'So much for b.l.o.o.d.y Quaterma.s.s,' muttered Len.

'There's a lot to dust and a.n.a.lyse at that farm,' said Slipper sympathetically. 'Maurice Ray knows he's got to get this right. Or else.'

They were all acutely aware of the pressure on them from above, like a giant cast-iron press with a screw handle, slowly being wound to crush the life out of them. Find these men. Turn. Charge Them. Turn. Try Them. Turn. Make sure it sticks. Turn.

'Has Roger Cordrey said anything?' asked Billy.

'Not so as we've heard.' Like all the suspects would, Cordrey had finished up at Aylesbury. 'His mate Boal claims he had nothing to do with the actual tickle. Could be right. But Cordrey, you know, that gives us the possibilities of Jim Hussey and Tommy Wisbey. Both big b.u.g.g.e.rs. If I wanted to scare some sorters, I'd choose to have them along.'

'What about the money in Dorking?'

'Around a hundred grand.'

'Any of the right numbers?'

Slipper drank his pint. 'No.'

'But?' asked Len, sensing there was more. 'What else, guv'nor?'

'There was a hotel receipt in the bottom of one of the bags. From Germany. Made out to a Herr and Frau Field. Brian Field.'

Len spilled his drink down his front. 'What, Brian Field - the solicitor? The one with the German wife?'

'That's the one.'

Slipper had clearly already made the next connection, but he let Len say it anyway. 'The one who put together the defence for Gordon Goody on the airport job?'

'The very same.'

'b.u.g.g.e.r me sideways.' Len was beside himself. 'I knew it was Goody. I just f.u.c.king knew it.'

'Drink up, lads. First thing tomorrow, I want you down knockin' on his old lady's place in Putney, see if she knows where her little Gordy is.'

'What about Field?' asked Billy 'Malcolm Fewtrell is scooping him up, don't you worry.'

'So the dominoes have started tumbling.'

'Aye, lad,' said Slipper triumphantly. 'And we haven't even got the fingerprints back yet.'

The Chief Warden of Norwich Prison poked his head around the battered metal door of the visiting room. 'Gentlemen, it's nine o'clock. Visiting hours finish at nine-fifteen and I need to get home. If you will hurry it along.'

'We'll be as quick as we can,' said George Hatherill meekly. 'Thank you.'

He turned back to Geoff Barrow, sitting on his Remploy chair opposite himself and Ernie Millen. He was scratching at the chipped enamel on the table. 'They don't know who you are?' he asked nervously.

Millen shook his head. 'Told you, son. Anonymous. We were dropped off in town, we'll be picked up in town. n.o.body will know who we are or what we wanted.'

'And this will help me?'

'Geoff, we'll do our best. All be on the QT though, won't it? We can't very well stand up in court and say: "Mitigating circ.u.mstances - Geoff Barrow gave us some right ripe names". Not unless you want to come out of the shower room with an extra a.r.s.ehole.'

Millen looked at Hatherill with distaste. 'It won't come to that, George. Will it, Geoff?'

'I f.u.c.kin' hope not.'

'We have only ten minutes left.'

'And we won't be coming back next week,' said Hatherill. 'It's not like Beat the Clock.''

'I can't tell you where I got these names.'

'Of course.'

Geoff took a deep breath. The two detectives waited. It was like a dive off the high board. The nerve could go at any point up to the launch. After that, it was too late to turn back. 'Bruce someone. Begins with R,' Marie had actually told him the full name, but he wanted to hold some things back. They were meant to be detectives, after all. 'You know him? You going to write this down?'

Hatherill shook his head. 'Ernie has a phonographic memory.'

'Oh. Right. Well, they call this bloke the Colonel.'

'Do they indeed?' said George, with a smile. 'But spare us the initials s.h.i.t, Geoff. Full name.' He scowled. 'Now, or the deal is off.'

Geoff swallowed hard. 'Reynolds, that's it. Bruce Reynolds.'

Hatherill relaxed. Same name as the anonymous caller gave. Which meant Geoff Barrow might be on the level.

'He had a couple of old mates with him, by all accounts. From when he did time.'

'Names?'

'No, sorry.'

Well, Reynolds's known a.s.sociates were already being checked. It wouldn't be hard to generate a list of likely accomplices. 'Who else?'

'A racing driver. Don't know his name. "The Weasel" is the nickname he goes by.'

'The Weasel? n.o.body else?'

'Bits and pieces. Jimmy, an ex-Army bloke. No surname. A fella who has a club in South London. Edward something . . . or something Edward. And someone called Goodman. Or Goodrich. Antique dealer.'

Goody, thought Hatherill, but kept it to himself. Don't lead the witness. 'Half the villains in London are antique dealers, Geoff. You'll have to be more specific than that.'

Geoff went on like this, dropping hints and half-truths, until the warder banged on the door. Most of what he had told them was based on what his sister had spilled, which she had got out of Tony. The other names were from the Clarence Boys, who had big mouths.

At the last minute, he threw in a couple of extra blokes for good measure, men whom he knew had nothing to do with the robbery, but were faces he owed money to. They would have a hard time collecting from inside. Always a.s.suming he didn't spend too long in there and end up at the same nick. 'I don't want any of them sent here.'

'This is a geriatric prison, Geoff. Old men and first-timers.'

