The lights changed and he pulled forward. The road narrowed into a shopping center where delivery trucks lined the curb and a series of pedestrian crossings slowed the flow of cars. The narrow pavements were thronged with shoppers and obstructed by several hawkers flogging substandard costume jewelry and ironing-board covers.

The women were wearing summery clothes-there was something to be said for the hot weather. Jesse started to watch the tight T-shirts, the delightfully loose-fitting frocks and the bare knees as he crawled forward a few yards at a time. He liked girls with big bottoms, and he scanned the crowds for a suitable specimen to undress with his eyes.

He spotted her a good fifty yards away. She was wearing a blue nylon sweater and tight white trousers. She probably thought she was overweight, but Jesse would have told her otherwise. She had a nice, old-fashioned bra which made her tits look like torpedoes; and her high-waisted slacks flared out over big hips. Jesse peered at her, hoping to see her tits wobble. They did.

What he would like to do, was to stand behind her, and pull her trousers down slowly, thenThe car in front moved forward twenty yards, and Jesse followed it. It was a brand-new Marina with a vinyl roof. Maybe he would get one with his share of the takings. The line of cars stopped again. Jesse pulled the handbrake and looked for the plump girl.

He did not pick her up until the traffic was moving off again. As he let the clutch in he saw her, looking in the window of a shoe shop, her back to him. The trousers were so tight that he could see the hem of her panties, two diagonal lines pointing to the fork of her thighs. He loved it when you could see their panties under the trousers: it turned him on almost as much as a bare bum. Then I'd slide her panties down, he thought, andThere was a crash of steel on steel. The van stopped with a bump, throwing Jesse forward against the steering wheel. The doors slid shut with a double bang. He knew, before he looked, what he had done; and the taste of fear made him feel sick.

The Marina in front had stopped sooner than it needed to, and Jesse, wrapped up in the plump girl with the tight trousers, had gone straight into its back.

He got out of the van. The driver of the saloon car was already inspecting the damage. He looked up at Jesse, his face red with anger. "You mad bastard," he spat. "What are you-blind, or stupid?" He had a Lancashire accent.

Jesse ignored him and looked at the bumpers of the two vehicles, folded together in a steel kiss. He made an effort to keep calm. "Sorry, pal. My fault."

"Sorry! You people should be banned from the ruddy road."

Jesse stared at the man. He was short and portly, and wore a suit. His round face was a picture of righteous indignation. He had the quick aggressiveness of small people, and their characteristic backward tilt of the head. Jesse hated him instantly. He looked like a sergeant major. Jesse would have liked to punch his face, or better, shoot him through the forehead.

"We all make mistakes," he said with forced amiability. "Let's just give each other our names and everything, and get on. It's only a little bump. Don't make a federal case of it."

It was the wrong thing to say. The short man became even redder. "You're not getting off that lightly," he said.

The traffic in front had moved on, and drivers behind were getting impatient. Several of them sounded their horns. One man got out of his car.

The Marina driver was writing the number of the van in a little notebook. That type of man always does have a little notebook and pencil in his jacket pocket, Jesse thought.

He closed the book. "This is bloody careless driving. I'm going to ring the police."

The driver from behind said: "How about moving this little lot out the way, so the rest of us can get on?"

Jesse sensed an ally. "Nothing I'd rather do, mate, but this fellow wants to call in Kojak on the case."

The portly man wagged a finger. "I know your type-drive like a hooligan and let the insurance pay. I'm having you up, Sonny Jim."

Jesse took a step forward, clenching his fists, then stopped himself. He was getting panicky. "The police have got enough to do," he pleaded.

The other man's eyes narrowed. He had seen Jesse's fear. "We'll let them decide whether they've got better things to do." He looked around, and spotted a phone booth. "You stop here." He turned away.

Jesse grabbed his shoulder. He was scared now. He said: "This is nothing to do with the police!"

The man turned and knocked Jesse's hand away, "Get off, you young punk-"

Jesse seized him by the lapels and pulled him onto his toes. "I'll give you punk…" Suddenly he became conscious of the crowd that had gathered, looking on with interest. There were about a dozen people. He stared at them. They were mostly housewives with shopping bags. The girl with the tight trousers was at the front. He realized he was doing all the wrong things.

He decided to get out of it.

He let the aggrieved man go and got into the van. The man stared at him disbelievingly.

Jesse restarted the stalled engine and backed up. There was a wrenching sound as the vehicles parted. He could see that the Marina's bumper hung loose, and its rear-light cluster was smashed. Fifty quid to put right, and a tenner if you do the work yourself, he thought wildly.

The portly man moved in front of the van and stood there like Neptune, waving an officious finger. "You stay right here!" he shouted. The crowd was growing as the row became more spectacular. There was a lull in the oncoming traffic, and the cars behind began to pull out past the accident.

Jesse found first gear and revved the engine. The man stood his ground. Jesse engaged the clutch with a jerk, and the van shot forward.

Too late, the portly man dived toward the curb. Jesse heard a dull thud from the nearside wing as he swung out. A car behind braked with a squeal of tires. Jesse changed up and tore away without looking back.

The street seemed narrow and oppressive, traplike, as he hurtled along, ignoring pedestrian crossings, swerving and braking. He tried desperately to think. He had screwed it all up. The whole tickle had gone beautifully, and Jesse James had pranged the getaway motor. A vanload of paper money blown on a fifty-nicker crunch. Arseholes.

Stay cool, he told himself. It wasn't a blowout until he was locked up. There was still time, if only he could think.

He slowed the van and turned off the main road. There was no point in attracting attention again. He threaded his way through a series of backstreets while he figured it out.

What would happen now? A bystander would phone the police, especially as he had knocked down the portly man. The van's number was in the little notebook; besides, somebody in the crowd would have noted it too. It would be reported as a hit-and-run, and the number would go out over the air to patrol cars. Anything from three minutes to fifteen to get that far. Another five minutes, and they would broadcast a description of Jesse. What was he wearing? Blue trousers and an orange shirt. Arseholes.

What would Tony Cox say, if he were here to be asked? Jesse recalled the guvnor's fleshy face and heard his voice. Tell yourself what the problem is, right?

Jesse said aloud: "The police have got my number and description."

Think what you'd have to do to solve the problem.

"What the hell can I do, Tone? Change my license plate and my appearance?"

Then do it, right?

Jesse frowned. Tony's analytical thinking only went so far. Where the hell could he get license plates, and how could he fit them?

Of course, it was easy.

He found his way to a main road and drove along until he came to a garage. He pulled on to the forecourt. Quad stamps, he thought: jolly good show. There was a repair shop back of the pumps. A tanker was discharging on the far side.