Micky followed her in. His eyes flitted round the room. It was quite nice, quite tasteful. There was more to this girl than he’d thought.

  “No, thanks, darlin’, I don’t drink. Nice place you’ve got here, Shirley.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.” She was holding the roses awkwardly in front of her.

  “Look, sorry about this, about bein’ late, but I had a bit of bother. Couple of property deals fallen through at the last minute. I don’t know how to say this, Shirley, but I’m not going to be able to stay. I wondered if . . . maybe we could do it another time?”

  Shirley thought about all the trouble she’d gone to: the dress, make-up, hair, the wine. She bit her lip and said nothing.

  Micky sat on the edge of the sofa. “So, you gonna tell me how it all went with Marion Gordon? The photographic session? Come on, come on, I wanna hear more!”

  “Well, you know, it went really well,” she said in a quiet voice. She couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to stay.

  “And what about this job? I hear she’s got a big job lined up for you.”

  She moved closer to him. “I was going to talk to you about that, Micky,” she began nervously. “You see, it’s quite an important job she thinks I could do. It’s this big charity show at Amanda’s nightclub. Well, all the other girls are professional and, well, I’m gonna take some classes, but I wondered whether I wasn’t moving too fast.”

  Micky took her hand. “What? How d’you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t want to blow it, you know what I mean? I think maybe I should take things slower. It wouldn’t be good if I blew it on my first job.”

  Micky pulled her toward him. “Darlin’, you’re not gonna blow it. Marion’s a real pro—if she thinks you can do it, you can do it. What you gettin’ all jumpy for?”

  “Well, I just . . . I just don’t want to run before I can walk.”

  “Come on, Shirley . . .” He tilted her head and kissed her neck. “You’re gonna be a star!”

  “Well, if you think I can do it . . .”

  “I don’t think, darlin’, I know it.” He pulled her closer and kissed her mouth, very softly. He could feel her softening, moving toward him. He took the roses out of her hand and chucked them onto the sofa, then put his arms round her. He looked into her eyes. “You can do anything you want, Shirley. It’s been a long time since I’ve turned up at a girl’s door, arms full of roses like a big kid. It’s you, Shirley . . .”

  Shirley could feel herself melting. He made her feel like a real woman, the way he touched her; he seemed to know exactly what to do. There was no fumbling, no schoolboyishness with Micky. She felt him slowly unzip her dress, felt it slip down to her waist. He kissed her shoulder very softly, and again she smelt that lovely cologne on him. Shirley bent and kissed his neck. She wanted him badly. She hadn’t felt like this for years, not even with Terry. She wanted him there and then, on the carpet. It excited her, almost frightened her.

  What she didn’t see was Micky taking a swift look at his watch, wondering if he had the time to give her a quick one before he went and rounded up all those fellers that Harry wanted. The truth was, she was getting him excited, too.

  Turns out she’s a right little goer. Just shows you, he thought, you never know what girls are like. He pulled away from her and smiled.

  “Who’s a naughty girl, then?”

  Shirley laughed, then took Micky’s hand and led him up the stairs to her bedroom. She could hardly believe that she was doing this.

  Micky quickly glanced at his wristwatch again. Yeah, he could still do it, if it was quick.

  Dolly and Bella made sure they returned the plans to the drawer exactly as they had found them, and then double-checked that everything in the lock-up was exactly as it had been. Dolly’s heart was thudding inside her chest as she turned off the lights, terrified that Harry was about to walk in and find them. She was first out, running toward the car.

  Dolly waited while Bella finished locking up, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Then suddenly Bella veered off toward the Mercury depot.

  “Bella, come on!” Dolly called out, but Bella just shook her head and gave her a wave. Dolly watched her knock on the small door within the big double doors and go inside. Dolly gave the steering wheel a bang with her fist, then got out of the car and followed her.

  Unlike the lock-up, the depot was almost too bright, with strip lights hanging low on chains. Shelves lining the white walls were stacked with cartons of paper. Two printing machines hummed, while somewhere in the background they could hear the sound of Annie Lennox. Two young guys—one wearing a vivid sweater with a sheep bounding across the back, and the other in a torn T-shirt and jeans—were bent over a table, deep in conversation . . .

