Harvey Rintle did a slow move backward, ready to take off for the front exit. Now Johnny Summers did likewise, knocking over a chair as he backed toward his exit route. He turned to Colin Soal, who was also making slow, steady progress to the fire exit.

  Micky half dragged, half pushed Shirley into the kitchens, his pouch bulging with jewels.

  Kevin White turned. “Drop the fucking girl, Micky, and get the hell out!” he shouted.

  As the shotgun aimed away from him, the guard on the table saw his chance, slid off the table and made a grab for it. Still holding Shirley, Micky tried to pull a .38 revolver from his waistband. As Kevin swung back in front of him, with the guard desperately hanging on to the shotgun, Micky lost his balance, fell against Shirley, and the gun went off. Screams came from the kitchen staff, still face down on the floor. His head spinning, Micky just ran, almost knocking Kevin over in his desperation to get out and save his skin.

  Outside, Ray Bates had done a slow U-turn round the big yard and was now waiting near the alley for the men to get into the van. The last one to be picked up would be Harvey Rintle, round at the front door.

  Brian Fisk was in position right outside the kitchen exit, engine ticking over. All Micky had to do was jump aboard, then they’d be away.

  Shirley slid in slow motion down the cold, tiled wall to the floor. As the two men ran from the kitchen, the chef raised his head from the floor, then gasped in horror. The front of Shirley’s dress was a deep red, the stain spreading slowly across the chiffon as he watched. He looked at the girl; from her expression she seemed to be asking him if it had really happened. She looked down at her blood-soaked dress, then back to him.

  “Dear God, he’s shot her!”

  He got to his knees and crawled across to her. The girl put her hand out to him, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Dolly . . .”

  As soon as she said the word, he knew he would never forget it. Was she pathetically asking for a child’s dolly in her last moments? He crawled nearer. She was like a doll herself, he thought, her head on one side, leaning against the white-tiled wall, her beautiful face calm, eyes wide open, the heavy make-up accentuating the toy-like appearance. The terrible red stain continued to spread, now on to the white kitchen floor.

  Johnny Summers made it to the fire escape. He could see Colin Soal below him, already on the move, and way below him there was Kevin White, running from the kitchen. The bike roared as Micky Tesco shoveled the jewels into the saddlebag, then jumped on. The bike tilted for a moment, then slowly moved toward the Transit, still standing with its back doors open.

  Dolly was standing by the side of the car when the first police car screeched through the “In” gate of the club. Ray crashed through the gears, starting to move the van toward the “Out” gate, but he was cut off by the patrol car just as Kevin White, Johnny Summers and Colin Soal threw themselves into the back of the Transit.

  Seeing the hold-up in the alley, Rintle turned and made a run for it, but Frinton was quickly out of the car and right behind him, bringing him down in a crunching rugby tackle. But he couldn’t hold him. Rintle scrambled up, desperately looking for a way out, but before he could decide which way to go, another squad car pulled up and three policemen spilled out. He braced himself, but even he couldn’t beat those odds, and he was soon on his knees, the three coppers hanging on for dear life.

  The men in the van saw what happened to Rintle and could hear the squeal of brakes as more police cars arrived. They knew they were done.

  Micky was luckier. Brian squeezed the bike through the gap between the van and the wall, Micky’s leg scraping painfully against it, and then they were bouncing over the grass verge. They hit the curb hard, Brian made a sharp turn, almost losing his passenger before righting the bike, then opened the throttle and let rip.

  Dolly and Bella watched helplessly as the bike screamed past them. Then they turned their attention to the scene of chaos outside the club. Frinton, holding a handkerchief to his bloody nose, was shouting instructions to the second group of officers, whose car was blocking the “Out” gate, to move the Transit. The captured men were lying on their stomachs, with their arms and legs apart as they were searched and handcuffed, along with Rintle, who was still snorting and snarling like a raging bull.

  Bella grabbed Dolly’s arm.

  “Get back in the car! We need to follow the bike!”

  “Harry, I can’t see Harry . . .” Dolly was desperate, breathing in short, sharp gasps.

