'Nice whistle,' he finally said.

'Thanks.' Bruce looked down at the jacket. 'Mark Powell. He said I should sue Michael Caine for stealing my look.'

There was something in that. Bruce had looked a little like Harry Palmer-period Caine in his youth, and the two had run across each other in the early days at the Establishment, when the actor was out and about with Terry Stamp. But I wasn't worried about where Bruce got his suits made or whether his style had been purloined for The Ipcress File. 'What are you doing here, Bruce?' I asked.

'Naughton called me.'

I didn't mention that Bill Naughton had said Bruce was too busy to help out. He was ent.i.tled to change his mind.

'Good of you to come, mate,' said Roy.

'Well, I didn't want to leave you hangin' in the wind, did I?

I don't think we've got very long, judging by the activity out there. The heavy mob has heaved up close to the gate. With machine guns.' Bruce nodded towards the pistol, still held slackly in Roy's hand. 'That'll be as much use as a f.u.c.kin' icecream d.i.l.d.o.'

From his jacket pocket, Bruce produced cigarette papers and tobacco and began building a f.a.g. He looked up at me.

'How you been, Tony?'

'Can't complain,' I said, rinsing out the teapot. 'You?'

'I do OK.'

'What you driving now?' It was Roy.

'Don't ask,' shuddered Bruce. 'Ashamed to say. You know those f.u.c.kers sold my Austin Healey? The Mark Two Three Thousand? Lovely motor. Christ, I'd like that again. In order to claw back some of the proceeds, they said. Fetched double what it should've.'

'The power of celebrity,' I said as I poured the boiling water into the pot.

'Notoriety,' he corrected.

'Should've used fast cars,' said Roy.

'Leave it out, Roy,' Bruce said, not without kindness. 'Water under Bridego Bridge.' He shot me a glance that was loaded with meaning. 'We should have done lots of things. Can't change the past. Not unless you're bleedin' Doctor Who.'

After I had made the tea, I fetched the bottle of Johnnie Walker and placed it on the table, along with some gla.s.ses from the drainer. To my surprise, Bruce pulled out a block of dope, unwrapped the foil and scorched one corner with a lighter.

'Don't look so shocked. I picked up the habit at Maidstone. A good prison. You ever do Maidstone, Roy? Towards the end of my stretch, I had a year in the library there and a year as a gym orderly when I used to run ten miles a day, play badminton and then swim. f.u.c.king marvellous life. No women, apart from those in Razzle and Club International. At least you didn't get any aggro from those girls. And Gordy, bless him, would send the odd beauty in for a quick fondle, just to let me know I was still alive down below. I got into smoking dope there.' He chuckled. 'Montecristo Number Twos being hard to come by. Stuff was a f.u.c.kin' revelation. Two happy years.'

I thought he was joking. And my expression must have given that away, since he went on, 'Straight up. When I came out I felt like doing something so I could go right back in for a joint with my pals. Now that is what you call inst.i.tutionalised, eh?'

'Tell me about it,' muttered Roy. 'I was saying the same thing to Tony earlier. It's easier inside, somehow.'

Bruce gave a grin then lit the roll-up, taking a lungful and holding his breath while he pa.s.sed the joint to Roy. The little man took a hefty toke.

Very clever, Bruce, I thought. He wasn't going to talk him down, he was going to dope him out.

The sweet aroma filled the air and I poured myself a finger of scotch, shaking my head when the joint was offered to me.

'Governor in Maidstone used to come in and say: "Bit smoky in here, isn't it, lads?'" Bruce told us, 'but while it was just dope, he was happy enough. The first two weeks after coming home, I'm walking on air. Life is sweet. I'm famous, I have friends, family. Then it hits me - bang! Like a train.' He winked. 'Or a cosh. That's it. Washed-up. Depression, it's a terrible thing. Eh, Roy?'

The driver simply nodded thoughtfully.

Bruce took the spliff back and sucked on it a while longer, indicating I should pour the tea. As I did so, he let out a long thin stream of smoke from pursed lips. 'Well, I'd like to say the gang's all here, but it's not, is it? But while we are gathered together in this cosy place, Tony, maybe you can answer me a question.' His eyes shone brightly and his mouth was drawn tight.

