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  ‘Pils, Sal,’ he said to the barmaid and turned to check out the club. The card game in the corner was still going, with only one of the players from earlier. He caught the eye of one of the others, and gestured, offering him a drink. ‘Whatever John’s drinking, Sal.’

  She peered through the cigarette smoke and identified John Tully, then reached for the vodka bottle. Lynn put a fiver on the bar and didn’t get any change.

  ‘Nicking a nice few quid, John?’ he said, setting the drink in front of him.

  ‘Wish I was, Jack. Haven’t had a hand yet. A ten,’ Tully said to the table, and showed his card, stopping another player going nap and taking the pot.

  ‘Fuck my luck!’ The blocked player sounded irritated. ‘I could’ve done that the other way.’

  ‘Cheers, Jack.’ Tully put another two pounds into the pot.

  ‘You wanna sit in, Jack?’ one of the players asked. ‘Might change my fucking luck.’

  ‘Gotta get my bit of spends somehow.’

  ‘Gonna stand you in a score, son,’ the player said, doing a quick count of the pot.

  ‘Well, let’s see if I can’t nick a nice few quid here.’ His mood was buoyant, a winning mood, he decided. He separated a twenty-pound note and threw it into the pot. Extra cards were added to the limited number used in Napoleon to accommodate the additional player. Lynn took off his jacket and put it on the back of his chair.

  At the table there were two prospects for the work he had in mind. John Tully was the favourite as Lynn didn’t know the other man well and wouldn’t ask him unless he was stuck. He would wait till the game was over before putting it to Tully as there were too many grasses around to mention anything here. How whispers about what you were plotting got picked up he didn’t know, nor any way to prevent it happening. Someone you put it to thinking they were doing you a favour would casually mention it to the wrong person. Dangerous.

  He was right about his luck. He took two hundred and fifty pounds out of the first pot, a hundred and sixty out of the second. There wasn’t a third.

  ‘You always was a jammy git,’ Tully said as they drove away from the club in Lynn’s car.

  It was late and there was little traffic about, apart from a few empty cabs cruising around.

  ‘Thought Tony Holder was gonna block me on that last hand. He was well sick, wan’ he?’

  ‘Can’t say I was pleased, Jack. Know what I mean? Thought I was gonna nick that. ’Been handy, pay the rent.’ Tully was short, with a powerful build and a large head and stomach He was in his early thirties and had been a villain ever since childhood, as far as Lynn knew.

  ‘Where you living now?’ Lynn said. He had offered him a lift, assuming he still lived his way, which was Kentish Town.

  ‘Same place, more or less – Swiss Cottage. Got a flat with this married woman – she’s got a couple of kids,’ Tully explained.

  ‘Yourn?’ Lynn asked.

  ‘Leave off! – nice kids, though.’ He smiled. ‘S’pose I am like a father to them. The ol’ man pissed off.’

  ‘Happens all the time, John.’

  ‘Yeah. No-good slag!’ Tully said.

  There was silence in the car for a moment.

  ‘This is a nice motor, Jack. How long you been running this?’

  ‘S’only six months old. Trouble is, you go and make too many Old Bill sick driving about in a car like this. They’re such jealous fuckers. They have to wipe their mouths though – it’s clean.’ He glanced at the villain next to him, at the road, then at Tully again, assessing him. ‘What you been doing lately, John? Any work?’

  ‘Why, got something in mind, Jack?’

  ‘Soon. Could be very nice.’

  ‘I could be interested. But the thing is, I got something of my own coming off, know what I mean? Depends what you got in mind, Jack, and when it’s going, I s’pose.’

  ‘S’blag at Catford dog track,’ Lynn said.

  He looked over at Tully, expecting some kind of reac­tion, but the villain just stared through the windscreen, like he was considering the proposition. ‘I’m light about two, I reckon.’

  ‘I always thought you had a regular firm, Jack. ’S what I heard.’

  ‘No, nothing that definite.’ He hesitated. ‘Well, Stevie Murry and Terry Hutt got nicked on that one down at London Bridge a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Yeah, I was offered some of that, know what I mean?’

  ‘You did well to give it a miss. They were well lollied. The filth ought to let them have bail, I should say. Help ’em out. They’re stuck down in Brixton waiting to go up.’

