Shirley turned off the telly and Bella woke up with a start.

  “Do you want a cup of tea? I’m just putting the kettle on.”

  Bella stretched, then followed Shirley into the kitchen. “You have a good time last night, then?”

  Shirley filled the kettle. “It was OK.” She hesitated. “It’s just there was . . .”

  Bella came closer. “What?”

  Shirley put the kettle down. “I saw someone. I mean, I think I saw someone.”

  “What are you talking about?” Bella demanded, beginning to lose patience.

  Shirley turned and faced her. “Harry. I think I saw Harry.”

  Bella couldn’t believe it. “Why didn’t you tell me? Tell Dolly?”

  “It might not have been him, Bella.”

  “But you think it was.”

  Shirley shrugged.

  “So where’ve you been all day an’ half the night?” Bella asked.

  Shirley opened the fridge. It was empty, not even a bottle of milk left. She slammed the door shut. “At the club, rehearsing.”

  Bella perked up. “What club?”

  Shirley pushed past her. “I’ve told you, it’s this big charity show, tomorrow night.”

  Bella grabbed her sleeve. “What club?” she repeated urgently.

  Shirley looked at her. “Amanda’s.”

  Dolly knew it was Morgan before she even picked up the phone. How he got her number she didn’t ask; she was just pleased he’d called. Morgan thanked her for the jacket, saying she really shouldn’t have given him such an expensive present. The conversation was easy, and Dolly was so enjoying their chat that she ignored the doorbell when it rang. But when it kept on and on, with no sign of stopping, she had to cut the phone call short, promising that, yes, she would see him again very soon.

  When she finally opened the door, Dolly was almost flattened as Bella burst in, pushing Shirley in front of her. Bella marched Shirley into the front room, where she stood, red-eyed and sobbing, clutching a sodden tissue. Bella stood by the door, hands on hips, eyes blazing.

  “Tell her, then. Go on, tell her!”

  “I . . .” Shirley began.

  Bella didn’t give her a chance to finish. She turned to Dolly. “We know exactly when they’re going to pull that raid, Dolly, down to the last sodding minute!” She whirled on Shirley. “Don’t we?”

  “Oh, leave me alone!” Shirley wailed.

  Dolly was losing patience. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s only one of the models, isn’t she!” Bella shouted.

  Dolly looked at Shirley incredulously.

  Shirley swallowed. “All right, yes! I’m one of the models, at the club. I’ll be wearing the jewels.”

  Dolly had to sit down. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true. But she knew by their faces that it was.

  Harry made Micky repeat what Shirley had told him one more time: that at the end of the show, the finale when all the jewels would be worn, there would be a blackout. He shook his head wonderingly. It was almost as if they wanted to be robbed.

  It was Colin Soal who added the next piece of the jigsaw. Unable to resist the money, Soal was now going to take part in the robbery. With his press card, he would have genuine access to the club. Along with all the other press photographers, he had been invited to take photographs during the dress rehearsal. And that’s when the hit would take place. The models would be wearing the jewels, but the place wouldn’t be full of punters getting in the way . . . All Soal had to do was give them the signal just before the blackout, and they could move in unobstructed.

  Harry summoned the team and laid it out. Rintle wasn’t convinced.

  “It’s one thing pulling a robbery at night. It’s a different kettle of fish doing it in the middle of the afternoon. You ain’t got the cover of darkness.”

  Harry looked round at the rest of the men. “Anyone else?”

  There were no other dissenting voices.

  “Daylight robbery it is, then,” Harry said with a chuckle.

  “Just one question,” Colin Soal piped up. “About the pay-off . . .”

  Always the money, Harry thought sourly. Let’s get the sodding jewels first.

  “Just wondering where it was going to be,” Soal continued. “Where you’ll be.”

  Without a flicker, Harry looked round at the men. “I’ll be there at the lock-up with fifty grand for each of you.” Except for Rintle, he thought with a trace of annoyance. The big man had insisted on being paid up front.

  As the men filed out, Rintle hung back. Harry smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “The money will all be taken care of,” he assured him.

