Bruce ripped the backing from the adhesive strip on the phony 'tache and positioned it on his top lip. It was the perfect finishing touch. Colonel Reynolds, at your service. He grabbed his brolly, surprised yet again by the weight of it, and looked at his watch once more. Seven thirty-five.

He scooped up the gloves he would not remove again until this was over, one way or another. 'Right, let's go.'

'This is Icarus One-Seven. Over.'

That was Len, thought Billy Naughton. 'Icarus One-Five receiving you. Over.'

'Anything happening there? Over.'

Billy looked down the runway at the unnaturally bright strips of light. 'You'd be surprised how often those b.l.o.o.d.y bulbs fail.'

'That's not what I meant, Billy. Over.'

Billy could hear the impatience in Duke's voice. 'I know. What do you want me to do? Rob something myself? Over.'

'I think I will if this goes on much longer. That little toe- rag better hadn't be leading you up the proverbial garden path.'

'Say Over.'

'f.u.c.kin' Over.'

Leading me? he thought. He was your snout. I get dropped in the s.h.i.t, you're just one flush behind. 'He's kosher,' is what Billy actually said, as convincingly as he could. 'Over.'

'I'm only winding you up. Over.' There was a silence across the airwaves, filled by the hiss of static, then: 'What time is it, Billy? My watch must have stopped. Over.'

'Just gone eight. Over.'

'That's what it says. Watch hasn't stopped. Time's just slowed down to a crawl. Teabreak? Over.'

'I reckon must be due. Canteen B? Over.'

'Canteen B it is. Let's hope the other side are havin' a cuppa too, eh? Over.'

'Cheers.' Bruce took the cup of tea that Janie Riley poured from the flask. He was careful not to get his moustache wet as he sipped. Last thing he needed was to find it floating in the mug, like a drowned hairy caterpillar.

It was a few minutes past eight and they were in the large, empty warehouse in which they had stored the Jags overnight, and where they would be dumped after the job. In one corner, Roy kicked into life the little BSA motorbike he had brought along, checking it started first time. Mickey was in the back of the van, changing into his chauffeur's uniform, joshing with Harry, Piny Dave and Ian, the three most unlikely City bankers he had ever seen. Dave's jacket, in particular, was stretched as tight as tarpaulin over his barrel chest. Once he was satisfied with the motorbike, Roy killed it, washed his hands and went to join them.

'You all remember the address of the rendezvous in case we get split up?' Bruce asked everyone.

Gordy repeated it back, parrot fashion.

'n.o.body's been stupid enough to write it down anywhere - like on the back of their hand? Good.'

Janie came over with a Nice biscuit. 'No thanks, love,' said Bruce. 'Don't want to get crumbs in the 'tash.'

'Thanks for letting me come along for the ride, Bruce.'

'Think nothing of it.'

Anyone who had been in Ronnie Scott's the night she was accepted by Roy wouldn't have recognised her. Gone was the Louise Brooks vampish look, replaced by a smart grey Jaeger suit. Her face was devoid of all make-up, apart from a delicate black line around the eyes and a pale lipstick. She still looked impressive though, albeit more in a Grace Kelly Ice Queen fashion. If Grace Kelly had been a brunette.

Bruce saw Gordy look over and wink. Like all of them, Bruce strayed now and then. It was, depending on how you looked at it, one of the risks or the perks of their chosen profession. You found yourself in the Flamingo or the Gargoyle or Esmeralda's with a pretty - and willing - girl on your arm, what were you meant to do? The same as the MPs, lords, ladies, actors and barristers, photographers and pop stars who frequented those places did. Live a little.

Janie was around thirty, a little older than he liked them, but he just enjoyed the pleasure she derived from hanging around with his sort. She wasn't alone. There were plenty of people, including many s...o...b..z stars such as Stanley Baker and Diana Dors, who hankered after the occasional stroll on the left side of the street. Mostly you found the hangers-on in Esmeralda's Barn, the Kray twins' club in Wilton Place, perhaps the Black Gardenia in Soho's Dean Street or the nearby Establishment in Greek Street.

Bruce and Charlie generally avoided the limelight of such places, but they had picked up a few fans of their own - the criminal equivalent of Sinatra's bobbysoxers, he supposed, or Tommy Steele's hand-jivers. Sometimes these girls provided nothing more than a few drinks, sometimes an alibi, occasionally a lift out of town, no questions asked. They were, thought Bruce, a bit like Dracula's willing helpers in those Christopher Lee movies, drawn to the thrill of the night.

Janie claimed her motivation was simple: Bruce & Co made a change from Mr Riley who, she said, was a dull civil servant whose idea of excitement was having s.e.x with the 60-watt left on.

