.l.l.s.'

Roy picked up the case. It was most of what he had earned from the job. Affording the running costs for any car he bought was going to be tricky, but he would worry about that later. 'I am. Think Ron'll take cash?'

For the first time Denny Hulme smiled, and when Roy left two hours later, he had a single-seat racing car specced up, a delivery date and a cha.s.sis number: FJ-13-62. He was on his way.

Eighteen London, January 1963 The council of war was held at the Trat - the Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street - on another bitterly cold day. A series of angry storms had lashed the British Isles and there had been four days of fog in London. Now the temperature was down in the bas.e.m.e.nt. So the men who entered the Italian restaurant were bundled up in coats, scarves, gloves and hats and took several minutes to disrobe as Alvaro, the manager, fussed around them, ordering vino ros...o...b..fore they had even sat down, and listing the day's specials.

Alvaro had selected a circular table at the rear of the room. There was Bruce, back from the South of France where he had gone immediately after the ident.i.ty parade. He was in the clear now. Fifteen hundred pounds, spread around liberally, meant his name was no longer a.s.sociated with the Heathrow job. Roy was present, as were Gordy, Buster and a young solicitor, Brian Field.

Gordy was only there because of Brian, who had secured him bail, which had been refused for Charlie and Mickey.

Bruce, a tanned and relaxed figure among wan winter-struck faces, ordered some antipasto for the table and said: 'Well, gentlemen, who is going fill me in? How's Charlie?'

'Quiet,' said Buster, who had visited him on remand. 'But calm.'

'What do they have on him?'

'The lavatory attendant,' said Brian. 'Good ID.'

'Is that all?' Bruce asked. 'Can we get to him?'

The solicitor shook his head. 'No.'

'Is he solid?'

'He's an old bloke. A good brief 11 make him wobble,' said Buster.

'And Brian has an idea,' said Gordy with something close to admiration. Theirs was not a normal client-counsel relationship. In fact, Bruce sometimes thought the angel-faced Brian, with his short hair, neat suits and sensible shirts, was the most bent out of all of them. He had, after all, a glamorous German wife with expensive tastes to support.

Bruce turned to look at the young man, not yet out of his twenties. He could almost pa.s.s for a teenager, albeit a particularly harmless, suburban one, apart from the flinty eyes. Bruce glimpsed a greedy venality in there.

'Well, there is a lad works at the airport - has done for two years. Never been on a plane, even though he has to watch them all day. That kid would love to catch a jet to New York or Rio.'

'Yeah? Go on.'

Brian hesitated as a large platter of ham, artichokes, olives and tomatoes was placed in the centre of the table, along with I stack of hot, crisp bread. 'So he'll say that he saw Charlie at exactly the same time as the robbery was taking place - but over with the plane-spotters.'

'Plane-spotters?' Bruce asked incredulously. 'Charlie? He can't tell a 707 from the hole in his a.r.s.e.'

'I'll slip him a copy of the Observer's Book of Jet Airliners,' said Brian with a smirk. 'Come the trial, he'll be an expert.'

Buster took a sliver of translucent ham and folded it into his mouth. 'OK, fair enough, that's confusing the attendant's evidence - can't be in two places at once,' he said eventually. 'But is that enough?'

Roy waved away the offer of wine and asked for lemonade. 'What about a juror?'

Brian nodded. 'Likely we can get us one. We'll have to wait on that, obviously.'

'How much for the kid at the airport?' Bruce asked.

'Two grand should do it.'

Two grand. The money from the score was dwindling fast. 'I'll get it to you,' said Bruce. 'What about Mickey?'

What he really meant was: would he go QE? 'He's holding up,' said Roy, knowing Mickey would never take the Queen's Evidence route. 'Saw him last week.'

'And what do they have on him?'

'Two witnesses who put him in Comet House.'

'What?' He looked at Brian. 'He wasn't inside.'

'They think it's me,' said Buster. 'Same sort of height, you see.'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks,' said Bruce.

Brian supped his wine. 'He could cop a plea. If they do him for the violence inside, he could be looking at a c.o.c.kle, maybe more.'

'And Mickey can't do ten years standing,' said Roy glumly. They all appreciated that Mickey wasn't made of the same stuff as Charlie, Gordy or Bruce.

They finished the antipasto in silence. Bruce indicated that the table be cleared.

'What if he does cop a plea?'

Brian sniffed. 'A handful, maybe.' Five years. 'They have the chauffeur's trousers from his drum, so it isn't hard to convince them he wasn't inside but behind the wheel. He might even get away with a lagging. Three and out in two.'

