'I don't know what, exactly.' Bruce hesitated with his last dart poised in mid-air. 'But Gordy said how much.' He let fly. 'There you go. One hundred and eighty.'

'Bruce,' snapped Charlie. 'What's the griff? How f.u.c.king much?'

The Colonel dangled the same bait that had been used to snare his interest. He was guessing until he met the inside man up at Finsbury Park with Gordy and Brian Field, but it was a nice, round juicy plum to dangle in front of Charlie. 'Big money.'

'How big?'

'How does a full million quid sound?'

'Big.' Charlie thought for a minute, imagining the noise one million pounds' worth of fivers might make. He gave a dreamy smile. 'Big like bleedin' Beethoven.'

'So forget about the Jags?'

Charlie gathered up the gla.s.ses for a refill. 'What Jags?'

'You can call me Jock. That'll do for now. Not even Brian Field or the man you were introduced to as Mark know my real name, so let's leave it like that, eh, Mr Reynolds? Yes, a tea would be lovely, thank you. One sugar.

'Now, what I am proposing concerns the Night Mail from Glasgow to Euston. You know that film? And the poem? "This is the Night Mail, crossing the border, Bringing the cheque and the postal order?" W.H. Auden. Well, gentlemen, the train doesn't always bring cheques and postal orders. It also carries good old-fashioned money, of the paper kind. If banks in Scotland have surplus cash, then it is parcelled up and sent to London in an HVP. That's a High Value Packet carriage. It's a separate section of a TPO - a Travelling Post Office - locked and secured from inside. Five or six workers are in there, sorting the mail. In the sacks is the excess cash from the banks plus there's worn notes to be destroyed, too. Untraceable notes. How much in all? Well, I'll come to that.

'The thing is, gentlemen, the Night Mail has been running for one hundred years, give or take, and n.o.body has ever even tried a blag. Not once and why not? 'Well, there are lots of coppers at every station along the route, you see - at Glasgow, at Euston and all six or seven stops in between. Yes, it picks up as it travels towards London, so the nearer to Euston it gets the more cash there is on board. The bags are piled on platforms, but there is always a Transport Police guard, so the stations are too risky. You have to stop the train between them. How isn't my problem. The service runs both ways, but I would go for the "up", the one bringing cash down here to the central banks.

'The other problem you have is that, although there is only a handful of staff on the HVP, there might be eighty other sorters on that train, sorting those letters for the penniless and the stinking rich, as the poet had it. Now I know you lot are a bit handy, but eighty is a big opposition. You have to think of that. I can see what you want to know. I do believe Mr Field here mentioned a sum of one million. That's a minimum. And I have to say that if that is the case, my a.s.sociates and I want a hundred thousand pounds. But, choose the right day, just after a Bank Holiday when money has backed up in the system, for instance, and it could be a lot more. But if it is more, my amount increases proportionally. I know I can trust Mr Field to look after that side for me. There will also need to be something for Mark, who was instrumental in forming this plan and introducing me to Brian. So, shall we say forty for Mark? And we have some expenses of our own.

'One more thing. British Rail has ordered three new HVPs for the Glasgow service. They are steel-lined, triple-locked, like mobile safes. You would have to cut into them. Now, they are due into service later this year. So, choose a Bank Holiday - a Scottish Bank Holiday, mind. And you'd better look carefully at your Letts Desk Diary, and do it sooner rather than later, before these Wells Fargo jobs come on line.

'Well, that is the proposition. I appreciate you would like to discuss this matter further. Perhaps you'll let me know your decision within the week? Perfect. Nice meeting you, gentlemen.

Twenty-nine.

Glasgow Central station, May 1963 Spring had yet to make much of a mark on Glasgow and, as he felt a creeping dampness invade his bones, Buster Edwards cursed that he had drawn the short straw of coming north. Bruce had given him detailed instructions, and after a few drinks in the station bar, he had spent the last half-hour acting like any commuter waiting for his stopping service home, pacing up and down to keep warm. The mail train had been there as he had been told to expect, platform 6. He had watched stacks of mailbags being transported onto the platform by red Post Office vans and unloaded under the beady gaze of uniformed policemen. A team of porters then conveyed them, by trolley, to the appropriate carriages. He couldn't actually see the HVP, thanks to the curve of the track obscuring the front portion of the train, but certainly some sacks - the bright crimson ones - were treated with more respect than others.

Now the doors had been slammed, the porters dispersed and the transport cozzers were standing, hands folded, eyes on their watches and their hopes on an early-evening pint. Which didn't sound too bad to Buster. He was booked on the sleeper back down south, which gave him a couple of hours to kill in the city.

