Roy shone the torch while Roger fiddled with his battery and wires. The Flowerpot Man put the clips onto the red signal's bulb, which glowed into life. He disconnected it.

'Now,' Roger said, 'for Katie's secret ingredient.' He mimed crumbling an Oxo cube before he pulled a glove from his pocket and slid it over the bulb in the green signal. He then craned his neck to ensure it masked the 'proceed' light completely.

'A glove?' Roy asked, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.

'Can't be any old glove. Nice bit of leather, this.'

'We're going to rob a train with a glove?' Roy felt as if he had just discovered that David Nixon couldn't really pull a rabbit from a hat.

'It works, Roy. What's the time?'

'Five to three.'

Roger squirmed to make himself comfortable. 'Worst part, waiting. Hate it, don't you? Must be like the start of a race. Waiting for the flag.'

He was beginning to burble. 'Shut up, Rog.'

'Yeah. Sorry.'

Roy suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for the bag of nerves sharing a walkway with him. 'How did you ever get involved in this, anyway?'

The answer was short, yet rueful. 'Ask my bookie.'

Well, he wasn't alone, there were several in the group who described themselves as 'bookmakers' but who were, in reality, more punter than bookie. If they did get the haul, Roy daren't think how much would eventually go on gee-gees or at the Sportsman or similar establishments. He spoke into the walkie-talkie. 'Bruce? We're in place. Over.'

'Good. Nothing yet. I'm going to flash my torch, three long signals. See it?'

'Yes.'

'That's the back-up in case the walkie-talkies fail, so keep your eyes open. How's Roger?'

Roger was now rubbing his hands together nervously. A twitch had appeared at the corner of his mouth. When he smiled, he looked slightly demented.

'A-One,' said Roy. Roger flashed him a thumbs-up.

'OK, over and out.'

Another train came from the south, a diesel this time, its engine thumping lazily. It pa.s.sed under Bridego, its blazing lights raking the track ahead. Roy hoped everyone was well tucked away.

Then he heard the grinding of brakes and the falling note of an engine losing power. The train was stopping.

's.h.i.t,' he said.

Roger stirred himself. 'Signals are on green. Silly b.u.g.g.e.rs shouldn't stop.'

The locomotive came to a halt beneath them. Even above the rumble of the idling engine, they could hear m.u.f.fled voices from the cab. The walkie-talkie gave a squawk and Roy switched it off.

He saw movement in the darkness to his left, where some of the heavies were. He could imagine what they were thinking. We'd best take this train out, too.

There was the sound of hearty laughter at a shared joke from the cab. They wouldn't be chortling if they knew the kind of blokes who were concealed a few yards away from them, thought Roy.

Then, the sound of running water - a heavy stream, slowly weakening. One of them was taking a p.i.s.s.

As soon as it had finished the diesel note changed to something more urgent; there was a jerk, a clank and the train moved off.

'I should report them for that,' said Roger with genuine exasperation.

Roy switched the walkie-talkie back on.

Silence descended once more over the silver-washed scene. The moon appeared to have grown brighter, the night warmer. Roy was sure the latter was from the burst of adrenaline when the loco had stopped. He was well aware now how easily it could all go wrong. There must be simpler ways to earn a Formula One car, he thought to himself.

'It's coming. This is it.' For a second the words seemed to make no sense. What did he say? Was that Bruce? Roy looked at the walkie-talkie in disbelief. 'Repeat, this is it, chaps,' the voice said again. 'The real thing.'

f.u.c.k.

Roy poked Roger into action and switched on the torch. The beam wavered slightly, but he had to admire Roger's steady hand as he slipped the glove into place, positioned the battery and connected the clips. No sign of nerves or twitches this time. 'Done!' he exclaimed.

There was now a red light at Sears Crossing.

Forty-six.

Sears Crossing, 8 August 1963 Driver Jack Mills swore when he saw the dwarf signal glowing amber. They were on the final run into Euston. No more mail to pick up or coaches to be added - his engine was pulling twelve carriages now - no more swapping of GPO personnel as shifts changed. Once the train was into Euston, then he could sign off. There would be the rigmarole of transferring the HVP sacks to the East Central District Post Office and distributing it to various banks, including the Bank of England, but that was no concern of his. He would be well into his second mug of tea, having polished off a decent breakfast, by the time the train was emptied.