  “It better be,” Rintle answered, “’cos after the job, I’m not coming back here. I’m straight on my bike.”

  Harry smiled again. “Sure, sure. It’s all in hand. How’s Jackie, by the way?”

  Rintle gave him a long look. “Jackie’s fine, just fine,” he said quietly.

  As the outer door clanged shut behind Rintle, Micky and Harry were left alone. Micky rubbed his hands together.

  “So, Harry, it’s three-fifteen tomorrow, then?”

  Harry was deep in thought, acutely aware of his shortage of cash. This cocky young so-and-so had no bloody idea what it took to pull off a big job like this, no idea how it was really going to go down.

  Harry was the only one who knew, and that was the way he had always worked—well, up to a point. There’d been Dolly, of course. Harry sighed. He hadn’t given much thought to Dolly of late. But in time he would take care of her. He sat down and rubbed his head.

  Micky began picking up the used coffee mugs. It was hard talking to Harry when he was in one of his moods. Normally he couldn’t stop—giving Micky orders, have you done this, do that. But when he was like this, just sitting, staring into space, you couldn’t get a word out of him, unless it was “piss off!.”

  “Murphy sorted, is he?”

  Micky didn’t hear. Harry got up and walked into the kitchen. “Murphy sorted, is he?” he repeated.

  Micky turned the tap off. “Sure, Harry. Got a top brief working on it.”

  Harry nodded thoughtfully. “You contacted his mother?”

  “Er, not yet, Harry.” Micky tried to change the subject. “We should do something about that fucking Sonny Chizzel—get someone to break his legs for him.”

  Harry ignored Micky’s outburst. “I’ll go talk to her then,” he said in a cold voice. “I’ll be round your place later.”

  When he was gone, Micky threw one of the mugs in the sink, where it shattered noisily. Then another. Every time he thought he had got close to Harry, he just got slapped down. They were in this together, but the way he acted, it was as if Micky was of no more importance than the kid they had hired to ride the motorbike.

  Micky walked over to the big motorbike and checked the saddlebag. This was where the jewels would end up. Micky got astride the bike and stroked the gleaming metalwork—it looked like Fisk had cleaned it. He kick-started the bike and it roared into life, the engine growling. Little Brian certainly knew his bikes. He’d even won a couple of track races. That was why he was on the raid: to bankroll his entrance on to the race circuit. Well, after tomorrow he’d have enough to buy a whole fleet of bikes. But he still wouldn’t have as much as Micky. He felt a warm glow at the thought of eight million quids’ worth of jewels. Him and Harry could live like kings . . .

  From the outside, Gordon Murphy’s council house looked like a tip. Graffiti defaced the walls, and the garden was littered with used beer bottles and empty Coke cans. The curtains were drawn. Harry rang the doorbell and waited, then rang again, before lifting up the letterbox flap. He was about to shout through when he heard someone shuffling to the door. It opened a crack, and he smiled through it.

  “Hello, Ma, it’s Harry, old friend of Gordon’s.”

  Mrs. Murphy took an age to unlock the door, then without looking at Harry, she turned her walking aid round and began to shuffle back to the kitchen. Harry closed the door and watched her ease her body into the chair. She had aged a lot since he last saw her, but then it had been a long time.

  She peered over at him as Harry placed a solid wad of twenties on the table. He got down on his haunches beside her, looking up into her face.

  “Gordon won’t be back for a while. Just a couple of days. Spot of trouble . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. Filth’s been in an’ out all day. All right, is he?”

  “Fine, Ma. We got a top brief working to get him out. He just needs a little while to sort it out, but they can’t hold him.”

  She smiled, chuckled, then gazed into the fire. “They got nothin’ on him. He wasn’t even outside when them raids was done. They should check their bleedin’ records—he was in the Scrubs.”

  Harry patted her hand. She was still a game old bird. He straightened up, handed her the money and told her to tuck it away safe.

  “Have to put it up me drawers, round here. The break-ins . . . If they know my Gordon’s not here, they’ll try it.”

