“Emergency!” Dolly shouted desperately, banging her fist on the side of the booth.

  The man took one look at the wild-eyed woman outside and quickly put the phone in its cradle. Bella pushed past him into the booth and started dialing.

  Shirley stood at the manager’s desk, which was draped with a large piece of black velvet on which the jewels were laid out, some tagged, matching earrings, necklaces and bracelets grouped together. Myra, adorned in emeralds, was moodily complaining about the weight pulling on her earlobes.

  “Emeralds, diamonds and gold cluster,” noted Mrs. Harper.

  “I don’t give a fuck—they’re killing me!” she moaned, but Mrs. Harper just shooed her away and motioned for Shirley to move closer. She studied her for a moment, then spoke to a small, immaculately dressed man seated at the desk.

  “The diamonds, I think, with this dress.”

  The small man nodded, replying to Mrs. Harper in French. She laughed and placed the diamonds round Shirley’s neck.

  Shirley could see what Myra was complaining about: they were heavy. Mrs. Harper added earrings, then slipped a bracelet on to Shirley’s wrist and stood back. Speaking in French to the dapper little man, she looked her up and down, gesturing for her to turn. Satisfied, she made a note on her board and sent Shirley to the catwalk.

  As she reached the door, Mrs. Harper stopped her. “Oh, Shirley . . .”

  Shirley felt her heart miss a beat.

  “As soon as they’ve photographed that set, come straight back—just security. Thank you, dear.” She beckoned the next model in, a Chinese girl.

  Shirley walked out and took her place at the far end of the catwalk. Myra was up ahead of her, posing for single shots, muttering all the time about the wankers clicking away below her. Shirley reckoned she must be wearing over a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and she could feel the watchful eyes of the two security guards behind her. The Chinese model was moving up behind her, covered in pearls.

  As Myra finished her session and slouched back up the ramp, she goosed Shirley, snorting at the Chinese girl as she passed.

  “You dive down for all those pearls, darling? Your hair looks as if you did.”

  The girl turned to give Myra a mouthful, but Myra was already being whisked into the office, her dresser standing by with her change of dress.

  Shirley stood at the end of the ramp, turning, smiling, holding poses the way Myra did it. The cameras clicked away, while Mrs. Harper started giving detailed descriptions of the gems to the photographers.

  Bella had almost reached screaming point. The police had put her through to various different stations, each one asking the caller’s name and what department she wanted.

  Dolly snatched the phone. They were now through to Kensington Police Station. Dolly didn’t care which bloody department they were talking to, she just barked out names—Harry Rawlins being number one—and the details of the raid.

  “Never mind my name, just bloody listen! There’s a raid, understand me, an armed raid on Amanda’s nightclub, and it’s happening right now!”

  Dolly slammed down the phone and ran across the train station.

  “Come on! We’ve got to get to the club and warn Shirley to get out of there.”

  Kevin White took only a few moments to spring open the local telephone control box and find what he was looking for. He knew exactly what he was doing, and started slicing through the wires that served the club and its surrounding area.

  The men waiting inside the Transit van watched nervously. He was taking too long. Ray looked round, the sweat pouring down his face. He had the van moving as Kevin jumped aboard. Next stop: Amanda’s nightclub.

  “You sure it’s all cut?” Rintle asked.

  “I know what I’m doing. You just take care of your own side of things,” White snapped back.

  Micky Tesco patted White’s knee to calm him down, and gave a warning look to Rintle to shut it. Johnny Summers, shotgun resting across his knee, stared calmly out of the window. At least the rain had eased off; that was something in their favor, making the fire escape run less hazardous.

  Brian Fisk was the first to arrive at the club. He parked his bike on the street and walked casually into the club’s forecourt through the “In” gate, where a few parked cars were scattered round the horseshoe pathway. He knew the guard at the front entrance was watching him but continued looking over the cars.

  “Know where the kitchens are, mate?”

