He took down his chauffeur's cap, flicked off an imaginary speck of dust. He opened the door and Cliff came barging in, face shiny, out of breath. He'd changed too into his chauffeur's gear. 'I've left the motor at Fernie's. Where's the dough?'

'Where's Susie?' asked Dillon, fractious and fussing. 'I look okay?'

'Gone for some milk.' Cliff squinted sideways at his shoulder, brushing it. 'Mind the walls… whitewash comes off!'

'Come on then,' Dillon said decisively, 'before she gets back, let's get this sorted between us -' Cliff started to move as the telephone rang, and Dillon hauled him back. 'Just leave it, we got to talk.' Dillon emphasised his words with his bunched fist. 'When we go to the Old Bill, we got to all have the same story. Why we went to Newman's, why we got that gun…'

Cliff's eyes shifted uneasily to Harry, who was sucking his moustache. Two very unwilling volunteers, the pair of them couldn't have looked less enthusiastic if they'd rehearsed. Dillon faced them, attempting to chide and jolly them along. 'Come on, this is the only way… we sort this out, well, like Harry says, might even get some kind of reward, right? But what is important, and it's gonna stay that way – we're legit, an' we stay legit, an' I reckon we got a future, one we can all be proud of…'

Dillon's fist shot up.

'We made it! an' we're gonna go on makin' it! What's past is past, agreed?'

He spread his raised hand. 'Harry?'

Harry whacked it.

'Cliff?'

Cliff whacked it.

'Yes…!'

Dillon was convinced himself. Edginess, uncertainty, doubt were banished, he was psyched up and raring to go. A new confident Dillon now, on his way to the top, and nothing on the planet short of a thermonuclear warhead could stop him. At last he was in control. He had a grip. He felt great!

'I'll level with them, tell exactly what went down, an' then we're in the clear. We learn from our mistakes. Only one way to go now, an' that's up!'

'Frank…?' Susie's voice started low and ascended the scale like the shrill whine of a thermonuclear warhead homing in on its target.

'Frank – will you get in here!'

Harry appeared in the doorway, sent to forestall nuclear armageddon.

'Where's Frank? You get in here, now!' Susie was blazing.

Cliff came in behind Harry and she let them both have it.

'Fernie left a message for you. He said – and I won't repeat it word for word – but he said unless you pay what you owe him he's keeping the car, smashed up as it is, but it's nothing to what he intends doing unless he gets paid -'

'Oh…' Harry feebly waved a pacifying hand. 'We had a bit of a prang last night…'

'I haven't finished. He also said he's keeping the portable phone! And-'

'Oh man,' Cliff moaned. 'We need that!'

'I haven't finished Cliff! The bank called, wanted to know if there was a problem. There's not been one repayment on their loan, and the Stag Security account is overdrawn up to…' Susie snatched up her notepad. 'Three and a half thousand pounds. And don't either of you tell me that's Frank's business -'

'I dunno anythin' about the loan, Susie,' said Cliff lamely.

Susie yanked a drawer open. 'Do either of you know about these betting slips?' He glare would have blistered paint. 'Or is that Frank's business as well, like the account at the betting shop. Eight hundred quid outstanding! My friend went out on a limb for you lot, is this how you repay him?! Don't you understand what'll happen to him?'

Harry stepped up to the desk, hands raised. 'Just calm down, love…'

'Calm down!' The nuclear warhead was about to explode. 'They'll take his taxi firm – he's guaranteed your loan!'

Dillon came in, smart in his chauffeur's grey uniform, bag of money in one hand, the Sterling sub-machine-gun wrapped in newsprint under his arm. 'Okay, we all set…?'

All four heads jerked towards the window. The sudden loud wail of police sirens, the screech of brakes in the street outside.

A look of bewilderment on Dillon's face. 'You didn't call 'em, did you?' he asked Harry.

Car doors slammed and the basement steps were immediately filled with dark blue trousers, the thump of heavy boots, a fist hammering on the door. 'This is the police! Come on, open up, we have a warrant to search the premises. This is the police!'

Dillon was rooted to the spot, staring blank-eyed at Harry and Cliff. Harry and Cliff, blank-eyed, stared back at Dillon. Standing behind the desk, Susie's face had drained to a whiter shade of pale.

'This can't be about the Newman business,' Harry muttered, blue eyes vague and confused. 'Can it…?'

More hammering, the shouts getting louder and angrier. These weren't bumbling PC Plods, they were the hard squad, as tough and ruthless in their methods as the villains they picked up.

Dillon felt a sick fearful panic knawing at the pit of his stomach. He had a terrible vision, seeing once again the door open, the pale blue light splashing into the hallway, the man framed in the doorway with the TV flickering behind him, frantically pushing the door shut, and then the blast of the rifle, the body hitting the floor, the electric fire turned on its side. He gripped Harry's arm, fingers digging in. 'How much you tell Wally? He wouldn't have opened his mouth, would he?'

'He knows nothin', I swear, Frank. I told him nothin'.' Harry was shaking his head, all at sea. 'It's got to be about last night, nothin' else…'

Dillon recovered himself, his face hardening. He looked at the two men, holding their eyes with a deadly fixed intensity. 'Say nothin' – hear me!'

Susie came slowly around the desk, not a shred of colour in her face, arms lifting up beseechingly.

'Oh God, Frank, what have you done?'

Harry was taken out, handcuffed to a uniformed officer. Cliff was next, handcuffed to another. Dillon followed, hands cuffed behind his back. Going up the steps he yelled out, 'You don't say a bloody word! Let me explain it… you don't say nothin'. You don't know anythin' -'

For that he got his face rammed into the iron railings. The officer jerked Dillon's arms up his back, nearly pulling them out of their sockets. Then he was shoved, staggering, into the street towards the open door of the police car.

Finally, an officer came out carrying the zippered bag and the Sterling, its muzzle peeping through The Sporting Life.

Susie trailed after him. Her arms hung limply at her sides, head thrown back as she sobbed her heart out. Coming up the steps, she was met by the lowering bulk of Detective Chief Inspector Reg Jenkins. He looked like the kind of copper who enjoyed pulling the legs off tarantulas. Waving the search warrant in her face, he gestured her back down. Standard procedure that someone had to be present when premises were searched, and in this respect, at least, Detective Chief Inspector Jenkins always went by the book.