  ‘Well, Peter Collins has been waiting seven months to go up the steps. S’fucking murder. You gone and done your bit of bird ’fore you even get weighed off on a guilty, know what I mean?’

  A grin spread across Lynn’s face. The remand situation wasn’t funny, but he tried to keep a sense of proportion. Time on remand came off your sentence. ‘This one I got in mind’s gonna be worth about six or seven apiece, ’a bit of luck.’

  That impressed Tully. ‘As much as that?’ he said and whistled.

  ‘S’gotta be there, no problem.’ He resisted elaboration, wanting anyone to come in with him to be on a realistic prospect rather than for promises he couldn’t fulfil.

  ‘The thing is, Jack, I’m committed to this other one. What I mean is, it’s all down to when yourn’s going off, know what I mean? It’s one I was putting together myself over at Abbey Wood.’

  ‘I can’t say definite yet. I gotta take another look on Saturday. It’s gotta be soon, be silly just leaving it. I mean, if I know about it then someone else might.’

  ‘Oh yeah, you’re better off doing it. Look, give us a bell at the weekend. M’ plans should’ve firmed up by then, ’a bit of luck. I definitely do fancy it, Jack.’

  ‘What’s your number? The thing is, I don’t wanna leave it much later than Sunday.’

  ‘I’ll know, won’t I? I’ll be able to tell you.’ He picked up a business card from the top of the dashboard and scribbled his phone number on the back of it. ‘If I ain’t in, I’ll be down the hall. My Ann’ll know where I am.’ He propped the card on the dashboard. ‘Why don’t you give Ginger Chapman a bell, ’you’re short-handed? He was looking for something.’

  ‘He’s a fucking hippy. You can’t rely on people like that, John,’ he said. ‘Probably be well doped-up.’

  ‘His hair’s a bit long, is all,’ Tully said. ‘Do the next right here, Jack.’

  ‘S’enough, John – long hair.’ He wouldn’t ring Chapman, he decided, as he followed Tully’s directions to a block of council flats. ‘I’ll give you a bell on Sunday, then.’

  ‘Yeah. Good luck, Jack.’

  2

  AT THIS STAGE OF PLOTTING half his time seemed to be spent sitting in cars watching the prospect, or waiting to meet someone. If someone didn’t show, or he failed to see what he needed to see, he’d wonder if the job was going to work out or if he shouldn’t find something else.

  Lynn spent another Saturday evening at Catford dog track watching the security truck, waiting for the guards to emerge with the money, timing them as though a few seconds would somehow make a difference. He followed them out past Catford Bridge railway station and watched them turn left onto Catford Road. He then turned right into Ravensbourne Park Road and parked his wife’s Austin Metro and switched off the lights.

  He was waiting for his man from the Tote. When he had spoken to him earlier Lynn had blanked the idea of meeting in the car park again, in case someone noticed them. Making another excuse to leave the office might cause someone to remember this when the blag went off. The filth wouldn’t take long to crack someone like Andy Harrison. Lynn wondered about him now, whether he might not become a prime suspect anyway.

  Maybe the man hadn’t told him things he ought to know before making th
e final decision. On the plus side Andy Harrington didn’t know anything about him.

  Through the driving mirror Lynn saw a maroon Montego crawl along the line of parked cars. He put his arm out of the window and signalled to the driver. The car tucked into the space behind, and his contact joined him in the Metro.

  ‘All right?’ Lynn inquired.

  ‘Yes, fine. We had a good night.’

  ‘I’ll drive around the block,’ Lynn said, starting the car. ‘Otherwise we might get done for sus. It only needs someone in the street to do a busy and call the police. Two men in a parked car in a Neighbourhood Watch area are a million. Unless they think they’re gays!’ He laughed.

  ‘Don’t go too far. I haven’t locked my car.’

  ‘That’ll be safe enough. They’re all spades around here – they only nick big motors.’

  The older man gave him an uncertain look, before glancing back at his car. ‘We had a good night,’ he said again. ‘We took in just over forty thousand.’

  Lynn didn’t comment, but divided that by four, with a bit extra to him for his Xs. A nice earner. ‘D’you get an impression of that key?’ he asked.