Bruce touched her hair absentmindedly, letting some of the strands fall through his fingers.

'You know, you are a very gentle man for a thief.'

Bruce thought she was being sarcastic, but her face was a picture of innocence.

He nodded over to indicate the man with the incongruous handlebar moustache who was fencing the air with his umbrella. 'Well, when you have friends like Gordy and Charlie, you don't need to come the hard man.'

'Oh, I'm sure you can come the hard man when you want to.'

Bruce smirked at the innuendo. 'Right. But Janie, we get caught, this is no laughing matter, you know. It'll mean doing time. Even if you are just a pa.s.senger.'

'I'll say you forced me.'

Bruce laughed. 'I never forced a woman in my life.'

'Never had to, I'll bet.'

Bruce wagged an admonishing finger at her. 'Behave yourself.'

Janie pouted at him. 'Why should I?'

He consulted his watch again. This was work; the saucy banter could wait. 'Because we've got a job to do.'

Roy emerged fully uniformed, grey double-breasted jacket and trousers, with a matching peaked cap. He saluted smartly and Bruce threw him a thumbs-up.

'Gentlemen,' Bruce said. 'Start your engines.' He looked at his watch for the tenth time in less than a minute.

8.20 a.m.

Thirteen.

Heathrow Airport, November 1962 At 9.35 a.m. precisely, Buster Edwards walked into the Gents on the third floor of Comet House, swinging his briefcase. He had been in there so many times, he thought, it was beginning to feel like a home from home. Or a khazi from khazi. Behind him was Charlie, umbrella over his arm, looking, if you stared too hard, a shade too beefy to be a convincing City gent. Both men were relaxed and calm. The jitters, if any came, always. .h.i.t before kick-off. Once everything was underway, every fibre was concentrated on playing your part, not letting your mates down and, above all, not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the score. There was no place for nerves.

Buster nodded to the lavatory attendant in cubicle two. The old boy, happy to see a familiar face, returned the gesture and carried on sprinkling Vim into one of the lavatory bowls.

Charlie put down his umbrella, removed his gloves and took up position at the urinal, slowly undoing his fly b.u.t.tons. Buster decided to stand next to the window and wash his hands, once he had put down his nice new briefcase. He began to whistle a Frank Ifield tune. From his position he could see the turning from the bank perfectly.

'Beautiful morning,' came the voice from the cubicle.

'Marvellous,' said Buster, in his plummiest accent. 'Makes one glad to be alive.'

Charlie craned his neck and looked out of the window. Beautiful? It was a grey November day, the sky sullen and featureless. Ah well, just making conversation, he supposed.

The attendant came out. 'Follow the football, do you, sir?'

Charlie realised he was talking to him. 'No,' he said, not wanting to be drawn. 'I'm a rugby man.'

The attendant sniffed. 'Right.' He moved to the next cubicle with his brush and powders.

Buster turned to Charlie and gave the slightest inclination of the head, just to let him know all outside was as it should be. He could see his watch now he had rolled up his shirtsleeves. It was 9.37 a.m. Things should be moving at the bank.

Inside Barclays Bank (Bath Road Branch) the second hand of the enormous Wess.e.x wall clock swept round and the minute hand jerked to show 9.38 p.m. Cecil Cochrane, the Manager, waited an extra minute before he gave the signal for the vault to be opened. His deputy and his a.s.sistant then inserted their keys while he himself dialled the combination lock.

Behind him came the security guards with their trolley, ready to collect the strongboxes sitting within. The BOAC wages had been sorted and packaged up the night before. Once they were loaded and left the premises they were no longer Cochrane's concern.

The door opened and Cochrane pulled it back. He gave a last glance at the wall clock before entering the vault: 9.40 p.m.

Just to the side of the runway, Billy Naughton lit another cigarette, his fingers cold and sore from a shift of changing bulbs. It had been a novelty at first - exciting, even. Now though, the noise, the frantic rushing, the broken fingernails as he struggled to free a stubborn housing, had all taken the shine off it. His back was also giving him gyp from all the crouching and bending over. One muscle was going into spasm every now and then, dancing to its own internal rhythm. And he was a young man. Some of the gangers were in their fifties. How did they manage it in all weathers?

Winter was already beginning in earnest, the metal housings cold and painful to the touch first thing in the morning. He didn't want to do too many more days of this. He found himself willing the thieves to show themselves, to make their play. Come on, fellas, he thought. Get a b.l.o.o.d.y move on.

