'That your Jaguar in the street?'

Frank's brow furrowed like a ploughed field. 'Yeah-'

The Q&A's frame shook as the timer detonated the gelignite, which had been placed inside condoms, in a cut-open Duckhams tin filled with petrol. Every face turned jaundiced as a wall of yellow flame engulfed the Jaguar parked outside and the frosted window cracked with the sound of a whip snapping. There was a second blast as the petrol tank ignited and now all those nearest the street stampeded away as the inferno pumped heat through gla.s.s and brick into the pub.

Marion screamed, a noise that threatened to take out the rest of the windows.

Frank looked open-mouthed at Charlie. Then he pointed a loaded finger at him. 'You are dead, mate. You don't know who you are messin' with.'

As Frank leaned forward, his face like a bulldog with a boot up its a.r.s.e, Charlie punched him. Then, just to be certain, he smacked the bloke next to him who had taken far too great an interest in his bit of business. The man staggered back, giving Charlie a bit of s.p.a.ce to contemplate his predicament.

There was a dull thud that shook the floorboards under his feet and a long whooshing sound outside as the interior of the car began to burn. The pub's customers were recovering from their shock now, and he felt all eyes turn towards him. Most of them were nothing, no threat, but there were a couple of lads who might cause him trouble. Of course, even they wouldn't be sure what they might be getting into.

The Queen and Artichoke was within the Twins' sphere of influence. It would be a madman who didn't take that into account before mixing things up. Charlie was lots of things, but he wasn't insane. He wouldn't have fried the car or hit Frank unless he had taken tea with Reggie at Vallance Road. Frank, apparently, hadn't been telling the Kray brothers about all his activities. They knew nothing about his sideline in nicked motors, on which they had been due a little something. So it was fine by them if Charlie taught him a lesson on their behalf. They would sweep by and mop As Charlie stepped away from the bar, Marion finally ran out of puff and, as her piercing racket subsided, he sensed the mood of the crowd change. Bewilderment turned to anger, not least because their Sunday session had been so comprehensively disrupted. The stripper certainly didn't look in the mood to disrobe any more. The crowd shuffled a step closer. 'Oi!'

Gordon Goody pushed himself to his full height at the rear of the pub, knocking one of the tables over as he rose up like Reptilicus. He waited until he had everyone's full attention then, from beneath his trademark full-length coat, he pulled a baseball bat and stepped towards the group, brandishing it in his right fist. The crowd couldn't have parted faster if he'd been Charlton Heston.

'Time to go,' Gordy said, pointing with his free hand towards the rear as he poked one of the customers in the chest with the bat. Gordy had been in place for thirty minutes before Charlie's arrival, and had already ascertained that the rear exit he had cased the day before was clear. This way they could make good their escape without being toasted by a burning Jag.

Charlie pushed through to Gordy's side and the two slowly backed out towards the pub's yard and the Rover waiting in the alley with Roy behind the wheel. Charlie wanted Roy driving, just in case there was any pursuit, but it looked like the lad had earned himself an easy drink.

The flames out in the street were angrier now, turning the interior of the Q&A a deep crimson. Frank had staggered to his feet, but he remained behind the bar, holding his shattered nose. Another pane of gla.s.s cracked, causing the customers to start, as if a pistol had gone off. Charlie knew then they didn't have the bottle to come at them.

'f.u.c.k me,' said Gordy as they bundled out, a roar of ineffectual outrage at their heels. 'I hope that was worth it.'

Charlie laughed as he yanked open the wooden gate that accessed the rear alley. 'Well, those c.u.n.ts won't be nickin' Jags off us again, will they?'

'Morning, sir. It's Detective Constable Rennie here, from the Stolen Car Squad. Yes. I have some good news for you. We have recovered your Jaguar. Yes, I know. We were surprised as well. Don't get to make too many of these calls, to be honest. No, it appears to be relatively unharmed. Perhaps a slight scratch on one wing, but that will T-Cut out. Not today, I am afraid. We just want to check it for fingerprints and fibres, but that will only take a day or two. You should have it back by the weekend. Where did we find it? Well, there's the strange thing. It was left outside a police station in Romford, with the keys in the ignition. No, I can't imagine why. Maybe some villain had a sudden attack of conscience, saw the error of his ways. Stranger things have happened. Although not many. You are very welcome, sir, nice to have a result. Good day.'