Odd, Mills thought. The dwarf signal's rail magnets normally triggered an AWS, an Automatic Warning Signal, in the cab and a horn sounded when the light was at 'caution'. But neither had kicked in. He would have to report a malfunction.

'Red,' said David Whitby, his young fireman.

'I can see that, son,' he said, although Whitby was only showing his driver that he was paying attention, that he could see the main signal was on red, demanding that they halt. Mills applied more braking and the ma.s.sive engine shuddered as its power was curtailed, like a great stallion pulled up too soon.

Whitby moved to the door of the loco, ready to jump down and make the call to determine how long they would be stuck at Sears Crossing.

Inside the HVP carriage, a.s.sistant GPO Inspector Thomas Kett was only vaguely aware of the train slowing. He, Frank Dewhurst and Leslie Penn were busy sorting the last of the letters, the ones with such appalling writing that they had been set aside so that all three men could work on interpreting the scrawl. They had also picked up two junior sorters, John O'Connor and Joe Ware along the route.

'Is that Cheltenham or Chelmsford?' he asked Frank. 'There's no b.l.o.o.d.y county.'

'Chester-le-Street.'

'You sure? Les, what does that say?'

'Stopping again,' said Les absentmindedly. He glanced out of the grimy, barred windows, but that told him very little. He looked at his watch. Almost a quarter after three.

'Never mind that. What do you reckon it says?'

'Chesterfield.'

'Oh, for cryin' out loud.' They had stopped completely now. Thomas placed the troublesome letter aside for a fourth opinion. 'Put the kettle on, will you, Joe? Be in here another hour at least at this rate.'

'For f.u.c.k's sake,' said David Whitby loudly as he put the phone to his ear. The line was dead - which meant a walk to a signal box or to another phone. And that would be down to him.

He looked back up the train at the cab, wondering if he should tell Millsy that the phone was useless before wandering off. The light was still red, but he should go and consult with his driver. He gave the phone one last go, but there was still not so much as a crackle on the line. He replaced the receiver and began the walk back to the front of the train, when he saw someone ahead. No doubt an engineer come to fix the phone.

'What's up, mate?' he asked the dark figure. He could see others behind the worker, although they appeared to be ducking under one of the coaches. 'Something wrong?'

The man stepped forward and Whitby could see he was wearing a woollen balaclava. Just his eyes and mouth were visible. He looked like a Black and White Minstrel. Why would he have that on? It was summer now. Those nights were past.

There was, however, no mistaking the purpose of the implement waved in front of his face as the man - shorter than Whitby, but a lot bulkier - grabbed his arm. It was a powerful grip.

Then he felt other hands on him, pinning his arms, and sour breath washed over his face.

'Say a word and you are f.u.c.king dead,' hissed the little man with the evil-looking cosh.

Whitby's mouth went dry and his brain tried to make sense of the fragmented thoughts crowding into it. 'Yeah, all right mate,' he managed to say. 'I'm with you.'

'Go with him, then, and keep quiet.'

Buster watched Bobby Welch lead the cowering boy away and headed for the cab. Let's hope the driver rolls over that easily, he thought.

Thomas Kett accepted the mug of steaming tea from Les, grateful at that moment that they had halted. It would make a change to have a drink without all that rolling about. Although you got used to it - old GPO hands rarely spilled a drop - it was nice to sit down and not have to make all those compensatory muscle movements.

Just then, he heard the hiss of escaping air from the rear of the HVP and c.o.c.ked an ear. The coach was connected to the rest of the train by a fat umbilical that carried the vacuum. 'What's that?'

Leslie listened as he drank his own tea. There was the faintest of metallic sounds.

'It's Chelveston.'

The other two looked at Frank who was leaning against the cage that held the red High Value sacks. He was holding up the envelope with the disputed destination.

'Chelveston?' Thomas asked. 'You sure?'