The train gave a single powerful jerk, there was a synchronised clanking as couplings took up the slack, and the Night Mail moved forward, taking its haul of letters, postcards, coupons and cash to London. Cash. Bruce hadn't said how much, but those initials, HVP, caused Buster's heart to flutter and his palms to sweat. There were a lot of readies in this one, he could feel it, smell it. He knew people who had been stopping trains on the Brighton line - Roger Cordrey, Bobby Welch from the Elephant - netting a few good grand at a time. But this was different, this was clearly big money. Life- changing money. That had been promised at Weybridge, but he had never believed in that the way he did in this.

Buster Edwards rewrapped the scarf around his neck as he watched the rear lights of the Travelling Post Office disappear around the curved track of Central station.

G.o.dspeed, my son, he thought. For tonight, anyway.

At Euston, two hours later, Roy James watched the West Coast Postal, a second Night Mail, again with an HVP as the second coach, prepare to slide out of number 3 platform and head north. Sorters had been arriving for the best part of ninety minutes, and work had already begun inside each carriage, placing letters and parcels in the appropriate pigeonholes. There were no pa.s.sengers. Apart from the train crew, every man aboard was a Post Office employee.

Roy, situated at the end of platforms 1 and 2, was loaded down with the railway books he had bought at Euston's Collector's Corner and was scribbling in a notebook. His platform ticket had permitted him to walk right out adjacent to the Travelling Post Office, enabling him to examine the great brute of a slab-faced loco, the parcel carriage and, behind that, the HVP. He scribbled down the number on the engine: D326/40126.

'English Electric Cla.s.s Forty,' said the voice over his shoulder.

'What?'

It was a young lad, sixteen or seventeen, but a good head taller than Roy. A good-looking boy, marred by his skin: his face was positively ablaze with spots, mini-volcanoes all, some already erupted. He was wearing a school blazer, scarf and grey flannel trousers. The boy held up his own notebook, filled with dense writing in different coloured inks. 'You should do columns. Date. Station. Platform. Engine Type. Number. Makes it easier.'

Roy smiled at him. 'Yeah, thanks. I'm new to all this. I mean, I used to do it when I was your age but I'm out of practice.'

'You'll get ribbed for it. Specially a grown-up. People will take the mickey.'

'That what your mates do?'

'Sometimes.'

'f.u.c.k 'em.'

The lad grinned. 'Yeah. f.u.c.k 'em.' He said it as if he was trying the obscenity for the first time. It can't be easy, thought Roy. Blighted by acne and out trainspotting, when he should be chasing girls. He pointed at the pages in the lad's book. 'What do the colours mean?'

'Steam, diesel or electric,' he replied. 'I'll show you.'

The sudden burst of enthusiasm, and the wild look in the lad's eyes at finding a fellow spotter, unnerved Roy, and he recalled Bruce's warning about not getting yourself noticed. 'No - no, thanks,' he said hastily. 'I only do diesel, me.'

'Diesel?' The kid's blotchy face twisted with scorn. 'That's really boring. A lot of them don't even have names.'

'Yeah, well,' said Roy with a shrug, shuffling away. 'Takes all sorts, eh?'

Jimmy White poured a cup of Bovril and pa.s.sed it to Tony Fortune, who was behind the wheel of a Vauxhall Velox, sitting in the overflow parking area just off Mill Road. This asphalted area was higher than the main car park, affording them a better view of the activities on some of the over-lit platforms of Rugby railway station. Unfortunately, most of the activity seemed to be happening beneath the cantilevered canopies that blocked their view. Still, they weren't worried about that.

It was coming up to two o'clock in the morning, stars pin- sharp in a clear sky, and both men were sleepy. Jimmy was supposed to do this by himself, but he had felt sorry for Tony after the Jag foul-up. He had expected a decent drink and what did he get? An empty garage. And, apparently, an earful from his missus about missing paydays.

Jimmy had cleared bringing Tony along with Bruce, of course, and Bruce had said OK. They might still need a driver for the job he had in mind, and Roy had told him that Tony could handle a motor.

'Thanks,' said Tony as he took the Bovril.

Jimmy poured himself a second cup. He held it in both hands and blew across the surface. 'Love this stuff. b.l.o.o.d.y Army marches on it. Well, the Paras do. You all right?'

Tony had only been lending half an ear. He felt more at ease with Jimmy than he did many of the others. Certainly more than Gordy and Charlie. With them, he felt that the least wrong word would land him a right hook or worse. There was always an air of crackling tension about them, as if an electrical storm could break out at any moment. 'What? Yeah. Just thinking. You don't want to buy a Hillman Husky, do you?'

Jimmy laughed. 'Nah. I like Land Rovers, me. They go on for ever.'

'Husky's got a heater.'

'You poof,' chuckled White. 'A heater? Only sissies need a heater in their car. You'll be telling me it has suspension next.'