'What's that, Bruce?' I asked, my hand shaking slightly as I lifted the teapot.

'Why the f.u.c.k you gra.s.sed us up.'

Forty-one.

6 August 1963 As arranged, the men came to the farm in dribs and drabs, their arrival staggered so as not to arouse suspicion from any nosy neighbours. Brian Field met several of them at the railway station during the course of the day, ferrying them backwards and forwards.

Tony drove up with Roy the morning after they had practised yet another decoupling in the shunting yards. Roy had mastered both types: the flexible screw kind, which required turning a tensioner before you could unhook them, and the buckeye - the commonest kind on HVPs - which had a simple release chain that you tugged to break the connection.

'The important thing,' he impressed on Tony, 'is that when you take off the vacuum pipe for the brakes, you have to reattach it to a dummy on the HVP. Otherwise the vacuum won't build because it'll leak out the open end.'

Confident now that he knew all there was to know about coach connections, nevertheless Roy was on edge, Tony could tell. They were driving north in a drab-coloured Land Rover, stolen from near Leicester Square by Bruce and Tony and painted by Ronnie Biggs, who had also sketched out the Army numbers he would fill in at the farm. If nothing else he was a good signwriter, that Ronnie Biggs.

'You all right, Roy?' Tony asked.

'Yeah, just thinking. Got a couple of Goodwoods coming up.'

'That all you thinkin' about?'

'It seems to me, Bruce isn't listening. I mean, I know it's his job and all, but. ..'

'But?'

'I think the farm is a mistake. I think we should have a decoy lorry we leave hallway to London. And there's too many of us. f.u.c.k, it's like a real bleeding army, isn't it? You know, Bruce, Charlie, Buster, Gordy - even though he's a flash b.a.s.t.a.r.d sometimes - I know they are up to it.'

Tony thought this must just be the nerves talking. He had them as well, although Marie's change of heart had steadied them somewhat. Now there was no subterfuge at home, he found he was able to relax more. 'Is that all that's up?'

Roy smiled. 'I got offers of sponsorship. Esso and Sh.e.l.l, both bidding me up.'

'Great,' said Tony, with genuine enthusiasm. 'So you are thinking you don't need this?'

Roy shook his head. 'No, not at all. Hundred per cent, me.'

There was an undercurrent of irritation there. 'Timing's c.r.a.p though, eh?'

'You said it.'

'Look on the bright side, Roy.'

'What's that?'

'It comes off, you can always put "Sponsored by Royal Mail" down the side.'

Roy laughed at the thought, then glanced at the fuel gauge. 'I'd better get some squirt.'

They pulled into a garage on the A40 and Roy got out to fill up the tank. It was then Tony noticed the kid.

'f.u.c.k.'

He stepped out of the Land Rover and walked over to the boy. He was around ten, school blazer, short pants. 'Hi there,' Tony said, looking round for his parents. There was a Vauxhall Cresta at another pump, the attendant filling her up. No driver. 'Collect car numbers, do you?'

The boy nodded sheepishly. He turned around the notebook, which was filled with places, time and dates and licence numbers.

'Like trainspotting, is it?'

Another nod.

Tony glanced over at Roy, who was paying off the lanky lad who had pumped the three star. Roy shot him a quizzical look. Both of their Land Rovers had the same number-plates - the legit one from the vehicle that had been purchased as well as this nicked one - so if cops checked the reg against the make, it wouldn't throw up an anomaly. If, however, by some coincidence someone clocked the registration of the other, being driven by Jimmy, and the police realised they had two vehicles in one place on the day with the same number, then alarm bells could ring. It was all 'what if and 'possibly', but Tony had to think what Bruce would say. And didn't they get caught by number-plates in that movie The League of f.u.c.king Gentlemen Bruce was always banging on about?

'Can I see?' Tony asked, taking a step closer.

Reluctantly, the lad handed over the red exercise book.

'Just Land Rovers, is it?'

'Army.' It was a whisper.

'Army vehicles. Got any tank transporters?'

The kid pointed enthusiastically to an earlier entry.