  From a large wad of tissue paper his contact produced a four-inch piece of cuttlebone. Lynn reached up and put on the light to inspect the impressions as he drove. They were well formed, and his man had had the foresight to take two of each side of the key.

  ‘You done well, Andy. My key man will cut one from that all right. I’ll send it to you to test.’ He switched out the light.

  ‘I was a bit worried in case it wasn’t right.’ He smacked his hands together in an excited manner, as though concluding some business. ‘When do you think? When you might do it?’

  ‘A couple of weeks, I’d say. ’Bit of luck.’ He sensed his disappointment and glanced sideways at him. ‘You desperate or something?’

  ‘No! No, of course not,’ he replied. ‘It just seems to be going on forever.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Try not to think about it till it’s done.’

  His man gave a nervous laugh. ‘A nice few quid will be handy – they owe me.’

  ‘You’ll get it soon enough.’ Lynn turned the car round to head back.

  There was a lot to do in putting one together, besides getting the firm, things he wouldn’t consider telling his man about. There were tools to get, the sort to cause the right effect; cars to get rung as it was no good dragging one off the street to risk having your collar felt before you even got to the blag. The cars had to be parked with confidence on the getaway route he’d worked out. There was no way to tell what might happen in traffic and this would probably prove the most unpredictable part.

  Arrangements took time. His immediate problem was getting his team. No point completing moves on cars, guns or anything else until he had a firm for the job. He was beginning to wonder about that as names were scratched from his shortlist, faces who, for various reasons, couldn’t make it. Two said right off they didn’t fancy making one, without hearing what it was. He preferred a straight blank, then he knew it wasn’t anything wrong with the blag.

  Following these knockbacks, Lynn considered reducing the number he needed, but decided four, including himself, was the minimum. Five would be better. If his regular team hadn’t been nicked or had got bail, they’d have had a taste, if only to provide for their families while they were away. He thought about the job they had been nicked for, and why he hadn’t gone for it. Something had felt wrong about it and he followed his instinct in these things. Now he was getting a bad feeling about Catford.

  #

  The Plough on Clapham Common was a popular lunchtime pub of a weekend with food and Karaoke on offer. He didn’t often come south of the water to do his drinking, and was using the pub now to meet a villain. All he ever came to South London for was business.

  Alan Parker suggested the meet as he lived not far from the pub. Now Lynn felt irritated by the choice as there was no room to sit down and have a quiet chat.

  ‘Sorry, pal,’ he said to a customer as he elbowed his way out from a short section of bar as another man tried to get in. He made his way to Alan Parker, who was pressed into a corner, and gave him his pint. ‘S’fucking murder, this.’

  ‘Where else have they got, Jack?’ Parker said. He was in his early thirties, about three inches shorter than Lynn, with a deceptive build. Looking at him you might have thought he couldn’t do much, but Lynn knew different. He appeared older than he was, and around his vivid-blue eyes were blocks of flesh that sometimes developed on boxers’ faces. His blond hair was too long, but Lynn was prepared to make an exception here as it was stylishly bunched in a ponytail.

  Glancing round, making sure no one was listening, Lynn said, ‘You looking for a bit of work, Alan?’ There was no need to qualify the work.

  Without even asking what it was, Parker said, ‘I don’t think so, Jack. I mean, I wouldn’t do you no favours getting involved – I’m getting a lot of aggro from the filth on account of some videos I done a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Fuck a duck!’ Lynn said. He had been convinced Parker would have some of it. ‘I thought there was s’posed to be a recession on.’

  Parker scoffed. ‘You wouldn’t think so, would you? Try moving two thousand video cassettes.’

  Lynn watched him sip his beer, then said, ‘I’d take a chance, you fancy it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I mean, I got Old Bill up my daily. They call round so often, they should move in. I’ll bring you ache, Jack.’ He sipped more beer. ‘You stuck?’

  ‘Can’t get no one to work with me. You’d think I was a fucking grass!’

  ‘Sorry, Jack. I’d like to have some of it.’

  Lynn finished his drink and left.

  The bottom of his list was coming into sight. Again he considered whether the difficulties he was having were an indication for him to give the entire prospect a miss as a whole new set of negative feelings came about the blag. Right then he chose to ignore them. It was going ahead; there was a little firm to be had somewhere.

