'And there are the mailbags in the bas.e.m.e.nt,' said Charlie.

'They can't get prints off mailbags. And we always wore our gloves,' Bruce reminded them.

Both looked down at the floor. Not always, the guilty glances said.

'OK, there were a few lapses. But I scrubbed that place till my fingers bled. Remember?'

Charlie did recall. He had had a go about the scrubbing and Bruce whistling that stupid Flash 'Spring Clean' jingle.

'I said you should open a cleaning agency.'

'So it's got to be pretty clear of dabs. But when Buster gets here, we'll go there, burn the lot. After all, we own it. We can burn the f.u.c.kin' thing to the ground if we want.'

'Should've been done by now,' said Charlie. 'There's something else worrying me.'

'What's that?'

'Stan.'

'What about him?' asked Bruce.

'You know.'

Bruce knew. He could tell by Charlie's expression. He was a frightening c.u.n.t when he had it on. Charlie might have his doubts about Brian Field's robustness but he was absolutely 100 per cent sure old Stan would fold if questioned.

'No,' Bruce said.

'No what?'

'No topping people, Charlie.'

'I wasn't-'

'Yes, you was. n.o.body gets killed.' Bruce used all the firmness he could muster. He couldn't back it up with violence, but he hoped he still had some authority left.

'All right, mate. Just thinkin' out loud.'

They entered the cafe, which was empty at that time of day, ordered three teas and sat at a red Formica table near the door. Roy played nervously with the tomato ketchup container.

'You fixed OK, Roy?' Bruce asked. 'Still in the flat?'

'No, thought I'd stay clear of that, just in case.' He had only gone there to dispose of his railway books and the Triang trainset. 'I'm staying with me mum,' he said. 'I can't go far. I got races.'

'Charlie?'

'At home with Pat and the kids. What else? Got nothing to hide. You?'

'Thinking of moving out a bit. Look, lads, it's only a matter of time before we get tugged. They'll take in anyone who could do this. I reckon there're only about thirty blokes, maybe fifty, tops, in the whole country who would be capable of what we did. We know who they are and therefore so do Butler and his chummies. So they'll get to us eventually.'

The teas arrived and they spooned sugars in. All looked up as Buster burst into the cafe, his podgy face pulsing red. He looked like a traffic light, thought Bruce. Or a railway signal. Buster glanced at the girl behind the counter, took a deep breath and composed himself. 'Another tea, love.'

Then he put the folded newspaper on the table, spinning it slowly so all could read. It was the Evening Standard. There was a big splash headline.

YARD CHIEF HATHERILL ANNOUNCES ...

We've found the gang's hideout!

Bruce picked up the newspaper and scanned down the article, picking out relevant phrases. Mailbags found. . . food stocks for many men . . . money wrappers in bas.e.m.e.nt. . . attempt to burn clothes. . . Yard has called in Detective Superintendent Maurice Ray, the 'Bernard Quaterma.s.s'' of fingerprints. He had drunk with Maurice at the Marlborough. Nice bloke. For a copper. Then he stopped at one sentence and felt his throat constrict.

Malcolm. Fewtrell of Buckinghamshire CID described the Leatherslade farmhouse scene as 'One big clue.'

One big clue? What did that mean? He threw the rag back onto the table and Roy pulled it towards him.

'Oh Christ,' said Roy. 'Oh Jesus f.u.c.kin' Christ.'

Charlie leaned over and his face grew darker. Those steely eyes narrowed once more, leopard-like.

Bruce pulled at his earlobe, a sure sign of agitation. 'I tell you what, Charlie,' he said softly. 'Next time you see Brian Field or Tony Fortune, do me a favour.'

'What's that?'

'Have a word with them.'

Charlie nodded almost imperceptibly. 'Strong words, Bruce. Very strong words.'

Fifty-two.

Dorking, 15 August 1963 It was Jenny's thighs that did it. Colin normally gave his neighbour a lift to work and so far they hadn't had much more than a kiss, a cuddle and quick play around the stocking-tops. But the Morris Minor was in for a service and Colin had suggested he could manage to give her a lift to the factory where they worked - he on the shop floor, she in accounts - if she didn't mind riding pillion on his Triumph.

So Jenny had worn tight black slacks that had drawn a disapproving tut from Colin's wife as she had thrown her leg over the machine in the driveway. Colin felt her thighs hot against the top of his b.u.t.tocks and an idea began to form in his fevered mind.

Jenny noticed the filthy look she was getting, even more intense than usual. 'I'll be changing at work, Mrs Rogers,' Jenny said with a smile as the wife glared at her from the doorway. 'Can't wear a skirt on this, can you?'