'But he won't roll over?' asked Buster, suddenly concerned for his own skin.

'Mickey? Nah,' insisted Roy. 'He knows which side his bread is b.u.t.tered on.' He also knew what would happen if he did give them Charlie or any of the others. Life inside wouldn't be safe. 'I'll have a word. See if I can get him to change his mind and do a Not Guilty.'

A small bowl of ravioli each - on the house, the waiter informed them - was set before them and more wine taken by all but Roy. Then Bruce turned to Gordy. 'What about you?'

Brian answered for him, mischievousness in his voice. Bruce was reminded yet again that the solicitor often treated all this as a game. Brian v the Bogeys. 'Now Gordon has an idea.'

Gordy quickly outlined his plan, which clearly appealed to his sense of humour. Bruce wasn't so sure.

'That's it? Bit Tommy Cooper, isn't it?'

'And a juror or two, of course,' said Brian rea.s.suringly. 'And we can get to the bolt-cutter man, I'm certain. There's the security guard, but I'm not sure he's enough on his own. It all happened so fast.'

Bruce still wasn't sure about the wisdom of the whole setup, which had elements of farce about it. There was a time and place for clowning around, and the Central Criminal Court wasn't it. However, the others seemed up for it. 'OK, give it a whirl. But you'll need someone on the inside at AD.' This was the police slang for Alpha Delta, Cannon Row's designation, a term that had been picked up by the other side.

'I could ask the Twins,' said Gordy.

Bruce shook his head vigorously at the thought of involving the heavy-handed Krays. 'No. Keep it tight. And you best stay out of it, too, Gordy. Me and Buster, we'll see what we can do.' He signalled to Alvaro. 'Ready for the mains now.'

Alvaro put on his most flamboyant act, waving his arms and gesticulating, as if a time bomb was about to go off. 'Si, of course, Signor Reynolds. Gilberto, cinque secundipiatti, tavola uno, presto, presto.'

He might be an old ham, thought Bruce, but Alvaro was the best host in London, excepting perhaps Mario at Tiberio, the sister restaurant in Queen Street, who had the edge when it came to the ladies. Mario made them all feel like Gina Lollobrigida.

Brian glanced at his watch and stood up. 'Not for me, chaps, sorry. Got work to do. Believe it or not, some of my clients are actually innocent.'

The young solicitor left them laughing at that one.

Nineteen.

London, March 1963 Charlie knew enough to wear a royal-blue shirt to the Old Bailey, rather than a white one. The public areas of the Central Criminal Court might have been vacuumed, washed, polished and waxed daily, but downstairs some of the grime dated from the eighteenth century. He'd seen too many in the dock with smudged white shirts, looking like they'd just delivered a hundredweight of coal. Dark colours, they were best.

Charlie was led by one of the Brixton screws who did turns at the Bailey, past the squalid and crowded 'on bail' cells. One of the steel doors was open, a guard bellowing a name. Charlie glanced in, hoping for a glimpse of Gordy, but couldn't see beyond the swaying youth blocking the doorway. He'd worn a white shirt and tie, like a good boy. The effect was rather spoiled by a nose that had been split like a ripe tomato. Charlie shook his head. That would make a good impression on the jury. Still, the kid might be a nonce or a rapist and deserved it. The young offender glanced over his shoulder, back into the cell. He wasn't more than nineteen and his legs bowed and shook as he was pulled towards his moment in the dock. Nah, thought Charlie, he probably just looked at someone the wrong way.

As they approached the 'kennels' one of the prison officers unlocked the closest door and bowed, as if welcoming him to his hotel suite. Charlie remained impa.s.sive. f.u.c.k them. The kennels - cells reserved for those on remand brought from prisons - were often worse than the 'on bails' - scorching in summer, cold in winter, no windows, just a series of holes drilled high in the wall for ventilation. No lavatory, of course, just a bucket. One shower on request, should your day drag on and your clothes and hair and skin grow rank as they absorbed the stench of your own, and everyone else's, sweat. But one shower for sixty or seventy meant you might not get a turn and if you did, the slimy, mould-tinged cubicle was hardly inviting.

'Mr Wilson,' said the screw with exaggerated politeness. 'We'll be calling you shortly.'

Charlie gave the man a thin smile, and imagined punching him hard, right between the eyes. He preferred it when they didn't speak to him. He did them that courtesy, why couldn't they just return it and keep their mouths shut? They all knew what this was: a rick of the life he had chosen. As such, he- thought of it now more like an athlete thought of a pulled tendon or a pilot his plane crashing. It can happen. It had happened.

