Bruce moved his head from side to side and sucked air through his teeth. He then rubbed one side of his mouth, as if he was suffering from a bad attack of nerves, something he was usually immune to. Charlie took a swig from his bottle and shot Roy a quizzical glance. With relief, Roy realised that Charlie Wilson had no idea what was coming either.

'I got a favour to ask, Roy.' He turned to Charlie. 'And as the tickle was your find, I thought you ought to hear it.'

Charlie nodded to show he appreciated the respect.

'What is it?' asked Roy 'Bit late in the day, I know, but I want to bring someone new in. Not part of any of our firms.'

Roy began to peel the label off the Heineken. 'Well, that's down to you, Bruce, isn't it?'

'Thing is, I'd like them to ride with you. In the Jag.'

Roy tore another strip from the gummed label and rolled it into a ball. Someone to keep an eye on him, perhaps? Had they lost faith in him - or in Mickey Ball? 'Who is it?'

Bruce looked up and snapped his fingers to get her attention above Wayne Shorter's tenor sax. Janie Riley slid off her stool and walked over towards the three men, a mischievous smile plastered over her pretty face.

Eleven.

Headley, Surrey, May 1992 The police had brought in one of those long white squared- off caravans to use as an incident room and parked it up at the gates to the driveway that led to Roy's house. It was an impressive pile, 1930s by the look of it, the front door boastfully porticoed, the green tiles of the roof glowing verdigris in the moonlight. I couldn't help wondering who, or what, had paid for it. This was the stockbroker belt, but Roy was no stockbroker or rock star, the other cashed-up profession that had moved into the area.

Neither of the two coppers in the front of the Panda car had spoken during the trip, which was fine by me. I needed time to get my brain into some kind of gear.

I stepped out and examined the road. It was the kind lined with high walls and hedges, and the driveways came with solid wooden gates to deter prying eyes; this was an area where an Englishman's home was his castle, and the residents wished they still came with moats. And boiling oil.

Bill Naughton was waiting for me outside the caravan, older, stouter, greyer, a cigarette in his mouth, rubbing his hands against the chill of the small hours. As I stepped out, I wished I'd brought more than a thin jacket. It was heading for 3 a.m. Wasn't that meant to be the hour when your metabolism was at its lowest, the perfect time for Gestapo raids and interrogations?

'Tony, thanks for coming. Cup of tea?'

'Why not?' We went inside the caravan. There were three uniforms and two detectives already in there, plus one bloke in black fatigues with body armour and a soft cap on his head. He also had a pistol on his belt. That would be PT 17.

'This is Tony Fortune - he's come to help us out. Get him a brew will you, Dave?' He turned to the Milk Fray Man. 'Give us five minutes, eh, John?' When John had gone, he explained to Tony, 'They've got their own van down the street. For the moment, they're staying in it. We want to keep it that way.' He indicated one of the plainclothes. 'This is Detective Inspector Reed. It's his situation.'

'Can we speak to him?' I asked. 'Have you got the GPO in?'

'BT, Tony, BT,' said Naughton. 'Got to move with the times. Jesus, hasn't been GPO since ...' He furrowed his brow, trying to remember when the Post Office lost the phones, but gave up. 'Anyway, yes, we have a line to him.'

'Want to tell me what happened?'

DI Reed took my tea from the Constable and pa.s.sed it to me. The Inspector looked tired. Perhaps we all did in that stark over-white light.

'Roy had the two kids for a long weekend-' Reed began.

'Hold on. You said on the phone about a wife. When did Roy get married?'

'A while back,' Reed said. 'You didn't hear?'

'No.'

Billy turned to Reed. 'Tony here runs a BMW franchise near Blackheath. Doesn't mix with the old crowd much.'

'Well,' continued Reed. 'Married, yes. Much younger girl.'

That was no surprise. They all liked their girls young. Franny was barely sixteen when Bruce proposed. Most of the hostesses they tapped in Soho had just turned eighteen. But Roy had never really been part of that back then. For him, the racing was the thing; he didn't seem attracted to the girls in the clubs. Not queer, just not interested.

'It didn't last. His wife was picking the daughters up last night. With her father. Once they had the kids in the car they announced that they would be taking them to Spain for the summer, so Roy wouldn't see them for six weeks or more. Thing is, he loves those girls. He tried to get the kids back in the house, as a bargaining tool. The wife and father-in- law went to stop him. That's when it all went off. At least, the gun did.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'He's still in the excitable phase of the proceedings. Hyper. Bring him down, Tony. Talk about the old days. Make him see some sense, eh?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'We weren't that close.'

Billy gave a small grunt of disbelief.

'OK, for a few months maybe.'

'Look, PT Seventeen is itching to kick the door down and go in with the flashbangs like it's the bleedin' Iranian Emba.s.sy,' Bill said. He pointed at Reed. 'We've both done hostage and siege courses. DI Reed here went to b.l.o.o.d.y Quantico. You know - FBI. But we both agree, a friend trumps any pro negotiator in a domestic. That's all this is for the moment, a domestic.'

