“He’s not ill, is he?” Edward asked innocently.

“I saw him yesterday morning,” Joseph offered. “He was fine.”

Edward found a look of concern. “You don’t think––it couldn’t be Spot?”

“What? How?”

“I’m just saying––the fire at the garage, the attacks on the family’s business. And then there’s Lennie and Tommy, what happened at the Regal. I mean, let’s not ignore it, it’s not like he’s been shy of violence before, is it?”

Joseph dismissed the suggestion. “I can’t see it,” he said. “Billy’s too careful to get caught up in something like that.”

Edward did not want to press it. He knew very well what had happened to Billy. “Well, we can’t really wait for him. The longer we’re here, the less time we’ll have at the other end.”

“We’ll have to go without him,” Joseph said, his irritation obvious. “Go on––let’s get started.”

Jack McVitie jumped down and clambered into the truck ahead of them. He gunned the engine.

“What’s he playing at?” Joseph said.

“Billy? No idea,” Edward said. He felt a flutter of nerves despite himself as he cranked the ignition. “Away we go then.”

It started to rain as they pulled out. Edward switched on the wireless and tuned to the Light Programme. The forecaster warned that storms were expected across the country.

60

CHARLIE MURPHY CHECKED HIS WATCH. Eight-thirty. Four hours had passed already and no villains. Not anyone, just the occasional military policeman walking his lonely beat around the perimeter. The two lads he’d borrowed from uniform looked nervous. Charlie had seen the two of them around the nick before and could guess what they were thinking: probably reckoned this was their chance to impress, get themselves transferred into plainclothes. The C.I.D. lot looked sharp in their dark suits, white shirts, understated ties, polished leather shoes. Nothing too flashy. You didn’t want to attract chummy’s attention when you were on the job but you didn’t want to look like a two-bob steamer, either. The woodentops were awkward out of their blues, wearing their Sunday best, trying too hard.

Charlie had been receiving intelligence all day. He had left two of his best men behind to keep the salvage yard under surveillance. Because of them, he knew that four trucks had driven out at six that morning. They had been followed, heading west, until there could be no doubt that they were on their way to Honeybourne. The unmarked car that had tailed them all the way had dropped one of the constables at a telephone so that Charlie could be forewarned. That had been the cue for them to take up their positions.

They couldn’t be far away now.

The men were tightly squeezed into the small Nissen hut. Charlie’s space was bounded by the legs and feet of the two coppers opposite him. The air was hot and clammy. The men were grumbling. The two uniforms were the worst, whispering away with the aides as if they’d already been made C.I.D. Fat chance if they keep that up. They had a lot to learn. One thing they could bet their lives on was that a career in the Met would include plenty of sitting around in cold, ill-appointed surroundings waiting for chummy to make his move. That was the job.

“Gawd’s sake,” one of them said. “Who farted?”

“Should’ve brought your gas mask. Stop bellyaching.”

“Shut it!” Charlie hissed. The men quieted down

Charlie tapped Alloway on the shoulder again and took his place at the peephole. Cold air blew against his eyeball as he looked out, up and down the road that ran through the middle of the base. He could see the hut opposite that the Military Police had taken; another dozen men, some of them armed with Sten guns.

Apart from that: nothing.

He tried to keep his mind occupied. The busier the mind, the less the chance he’d fall asleep and bugger up the collar. He’d done that before––nodded off––back when he was a Winter Patrol, years ago, as green as the aides in the van. Forty hours freezing his arse off on the roof of a shop because his guv’nor had information it was going to be cracked. Chummy pulled the job while he was kipping. He woke up with the door open, the alarm going, the place ransacked. Copped a serious bollocking.

It was a good lesson to learn.

He heard the sound of an engine, and then another.

He squinted.

A lorry was coming towards them.

Charlie held his breath. Another lorry turned onto the road, and then a fourth. Four of them. The lorries drove slowly, carefully, drawing to a halt as they reached the long row of storage huts.

He moved slowly to the door, lifted the latch and opened it. The door of the MPs’ hut opened, too, and he saw an anxious face poke out.

The door to the nearest lorry opened and George Costello dropped to the ground. He was smoking a large cigar.

“Now!”

Shouts of anger and shock filled the air as the two huts emptied out, streams of men springing at the crooks from both sides. Charlie led his men, tackling George Costello to the ground. He took a fearsome wallop to the eye, rolled onto his side. The villain tried to get his feet underneath him, getting ready to run. Charlie threw himself at him again, looping his arms around his torso and hugging tight. His grip loosened and his arms dragged down to his knees. He squeezed tight, encircling his legs, and they both went down. The man was as strong as an ox; Charlie could feel his muscles through his clothes, solid, hard. Costello bucked beneath him, twisting his trunk around so that their positions were reversed so that he was on top, scraping Charlie’s crown against the asphalt. He hung on for dear life, trying to link his fingers but the man’s shoulders were too broad. He was a beast. Costello clenched his fist, his eyes boiling with anger, and he drew back his hand. “Help!” Charlie called out.

Both of the aides flung themselves onto Costello and he toppled away and against the wheel of the lorry. The brawnier of the two punched down with right-handers until Costello stopped struggling. A second man jumped over the mêlée, started to run; a detective constable laid into him, clobbering him with a right-hander that took his legs out from under him.

A volley of automatic fire cracked through the air.

Charlie scrambled to his feet and looked around. The tussle was almost at an end. The Costello lads had been unarmed and taken completely by surprise. Most of them had dropped to the ground with the volley from the machine gun. The villains were eating concrete, men with knees pressed into their backs and arms twisted around and halfway up to their necks.

A scuffle was taking place at the edge of the huts, two men fighting with two of his lads. He recognised Edward Fabian and Joseph Costello and, as he watched, Fabian knocked down his opponent and turned to help Joseph. The two of them quickly overpowered the policeman, breaking the hold he had around Costello’s neck and sending him to the floor.

Fabian paused, just for a moment, and Charlie locked eyes with him.

“Guv?” his sergeant said, pointing at the two of them.

Fabian was backing away, still looking at him. “They’re too far,” he said. “Let them go. We’ll pick them up later.”

The Aide yanked George Costello upright. He could feel the belligerence growing in him as surely as if his huge body was boiling with a heat that could be felt from yards away. “George Costello,” Charlie recited between ragged breaths, “I’m arresting you for theft, fraud, breaches of the defence regulations, resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. You, my friend, are well and truly nicked.”

61

THE LORRY’S ENGINE ROARED.

“Doc!” Joseph yelled from the open cab. “Doc, come on, let’s go!”

Edward turned and ran. Joseph stamped on the gas as he leapt for the door, swinging from the handle as they picked up speed. The truck rushed at the gatepost at thirty miles an hour, pulverising the wooden barrier and then slicing through the wire mesh gates beyond. They made it out onto the road losing barely any speed, Joseph spinning the wheel so that the rear end fishtailed, spinning it back again to correct the skid. Edward opened the door and slid into the cab.