Bruce Reynolds didn't have time for distractions and favours. He had a f.u.c.king great train robbery to plan. His brain was revving like one of Roy's racing engines, a jumble of possibilities, all centred on the TPO that left Glasgow every night.

But, after some horizontal persuasion in the Grand at Brighton, he had promised Janie he would take the meeting, answer a few stupid questions. The guy had suggested a meet in the Colony Rooms, but although he had drunk there - George Melly had taken him a couple of times - Bruce had never felt particularly comfortable there. Rude b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, he thought, and not half as clever as they clearly thought they were. Being called 'c.u.n.ty' a lot was not his idea of entertainment.

Bruce had originally chosen the New Crown Club at the Elephant and Castle, which was home turf, but knew just how intimidating that crowd could be, so he had switched to the Star, a flower-decked pub tucked down a mews in Belgravia. It covered all bases from lords to layabouts. Roy popped in now and then for a soda water because it had been Mike Hawthorn's boozer and it still pulled a crowd of racing drivers and their acolytes. It was also home to a hardcore of very genuine criminals.

It was Friday lunchtime, with that f.u.c.k-it one-more-pint- and-a-f.a.g end of the working week feel. Although very few of the patrons of the Star actually had a conventional working week, apart from the odd copper who wandered in. They caused no problem. You saw it on Zoo Quest, when herds of antelope allowed lions to stroll among them without getting too spooked. The animals sensed when the predator was on the hunt, otherwise they ignored them. So it was with the police who liked to think that getting p.i.s.sed in places like the Star was all part of vital detective work.

Bruce had given a rough description of himself - tall, gla.s.ses, a copy of the Daily Express, light-blue shirt and navy-blue suit. There was a horseshoe-shaped bar on the right as you entered the pub, the rougher clientele nearest the door, toffs at the far side. To the left, through an arch, were the seats, and Bruce had taken himself through this and to the far corner, past the fireplace, against the wooden wainscot. That nook, beneath the portraits of Regency jockeys and Punch cartoons, was as close to a 'snug' as the Star got.

Bruce ignored his newspaper and played with a beer mat while he waited. He had called together the entire crew - his boys and those with a Brighton connection - for a meeting in four days, and they were going to expect a plan. He was the Colonel, after all. Not quite Jack Hawkins - the meeting would be at Roy's place, rather than the Cafe Royal - but he was expected to lay it all out.

Timing, he was certain, was the key, not just the application of mindless brute force - although that, or the implied threat of it, would play its part. A timetable was needed, a realistic one that should be adhered to, no matter what. It helped that everything, right down to the schedule of the trains, was just as this 'Jock' character had said.

Except maybe he wasn't a Jock.

Gordy claimed he could hear Belfast in there. Was he an Ulsterman? No matter, the man clearly knew what he was talking about. Did he know too much too well, though? Was this a set-up by the cops? A bit of fishing with a very, very juicy worm? After all, he was sure the Squad had a hard-on for them now.

But no, it felt right, like the genuine article. It was all too elaborate for the Old Bill, anyway; he doubted they had the nous to set up such an operation, just to pull in a team of blaggers. And anyway, a million quid was worth circling the hook for. It was a little tinge of paranoia making him think the cosspots were behind it. But he shouldn't disregard the feeling. It kept you sharp, kept you out of some stinking flowery for ten years.

'Mr Allen, is it?'

Bruce looked up at the tall, slightly cadaverous-looking man who had addressed him. Just those few well-rounded words marked him out as posh, a man who would be right at home with the Lucky Lucans and Maxwell-Smiths who gathered under the Star's Smiths clock each evening. His suit was of a good pedigree, too, although it looked as if he had slept in it. It was his face that was remarkable - as if all the blood had been drained from it: deathly white, with thin bloodless lips and remarkably pale eyes. He was close to albino.

'Colin Thirkell.' He held out a hand and Bruce took it.

Thirkell looked around as if he approved. 'I don't much care for pubs. They are like banks - never open when you need them. But I enjoy this one. Used to drink here . . . oh, must be ten years ago. With poor Tommy Carstairs.'

Bruce laughed. Poor Tommy Carstairs was doing a long one for murder. 'You aren't an ordinary journalist, are you?'

'No. And you, I hope, are no ordinary crook. Now, that lovely G.o.dfrey Smith, my editor, was foolish enough to advance me some expenses. Would you care for a drink?'