He let me ponder on the 'for the moment'. If Roy started shooting at an armed Met policeman, the chances were he wouldn't be coming out of that house vertical.

'I'll get him on the line, shall I?' Billy said.

I nodded.

Bill Naughton lifted up the receiver and pressed one b.u.t.ton on the keypad. After a long minute, he said: 'Roy? Bill Naughton again. Got someone here who wants to speak with you.'

He handed the receiver across and picked up a second handset so he could listen in. 'Roy? Tony Fortune.'

I thought it was static on the line, but it was Roy laughing. 'f.u.c.k me. Talk about sc.r.a.ping the barrel.'

'Thanks.'

'No offence, mate. I meant about dragging you out of bed. How you doing?'

Better than you, I thought. 'Can't complain. Except when some plod turns up in the middle of the night. I thought they'd come for me at last, I really did.'

Roy gave a more considered, rueful laugh. 'Well, they never stopped coming for me, Tony, that's the truth.'

The voice was full of self-pity, not a quality I a.s.sociated with Roy. You didn't get to be his kind of driver - a genuine, exciting, G.o.d-given talent - by wallowing in what-might- have-beens. I guessed he'd had a few knocks over the past decade or so. I wondered how he must feel when he saw Nigel Mansell or John Watson or Graham Hill's son - what was his name? - Damon. What went through his mind when he saw those British drivers take on the world or when he saw Jackie Stewart, the elder statesmen of the sport, pontificating on TV? It should've been me, no doubt.

'This is not good, though - is it, Roy?'

'Not good at all, Tony.'

'Why don't I come in?'

'In here?' I felt a hand on my bicep, squeezing it. A signal to back off.

'Yeah. We can talk properly then.' The grip tightened and I shrugged it away by twisting my body. 'Without this lot earwiggin'.'

'That would be good.'

'Tony-' hissed Billy.

'I'll be right over. Anything you need?'

'Packet of Rich Tea?'

'See what I can do.'

I put the phone down. I felt everyone in the room glaring at me. 'You've just given him a hostage,' said Billy.

'What, me? Leave it out, Billy. You got any biscuits?'

'I can't let you go,' said Reed. But I had spotted some milk chocolate digestives. I scooped them up and put them in my pocket, then turned my collar up for the short walk across the street to Roy's house.

'Call yourself coppers?' I asked the room. 'You don't see it, do you?'

'See what?'

'What's wrong with him.'

Billy scratched his head and sniffed. 'Oh aye. I know what's up with Roy James. We're all agreed on that. Off you go. Dave, walk him to the gate, will you?'

The young uniform followed me down the steps and across the cordoned-off section of the road, our footsteps unnaturally loud. I caught sight of a few neighbours, standing back in the gloom, curiosity strong enough for them to leave their fortresses.

The air felt like treacle; I found every step an increasing effort until, finally, I ground to a halt.

The only sound seemed to be my breath, coming harsh.

'You OK?'

Sort of, I thought. Only sort of.

'What's wrong with him then, mate?' the copper asked softly. 'The bloke in there.'

But I didn't answer. I took another step forward. Then another. Keen to get there now, speeding up. It was obvious what was wrong with him. Roy James, once a celebrity thief, was now just a lonely, mixed-up, middle-aged man.

Twelve.

Heathrow Airport, November 1962 As he stood smoking a cigarette in the shade of a stores hangar, the smoke mixing with his breath in the cold morning air, Billy Naughton reflected that, although he had never really thought about it, it made perfect sense that the bulbs in airport landing lights sometimes needed changing. And it seemed silly to shut down a whole airport just so you could screw in a new Osram.

They worked in four-man teams, in constant touch with the tower. If a bulb failed, the tower radioed the appropriate team - there were three, covering different parts of the airport - and the quartet that made up the specified Illumination Replacement Unit moved into action in their Austin Champ jeep.

It was, to the uninitiated at least, hair-raising stuff. They drove into position at one side of the runway or taxiway and waited while the tower relayed details of aircraft movements. When there was deemed to be sufficient s.p.a.ce between landings or take-offs, the Champ drove onto the flight path.

The driver stayed in radio contact. One man, the gang- master, located the faulty light and undid the restraining clips. A second then removed the housing, and the 'bulb man' - that was Billy's a.s.signed role - twisted out the dud and put in the new one.

The very first time, he had fumbled, unable to get the old bulb out at first, and then having trouble with the replacement and the heavy-duty bayonet mechanism. Meanwhile, a Dan-Air Amba.s.sador was on its final approach, its lights glaring down on them.

'Abort!' the gangmaster had shouted and they had sprinted for the Austin and spun out of the way as the old prop plane- the same sort that had crashed at Munich, killing Manchester United's Busby Babes - roared in for touchdown. He had been glad of the wads of Handy Andy tissues shoved in his ears then.