  Harry saw on the mantelshelf the faded picture of himself and Gordon, no more than sixteen, seventeen years of age. It had pride of place, the two boys clutching their cheap fishing rods and smiling into the camera.

  “How’s that wife o’ yours?”

  “Fine,” Harry muttered.

  She sucked in her breath, looking at him. “Wish my Gordon could find a good ’un, settle down. Never mind me, it’s a wife he wants.”

  Harry patted her hand, kissed the top of her head and told her not to bother showing him out. As he reached the door, he said, “When you see him, tell him he’ll be all right, understand? I’ll send his wages on, right?”

  “That’s good of you, son. You’ve always been a good’un.”

  Harry gave her a warm smile. “Do you mind if I make a call from your phone in the hall before I go?”

  “No, love, you go ahead.”

  Harry closed the door quietly and crossed to an old beige colored telephone on a small hall table. He scrunched his eyes. He had always had a phenomenal memory, ever since he was a boy. He could remember the number, but not the code. So he dialed the operator and asked what numbers he should call for Devon. The operator asked if he would like to be put through. Quick as a flash he was able to give Vera Stanley’s phone number. He had to wait as it rang numerous times before it was picked up.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this Vera Stanley?” Harry asked.

  “Yes, it is.” Vera didn’t recognize the voice, she wondered if it was the landlord as they were behind on rent, but then it didn’t sound like him.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  “I’m a close friend of your sister, Trudie,” Harry said.

  “She’s not here. I don’t know where she is. Who’s speaking?”

  “Just an old friend wondering if she and the baby are all right.”

  “She called not long ago.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “No, I don’t. She woke us up in the middle of the night.”

  Harry hesitated. “Sorry to trouble you.” He hung up.

  Late as it was, there were two little kids, no more than four or five years old, playing on the curb when he got to his car.

  One looked up. “Eh, give us a fag, mister?”

  Harry laughed at him, at his dirty little face, lips turned down, a scowling pug.

  “Fuck you, then . . .”

  Dolly had finally calmed Bella down. She sat with the now dry-eyed Shirley on the sofa. Shirley had seemed more upset by the fact that Micky Tesco had used her and she had been stupid enough to let him than by the fact that she was going to be smack bang in the middle of a robbery.

  Dolly had grilled Shirley about the party at Arnie Fisher’s club. It looked like Harry was still working in the same old way. She perked up when Shirley mentioned she’d seen Jackie Rawlins there: very interesting. She’d forgotten all about Jackie. Shirley couldn’t really remember who else she’d met, so they moved from the party on to the raid, and the biggest question of all: whether Shirley should still take part in the fashion show.

  “If I don’t, it’ll look suspicious. I’ve got to do it.”

  They mulled it over. Dolly even wondered whether Marion Gordon had been paid off by Micky. Shirley could feel the tears coming again. Oh, God, was that all set up too? Had he even arranged that? She started to cry, mostly for her own foolishness. Well, if Marion had been paid by Micky then she didn’t want anything to do with her. Her dreams of a professional modeling career were crumbling to dust in front of her eyes. Right from the beginning she had just been the girl on the inside. Even making love to her had been part of the scheme.

  “You make damned sure you get the police on to them, Dolly. I hate him.” The tears had stopped and now anger had given her a harder edge. She seemed to gather strength as she went over all the information Micky had pumped out of her. “The finale—that’s the only point when we have all the gems on, every single one of them. And then there’s a blackout.” She paused, remembering how Micky had made her go over the blackout sequence, apparently fascinated by exactly what they were doing.

  She straightened. “I reckon that’s when they’ll do it, Dolly, right at the end of the show, about 10:15.”

  Dolly nodded. It all made sense. So now they began to formulate their own plan of action. If Harry and his team weren’t going to pull the raid until ten or 10:15, that gave them time to keep a watch on them at the lock-up, and as soon as they moved out, they could put in a call to the police.