Bruce examined his half-full gla.s.s of mild and bitter and said, 'A scotch would be very nice.'

'Very well.'

Bruce watched him walk away. Something in his manner suggested he batted and bowled, or at the very least fielded for the other side when they were a man short. Posh and a poof. Not that he minded either. Without posh there would be no Madame Prunier or Connaught Grill. As for poofs, well, they were on the wrong side of the law, too, poor b.u.g.g.e.rs. He smiled at his choice of phrase. Where did Janie find this bloke? He knew she was a woman of many parts, but had never had her down for a literary type. A writer, she had said. Needs someone . . . what was the word she used? Erudite? 'Most of your mates can grunt and scratch their b.a.l.l.s,' she said, 'and that's about it. And rarely both things at the same time.' Had a waspish streak, that Janie.

Thirkell came back with a scotch and a gin and tonic for himself. Bruce was impressed with how he had handled himself up there. It was a cliquey crowd; the writer, though, had an ease about him that suggested he was perfectly at home in any company.

'There.' He slid in opposite Bruce and raised his gla.s.s. 'Did Jane tell you what this was for?'

'You are writing an article.'

'For the Sunday Times, yes. About what you might call the underworld. Well, I'm sure you wouldn't, but my editor does. It is to be a plain man's guide to crime and criminals. No names, no direct quotes. Just a few thoughts. You see, I was lamenting to Jane - Janie as you call her - that my own contacts tend towards the pugilistic sort of criminal. Gangsters, should we say. I needed some light with that shade.'

Bruce looked at the table in front of them, empty but for the drinks. 'You take notes?'

'No, Mr Allen-'

'Bruce.' He had used Franny's maiden name just to be on the safe side. He had checked with Janie about what she had called him to the writer. 'My friend Bruce,' she had said. No surname. So it did no harm to invent one. And there were lots of Braces around.

'It's all very impressionistic, if you know what I mean, Bruce. And, as I say, no names, no sly references that might establish who you are. You might be referred to as "an informant" or "a professional".'

'Fair enough. Fire away.'

Thirkell took a large mouthful of his G&T and leaned forward, elbows on the table. When the questions started, the man's voice took on a brittle tone. Sparring was over, this was somehow combative, needling even. 'Do you consider yourself a criminal?'

'Yes. Very much so.'

'And would you say that is a result of your upbringing?'

Bruce shook his head. 'Not in my case. My parents were straight. And I never said, "When I grow up I want to be a train driver, a fireman or a robber." It just happened. I was in the Army for a while, found it didn't suit me. Had a job, didn't like it. Met some blokes who showed me a different path, you might say. But that's me. I can't deny that certain conditions do breed criminals.'

'Such as?'

'Take a look around,' Bruce said, pointing through the archway to a group consisting of Little Caesar, Lance Kirby, d.i.c.kie M and Honest John Perry, together one of the Star's pair of dog-doping syndicates. 'Those four grew up within three streets of each other. Not here, not Belgravia. Those are Deptford boys, born and bred. And that's why they are at it.'

'So you mean specific areas of London create the environment? Like the Elephant?'

'Parts of every city. Liverpool, Manchester, Glasgow. Wherever there are poor people, I suppose, who aren't happy to stay where they've been put. The only way out has always been the military, sport - football or boxing, probably - and crime.'

'Or pop music. Look at Tommy Steele, Bermondsey lad made good.'

Bruce nodded. 'True. So now the kids are stealing guitars and amplifiers.'

'And do you consider yourself a particular type of criminal?'

He gave a shrug. 'A thief. That's what I am.'

'And would you ever go straight? I mean, are you a criminal for life?'

Bruce considered this. If you got a decent chunk of one million quid, pumped the cash into a business, had you gone straight? Or would the old Bruce Reynolds always be there, ear to the ground, his heart going all jittery when he heard of a nice tickle? 'You might drop out of the life for a while, but the instinct is still there. I'm pretty sure it's a case of once a villain . . .'

'And how much would you say you earn? On average?'

'I don't know,' he replied honestly. The money rarely hung around long enough to be counted. 'Straight up. If you are looking for an average, you have to take off any time inside, don't you? Unproductive years, we might say. I am guessing about the same as a bank clerk.'

'A bank clerk?' Thirkell's expression was disbelieving.