'That's me,' said Geoff. 'First offence.'

'More by luck than judgement,' said Hatherill, rising to his feet.

'We'll keep our part, best we can,' said Millen.

'If you can just answer this one last question?' Hatherill added. 'And think hard.'

'What's that?'

'Someone's put your brother-in-law Tony Fortune right in the frame for this. Any thoughts about that you would wish to share?'

Billy tried not to stare too hard at the boy's face. It was covered with pustules, some of them straining with the pressure beneath them, looking as if they could pop at any moment. They were sitting in the stationmaster's office at Euston, and Spotty Muldoon was the fourth train enthusiast he had interviewed.

It had seemed like a good idea. Surely the robbers would have cased their target at both ends of its journey? And on the platform there was a readily available group of witnesses. That was what they did, didn't they? Hung around stations, watching. But if the previous trio were anything to go by, they only had eyes for trains, not human beings. If someone should fall under a loco, Billy had the impression they'd be able to tell you the bogey layout of the fatal engine, but not whether the victim was male or female.

He pa.s.sed the boy the bottle of Vimto he had asked for. 'Your name is Bernard ... ?'

'Harwood.' Billy wrote it down and then the address the lad volunteered.

'And you come here most evenings?' 'Yes. After school. Monday to Thursday. And Sat.u.r.day mornings, too.'

'How long do you spend?'

'Depends. An hour on week days, perhaps four or five on the weekend.'

Christ, how boring, Billy thought.

'Now, I am going to show you some photographs of men and I want you to tell me if you have ever seen any of them down here. Understand?' 'Yes.'

Billy struck gold on the sixth of the smudges. Bernard Harwood bounced up and down in his seat, as if he needed the lavatory. He jabbed at the photograph with a shaking finger. 'Him! Him!'

Billy held it up at chest height. 'You sure?' 'Yes. Said he only collected diesels. Thought it was weird.' You should know, Billy thought uncharitably. Flipping the photo round, he found himself studying the delicate features of Roy James.

Letter sent to Train Squad, Scotland Yard Dear Sir, No doubt you will be surprised to hear from me. Especially after my trial at the Old Bailey for the London Airport Robbery. At the time of writing I am not living at my home address because it seems I am a suspect in the recent train robbery. Two Flying Squad officers recently visited my home address and made a search of the premises, despite not having a warrant. To be honest, I am very worried that they will connect me with this crime.

The reason I write now is because the police always treated me very fairly during the Airport case. That cost me eight months and every penny I had, and to become a suspect in this last big robbery is more than I can stand. So my intention is to keep out of harm's way until the people concerned in the Train Robbery are found.

To some people, even writing this letter would seem like a sign of guilt, but all I am interested in now is keeping my freedom.

Yours Sincerely, Gordon Goody Paddy gave Tony the slip of paper with a number on it. He looked up from his desk in the office. 'Called while you were out.'

'There was no name next to the number. 'Who was it?' 'Didn't say,' the old man sniffed.

Tony took his jacket from the back of the chair. 'I'm just going out for ten minutes. Get you a sandwich?'

Paddy was frowning down at him, his lined face thrown into even deeper creases. 'That packet you gave me to look after...'

Tony looked at the floor as he shrugged on his jacket. 'Yeah?' 'It's all right, is it?'

'I told you. Just hiding it from the taxman.' 'Oh, all the profit from all those cars we've been shifting.' He looked out at the full showroom. 'I'm not stupid, Tony.'

'I know that. Which is why you'll always be able to say, hand on heart, "I thought it was tax money". Understand?'

Paddy nodded. 'I see.'

'But it won't come to that.'

Paddy spoke softly, his voice tinged with regret. 'I robbed a bank once.'

'What?'

'Well, more of a Post Office it was. In Ireland. For some of The Boys, if you know who I mean.'

'I think I do.' Although he wasn't sure whether he meant gangsters or the IRA. Perhaps they were one and the same.

'It was the only way to get my brother off the hook, y'see. So I did it, with a kid's plastic cowboy gun, handed over the money to some fella, and left the country. Never been back. But I'm too old to do much more of that, Tony.'

He put a hand on his shoulder. 'We'll sort something out, very soon.'

'I'd be grateful.'

But where? Was there a foolproof hiding-place for so much cash? 'I'll get you a sandwich.'

'b.u.t.ter not marge, mind.'

'Of course.'

Tony walked quickly to Warren Street Tube. The scuffed wooden phone booth just inside the entrance was unoccupied, so he stepped inside and dialled the number.

'Tony?' It was Roy.

'Yup. How are you, Roy?'

'You know. Ducking and diving. You hear about Roger?'

'Yeah.'

'Roger - of all people. You know this bloke they lifted with him? Bill Something?'

'Boal. No.'

'Me neither. And they have Brian, too.'

'I heard.' Tony had pieced together what had happened during his own interviews with the Flying Squad. 'They tied him to the money in the woods, apparently.'

'What was that all about?'

'It was the drinks, left for someone to pick up, I reckon. What else could it be? You don't go dumping that much cash in the b.l.o.o.d.y forest otherwise, do you?'

'I suppose not,' said Roy. 'Someone's going to be p.i.s.sed off, aren't they? Talking of which, I just wanted to tell you: Bruce is pretty narked about the farm. Last time we met he asked Charlie to have a word with you and Brian.'