  The guard pointed round the back, watching as Brian, walking unhurriedly, moved round the horseshoe, past the “Out” gate and down the small alley into the wide access area by the kitchens.

  The building work was still only half-completed, but there was no one around. He looked at the closed-up garages, then wandered over to the trees, giving the whole area a careful once-over. Then he froze.

  “Oi, you! What you want?”

  A guard was leaning on the basement stairs at the rear entrance of the kitchens.

  “Just looking for a toilet,” Brian shouted.

  “Well, look somewhere else,” the guard told him, waving him away.

  Brian shrugged and walked off, back down the alley, into the forecourt and through the “Out” area on to the street where the Transit van was in position, waiting. Fisk wandered back to his bike, giving a little “All clear” signal as he passed the van. He sat astride his bike and waited, turning to watch a green Fiesta slowly driving past.

  Dolly was hunched over the wheel as Bella scanned the front of the club.

  “Shit, Dolly, we’re too late. They’re already here!”

  Dolly could feel the sweat running from her armpits as she gripped the steering wheel tightly. In the rear view mirror she could see the Transit van and the motorbike.

  Dolly drove on, then took a left, aiming to go round the block and come back on to the road behind them.

  “Where in Christ’s name are the police?” she cursed.

  Jukko was standing on the stage, shouting down to the photographers and press below.

  “OK, now for the finale! Get ready for the spectacular lighting effects!”

  The girls were grouped at the end of the ramp. Mrs. Harper was explaining to the press that the girls were now wearing all the gems, more than £8 million pounds’ worth of diamonds, rubies and emeralds. Her voice droned on, explaining each piece’s history, which jewelers had loaned what . . .

  It was time for Colin Soal to make a move. He began shaking his camera.

  “Shit!” He shrugged. “Bleedin’ shutter’s frozen,” he muttered and wandered off toward the exit, giving a couple of waves to his colleagues, who were more intent on getting into position for the big final display.

  Colin passed the two watching guards standing by the manager’s office and out, past Steve, who stood up and stretched.

  “All over, is it?”

  “Not quite.” Colin smiled. “But my camera’s packed in. It’s all right, though—I’ve got enough.”

  He went down the front steps, even stopping to exchange a few words with a security guard, then he walked casually out of the “In” gate and crossed the road.

  The men waiting in the Transit were following his every move intently. They knew they were close now, very close.

  “Why doesn’t he get a bloody move on?” Kevin White muttered nervously as they began pulling up their visors, checking their guns, their hands already beginning to sweat inside their gloves.

  Colin jumped up into the van without a word and began pulling off his raincoat, revealing his security uniform underneath. Micky held out his helmet. Now it was Harvey Rintle’s turn . . .

  Micky checked the radio one more time and gave him the signal. Rintle tapped his radio, the doors opened and he stepped down.

  All the men now watched Rintle, with his visor up, move into the forecourt via the “Out” gate, out of sight of the guard on duty at the main entrance, who was busy proffering a cigarette to Steve, the two men chatting easily as if their day was almost done.

  Kensington Police Station was by now a hive of furious activity, with DI Frinton at the center of it, barking out orders left, right and center. The details of the raid were still sketchy, but all the names they’d been given by the anonymous caller had checked out. This was looking more and more like the real thing, and Frinton was urgently calling for backup from Notting Hill, Cromwell Road—anywhere that had spare bodies they could use. Lurking at the back of his mind was the fear that the whole thing was a hoax, and he was going to end up with egg on his face, but when they were unable to contact the club on the phone, the conviction hardened that they really were dealing with an armed robbery in progress. As every available car sped to the scene, Frinton gave strict orders that no one was to go in and try and be a hero—just seal off the area and await instructions.

  As he left the station and got into his own waiting patrol car, Frinton’s gut tightened and he felt his heart racing. He knew full well if he messed this one up, his career would be over. On the other hand, if he was responsible for foiling an £8 million jewel heist, his name would be up in lights: no more soddin’ Kensington nick for him—he’d be playing with the big boys from now on.