  Bella grabbed her and shoved her into the car. “For Christ’s sake, they’re getting away!”

  Hardly knowing what she was doing, Dolly started the car and took off after the bike.

  As the patrol car was also turning to follow the bike, the chef ran into the alley, hysterically pleading for an ambulance. Seeing the men being led into the patrol cars, he suddenly made a grab for the handcuffed Kevin White and tried to land a punch, his face distorted with anger. A policeman held him off, but White ducked instinctively, hitting his head on the bonnet of the car.

  Frinton approached the kitchens with two plain-clothed officers, picking their way through the discarded shotguns and helmets, the debris of a failed heist. They ran down into the basement. Immediately surrounded by hysterical kitchen staff and the traumatized security guard, it was a few moments before Frinton saw the crumpled figure, lying on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Shoving the people away from around Shirley, Frinton got down on his knees. Even before he touched her, he knew the girl was dead, but he still felt for the pulse at the side of her neck, his hand shaking. At his touch, as if brought back to life, she started to slide sideways and he instinctively reached out to cradle her in his arms. He had seen his fair share of dead bodies, but it never got any easier; there was still that sudden twist inside him. She seemed weightless in his arms, almost childlike. He could hear the siren of the approaching ambulance, but there was nothing anyone could do.

  Frinton turned away from the body as two ambulance men ran down the basement steps with a stretcher. As they approached Frinton, he shook his head.

  “She’s dead.”

  Bella craned forward in the seat, eyes glued to the road. “I can’t see them!”

  Dolly couldn’t see the bike either, but she crossed Park Lane, followed the traffic round and drove into the park from Marble Arch. Then she spotted them, already turning through the big curve, moving fast, weaving in and out of the traffic.

  Bella grabbed her arm. “Come on, Dolly!”

  Dolly put her foot down. They were already doing seventy and as the needle flicked upward, they began to overtake the rest of the traffic, almost overshooting the left-hand turn into the park before Lancaster Gate, as an oncoming car shot across in front of them and skidded into the roundabout. Dolly instinctively slowed but Bella practically shoved her foot back to the floor, and they carried on, picking up more speed, Dolly gripping the wheel, her knuckles white, beads of sweat appearing on her forehead as she tried to keep control of the car—just managing to avoid a head-on collision with a car coming the other way, horns blaring as people stopped and stared.

  The bike raced through the park, across the Serpentine, and jumped the lights at Exhibition Road before racing away—with Dolly and Bella close behind. Dolly started slowing for the lights, then changed her mind before Bella could do it for her, narrowly missing a bus coming from their right as they veered after the bike.

  “I can still see it!” Bella screamed.

  Dolly was driving like a mad thing, all sense of danger gone. Eighty-five, ninety, tires screeching as they shot between two parking meters and back on to Exhibition Road.

  Hearing the noise behind them, Micky looked back over his shoulder.

  “Turn right—into Cromwell Road!” he shouted.

  The bike had to pull to the left as roadworks forced the traffic into a single line.

  “Do a U-turn!” Micky bellowed.

  Brian maneuvered the bike alongside the curb, shot across the path of an oncoming car, then made a wide U-turn. He saw the coach out of the corner of his eye and opened up the throttle to weave past it, but skidded on the new gravel from the roadworks and, hampered by Micky not leaning into the turn, slid sideways. Brian kicked out with his leg to try and right the bike, Micky leaned over, and the next thing the bike was skidding directly toward the oncoming front wheels of the coach.

  The coach driver slammed his brakes on hard, throwing his passengers forward in their seats, but the bike kept on coming, and he braced himself for the inevitable crunch of metal on metal.

  Brian took the full weight of the impact, his upper body smashed against the huge wheels of the coach, while the bike buckled beneath him. Micky was thrown on to the side of the road, his helmet crashing into the raised curb. He felt the visor splintering, cutting into his face, while his left arm twisted out of its socket with a sickening snapping sound.

  The coach driver jumped down, shaking, his face ashen, saying over and over that there was nothing he could do.