  Bella was now on her feet. “We give them the names we’ve got so far, the registration numbers of the vans, the bike, everything. But they’ve got to be picked up when they’re just about to do it. If we tip off the cops too soon, they might blow it. But we must give them enough time to stake out the club.” She turned to Shirley. “Are you going to be able to cope? You know, rehearsing, dressing, acting normal, knowing what’s about to happen?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Shirley assured her, her face set. “Just make sure you and Dolly do your bit. We can’t make any mistakes this time.”

  The three women sat at the table, and Dolly explained everything they’d gleaned from the plans in the lock-up. The most important thing was the bike rider, whose passenger would actually take the jewels from round the girls’ necks, put them into the saddlebag, then return with the driver to the lock-up.

  “What part is Harry playing? What’s he doing?” Shirley asked.

  Bella and Dolly looked at each other. That was the one thing they didn’t know yet.

  Shirley put her head in her hands, sighing. “Once he’s caught, though, then it’ll be all over, won’t it?”

  “And then your money will get sorted,” Dolly assured her. “Listen, I’ve got enough cash of my own to cover it. I’ll be your fence. I give you my word, on Monday we’ll be finished with Harry, you’ll have straight money and you can do whatever you want.”

  Chapter Six

  When Dolly arrived at Shirley’s at 7:30 in the morning, she found her sitting in her dressing gown, sipping coffee and staring through the window at the drizzle outside.

  “Couldn’t sleep, Dolly,” she said, her face pale and drawn.

  Bella joined them, dressed in trousers and a sweater, like Dolly. They were ready to take up their position at the lock-up.

  “Come on, Dolly, we need to be there in good time. We can’t risk being seen,” Bella said. She seemed agitated.

  “You’ll get the police there on time, won’t you?” Shirley asked.

  Dolly nodded. She patted Shirley’s shoulder. She could feel her shaking beneath the thin dressing gown.

  “’Course we will,” Dolly answered. “Now you take care, love. Just do everything like you rehearsed, then we’ll see you back here. And don’t worry!”

  Shirley managed a wobbly smile. Don’t worry! That was almost funny.

  Bella and Dolly left, giving Shirley one final thumbs-up. As the front door closed behind them, Shirley raised the coffee cup to her lips. Her hand was shaking so much she was afraid she was going to drop it. She started to retch and ran to the sink, then stood there, heaving, waiting for the nausea to pass. She really didn’t know if she was going to make it through the day.

  Harry looked round Micky’s kitchen. It was gleaming, neat, all wooden-fronted units, very modern. He touched it. Definitely real wood. He opened the fridge. It was well stocked. He took out eggs and bacon, some butter, then looked round for the pans. One of the cupboards was stacked with rows and rows of vitamins. Harry picked up a jar, read the label, then put it back. He’d never had time for that sort of crap. He moved to the stove and fiddled with a knob. It was one of those newfangled things, the hot plates just colored circles. He couldn’t work out which ring he’d turned on, so he held his hand out over all of them.

  Bloody thing!

  Micky was working out in his bedroom, sweating, grunting out press-ups. He could hear Harry moving round the kitchen. The rest of Micky’s small flat was like the kitchen, neat and tasteful, devoid of any frills. All very masculine and clean-cut. He had done it on the cheap, by himself, and he was quite proud of the result. His dad had been a carpenter and he knew what he was doing.

  Micky could smell bacon cooking. That was usually enough to get him salivating. But this morning his stomach was knotted, his nerves on edge. He didn’t think he’d be able to face breakfast. He concentrated on his push-ups: forty-two . . . forty-three. He’d hit fifty and call it quits.

  Harry yelled from the kitchen that breakfast was up. Micky picked up a towel and wiped himself down. As he walked from the bedroom, he saw Harry’s two cases all packed. Micky went back into the bedroom and picked up his own case, placing it beside Harry’s, then grabbed a dirty ashtray and emptied it, replacing it with a new one. He hated the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Then he walked into the kitchen. Harry was sitting on a stool at the small table, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon and fried bread. He looked up with his mouth full and indicated with his fork a plate of eggs for Micky.