He turned to Rogan, the skin drawn tightly across his cheekbones, eyes very bright. ‘Everything okay?’
Rogan nodded and glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes, maybe sooner.’
Costello had knotted a scarf around the old man’s eyes and gagged him with a piece of sticking plaster. He was tying his wrists behind him as Rogan went back into the office and the Irishman nudged him with the toe of his shoe.
‘I’ll finish that, you get changed.’
As Costello hurriedly took off his raincoat and pulled on the uniform waistcoat, Rogan dropped to one knee
and lashed the old man’s wrists together, securely, but not too tightly.
He patted Briggs on the shoulder. ‘I’m putting you out of harm’s way for a little while. Don’t try anything silly and you’ll be all right. Understand?’
The old man nodded and Rogan opened the door to the washroom, picked him up and carried him inside. He laid him on the floor, went back into the office and closed the door.
Costello buttoned his jacket and put on the cap. He examined himself in the cracked mirror over the fire, turned and laughed nervously. ‘Will I do?’
‘Perfect.” Rogan said. ‘Now get out on that platform and look busy.’
He stood at the narrow window watching Costello go to work with his broom, then went back into the baggage hall. Morgan had one of the double doors open slightly and was looking outside. He made a sudden, cutting gesture with one hand as Fletcher started to speak and, through the heavy rain, they heard the sound of an engine approaching.
Rogan moved beside him. As he peered through the narrow crack, the van turned off the road on to the parking space. It seemed strangely ordinary, its coachwork painted dark blue with no distinguishing characteristics except for the circular aerial on the roof.
It rolled to a halt a few yards away, giving him a clear view of the two occupants. The driver looked like an ex-Guards N.C.O., dark moustache bristling beneath the gold-rimmed peaked cap. The guard was a younger man with a hard, bony face and a scar bisecting one cheek.
Rogan saw him yawn and pick up the radio telephone receiver. A moment later he started to speak. He replaced the receiver, put a cigarette in his mouth and reached across to the watch held out to him by the driver.
The door leading to the platform opened and Costello hurried in.
‘It’s coming.’
‘All right. Get outside and give them a nod,’ Rogan said.
Costello hesitated and Morgan kicked him viciously on the leg. ‘Get moving, damn you!’
Costello opened the door, leaned out and raised a hand. The driver of the van nodded, turned in a half-circle and started to reverse.
Rogan could hear the train beginning to slow on the run in to the station and he gave Costello a shove across the baggage hall. ‘On the platform and stay by the door.’ Rogan stepped back into the office leaving the other two waiting in the baggage hall. Morgan stood in one corner by the double doors, Fletcher in the other, each of them with a rubber truncheon ready in his right hand.
Then everything seemed to be happening at once. As the noise of the train filled the building, the double doors were pushed open, hiding Fletcher and Morgan from view. The driver came in first, a receipt book in one hand, dragging a mailbag behind him. The guard followed with another, cigarette still dangling from one corner of his mouth.
The doors swung back and Morgan and Fletcher moved in together, truncheons flailing down expertly. The driver dropped like a sack, unconscious from the first devastating blow. The younger man managed to turn, dropping his mailbag and reached for his own truncheon. His mouth opened in a soundless cry, drowned by the noise of the engine and Fletcher slashed him across the edge of the neck.
Rogan moved in fast, grabbed the driver’s feet and dragged him into the office. As he dropped him behind the desk out of sight from the window, Fletcher followed with the other guard.
Rogan moved back into the baggage hall and Morgan