  “The boy drove right at me!”

  Traffic began to build up as people ran from their cars to see if they could help. A driver ran to Micky Tesco, who lay moaning, one hand clutched to his helmet, the blood running down onto his chest.

  Bella was out of the car and running toward the coach. As she pulled up she could see, between the legs of the onlookers, the open carrier on the side of the crushed bike. She began pushing her way through.

  Micky was now sitting up, the helmet being eased off his head. He could hear voices desperately shouting: “Ambulance! For Chrissake get an ambulance!”

  He wiped the blood out of his eyes, his head beginning to clear. The pain in his shoulder was like a red-hot vice squeezing him. Then he saw the black girl—watched her reach down under the coach to where the bike had gone. No one seemed to see her do it—their eyes were riveted to the twisted metal and the crushed, lifeless body of Brian Fisk, everyone talking and gesticulating wildly.

  A police siren wailed as a motorbike patrol rider arrived at the scene and began moving the traffic on, the jam now stretching almost to the park. Micky was up on his feet, shoving away the helping hands of the driver. He pushed through the pain as he staggered toward the girl.

  Dolly was being waved on by the police officer. She could hear the siren of an approaching police car. Bella was now running back and Dolly inched the car forward. Bella jumped in and they slowly passed the policeman, the traffic ahead still moving at a snail’s pace.

  “I got ’em, I got ’em!”

  Bella held out the jewel bag for Dolly to see, then felt the car door open beside her. Micky Tesco was jogging alongside her, hanging on to the door, his face covered in blood, eyes crazed. The traffic suddenly opened up and they were able to move faster. Tesco still ran alongside, screaming incoherently as the car picked up speed. He hung on for a moment, then fell, dragged along the ground for a few seconds before eventually releasing his hold.

  Dolly and Bella were past Harrods now. Twisting round in her seat, Bella couldn’t make out what had happened to Micky through the cars crawling along behind them. All she could see was the flashing lights of an ambulance.

  Bella held up a diamond necklace. She laughed, dangling it in front of Dolly’s face. “Look! We got them! We got them!”

  Dolly’s voice was flat, expressionless. “Harry . . . they didn’t get him, I know it.”

  The police motorbike was parked outside Harry’s lock-up, radio crackling. The doors opened and the officer walked out. He picked up the radio.

  “The place is empty.”

  Greg was starting to get nervous. He’d started up the engine, even though there was no sight of the men. He had a feeling they weren’t coming and wondered what to do. Ray must have got it wrong. He had a moment of panic that he was in the wrong place, and although he’d checked it already five or six times, he took out the A–Z and checked yet again. While Greg was flicking through the pages, the unmarked police car pulled up directly behind him. The officer was at the driver’s door before Greg knew what was happening. He didn’t look much older than Greg.

  “Your friends aren’t coming, son. You might as well come on out. You’re nicked.”

  Trudie caught a flight home from Sydney. This time was very different from her experience in first class. She was in economy with the baby on her knee and a very overweight man sitting next to her who had become intolerant as the child kicked and cried until Trudie was able to get a stewardess to heat up a bottle for him. Just the thought of the long flight ahead and the train journey to Devon filled her with trepidation. She had only £1,500 left.

  It was a job no one liked to do—telling a parent or a relative about the death of a loved one. But why did they always have to give it to the female officer?

  Janet Adam straightened her cap, walked up the path of Shirley Miller’s house and rang the bell. Behind her the officer in the car gave her a look of encouragement.

  Thanks a lot, mate, she thought.

  Dolly and Bella were about to pull up when they saw the car. Dolly took her foot off the brake and kept going, resisting the urge to watch the policewoman ringing Shirley’s doorbell. Dolly took the first left and stopped the car. For a moment neither woman could speak. Dolly was the first, her voice tight.

  “Maybe they’re just questioning her.”

  Bella started panicking. “She’ll talk, Dolly, you know it. She couldn’t hold out, not Shirley.”

  Dolly was clenching and unclenching her hands, trying desperately to think what their next move should be.