It was close to quarter to ten when Roy, looking splendid in his grey chauffeur's uniform, swung the Mk 2 off the M4 and towards the airport access road. Behind him, Janie and Tiny Dave Thompson balanced on folding stools, placed where the back seats should have been. 'Telstar' by the Tornados was tw.a.n.ging out of the Jag's radio. Tiny Dave - whose gym- pumped frame filled most of the back window - was tapping his armrest in time to the instrumental. Janie was smoking a cigarette, slightly nervy. She looked every inch the smart businesswoman, right down to a briefcase, but the f.a.g was somehow wrong.

As they approached the main entrance, she wound down the window and tossed the stub out. Good girl, thought Roy. Don't do anything that makes you seem ill-at-ease, like smoking too aggressively.

Janie leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Thanks for agreeing to this.'

'That's OK, Janie,' Roy said. 'What's an extra pa.s.senger?'

'Always wanted to see Bruce and you lads work up-close.'

Roy chuckled. Those on the receiving end wouldn't share that sentiment, he thought. He checked his mirror. Mickey Ball was right on his tail. He could make out the silhouette of Ian in the rear of the following car, his bowler hat in place.

'Dave?'

'Yup?'

'Hat on.'

Dave slotted the bowler onto his head. Roy looked away before he started giggling. For some reason he couldn't stop thinking of Bernard Breslaw.

He checked the Smiths clock on the dash. Almost ten minutes to ten. Right on time.

At Barclays Bank, the security guards loaded the four steel boxes into the rear of their armoured security Bedford van. They were observed by two policemen, parked a few yards away in a Wolseley 6/110 area car. The driver's fingers were thrumming on the wheel. His colleague suppressed a yawn.

Cochrane, the Manager, stood on the pavement, looking to right and left, feeling himself to be more alert than the two coppers, who seemed bored silly. They wouldn't be quite so sanguine if an ammonia gang suddenly heaved up.

The door to the Bedford slammed shut. 'All done,' said the security supervisor.

'Sign it off, please,' said Cochrane, indicating for his deputy to step forward with the paperwork.

A signature was scribbled.

'And add the time, please,' said Cochrane, looking at his wrist. 'I have nine fifty-two.'

Charlie was still at the urinal and he had been there long enough for the attendant to take notice. Charlie realised he must think he had problems with his plumbing. He and Buster exchanged glances and swapped places, Charlie moving to the sink to wash his hands, Buster to empty his bladder.

The attendant, finished in the cubicles, came out to make conversation when the door opened. Bruce stepped in, followed by Harry.

'The thing about Carstairs', said Bruce, 'is he just doesn't understand figures. Show him an accounts book and he goes cross-eyed.'

Harry grunted.

'I think you would do a much better job in the wages department.'

'Tea-break,' announced the attendant as the new arrivals manoeuvred around him. One of them was large enough to make the place seem overcrowded. 'See you later, gents.'

Bruce checked his false moustache in the mirror. It was still there, despite the sweat trickling down from under the brim of his heavy, modified bowler. As soon as the attendant had gone, Bruce turned to Charlie and the window. 'Well?'

'Where's Gordy?'

'Tying his shoelaces down the hall. See anything?'

There was a pause before Charlie said, 'The van has just come into view. Followed by the police car.'

'Right,' said Bruce. 'Places, everyone.'

Billy Naughton's radio crackled and he pressed the b.u.t.ton to receive it, giving his call sign.

'Anything that end?' It was Len. 'Over.' 'No. Over.'

'Well, keep sharp. Something tells me today's the day. Over.' Billy laughted. 'You said that yesterday. Over.' 'And I won thirty bob on the horses. I was right about something happening.' 'Over.'

'Yes, yes, over. Hold up.' Len went off-air for a moment. 'Apparently, there's a suspicious car over at your end. Registration Bravo, Mike, Alpha seven two three. Can you check it out, Billy?' 'On my way. Over.'

The pa.s.ses that Gordy had sourced worked a treat. As soon as Roy had flashed his to the uniform at the gate, the barrier arced skywards. He had hardly slowed. The guard threw Janie a salute and she raised an imperious hand. Christ, they think we're royalty, thought Roy. He watched as Mickey came through behind him and together they turned onto the perimeter road. Roy put his hand out of the window, waving it up and down to tell Mickey to slow down to 15mph. It had just gone ten o'clock. They didn't want to get there too early.

A Comet 4B roared in overhead, trailing a dirty brown cloud of burned fuel. Noisy b.u.g.g.e.r, thought Roy.

As Buster and Charlie waited for the lift to arrive, Buster began to whistle 'Colonel Bogey'. Meanwhile, Bruce, Gordy and Harry took the stairs down to the ground floor, the stairwell echoing with the sound of metal Blakeys on bare concrete. 'Stop that,' said Charlie. 'I hated that film.' 'Fair enough. Got any requests?' 'Yes.'

'What?'