'Chelveston, Northamptonshire,' Frank said with certainty in his voice. He scribbled the county onto the envelope with a chinagraph pencil and tossed it into the appropriate bin.

Thomas listened once more but the hissing, whatever it was, had stopped. He drained his tea. 'Come on, Millsy, let's get a move on.'

The uncoupling of the buckeye link and vacuum tube complete, Roy straightened and stepped back from the train. As he did so, an unexpected roar suddenly engulfed him and the punch of compressed air threw him back against one of the coaches. The train on the other track blasted by like a roaring fireball, all wild noise and lights. Winded, he looked up at the locomotive. He could see someone hanging from the cab's grab rails, pulling himself in. Jesus, it must nearly have s.n.a.t.c.hed him off, the way the GPO trains plucked mailbags from waiting arms. The lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d disappeared inside.

Roy ducked under the train and ran back to the embankment at a crouch. From the road that ran parallel to the track came the urgent, rising note of the Land Rover's engine, racing to get Bruce back to Bridego Bridge. He just hoped the Colonel had remembered to lay out the explosive charges as Roger had instructed him, to make sure no train, coming through the genuine green signal outside Lechslade, rammed into the back of their one. That would put the cat among the pigeons.

He found the young fireman huddled on the gra.s.s, shaking, Bobby standing over him. Roger was sitting next to them, rolling up his trouser leg. He uncovered a bad gash, visible in the light bleeding from the HVP coach. 'Caught it on the gantry,' he whispered.

'Be fine,' said Roy. He grabbed the fireman and hauled him to his feet. Bobby gave him a last shove. 'Where you from?' Roy asked him.

'Crewe.'

'Name?'

'Dave.'

'Stay calm, Dave, and there's a drink in it for you,' said Bobby.

'Stay calm,' repeated Roy, as he looked at Bobby, 'and do as you are told, because there are some right hard b.a.s.t.a.r.ds here.'

Then he took the fireman's arm and led him towards the front of the train, towards the worst of the right hard b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

Jack Mills thought it was David Whitby climbing up onto the footplate.

'What did they say, lad?'

He looked down onto a black, wool-clad face.

'Who the f.u.c.k are you?' He wasn't frightened by the sight, more angry at the intrusion.

He didn't catch the m.u.f.fled reply, but it certainly wasn't friendly. As the man began to haul himself up, Mills could see the cosh in his hand. Now he felt a tremor of fear pa.s.s through his body.

He aimed a kick and felt the satisfaction of it landing home. Someone was pushing the man from behind, though, and he carried on coming. Mills swung at his face, turned round and flicked the exhauster off, killing the train's vacuum. Let them try and take his train now.

'Hit him!' the intruder yelled. Only then was he aware of other men, climbing from the opposite side. Too many coming in for him to take on. He kicked again at the first one, but the man was inside the cab now, and rising to his feet.

'b.l.o.o.d.y hit him!' someone yelled again. 'What you waiting for?'

'Get off my train-'

A spark of white light exploded in front of Jack Mills's eyes. He felt something warm trickling over his left eye. There was another blow, this time to the back of his head and his legs buckled.

'Out the way, he's going down!' were the last words he heard as the rough steel of the footplate rushed towards him.

Charlie, still spooked by nearly being sucked into oblivion by a pa.s.sing express, helped pull Stan up onto the footplate.

He saw he still had his pipe in his mouth, albeit unlit, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it away, jamming it in the top pocket of his boilersuit. The footplate was getting crowded now, and Buster and Tiny Dave struggled to get the comatose Jack Mills out of the way. Eventually, they dragged him into the corridor that connected the twin cabs of the loco.

'What happened to him?' asked Stan, looking down at the blood on the floor, his voice high and tremulous.

'Must have slipped,' said Charlie, not sure himself what had occurred while he had been clinging onto the grab handles for dear life.

'Hit his head on the floor,' said Buster unconvincingly.

'Come on, Stan, time to earn that drink,' said Ronnie Biggs, whispering gently into his ear.

The solid wall of men parted, and Stan took his place at the controls.

'Take your time,' said Ronnie to the visibly shaking replacement driver.

'But not too much of it.' The unmistakable form of Gordon Goody loomed over him.