The cell held only six other people, and one chair, occupied. The others sat on the filthy floor, cross-legged. He scanned the faces as they looked up at him. No sign of Mickey. He didn't recognise any of them. No friends here. Not much warmth either, with the winter that still ruled the country bleeding in through the ventilation holes.

The door closed behind him with a resounding clang and Charlie looked around at walls covered in graffiti and food slops and not a little blood. There was no way on G.o.d's earth he was going to lean against that. And the floor was covered in a film of dirt and p.i.s.s. He looked at the man in the chair. Forty-ish, with the pallor of a life in pokey about him. Flabby upper arms, crude, homemade tattoos. Not in shape at all. Charlie had a hand on his own biceps. They were good and hard. He'd done push-ups and sit-ups morning and evening, hundreds of them, a way of numbing the pain of being separated from Pat. That was the only hard thing about being inside. Everything else was easy. The thought of five or ten years away from the family, though . . . but that wasn't the problem right now.

The man in the chair was reading a paper. Charlie scanned the second lead story. A 'freelance model' called Christine Keeler had failed to appear in court as a witness to a shooting by a 'coloured' man, John Arthur Edgecombe. Charlie knew Christine, vaguely, from the clubs. Hard-faced but softhearted. He wondered how long before the hacks really joined up the dots. Everyone knew who else hung out at Murray's Cabaret, and that the group treated Cliveden as its country branch.

But the man in the chair wasn't reading that. He was groaning about how the West Indies had beaten England by ten wickets in Barbados. 'Can you believe those nig-nogs?'

Those nig-nogs included players like Sobers and Gibbs, the best off-spinner in the game, thought Charlie. Ignorant c.u.n.t. He took a step forward and sniffed loudly.

In the confined s.p.a.ce, it sounded like a bull snorting. The long-termer in the chair looked up, then returned to his paper. Charlie took a step closer, folding his arms, feeling his worked muscles press against the fabric of his clothes. The man put down his Mirror once more. He opened his mouth to speak, saw the expression in Charlie's eyes and the honed shape of his torso, and thought better of it. He stood and stepped aside.

Charlie shot his trousers from the knee as he sat, then nodded his thanks as he held out his hand. The man hesitated and pa.s.sed over the newspaper. Charlie snapped it open at an article claiming that the police needed an extra 25 million a year to fight the underworld. A White Paper called Crime in the Sixties was claiming that every aspect of law enforcement, from the probation service to the courts, was 'clearly inadequately funded' with the ever-present risk of 'crime going unpunished'.

Charlie laughed to himself. That's handy, he thought. Crime going unpunished. Maybe the day would work out all right, after all.

Twenty.

From The Times, 12 March 1963 MAN ACQUITTED ON 62,000 CHARGE.

At the close of the case for the prosecution at the trial of the three men accused of being concerned in a 62,000 wages robbery at London Airport last November, Sir Anthony Hawke, the Recorder at the Central Criminal Court, directed the jury yesterday to acquit one of the accused on the grounds that there was insufficient evidence to justify proceeding further against him. A witness who placed the accused at the site was deemed 'unreliable', especially as another witness had insisted he was elsewhere at the time.

Charles Frederick Wilson, aged 30, bookmaker of Crescent Lane, S.W., was then found Not Guilty of robbing Arthur Henry Grey and Donald William Harris of boxes containing 62,599, the property of BOAC, while armed with offensive weapons. Wilson was formally discharged.

CONFESSION DENIED.

Addressing the jury, the Judge said that the evidence against Wilson was of such doubtful character that it did not justify proceeding against him further.

The trial then proceeded against Michael John Ball, aged 26, credit agent of Lambrook Terrace, Fulham, S.W., and Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 32, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W. Mr Ball denied that he originally admitted his role in the robbery in a verbal confession and said that he intended to plead Not Guilty. The trial was adjourned for two weeks.

Twenty-one.

London, March 1963 As happened every weekday except holidays, at six that morning the Billingsgate bell gave its sonorous clang, echoing around Fish Hill and Pudding Lane. Within the great hall and its satellite lock-ups, the market roared into life. Prices were shouted between buyers and sellers in an impenetrable piscine argot. As deals were made, the wooden-hatted porters stacked boxes of lobsters from Whitby, eels from Holland, mackerel from Newlyn or whiting from Fleetwood on their heads. The market's chimney began to belch its plume of black smoke into the slowly lightening sky.