  #

  The telephone bell was just audible beneath the soundproof canopy near the tea bar. Punters on the nearby tables made no move to answer it. Neither did John Tully as he considered his shot.

  Since the arrival of snooker on the tv, Sunday lunchtime was no longer a quiet affair at the snooker hall – nor any other time, come to that. There were games in progress on each of the fifteen tables that transversed the deep room in threes. The room was dim, not much light got through the shaded windows, while the lamps over the tables were designed to light the playing area.

  ‘John!’ the man who ran the hall called, bending to look beneath the hood. ‘Telephone, son.’

  John Tully didn’t respond but played his shot and straightened up to watch the ball run. It didn’t go where he intended. ‘Fuck it,’ he said and moved along the table where his opponent, Micky Fielder, was leaning on his cue.

  ‘Your old lady chasing you for dinner, John?’ Fielder said.

  ‘S’what comes of being in love, Micky.’

  He glanced at Fielder who stayed watching him as he went to the phone, sensing his curiosity. Fielder was that sort of bloke, always making himself busy, asking questions that caught you off guard and which you found yourself answering. Tully always felt he said too much even when he hadn’t. One of these days he would find himself grassed.

  With his own job on Tully knew it wasn’t possible for him to make the one Jack Lynn was offering, but he was tempted as he listened to him down the phone. He so wanted to say yes to it, as he knew he’d stand to earn more than he would from his own one. That alone wasn’t enough to persuade him. His blag was his blag, and being the governor was important to him. The fact that he’d earn less was something he’d live with.

  ‘Sorry, Jack. I’d like to help you out. This one I’ve been
plotting’s going off. Know what I mean? I do fancy yourn. Sounds like a right good earner.’

  ‘Oh yeah, it should be,’ Lynn said.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance it’s gonna be put back?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t have thought so, John. It’s gotta be done.’

  ‘Pity, that,’ Tully said, as if still half-tempted.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the way it goes. Another time, John.’

  ‘You want me to put anyone in touch, I hear of anyone?’

  ‘You hear of someone tasty. Be bit slippery, son.’

  ‘Yeah, ’course. See you, Jack.’ He replaced the phone and ducked out from under the canopy, hesitating to reassure himself he wanted his own blag more than Lynn’s.

  When he got back to the table Micky Fielder was chalking his cue. Tully glanced over the green baize.

  ‘Oh,’ Fielder said, by way of an apology, ‘I nicked the yellow, brown and green.’

  ‘Down to me, is it?’ Tully retrieved his cue and considered the three balls left on the table. ‘Not a lot of chance here, have I? What’s in it, Micky?’

  ‘About six.’ Fielder waited for him to line up the blue. ‘Get your marching orders, John?’

  ‘Naw. It was Jack Lynn,’ he replied, and played his stroke, taking blue. ‘He’s got one going off down at Catford – he’s a bit light-handed.’

  ‘He’s a good ’un. Right nice fella,’ Fielder observed. ‘You having some?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind.’ He moved round the table to look at the pink. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate. You want I could put you in, Micky.’

  ‘Me? The fuck I want some of that. S’not my game, is it, blagging?’ Fielder said.

  Tully stooped and tried for the pink, pushing Lynn’s blag from his mind.

  3

  ‘SO I GAVE HER A PULL,’ he said, hitching up his trousers which had slipped off his large waist – a habit and most of the time he wasn’t aware that he was doing it. Eric Lethridge was standing by one of the thirty desks placed in lines in the Robbery Squad’s office at Scotland Yard. ‘Well, we get back to her room, this dss hotel she’s staying in – I mean, a right fucking rat’s nest you can’t believe – you know, you don’t care with one about sixteen on the firm and you got the raving popcorn. S’all she was, I swear to you,’ he added for any doubters. ‘So she says, she says, “Do you want to make love to me?” just like that. “Well,” I said, “it’s either that or you’re nicked!”’ He shook his head in anticipation of the conclusion. ‘So, I’m giving her a right seeing to when, casual as you like, she says, “Oh, I s’pose I ought to tell you, I’m attending the Charlotte Street clinic for this discharge I get”… ah, it slaughtered me!’ As he reached this point in his story, his hip-grinding movements, resembling those of too large a dog on too small a bitch, ended and he jerked back, arching his spine as though withdrawing fast from the infected girl.