'And you don't need an airfield to turn it round in.'

'Greengrocer's car,' sneered Jimmy. 'Not your sort, I would have thought.'

'Brother-in-law's,' Tony admitted. 'Ah.'

Marie had beseeched him - there was no other word - to take the Hillman Husky off her brother, Geoff, who was boracic. He'd done so, and paid him cash, over the odds. Now it was stuck at the back of the showroom, embarra.s.sing him. 'I got myself right st.i.tched up. Wife's up the duff, you see. Hard to say no to her.'

'Congratulations. First one?' Tony nodded. That explained why she had been disappointed in him, Jimmy thought. Broody women have big plans. 'This'll come in handy then.'

'What will?'

'The tickle. This train thing, whatever it is.'

Bruce had been very tight-lipped, insisting this was simply a reconnaissance mission, just to confirm certain facts. They were not to let their minds run away with them.

'I don't know if I'm in yet, do I? I mean, if they need a driver. And it's not really my thing.'

'What isn't?'

'Robbery with violence, I think they call it.'

Jimmy chortled. 'Nor me, son. This is not going to be just some smash and grab. I don't like the rough stuff either.'

Tony was surprised. Jimmy had a reputation. 'You were a Para.'

'We're not all Sergeant b.l.o.o.d.y Hurricane. We had a bit of finesse. So does Bruce. I wouldn't be here if I thought we was just the heavy mob. Hold up.'

They heard the whistle of an approaching train and squinted into darkness broken only by what appeared to be a random pattern of red and green lights. The powerful loco of the Night Mail appeared, its twin beams glaring like jaundiced eyes, and above them the duller glow of the tripart.i.te screen. Tony knew people were sentimental about steam, but he had to admire the monstrous brutality of the diesel that shouldered its way under the station lamps and disappeared from view. It was all solid muscle and att.i.tude, like a steel-clad bull terrier.

They wound the Vauxhall's windows down and listened. The TPO sat, obscured by the station buildings and roof, its engine thrumming at idle, for another ten minutes. Then came a coa.r.s.e whistle, the low grunt of the engine taking the strain, and the money train pulled out. Next stop, Euston.

Jimmy White slapped Tony's thigh, making him jump. 'Best go out and buy that baby the biggest f.u.c.kin' cot you can find. If I know Bruce, and he's thinkin' what I think he's thinkin' - then we're in the money. Fortune by name . . .'

Tony smiled as if he hadn't heard that one.

Jimmy was still whistling the tune 'We're in the Money' when they pulled out of the car park and headed back to London on empty roads, each lost in their own thoughts of untold riches.

Thirty.

South-east England, June 1963 It seemed appropriate for Bruce to catch the train down to Brighton, rather than take the Lotus. It meant breakfast in one of the Pullman carriages, after all, and they had the place nearly to themselves, as most morning traffic was 'up' to the city. He had taken Janie Riley along, now dressed as a prosperous middle-cla.s.s housewife in twin-set and pillbox hat. He would park her at the Grand or let her do some shopping while he met the Flowerpot Man. Bruce didn't like to bring in outsiders, but the more he thought about it, the more he needed particular expertise. After all, this was a moving target. He had heard - from Buster - that the Flowerpot Man could take care of that. Buster had told him about the train jobs on the South Coast Line, engineered by a pretty solid team. Small beer, Buster had said, but the principle was sound.

'Looks like summer is finally here,' said Janie, making conversation with the white-jacketed steward as he fussed around them with the tea and toast.

'About time, miss.'

Bruce glanced out of the window. London had fallen away and Janie was right, the countryside was bathed in a diffuse pale yellow and the sheep were sunbathing rather than shivering. The winter and spluttering spring had played havoc with the country. The football league was still in disarray, with dozens of postponed matches yet to be played, and race cards had been scratched for weeks on end. It had been the coldest year since 1740, so the Express said. Bruce didn't know about that, but he remembered the one of 1947 - the bomb- sites, suddenly pretty under the thick crust of snow, but even more dangerous than before. His mate Jimmy Standing had jumped into what looked like a harmless snowdrift and fallen into one of the firefighters' emergency water tanks from the Blitz and broken his leg. Bruce still remembered the sight of the red-streaked bone poking through flesh and the sound of the poor sod's whimpering.

'Bruce.' Janie brought him back to the attentions of the steward. 'Full breakfast?'

Bruce could still feel an echo of the queasiness that the wound had brought on. 'Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs,' he said. 'Hold the tomatoes and black pudding.'

'Very good, sir.'