'They're the best, aren't they? Sad to say, you've got the wrong one here, mate. Ex-Army, you see. Just bought it. Haven't had time to respray it. Just took the badges off. Sorry. I'll rip-'

He went to tear the page out when he heard a gruff voice behind him.

'Jeffrey. Are you bothering this man?'

It was the father, forty-ish, ex-military himself by the look of him and the dazzling polish on his brogues.

Tony turned. 'No, not at all, we was just talking car numbers. Telling him it was ex-Army.'

'Sorry. Boy's obsessed. War films, soldiers, model kits.'

'I was the same. Anything with John Wayne or William Bendix.'

The man sniffed at the mention of Hollywood's war. 'Yes, well. Look at the travesty of The Longest Day. Did you see that? We were hardly in it, according to the Yanks. You hear what one of the producers said on the radio? "There'll always be an England . . . just as long as America is around to save its backside". b.l.o.o.d.y cheek.'

'Well, nice chatting to you.' Tony, sensing a sore point about to be scratched until it bled, offered the book back. The sulky boy s.n.a.t.c.hed it.

'Jeffrey, manners.'

Roy was back in the car and sounded the horn to help extricate Tony. 'Right, got to go.'

As he turned, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. The lad was scratching out the Land Rover's reg, even as the dad turned him away back towards the Vauxhall.

Now he had to hope the father erased the incident from his mind as well.

When they arrived at the tatty farm, Bruce, Buster, Jimmy White, Ronnie Biggs and Stan, the train driver, were all there in the house. Stan, who had been kept tucked away till now, was in his fifties, thin and cadaverous-looking, and was mostly occupied in using his nicotine-stained fingers to make roll- ups. The others were unpacking the supplies and laying out the uniforms and balaclavas. Roy and Tony set about emptying their Land Rover so Biggsy could make the final adjustments to the paint job.

'Gloves!' Bruce kept reminding them. 'At all times. Even when you eat or wipe your hairy a.r.s.es, OK?'

While they were unloading, a Jaguar appeared on the track, driving up towards the house. Tony relaxed when he saw Brian behind the wheel. As it swept to a halt, flicking gravel everywhere, Roger Cordrey, Ralph, his new a.s.sistant, and Jim Hussey climbed out. The latter looked even bigger than he remembered.

'Morning,' said Roger nervously, hefting a series of empty suitcases out of the boot. Clearly, he was expecting plenty of loot. 'Lovely day for it.'

Lovely might be going too far, but at least it wasn't raining and the sun beamed out from behind the clouds once in a while. What a summer. Still, he would be able to afford to take Marie and the baby somewhere warm after that night. He hefted the last crate from the rear of the Land Rover and said, 'OK, Ronnie, all yours.'

'Do me a favour,' said Biggsy from the side of his mouth. 'Keep Stan company, will you? Feels a bit left out with this lot.'

'I'll get Roy to talk trains with him. I swear he likes them more than racing cars now.'

'Good one.'

'Oi, everyone!' It was Buster at the door. 'Bruce wants the vehicles away and everyone inside, curtains drawn. And tea's up for those that want it.'

Tony looked at his watch. It was early afternoon. At least twelve hours before they would pull out and head for Bridego Bridge and Sears Crossing. Time enough for a few rounds of Monopoly.

'There's someone coming!' shouted Buster from the kitchen.

Bruce leaped to his feet. 'Who is it?'

'Not one of ours. Someone walking up the drive. Jacket, gumboots. I think it's a farmer.'

'Everyone shut up!' said Bruce. 'Tony, you come with me.'

The pair of them stepped outside, blinking into the afternoon sunshine after the gloom inside. The man walking towards them was dressed in rough cords and an old waxed jacket, with a flat cap on his head. He certainly looked like everybody's idea of a Farmer Giles. 'Afternoon,' he said brightly.

'Afternoon,' said Bruce. Tony could see he was looking around for anything suspicious that they might have left out in the open. But the Army truck and Land Rovers were well hidden. Only the number of tyre tracks gave all the activity away.

'Wyatt's the name. Thought I saw some movement over here. You the new owners?'

'No,' said Bruce. Then he dried up.

Sensing the hesitation, Tony jumped in. 'We're the decorators.

They've just asked us to come over and spruce the place up. Lick of paint inside.'