represented the security guards.
'Right, gentlemen,' Bruce said. 'Any thoughts so far?'
'I'd give the milkmaid one,' offered Charlie, pointing at the overly voluptuous figurine.
'That's enough,' said Bruce, adopting his best stentorian tones. 'OK. Listen, please. Let's run it down.'
Over the next forty-five minutes beer gave way to scotch and the air filled with smoke. After each of the principals had spoken, Bruce asked if there were any questions.
'We're still short-handed,' said Gordy. 'A couple of extra bodies wouldn't go amiss.'
'We could bring in Ronnie,' suggested Bruce. 'Ronnie Biggs.'
Foreheads were collectively furrowed as they tried to place the name. 'Who?'
'Biggsy. Good worker. Reliable.' Bruce had met him in borstal and been impressed with his loyalty and tenacity. But he didn't feel as if he could force any more of his own opinions on the group. After all, Charlie had got the tip-off, which made it his job really. 'Charlie?'
'Not this time, Bruce,' he said softly. 'I'll have some names in the frame for our next meeting.' The odd quip aside, Charlie never said much in these sessions, not unless he had a point to make, but Bruce always took account of his opinion.
'Fair enough. Anything else?' Bruce asked.
There was a collective groan as the lights were snuffed out and the music slowed and then stopped completely. 'Bloody hell, Buster.'
'Hold on.' Buster went out into the hall and fed some shillings into the meter. The record wowed up to speed again and the lights flickered on. 'Sorry about that.'
'Where were we?' asked Bruce.
'At any questions,' said Gordy.
'Yes,' said Roy, leaning forward and pointing to the perimeter fence. 'I'd like to take a look at the gate we'll be driving out of. Which way it opens, that kind of thing.'
Gordy shrugged. 'It's chained shut. Opens inwards, which is a shame. But I reckon I can get a decent pair of bolt-cutters. And make it so nobody'll notice the cut.'
'All right,' said Roy, knowing that if Gordy said he could take care of it, he would. 'We should also look for a changeover spot. The Jags'll be all over the police radio within five minutes.' He looked at Bruce. 'And somewhere to lay up the cash.'
'Got just the place,' said Charlie. 'Norbury. I'll get it sorted out.' He meant so that a group of them could hole up for a week or more if need be. Mattresses, blankets, food, booze, reading matter - books for some, magazines and comics for others - cards and board games would all be needed.
'Right,' said Bruce. 'We all got a bit extra to do. Next meet in a week's time.'
'I ain't here,' said Buster. 'Brighton. Missus.'
Bruce didn't want any details. It would be a birthday or anniversary. Buster never forgot those things. Not for him the last-minute dash to the florists or the box of Black Magic from a corner shop. 'Ten days then. At my place.'
The men stood as one, stubbing out cigarettes and picking up the empties. They might be villains, thought Buster, but they were house-trained villains. 'Hold up, one last thing,' he said, brandishing a lined exercise pad and a Bic. He had forgotten about Bruce's little suggestion. 'Before you go, I need all your hat-sizes.'
The Flying Squad detectives could smell the stink of prison on John 'Yul' Jones as he was led into the interview room at Wormwood Scrubs. Piss, cheap soap and fear hung about him. Billy thought of the ad: 'Even your best friend won't tell you about B.O.' In the Scrubs that was because everyone smelled the same: Old Nick.
Yul was younger than Billy Naughton had expected, not yet twenty-five, with a totally bald pate and a round, boyish face that suggested a happy, overfed baby The effect was marred, however, by dark half-moons under his eyes that told of too many sleepless nights.
The barrel-chested warder pulled back the chair for him and Yul slumped down at the metal table. He was on remand, so he had on a nice blue cotton shirt and jeans. When he spoke, the voice that came out shocked Billy. It was
'Right, gentlemen,' Bruce said. 'Any thoughts so far?'
'I'd give the milkmaid one,' offered Charlie, pointing at the overly voluptuous figurine.
'That's enough,' said Bruce, adopting his best stentorian tones. 'OK. Listen, please. Let's run it down.'
Over the next forty-five minutes beer gave way to scotch and the air filled with smoke. After each of the principals had spoken, Bruce asked if there were any questions.
'We're still short-handed,' said Gordy. 'A couple of extra bodies wouldn't go amiss.'
'We could bring in Ronnie,' suggested Bruce. 'Ronnie Biggs.'
Foreheads were collectively furrowed as they tried to place the name. 'Who?'
'Biggsy. Good worker. Reliable.' Bruce had met him in borstal and been impressed with his loyalty and tenacity. But he didn't feel as if he could force any more of his own opinions on the group. After all, Charlie had got the tip-off, which made it his job really. 'Charlie?'
'Not this time, Bruce,' he said softly. 'I'll have some names in the frame for our next meeting.' The odd quip aside, Charlie never said much in these sessions, not unless he had a point to make, but Bruce always took account of his opinion.
'Fair enough. Anything else?' Bruce asked.
There was a collective groan as the lights were snuffed out and the music slowed and then stopped completely. 'Bloody hell, Buster.'
'Hold on.' Buster went out into the hall and fed some shillings into the meter. The record wowed up to speed again and the lights flickered on. 'Sorry about that.'
'Where were we?' asked Bruce.
'At any questions,' said Gordy.
'Yes,' said Roy, leaning forward and pointing to the perimeter fence. 'I'd like to take a look at the gate we'll be driving out of. Which way it opens, that kind of thing.'
Gordy shrugged. 'It's chained shut. Opens inwards, which is a shame. But I reckon I can get a decent pair of bolt-cutters. And make it so nobody'll notice the cut.'
'All right,' said Roy, knowing that if Gordy said he could take care of it, he would. 'We should also look for a changeover spot. The Jags'll be all over the police radio within five minutes.' He looked at Bruce. 'And somewhere to lay up the cash.'
'Got just the place,' said Charlie. 'Norbury. I'll get it sorted out.' He meant so that a group of them could hole up for a week or more if need be. Mattresses, blankets, food, booze, reading matter - books for some, magazines and comics for others - cards and board games would all be needed.
'Right,' said Bruce. 'We all got a bit extra to do. Next meet in a week's time.'
'I ain't here,' said Buster. 'Brighton. Missus.'
Bruce didn't want any details. It would be a birthday or anniversary. Buster never forgot those things. Not for him the last-minute dash to the florists or the box of Black Magic from a corner shop. 'Ten days then. At my place.'
The men stood as one, stubbing out cigarettes and picking up the empties. They might be villains, thought Buster, but they were house-trained villains. 'Hold up, one last thing,' he said, brandishing a lined exercise pad and a Bic. He had forgotten about Bruce's little suggestion. 'Before you go, I need all your hat-sizes.'
The Flying Squad detectives could smell the stink of prison on John 'Yul' Jones as he was led into the interview room at Wormwood Scrubs. Piss, cheap soap and fear hung about him. Billy thought of the ad: 'Even your best friend won't tell you about B.O.' In the Scrubs that was because everyone smelled the same: Old Nick.
Yul was younger than Billy Naughton had expected, not yet twenty-five, with a totally bald pate and a round, boyish face that suggested a happy, overfed baby The effect was marred, however, by dark half-moons under his eyes that told of too many sleepless nights.
The barrel-chested warder pulled back the chair for him and Yul slumped down at the metal table. He was on remand, so he had on a nice blue cotton shirt and jeans. When he spoke, the voice that came out shocked Billy. It was
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