  As the car accelerated toward the club, he told himself to focus on the job in hand, not get ahead of himself. He quickly got on the radio.

  “Keep the pandas back. Let the unmarked cars go in first. Remember, we have every reason to believe this lot are armed and dangerous!”

  A fresh-faced young officer in the back seat asked about the Chief—had anyone been able to contact him?

  Frinton turned in the front seat. “If you fancy scouring the golf course you might find him, but right now we’ve got better things to do.”

  Vic Morgan arrived at Shirley’s wearing his new jacket and carrying a big bunch of roses. He’d already tried Dolly’s flat, but she wasn’t there. As he pressed and held the doorbell for the fourth time with no response, he had to acknowledge she wasn’t here either. He turned back to the street, wondering what to do. Talk about being all dressed up with nowhere to go.

  Then he had a thought: perhaps he’d go and pay a visit to old Resnick. He’d had so much else on his mind, he’d almost forgotten about him. He looked down at the roses. At least they’d make a change from sodding grapes.

  “What’s he bloody doing? Why doesn’t he get on with it?” Kevin White muttered from inside the van as they watched Rintle, his visor down now, taking his time to move round to the side of the building, then along to the front steps of the club. The security guard stubbed out his cigarette, before returning to his position.

  Rintle stepped out in front of him. “Got a problem with this,” he said, holding the radio out.

  The guard might not have seen Rintle before, but he was wearing the same uniform. He reached for his own radio, and Rintle brought his right knee up sharply between the guard’s legs, then as he doubled over with a grunt, swung an elbow into his temple. It connected with a sickening crack, and the guard slumped to the ground. Rintle quickly lifted the body up and heaved it over the side of the stairs. He turned, glancing quickly back at the van, and entered the club.

  Steve was facing the stairs, listening to the rock music belting out. Rintle tapped him on the shoulder, and as the guard turned round, he dealt him such a flurry of fierce blows to the head and neck that he quickly collapsed in an unmoving heap. Rintle got his arms under Steve’s shoulders and heaved him up into a sitting position, so it looked as if he was just taking a break, then picked up his radio.

  “Time to roll, fellas.”

  Dolly saw the van move through the “In” gate into the forecourt. They were too late to warn Shirley. All they could do now was watch.

  The Transit moved into the side alley. Micky was first out, followed by Kevin White with the shotgun. Micky strolled toward the kitchen. He looked through the railings, and there was the guard, standing in the basement by the door.

  Micky called down. “I think we’ve got a problem out front.”

  “What are you on about?” the guard grumbled, climbing the steps. As soon as he was within reach, Micky’s right hand shot out, grabbing the man’s windpipe and squeezing for all he was worth. The guard grabbed on to Micky’s arm and Micky could feel his grip weakening—then Kevin White slipped behind him and smashed the guard on the back of the neck with the shotgun barrel. Micky grabbed the guard’s radio and stomped it under his heel. Then, with the unconscious man held between them, they moved down the steps to the kitchens.

  Micky got on to the radio to Rintle. “Hold your position.” Then to the waiting van: “Go!”

  The Transit van, with Ray behind the wheel, hurtled into the yard behind the club, and Terry Summers and Colin Soal leapt out. They legged it up the fire escape, each stopping to wait at his allotted door.

  The kitchen staff turned to look as the body of the guard was pushed into the room. He fell heavily, his helmet crashing against a table leg. Micky swung the shotgun round.

  “On the floor—now!”

  The four men and two girls didn’t need telling twice, throwing themselves to the ground.

  The guard was coming round. Kevin White hauled him up, flung him across the table and pointed his shotgun between the man’s spreadeagled legs.

  Micky kicked one of the kitchen staff in the ribs. “You lot stay down!” he shouted. “Now put your hands out in front of you!”

  “I’ve got this lot covered. Go!” White shouted, and Micky darted out through the door.