  Bella was slightly taken aback by their public school accents.

  She coughed. “You own the place next door?”

  The boy with the sheep sweater looked up, nodded his head, then turned back to the table. For a moment Bella thought she’d lost her touch. Then the guy in the T-shirt turned and started giving her the once-over.

  “Are you using it?” she asked, with her most seductive smile. “I’m from a film company. Maybe we could use it for a shoot, if it’s empty?”

  Dolly stood in the doorway, wondering what Bella was up to.

  “What company?” asked the sweater guy.

  “Feminist. You wouldn’t have heard of us.” She jerked her thumb toward Dolly. “My assistant.”

  The two men looked at each other. The T-shirt guy fiddled with the cassette player, putting on the other side of the Annie Lennox album.

  Bella was starting to get frustrated with their laid-back attitude. She turned and looked at Dolly, who just shrugged, flummoxed by the whole procedure.

  “How long would you want it for?” the sweater guy said eventually.

  Bella pretended to show interest in the sheets of paper coming out of the printer. “Oh, just a couple of weeks. Depends . . .”

  Dolly moved quickly to Bella’s side and gave her a slight push. They moved a little way off.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Dolly whispered. Behind them the T-shirt guy searched in a drawer, then brought over a set of keys.

  “It’s in a pretty bad state. We’ve only just finished renovating this one. We haven’t had a chance to do it up yet.” He gave Bella a smirk. “I can show you round if you like.”

  At that moment Harry drew up outside in the metallic gold Jag he was driving while the old one was being repaired. In the passenger seat was a tall man wearing a navy coat with a velvet collar. Colin Soal was a snappy dresser, but he needed to be in his line of business. He was basically a conman, someone who lived on his wits, and men like Harry Rawlins often used him when they needed a smooth-talking front man. It was Soal’s job to sort out a place; with his chat he could get in anywhere, mix with anyone, and with his photographic memory, he could have a building analyzed in minutes: entrances, exits, locks, windows, alarms, how many men would be required for a job—everything.

  Soal’s heyday was in the past, however. Once upon a time he’d been the best in the business, but on closer inspection there was a certain seediness about him now, his shirt-sleeves slightly frayed, a touch of dandruff on his collar. Soal was hurting for cash and Harry smelt it the moment they met up. Even before Harry started telling him about the job, he knew he’d do it. He just hoped he still had what it takes.

  The two men entered Harry’s lock-up.

  Bella was negotiating with the print-shop boys. They had at first asked for two-fifty a week. Bella had laughed and offered a hundred, and they’d met in the middle: two weeks for one-fifty a week, cash up front.

  Dolly got more and more tight-lipped as she listened to the bargaining, eventually stepping forward and telling the boys in a sarcastic tone that she’d like a word with her producer.

  “Just give me the money,” Bella told her, holding her hand out.

  Dolly counted it out while the guys watched, then turned and walked toward the door.

  Bella slowly counted out the money into sweater guy’s palm. He smiled, maybe even coming on to her a tiny bit. Perhaps he’d realized she wasn’t just another of the hookers hanging round the area. Maybe she really did work for a film company. The older woman certainly seemed straight.

  “Sure you don’t want me to show you round?”

  Bella smiled. “Thanks, but we’ll check it out ourselves.”

  He handed over the keys with a shrug. Their hands touched, and she looked him in the eye. She ran a finger down his chest.

  “Nice.”

  He looked confused for a moment, then reached for her hand. She pulled it away before he could grab her.

  “The sweater—very nice.”

  He watched Bella saunter out, then turned to his pal and they both grinned. The woman might be a tease, but a hundred and fifty a week! Cash! And the boss would never know.

  Bella was confronted with a furious Dolly, still wanting to know what Bella thought she was doing. Three hundred quid, for what? And why? They were arguing so intently, neither noticed the Jag—and the red E-type now parked behind the gold Jag.