Janie concentrated on lighting a cigarette and Bruce went back to thinking about trains. The team so far was himself, Charlie, Gordy, Buster and Roy. Good men all, but just not enough. He would add Jimmy White to that and, for sheer muscle, Tommy Wisbey. Old Tommy would make both Frank Nitti and Elliot Ness s.h.i.t their pants. Bruce loved the TV series The Untouchables, and often wondered if he should give the gang a moniker like that. That, and a soundtrack by Nelson Riddle. Although he already had a tune for the job. Of late he had been playing Charles Mingus's Ah Um and the track 'Boogie Stop Shuffle'. Just the right tempo for a great heist sequence with sudden dramatic stabs from the horns and the wah-wah of plunged trumpets. He could see the tide sequence, designed by the guy who did Anatomy of a Murder or John Ca.s.savetes's Johnny Staccato.

That train of thought took him from Waldo's, the Greenwich Village jazz club that featured in the Ca.s.savetes TV series, to Bobby Welch. Bobby also ran a drinking club, but it was not as cla.s.sy as Waldo's, being an after-hours dive popular with the better kind of toms and their punters - and Bobby himself was always short of cash, being the kind of gambler that bookies put out bunting for. Buster said he had done some very handy work with the Flowerpot Man on this very line. If Bruce brought in Bobby and Jim Hussey - a painter and decorator with a sideline in being very handy in a ruck - then he would have a formidable group of intimidators in Gordy, Bobby, Tommy and the two Jims. That was real muscle power. It was spreading the net wider than he liked by going beyond the Comet House team, but even Charles Atlas would think twice about kicking sand in those faces. The Intimidators. Was that a suitable name? It was for the heavy section of the firm, at least. Bruce chuckled to himself.

'Bruce?' Janie finished her cigarette with a deep inhalation and let the smoke stream from the side of her mouth. 'I have something to ask you.'

Bruce leaned back as the breakfast arrived and was placed before him. 'What's that, luv?'

Janie fixed him with a very direct stare, in case he should drift off again. She stubbed out the cigarette in the Brighton Belle ashtray and switched on a blinder of a smile. 'I wondered if you would talk to a friend of mine. As a favour.'

Bruce didn't like the sound of that. Favours could lead to all sorts of trouble. 'What kind of friend?'

The Queen and Artichoke was close to Victoria Park in Bethnal Green. A grubby little boozer, known to its regulars as the Q&A. it had an unusual mix of clientele, comprising East End locals and students from the hostels on Victoria Road which were part of the Sir John Ca.s.s Foundation. The two groups had co-existed well enough in a kind of uneasy truce until recently, when the students had become more selfconsciously bohemian, or 'beatnicky' as Frank, the Q&As guv'nor, preferred to call them.

Sunday lunchtime though was for the fellas only, with arty types told to drink elsewhere. There was sometimes a stripper, but always c.o.c.kles and crisps on the bar and Marion, the guv'nor's missus, pulling pints. Marion Castle was a Diana Dors type, an ex-beauty queen (albeit from Butlin's in Clacton), who kept the boys' attention with her Jayne Mansfield-like stretch tops.

Charlie Wilson arrived a little after one, and the Q&A was already soupy with cigarette smoke. He pushed his way to the bar and helped himself to snacks. Marion fetched him a mild and bitter and as he paid her he said, 'Frank in?'

Marion took a long, hard look at him and he knew she was weighing up whether he was Old Bill. The turned-up corner of her scarlet lips suggested she was reaching that conclusion.

'Charlie Wilson,' he answered. 'Friend of Andy Turner.'

Marion's face relaxed. She pulled one more pint and went out back. Frank appeared when Charlie was halfway through his drink. He was a squat, red-faced little f.u.c.ker who only came up to Marion's shoulders. Both cheeks sported a flower of broken capillaries and one eye was AWOL, darting all over the shop. He could only a.s.sume he provided for Marion in departments other than looks.

His wife nodded over to indicate Charlie, and Frank positioned himself behind the pumps. 'Charlie, is it?'

'Yeah.' They shook hands. 'Andy said I could have a word.'

'Did he?'

'Said you could get me a motor.'

Frank blew his florid cheeks out. This wasn't the time or the place. 'It's f.u.c.kin' Sunday, mate. Day of rest.'

Charlie took a sup of his pint. 'No rest for the wicked.'

'Yeah, well, there is for this one.' Frank turned to go. Charlie looked at the clock. It was quarter past. He reached over and grabbed the landlord's shirtsleeve. There was a tearing sound from the shoulder and the man swore.

'Don't go, Frank,' Charlie beseeched him. 'You'll miss the show.'

The landlord glanced over at the stage, but the girl was still sitting at the table next to it, talking to her minder.

'Not that one.'

Charlie was aware of the character next to him taking an interest in what was occurring, but ignored him. The landlord pulled away. 'What the f.u.c.k is your game?'