Colin didn't have a spare crash helmet for her, so he forewent his own, but still put on the goggles. He waved to his wife, kick-started the bike, and set off.

'I'm taking a different route!' he yelled over his shoulder as they burbled to the end of the road.

'What?'

'Different route.' 'OK.'

'Stay off main roads. Avoid the A25. Safer.'

'As long as I'm not late.'

'Hold tight!'

She did so and he felt her b.r.e.a.s.t.s press into his shoulder- blades. She squealed when he took the first bend, her legs pinching together.

Colin felt the stirrings of an erection as he twisted the throttle. Her hair was whipping across his neck and, as she leaned closer, he could feel her breath, smell the Yardley.

A car overtook them, forcing him towards the kerb. He was a little rusty so he slowed his speed. 'All right, Jenny?'

'This is fun!'

He took a left, leaning the bike over steeply, feeling the grip of her thighs tighten. There was little traffic now so he let the speed creep up and they roller-coasted over the gentle undulations, Jenny laughing every time her stomach dropped. Ahead was a patch of woodland known locally as The Bluebells, although it was the wrong time of year for the flowers.

He backed the throttle off and changed down, letting the engine idle as they coasted to a halt.

'What's the matter, Colin?'

'Overheated.'

'What, the engine or you?' asked Jenny with a grin.

'A bit of both. Hop off.'

'I can't be late.'

He watched her slide off the seat and made a pretence of sniffing it. She slapped him, giggling. 'Oi, don't be a perve.'

He heaved the bike onto the stand and said, 'Five minutes.'

'Yes, I'd heard that about you.'

Taking her by the hand, he led her over the gra.s.s verge towards the trees. There was very little traffic on this B road, so he wasn't worried about the bike. He was more concerned about doing something about the bulge in his trousers.

He stopped at the first tree, leaned Jenny against it and kissed her. She snaked her hands around his neck to pull him close. He squirmed against her and worked a hand onto the sweet, warm flesh beneath her sweater. A horn hooted and they turned to see a Cortina, the driver shouting something unintelligible and flashing a thumbs-up.

'Not here, Colin,' she whispered.

She led him deeper into the stand of trees, where sunlight streaking through the random grid of the canopy made glowing jigsaw patterns on the forest floor.

'Here,' he suggested.

'No, just a bit further.'

'So I'm hoping.'

She slapped him again. 'We should have brought a blanket. I don't want to turn up all mucky.'

'We can use my jacket.'

The ground sloped down to a small fern-filled hollow. As they stepped into it, Jenny's foot snagged and she stumbled forward.

'Ow. What was that?'

Colin bent down and extracted a smart pigskin holdall from the undergrowth. 'Someone's bag.'

He stood and looked around. The bag was new and, judging by its condition, it hadn't spent more than a night out in the open, if that.

'Let's go,' said Jenny, suddenly spooked. 'Your engine must be cool by now.'

'h.e.l.l-o,' shouted Colin tentatively, aware his opportunity was slipping away from him. His own engine hadn't cooled at all. 'Anyone there?'

'There's another bag, look. A briefcase.'

'Don't touch it. I'll open this one,' he said.

'No.'

'Why not?'

Jenny put her arms around herself, suddenly cold. 'Doesn't seem right.'

'There might be a name and address.'

'Go on, then.'

He tugged at the zip, which was stiff from the pressure of the bag's contents. He had only got it a third back when the first bundle of notes sprang out. He lifted it up with thumb and forefinger. Then flicked it. Fivers. It was all fivers.

Jenny popped the lock on the briefcase. She gave a little gasp and held its gaping top for Colin to peer inside. That, too, was full of fivers and one-pound notes.

Colin stood, his throat dry, and took a step backwards. 'Stay here.'

Jenny's voice squeaked when she spoke. 'Don't leave me.'

'You'll be fine.'

'What if they come back?'

'Scream.' Money had replaced s.e.x as his priority now. If this was what he thought it was, there might be a whacking great reward. 'I won't be long, promise.'

'Where you going, Colin?'

'To call the police.'

The Phoenix pub, off Suss.e.x Gardens, had become the unofficial HQ for Jack Slipper's part of the Train Squad. It was not on Tommy Butler's radar - few pubs were - and enabled the lads to discuss the various leads without Tommy jumping in and running off with them. And then claiming the credit.

So each night, Slipper gave an off-the-record briefing to whichever members of his team were in the bar. That night, it was Len and Billy, both already feeling the strain of fifteen hours, seven days a week. Not to mention six pints in the Phoenix every night.

'It'll be nine, ten days before we get definitive results on the prints,' the guv'nor said glumly.