  “He’s plannin’ a raid, right?” Bella said as the door to the next-door lock-up creaked open. “You’re not the only one with ideas, Dolly. Come on.”

  The hinges were rusty, and the door was hard to close behind them. Inside, the place was even danker and darker than Harry’s lock-up, with pools of stinking water and duckboards squelching under their feet as the water rose over them.

  Dolly looked down at her suede shoes and sighed. Bella picked her way round the wrecked cars, most without engines or wheels, their windscreens shattered. A train passing overhead seemed to shake the place to its foundations, and Dolly was afraid the roof was going to fall in. She stopped, with one soaked shoe caught between the boards.

  “I’m not going any further, Bella. Bella?”

  Dolly could hear her moving about. She inched forward in the darkness, squinting. She could make out Bella’s silhouette as she lifted an orange box.

  Then Bella’s voice, a hoarse whisper, “Dolly! Up here, come up here.”

  Bella was now standing on the box, face pressed to the wall. The cement and bricks had been chipped away, and there was a chink of light coming through from Harry’s lock-up next door.

  “Somebody’s next door, listen!”

  She helped Dolly up onto the box. Dolly leaned forward and peered through the crack.

  Bella heard a scratching, rustling noise. She looked down—two rats nosed their way out of the box, which had obviously been their nesting place.

  “Oh my God, rats,” she hissed, reaching out for Dolly.

  Dolly swiped her hand away, hard, and pressed her face closer to the wall. Bella watched her, afraid to move.

  Dolly could see him, almost directly in front of her. She could hardly believe it: Harry, smiling and drinking, just feet away. Her heart was pounding, and she felt like running, but she couldn’t look away.

  A young blond man sat on an orange crate, with his back to the wall. An older man in a blue coat was taking plans from his briefcase and laying them out carefully on another crate. He stood back.

  Harry nodded to the man in the coat, then pulled up another box and sat down. “The layout, gentlemen.”

  DI Fuller stretched, yawned and looked at his watch. It had been a long and tedious afternoon, and now it was almost evening.

  Reynolds put the last of the files in the “Out” tray. They were all done; all up to date. The phone rang just as Fuller was about to reach for it to call his wife. He’d forgotten to let her know he’d be late, something he’d been guilty of several times recently, and she’d begun a campaign of silence in retaliation. He’d come home to find his dinner left on the table, cold, the place neatly laid for one. She’d have retired to bed early to watch their small color TV, giving him a frosty look and shrugging away from him when he attempted to apologize. She could make it last, too. They’d sit in bed and silently watch some trite late-night American series, and as soon as it was over she’d turn on her side, switch off the bedside lamp and shut her eyes. Fuller would lie there and sigh, feeling the tension build, knowing he wouldn’t sleep despite being dog-tired. What was she getting so bloody ratty about, just because he was late? It wasn’t as if they had kids and he was neglecting his parenting duties.

  Night after night, when he had finally dropped off, it was into a fitful sleep, which left him with a headache in the morning. And then it was his turn not to speak, getting his own breakfast and slamming out of the house.

  Fuller decided he wouldn’t pick up and reached for his overcoat instead.

  Reynolds answered the phone and Fuller waited, dreading the familiar: “It’s your wife.”

  Instead, Reynolds walked round the desk, his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “It’s that bloke again, wanting Resnick. Third time today.”

  Fuller relaxed, relieved he didn’t have to go through the nagging with Reynolds listening.

  “What’s he want?”

  Reynolds shrugged, and Fuller jerked the phone out of his hand. Reynolds could be annoyingly indecisive at times.

  “Yes? You want Resnick? Well, he’s retired, no longer here, you understand?” Fuller listened, tapping his fingers on the desk. “My name? Detective Inspector Fuller . . . yes, Fuller.”

  Fuller made to put the phone down, then suddenly clamped it to his ear and started scrambling for a pad and pen with his other hand.

  “What time? I’ll be there. Hang on, this friend of yours, does he have a name? Hello, hello?”

  He slowly replaced the receiver and looked at what he’d written. Then he looked at Reynolds and grinned. “I told you that thirty thousand reward would bring somethin’ in, didn’t I? Well, it just did. Our friend—” Fuller tapped the phone—“our friend thinks somebody just tried to palm him some of the money from the underpass raid.”