Since that first morning, almost a week ago, he had acquired some dexterity at the operation and a proper pair of foam earplugs. Mind you, he had had time to practise. The police ambush team had worked for two mornings, waiting for the robbery to take place. They were scattered across the airport, disguised as everything from baggage loaders to aircraft fitters. All were in radio contact because, although Derek Anderson knew the vague details of the plan - early Tuesday or Wednesday morning, within a week or two using a six- or eight-man firm, and promised to be the legendary Big One- the score that set them up for life - he couldn't be sure of the exact day. He was no longer in the inner circle, he was merely picking up crumbs from the periphery. It was a dangerous place to be. But then, should the raid be foiled, he was in line for a substantial payment from the intended victim. Not that they knew who that was either. Hence the dispersal of the Squad. But they had enough manpower to be all over any crime scene at the entire complex within minutes and, as an extra precaution, three high-speed pursuit vehicles were located just outside the perimeter fence. And this time they were equipped with stripped-out 3.8 Jaguars. Just the kind of thing the villains liked. Only better.

Sometimes, Naughton felt his stomach dissolve when he thought about Operation Icarus, as they had christened the airside stakeout. It was all on him, this deployment of the Squad's finest. Billy and the snout. As Frank Williams had said, if he got this one right, then he could start thinking about DS. Detective Sergeant Naughton, Flying Squad.

He liked the sound of that. And if it went t.i.ts up?

Don't even think about it.

A British Caledonian jet came in to land, the reverse thrust screaming as it touched down, its following plume of grit, rubber and jet fuel obscuring the pale, ineffectual sun still climbing clear of the control tower. Almost seven o'clock. Soon, something told him. If it was going to happen, it would be soon. And he felt it in his bones that this day, this Tuesday morning, was when it would all go off.

'Hey, Billy.'

It was Frank Jordan, the amiable gangmaster in charge of his Illumination Replacement Unit. 'We got two out at Holding Four. You want to do this one?'

Billy stubbed out the cigarette then rubbed his chilled hands together. The pale sun had been swallowed by a tin- coloured ceiling of cloud and the temperature had dropped once more. He checked his police radio was still live, and then went off to join his IRU. If need be, there was a real IRU member on standby in the canteen, but Billy preferred to be out here in the open and looking like he belonged at the airport, just in case the raiders had an inside man or two scoping the staff. And he might as well do something useful while he was waiting for this Big One to go down.

Bruce Reynolds glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. It was seven-twenty in the morning. Charlie had just phoned to tell them the severed chain on the gate was still in place, Gordy's tampering apparently undetected. Bruce had heard the excitement in his voice, a fizz like a fresh Alka-Seltzer in it. Good. That was how he liked Charlie.

Buster was still polishing his Oxfords, trying to get that City gent style. Bruce's black Berlutis - perhaps a little continental in style for a worker in the Square Mile, but Bruce doubted anyone would be looking at his footwear - already had a fine sheen on them. He selected his bowler and tried it on, admiring himself in the mirror that hung above the mantelpiece in Buster's place. He had on a navy pinstriped suit, a white shirt and, for the tie, the blue, maroon and thin white stripes of the 1st Queen's Dragoon Guards. He turned left, then right, checking the reflection. Not bad.

'What do you reckon?'

He heard Buster burst out laughing. Gordon Goody had changed in Buster's bedroom - he had wisely shunted his wife to the mother-in-law - and was sporting a ridiculous handlebar moustache. Bruce smirked at him. But, on second glance, it was so outlandish it didn't seem at all fake. 'Got this at the theatrical shop on St Martin's,' he said. 'Here, take your pick.'

From his jacket pocket he unloaded half a dozen packets with face furniture of a variety of hues and sizes. Bruce sorted through them, trying to find an example that struck the right note. He took one out of the cellophane and held it on his top lip. 'Bit Terry-Thomas,' said Buster.

He tried another, but it was too bushy and eccentric for a man with a military background. The Guards tie suggested something more clipped. He found one that, although a little dark in shade, was the perfect shape. 'Alec Guinness,' he said. 'What do you think?'

'That's the one, Colonel,' said Buster, saluting.

There was the parp of a horn outside and Gordy pulled the net curtains aside. In the street was a lorry with the legend Co-operative Removals Ltd stencilled on the side. 'It's Mickey. In the van.' The Jags had been left at the changeover point in Hounslow the previous night, safely tucked away in a garage. Roy had stayed in a B&B nearby and would rendezvous with Harry, Tiny Dave and Ian, the muscle later.

'Tell him to go round the back,' said Buster.

Gordy indicated that Mickey should drive around to the rear access alley. It wouldn't do for three City gents to be seen climbing into a workers' van. Someone might notice. Or worse, remember.