  Bella was getting more and more hysterical by the second. “My clothes—everything—it’s all in the house. My bloody passport!”

  Dolly went pale. “Is there anything there about me, where I’m staying, Bella? Bella, listen to me!”

  Bella was crying now. “I can’t remember, Dolly.”

  “A bit of paper with my address?”

  “I don’t remember!” A wrenching sob escaped her. “We’ve had it, Dolly. It’s over . . .”

  Dolly took a deep breath, somehow finding the self-control to calm Bella down.

  “It’s going to be all right. We’ll go back to my flat and keep on calling Shirley until we get some kind of news—even call the police if we have to.”

  “They’ll pick us up, I know it, I know it.”

  Dolly was exhausted. She couldn’t take any more. “Just shut up! We haven’t been caught yet and if you bloody pull yourself together we won’t be.”

  She made a three-point turn and drove out of the side turning. The policewoman was standing by the patrol car now, leaning in. It looked ominously as if they were waiting for Bella and Dolly to return.

  Micky Tesco had given the cab driver twenty-five quid—all he had on him.

  “I’ve been in a bike crash. Gotta get back to my place, call a doctor.”

  The cabbie was worried about the blood still streaming from the cuts on Micky’s face.

  “You sure you don’t want to go to a hospital, mate? Looks like you need stitches on them cuts.”

  Micky didn’t have the energy to argue. “Just take me home.”

  He lay back in his seat, trying to fight off the waves of pain threatening to overwhelm him. He suddenly realized it would be crazy to let this cab driver take him to his own door; much better to get out before the flat. As he leaned forward, he could feel the dried blood sticking to his neck. He rapped on the glass.

  “Just drop me at the next corner, OK?”

  The cab driver was just relieved to get the boy out of his cab. With the twenty-five quid in his hand, he inspected the back seat. It was covered in blood.

  “Shit.”

  Micky limped off, keeping to the back streets as he threaded his way toward his flat. He didn’t think he was going to make it past the porter and up in the lift. His head was throbbing and his vision began to blur. The white-hot pain in his left arm was making him feel sick. He kept on seeing the girl, the black girl. He knew her, he was sure of it. His mind churned as he staggered down into the underground car park—then it came to him: it was the girl from the airport when he’d first met Harry Rawlins, the black girl at the airport. Harry Rawlins, Harry Rawlins—the name banged like a hammer in his brain. If the car was gone, he would know that Harry had cheated him, just like he had cheated everyone else.

  Micky began sobbing. “Bastard, bastard, son of a bitch, bastard.”

  But the Jaguar was still in the parking bay. Micky leaned against it and tried to get his breathing under control.

  There was still time.

  Harry couldn’t wait any longer. If Micky wasn’t here by now, he wasn’t coming. Something must have gone wrong. Time to cut his losses. He checked he had his passport, then picked up his suitcases, and with one look at Micky’s solitary case, he walked out.

  Bella had the jewels laid out on the coffee table. She couldn’t stop touching them, and it was getting on Dolly’s nerves. She put in yet another call to Shirley’s, the ringing echoing on and on like a dirge. Where the hell was she? Surely if she’d been picked up, they’d have let her go by now?

  Bella held up a diamond necklace. “At least we got these.”

  Dolly ripped it out of her hand and threw it onto the table. “I never wanted those fucking things in the first place!”

  If she thought that was going to shut Bella up, it had the opposite effect. One moment she was sitting looking at the diamonds, the next she was screaming at the top of her voice, jabbing a finger at Dolly.

  “If anything’s happened to Shirley, it’s your fault . . . it’s all your fault!”

  Dolly slapped her hard across the face, and Bella instantly collapsed into a sobbing heap, like a puppet with its strings cut. At least Dolly knew now that if they were ever questioned by the police, Bella wouldn’t be able to hold out; she actually had more faith in Shirley.

  She suddenly had a thought. “That girl, the one you rented your flat to?”

  Bella couldn’t understand where Dolly’s mind was going. “What girl?”