  Reynolds felt a surge of adrenaline. “Did he give a name?”

  Fuller shook his head. “Just a meet. But that’s all we need.”

  “You think Resnick would know who he is?”

  “Resnick’s not going to help us with anything.” Fuller picked up his umbrella with a tight smile. “Well, screw him, then.” And with that, he pushed through the swing doors and left.

  Colin Soal spoke softly, his accent meandering from Old Etonian to Cockney. He spoke with authority, though, and Harry and Micky listened intently.

  “This is a tricky one, all right. You got no access from either of the toilets or the ground-floor windows—they’re all barred—so you got to come in through the kitchens, and they’re like a bleedin’ rabbit warren, lots of small rooms, very dodgy. Then your front entrance—again, two corridors, plus a cloakroom. Fire exits lead out of the building on three levels; that’s fine, get a man in on each level, move in from there, it’s the only way. Come in front, kitchens and fire escapes, doors are a baby’s turn, just need a jimmy, but I reckon you’ll be coping with at least six or seven security guards, two at the front, one at the back, two on the ballroom doors and two with the jewels.”

  Soal dropped his gold pen, leaned back and looked at Harry, then at Micky. “Need at least seven men to do it right, or forget it.”

  Harry had heard enough; how many men were required was his business. The meeting was over. With a nod to Micky to begin packing up the plans, he reached for his coat.

  “You’re invited to the do, of course, Colin.”

  Dolly was stiff from trying not to move or make any noise, and Bella took over her position. After a few seconds she turned to Dolly and showed her four fingers for four men: another man had been sitting, unseen by Dolly, to one side. Then Bella pressed her face against the wall again.

  Murphy helped Colin Soal into his overcoat. Harry caught Murphy’s eye and beckoned him over with a jerk of his head. Harry put his arm round Murphy’s shoulder and turned him round, so they had their backs to Colin and Micky.

  “Any problems with the money? Decent exchange?”

  Murphy was happy Harry was being matey with him again; it made him feel the cock-up on the heath had been forgotten.

  “Yeah, it all went without a hitch. I used Sonny Chizzel.”

  Rawlins breathed in sharply. “Keep an eye on him, he’s a bit . . . I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him.” He gave Murphy a friendly pat on the shoulder, then turned back to Micky and Colin.

  “Nice job, very impressive,” Micky was saying. “So how you gonna come and go on the day?”

  Colin dusted the dandruff from his collar, then reached down for his briefcase. He didn’t like this blond boy; he was too young, too pushy, and far too good-looking. He never trusted the good-looking ones; they were usually the ones that shat in their pants when things got heavy.

  Micky realized that Colin didn’t think he was worth talking to. He wasn’t about to let himself be humiliated in front of Harry. “Come on, Colin. How you gonna do it?”

  Without looking up, Colin Soal used his poshest, smoothest voice. “Press photographer. I’ve snapped them all, all the top models, don’t you know?”

  Micky raised his eyebrows. “You got cameras, all the gear, then?”

  Colin Soal looked at Harry, just a flick of his eyebrows, but it said “get this kid off my back” as clearly as if he’d said it out loud.

  “Good night, Micky,” Harry said, and again Micky felt the brush-off.

  One of these days he’d have it out with Harry, put the man straight. No more “do this, fetch me that.” They were partners. Yeah, one of these days, Harry would find out what Micky was really all about.

  He walked out, giving Colin a wink on the way.

  Murphy picked up his faded coat and, with the air of a good butler, folded it over his arm, nodded in turn to Harry and Colin, then followed Micky out.

  Colin jerked his head after the disappearing Murphy. “He’s not changed, has he? Doesn’t look any older. I’d watch that kid, though; pushy little sod.”

  Harry didn’t reply, just opened the briefcase from Sonny Chizzel and took out £2000, closing it quickly, so Colin couldn’t see how much was in it. Good as Colin was, he wouldn’t trust him any more than Sonny Chizzel.