always go the same route. There are lots of ways from the City to
Loughton. But this place is on most of the routes, right? They got to
pass here unless they want to go via Birmingham or Watford. Now, they do
go daft ways occasionally. Today might be one of those days. So, if it
doesn’t come off, just give the lads a bonus and send them home until
next time.” Jacko said: “They all know the score.”
“Good. Anything else?”
The three men were silent.
Tony gave his final instructions. “Everybody wears a mask. Everybody
wears gloves. Nobody speaks.” He looked to each man in turn for
acknowledgment. Then he said:’ “Okay, take me back.”
There was no conversation as the red Fiat wound its way through the
little streets to the lane behind the billiard hall.
Tony got out, then leaned on the front passenger door and spoke through
the open window.
“It’s a good plan, and if you do right, it will work.
There’s a couple of wrinkles you don’t know about safeguards, inside
men. Keep calm, do good, and we’ll have it away.” He paused. “And don’t
shoot nobody with that bleeding tommy gun, for fuck’s sake.”
He walked up the lane and entered the billiard hall by the back door.
Walter was playing billiards at one of the tables. He straightened up
when he heard the door.
“All right, Tone?”
Tony went to the window. “Did pally stay put?”
He could see the blue Morris in the same place.
“Yes. They’ve been smoking their self to death.”
It was fortunate, Tony thought, that the law did not have enough
manpower to watch him at night as well as in the day. The nine-to-five
surveillance was quite useful, for it permitted him to establish alibis
without seriously restricting his activities.
One of these days they would start following him twenty-four hours a
day. But he would have plenty of advance notice of that.
Walter jerked a thumb at the table. “Fancy a break?”
“No.” Tony left the window. “I got a busy day.” He went down the stairs,
and Walter hobbled after him.
“Ta-ta, Walter,” he said as he went out into the street.
“So long, Tony,” Walter said. “God bless you, boy.”
THE NEWSROOM came to life suddenly. At eight o’clock it had been as
still as a morgue, the quietness broken only by inanimate sounds like
the stuttering of the teleprinter and the rustle of the newspapers Cole
was reading. Now three copy-takers were pounding the keys, a Lad was
whistling a pop song, and a photographer in a leather coat was arguing
with a sub-editor about a football match. The reporters were drifting
in. Most of them had an early-morning routine, Cole had observed: one
bought tea, another lit a cigarette, another turned to page three of the
Sun to look at the nude; each using an habitual crutch to help him start
the day. Cole believed in letting people sit down for a few minutes
before setting them to work: it made for an atmosphere of order and
cool-headedness.
His news editor, cliff Poulson, had a different approach. Poulson, with
his frog-like green eyes and Yorkshire accent, liked to say: “Don’t take
your coat off, lad.” His delight in snap decisions, his perpetual hurry,
and his brittle air of bonhomie created a frenetic atmosphere. Poulson
was a speed freak. Cole did not reckon a story had ever missed an
edition because someone took a minute out to think about it.
Kevin Hart had been here for five minutes now.
He was reading the Mirror, with one hip perched on the edge of a desk,
the trousers of his striped suit falling gracefully. Cole called out to
him. “Give the Yard a ring, please, Kevin.” The young man picked up a
telephone.
The Bertie Chieseman tips were on his desk: a thick wad of copy. Cole
looked around. Most of the reporters were in. It was time to get them
working. He sorted through the tips, impaling some on a sharp metal
spike, handing others to reporters with brief instructions. “Anna, a PC
got into trouble in the Holloway Road-ring the nearest nick and find out