'Well, a bank manager then,' Bruce said with a smile. 'In a West End branch. Look around you. Every one of these blokes has been up for the big score at some time or another. Some of them been grafting at it for forty or fifty years. Still here though, aren't they, rather than Surrey or Spain? So, you make a living. If not an honest one.'

'I see. But you don't pay tax, do you?'

'No, but we put the money back into circulation pretty d.a.m.n quick. You buy a motor, drinks, nice clothes.' He recalled how fast a few thousand could dwindle to nothing. 'n.o.body can accuse us of h.o.a.rding.'

'Is there any form of criminality you wouldn't indulge in?'

'Poncing,' Bruce said quickly. 'I don't know why, I think that's pretty low. I don't like anything that is parasitic, you see. Blowing a peter or a wages s.n.a.t.c.h, a good clean job, that's what I enjoy. I always say, "Never steal from anyone who might go hungry". Well, I think Cary Grant said it first.'

Thirkell pursed his lips, thinking, before he framed the next question. 'And the police? What do you think of them?'

'I don't think about them. They have a job to do. I mean, you could argue that without us they would have no job, couldn't you? They need us more than we need them. To be frank with you, I don't mind them, I even get on with some of them. We're like pilots in the Battle of Britain, the RAF and the Luftwaffe. They had to shoot each other down, but there was a kind of respect there. I tell you, I'd rather have a drink with a copper than a member of the public. At least they understand us and we understand them. Ordinary people, well, they are like another species, aren't they?'

'And the violence that comes as part of your profession. How do you defend that?'

Bruce finished his pint, pushed the gla.s.s away and pulled the scotch towards him. He found his temper was rising. 'I don't have to defend it. I don't like it, but it has to be there sometimes. But I don't have to justify it. The thing is, it's never against outsiders, not if you can help it. Those kids that shoot or cosh members of the public? Sc.u.m. I don't like threatening shopkeepers or club owners or toms for money, although I admit I mix with those that do.' He pointed at the bar, just to make his point. 'But when you confront a bloke who has a bag of wages, it's part of the game and he has the choice. Give it up or take a whack. He knows that. Nine times out of ten he gives it up and we're all happy.'

'But you don't think it's wrong that you don't work for a living?'

Bruce had to laugh at that. 'Don't work? What you on about? You think being a thief is an easy choice?' He was tempted to explain what he had been doing for the past few weeks, but held his tongue. 'There is a lot of effort goes into the job, a lot of risks, a lot of tension. And everyone thinks it's all about big scores - diamonds, wages s.n.a.t.c.hes, banks. It p.i.s.ses me off. Yeah, you try those sometimes, but you aren't above breaking open the odd cigarette machine or fronting some hooky Milk Tray. We work, all right. You know, Colin, thieving might even be a bit harder than writing for a living.'

That got him a wry grin from Thirkell. 'And what about guns?'

'Guns? Guns are for maniac kids. Scared kids who have seen too many movies. The thing is, you go up to someone with an iron bar or a cosh, then the other fella knows there's a good chance he'll get a tap if he doesn't do as he's told. With a gun, it's different; the psychology is different.'

There was a glint of excitement in Thirkell's eyes, as if he was close to the motherlode now. 'Go on.'

Bruce took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. Some of the chaps thought his insistence on no firearms was a weakness. He rarely explained himself to them, just told them it was part of the Colonel's ground rules. Now he had to lay out his philosophy, and do it logically. 'It isn't just because you get longer sentences with a shooter, although that might be part of it for some people. I suppose I do take that into account. For me, though, it runs deeper than that. I pull a gun on you now, a few things will go through your mind. One, is it real? Iwo, am I man enough to pull the trigger? Three, if I do, will I hit you? So you start thinking the odds might be in your favour. So you do something stupid. And next thing we know, bang, you are dead. Now we are both f.u.c.ked.'

'So there are no circ.u.mstances under which you would use a gun?'

Bruce thought about that HVP carriage, the sorters who would look up as they burst through the doors, the reaction if he were to pull a pistol or a pair of nostrils, otherwise known as a sawn-off shotgun. And he thought about one of them deciding Bruce didn't look like he had the bottle to use it. He spoke firmly. 'No. Never.'