  The girls were sashaying down the catwalk, most of the dressers and staff crowded round the ramp to watch the show. This was the climax, and the volume of the music went up a notch, helping to build the excitement as the lights blinked on and off, the spotlights picking out the pouting faces festooned with sparkling gems. Press cameras flashed crazily, the men yelling for the girls to come down the ramp again together. They moved back, then walked forward again, the music pounding all the while.

  Rintle watched the two guards outside the office door, their attention focused on the catwalk. Where the hell was the rest of the team? Any minute now all the goddamn lights were going to come back on.

  Then he heard the crash as Johnny Summers kicked open the doors, screaming at the top of his voice. At the same time Colin Soal barged through the second fire exit. Still yelling, Johnny fired two shots into the ceiling.

  The whole place went mad.

  Rintle caught the security guards on the blind side as they ran toward the ramp, hitting the first one with a vicious punch to the neck that sent him to the floor. The second guard checked his run and managed to grab Rintle from behind. Rintle dropped a knee, pivoted and swung him round, just as the first guard got to his feet. Rintle kicked out viciously, connecting with his groin, then put his hands round the second guard’s neck and twisted hard. As he flopped, doll-like, to the floor, he lashed out at the first guard’s head with a boot, making contact with a sickening crunch. He dragged the inert bodies toward the office door, just as it opened, revealing the open-jawed stare of a terrified little man. Rintle shoved the guards inside and locked the door.

  Down below, the women were screaming like alley cats and most of the pressmen were instinctively lying face down. Colin Soal was pushing and shoving those still on their feet, shouting out orders, kicking the men’s legs from underneath them. Rintle joined him. They now had the room more or less covered.

  The models were darting this way and that like a flock of crazed birds, their brightly colored feathers flapping, jewels sparkling in the flashing strobe lights. Most of them huddled together in the center of the ramp, where they were confronted by Micky Tesco. He wore a bag at his side, already open for him to drop the jewels in. A hysterical Mrs. Harper made a lunge for him. He grabbed her by the hair and swung her over the side of the ramp. She fell badly, her head hitting the side of one of the gilt chairs. The floral displays were falling like ninepins, showering petals on the people scrambling round on the floor. Pressmen tried to save their cameras, as tables, flowers and chairs crashed around them.

  Above it all, standing there calmly, Johnny Summers surveyed the room, then pointed up to the boy on the lights.

  “Get down here now!” he screamed, barely audible above the blaring music, the vocalist bellowing out: “Let’s dance with the moonlight in our eyes . . .”

  Then the tape ran out, and the music was replaced by a whining, crunching noise, as if the band were being put through a mincer.

  Micky was snatching necklaces and bracelets off the models. They tried desperately to help, ridding themselves of the cursed gems with fumbling fingers. He had already torn one of the girls’ lobes as he ripped off the earrings. They were crying, desperate to save themselves, terrified of being hurt—all except Myra. With a scream she went straight for Micky, and just as it looked as if she was going to claw his eyes, he brought his hand up hard and punched her in the jaw, before viciously tearing at her earrings. Despite the pain, she tried to fight him off, screaming at him to let her take them out. But Micky didn’t have the time to mess around and continued pulling.

  Shirley grabbed hold of Myra. “Don’t fight him!” she pleaded, terrified that Micky was going to do her real harm.

  Micky finally got what he was after, leaving Myra sobbing, with her hands to her ears.

  Then it was Shirley’s turn. His eyes were glazed and he showed no sign that he recognized her; all he could think of was what was round her throat. Her skin was slashed by the diamonds as he tore them away and she screamed in pain. She already had her hands full with the ring, the bracelet and earrings, just wanting him to take them and leave her alone.

  He grabbed the jewels, but instead of letting her go, he pulled her wrist as he started walking backward, using her as a shield. She fell over the side of the ramp and he hauled her back. She was sobbing now, stumbling over the long frock. He grabbed her hair and, like a caveman, dragged her back toward the kitchens.