Len Haslam was on his fourth pint, talking to a jobbing actor and stuntman called Beefy Bob Atkinson, who had just landed a role on Z Cars as a DS. Beefy Bob did have knowledge of the law, but it dated back ten years, when he was involved in chiselling the back off obsolete safes. Up till now his roles had involved wearing a stocking over his head or leaping from a burning car as it went over a cliff. This was his big break.

For a small fee and a bellyful of bitter, Len was meant to be briefing him on how to behave as a Detective Sergeant in the CID, to help him get 'the method', as Beefy Bob said. But Duke's eye kept wandering over towards where Bruce Reynolds was sitting. The thief's jaw was going thirteen to the dozen and the bloke opposite was listening intently, nodding now and then. Duke was well aware of what he had promised Frank Williams, but he was certain that Reynolds was at it. And at something pretty big, judging by the intensity of the pitch he was making and the hand gestures going on. But who was the bloke Reynolds was talking to? Not a face from the Elephant, Peckham or Camberwell, that was certain.

He told Beefy Bob to get him another drink and he would tell him how they really interrogated suspects, then headed for the Gents. As he crossed the room he rummaged in his pocket for coins for the phone box out there. He would call Billy Naughton and get him down to put a tail on the unknown man. Duke had promised to leave Reynolds and the others alone. That did not include new faces on the block that were clearly up to no good.

As he walked out of the Star pub and towards Hyde Park Corner, where he would catch a cab into Soho, Bruce Reynolds mused on what a very strange man Thirkell was. The conversation had begun as a straightforward interview, but after a while Bruce got the idea he was being auditioned. It was only towards the end of the session that he got an inkling of what the bloke really wanted. He wanted to steal part of the Elgin Marbles from the British Museum, as a show of outrage at the original looting from the Parthenon.

The writer had wanted him to put up a firm to rob something, not for money, but for a principle. He said he could pay expenses, not much else. But it would be righting a great wrong.

Bruce chuckled to himself. He could just imagine selling that one to the chaps. Had Janie said he might do it? Maybe she had. Perhaps it was time to move her a few paces back. Her putting his name in the frame for a bit of altruism, that just wasn't on. At the end of the day, Bruce Reynolds had just one favourite charity. Himself. Anyone who thought otherwise had lost another kind of marbles altogether.

Thirty-one.

From Motoring News, June 1963 JAMES TRIUMPHS AT AINTREE.

Driving a Brabham BT 6, rookie Roy James won the twenty-lap TJ Hughes Trophy at Aintree last Sunday, at a new record average speed for FJ of 89.4mph. James, whose car seems to have taken on a new lease of life - and pace - since its last outing, was followed home by Dennis Hulme in a second Brabham and Peter Proctor (Cooper). After an exciting race in which the lead changed hands no fewer than five times, there was less than six seconds between the final trio at the flag.

Further back in the field a fierce battle was waged between Jo Schlesser (Ford/France Brabham) and Bill Moss (Gemini), the two cars circulating nose to tail for much of the race, until Moss left his braking a little too late on the 90-degree Cottage Corner and lost some 15 seconds in the process.

The three-mile Aintree circuit was hailed as the 'Goodwood of the North' when it opened in 1954, but recently some drivers have complained (see Letters, page four) that the course, with its taxing bends such as Becher's, Anchor and Village, is too hard on man and machine. However, Stirling Moss won the British GP here in 1955, driving for Mercedes, and has always enjoyed and defended the track layout and Roy James, too, had no gripes, telling a cheering crowd that Liverpool has 'one of the best and most challenging circuits for single-seat racing in Europe'. Runner-up Hulme added to the young man's achievements by proclaiming James 'one of the most promising drivers of the 1963 season in any formula'. James, Hulme and the other Formula Juniors will be in action again at Oulton Park next weekend.

Thirty-two.

Headley, Surrey, May 1992 I looked out through the heavy drapes in the living room at the western sky, hoping for a sliver of light, but there was none. Dawn was still a no-show. I replaced the curtains and walked back across the scuffed parquet and into the kitchen, where Roy was sat at the table. He looked up, his face troubled.

'Find it OK?'

I had been to the lavatory and taken a little tour while I was at it. 'Yeah. This is a nice house, Roy.'

'It's too big for me. Needs money to fix it up. Someone richer than me anyway. One of today's drivers - they're all loaded. I should've been a contender for that, you know,' he said morosely.

'Could've,' I corrected the quote before I could stop myself. 'Could've been a contender.'