Something thudded against the other side of the wall, a few feet away from where they lay, followed by the crash and tinkling of broken glass.

'Oh shit!' Dillon extricated himself and rolled off the bed. What in hell was the prat up to? He got to the door, holding up his hand as Susie raised herself. 'No, you stay put. I'll sort him!'

Too late anyway – the racket had woken the kids, little Phil bawling – and Susie went to see to them while Dillon pushed open Steve's door to find him sprawled half on the bed, half on the floor. The phone in the hallway started to ring as Dillon went in, checking his anger when he saw the bright red face shiny with sweat, the soundless gaping mouth, Steve's hand pulling feebly at his throat.

'What? What is it?'

Dillon was scared. An ominous gurgling rattle was coming from Steve, his face now beetroot red. He kept pointing at the bedside table. 'What is it?' Dillon asked again, lifting him upright. 'The filter blocked? Steve?

Amongst the clutter of personal belongings Dillon found a small plastic bag, and snatching it up he scanned the printed instructions. 'Okay, Steve, gonna be all right.' Dillon was very calm, his voice low and soothing. 'Now, tip your head back, just try to relax…'

Dillon's head rested almost against Steve's chin as he sucked out the blockage, spat it out, and re-inserted the tube. He then checked over Steve's so-called medical box, re-read all the instructions and, working patiently and methodically with the thin piece of fresh tubing, prepared clean gauze and adhesive tabs.

'Gonna fit a clean tube, okay?… Now get ready, get a good bellyful of air, and I'll fix it in place, you ready?… One – two – three – right, you're all set, I'm gonna do it now.'

Steve sucked in a lungful of air and flopped back on the pillow, growing quiet, his hair stuck to his forehead as he held his breath while Dillon worked inexpertly with the tube. His hands were steady, his face strained in concentration, eyes flicking to the instruction leaflet. Steve watched him and saw no sign of distaste, no gawping at the gaping hole in his throat, but that steady, hawk-eyed look as he carefully inserted the clean tube and placed the square of gauze across Steve's throat. He nodded proudly to Steve, as Steve breathed easier, giving a small wink to Dillon to show he was okay.

'You're gonna have to get this medical box shipshape, it's a mess.' Dillon sat on the edge of the bed, sorting through Steve's tin box. Steve reached out and gripped Dillon's hand, needing the physical contact to quell the fear that was still lurking in his eyes like a dark shadow.

Dillon pulled up a chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, speaking quietly in an easy, conversational tone that had the desired effect on Steve, relaxing him. 'We're gonna have to set up some kind of routine, so this doesn't happen again. Always check equipment, first rule – you know that, Steve. How many jumps you done, for chrissakes? Always check the equipment!'

'Thanks – mate.' Steve found a smile. 'Give us – a couple of – Hail Marys – will ya?'

Dillon grinned back. He glanced round as Susie inched the door open and put her head in. 'It was that Jimmy again, said he'll pick you up.'

Turning back, Dillon caught the disapproving look in Steve's eyes, more reproaching than accusing, but it still pissed Dillon off.

'Lay off me,' he warned. 'Everybody's on me!'

Susie glared at Dillon's back. 'I was just passing on his message!' she snapped and banged the door shut.

Steve looked at Dillon, and Dillon returned it, square in the eyes.

'If it's bent, I walk away,' he said.

Jimmy went in first, then ushered Dillon into Newman's rabbit-hutch of an office above a clothing shop in Leather Lane, just off Hatton Garden. In contrast to the dingy surroundings, Newman was his usual immaculate self, a royal-blue tie and matching handkerchief adding an acceptable touch of flamboyant flair to his neatly groomed appearance and dark business suit. He didn't offer to shake hands, and for an empty moment Dillon just stood there in front of Newman's desk, self-conscious in his rumpled tracksuit and battered Puma trainers, pushing a hand through his still-damp hair. 'Hello, Barry.'

Newman watched him through half-closed eyes, and it was left to Jimmy to break the permafrost, telling Newman with a grin, 'Grabbed him off the track.'

As Newman could see, and probably smell, for himself, stroking his grey moustache with a manicured fingernail. He gestured to the swarthy man, five o'clock shadow and receding hairline, leaning against the filing cabinet, who came instantly to life. 'Get him a decent suit, on the firm.'

Dillon hesitated. He glanced at Jimmy, who gave him a quick wink, and only then reluctantly followed the swarthy man out.

Newman waited until the door closed behind them.

'How much does he know?'

'Nothin' but he needs cash,' Jimmy said.

'Okay. Let's get down to business.' From a drawer Newman took a black velvet bag and placed it on the desk. 'You carry them to this address,' unfolding a slip of paper. 'Come back to me with the cash.'

The cheap off-the-peg suit chafed him, but Dillon didn't dare scratch where it itched, anyway not in a public place. Newman's largesse had run to the suit, check shirt and polyester tie, but not to shoes, so he still wore his Pumas, which he was glad about. Doing a job for Barry Newman gave him the edgy feeling that at any moment he might have to leg it.

Like right now, on the northbound platform of the Piccadilly line at Holborn, waiting for Jimmy to make up his frigging mind which train to catch. They'd let two go – for no apparent reason that Dillon could see – and it was making him nervous.

'So far so good.' Jimmy did a recce of the scattering of people on the platform. He tilted his head, mouth almost touching Dillon's ear. 'How does it feel to have half-a-million against your inside leg?'

'If you really want to know,' Dillon ground out, a mist of perspiration on his forehead, 'I'd prefer the firing squad. I mean, why all the skivin' around if this is legit?'

'Insurance – to cover the insurance of these babies costs an arm and a leg!'

A rumble, a cascade of sparks, and a warm wind blew in their faces.

'We on this one, or trying for the next?' Dillon asked tensely, feeling like a walk-on in Godfather III.

At King's Cross they came up the escalator to the mainline station and walked briskly across the marble-slabbed concourse to a side exit leading to the warren of back streets fanning out eastwards to the Caledonian Road. Dillon didn't know the area all that well, but Jimmy seemed to, and eventually, as they came into yet another indistinguishable street, he nodded and said, This is it.'

A door with a tarnished brass nameplate and creaking hinges led them into a wooden passage that smelled of dust and mildew, and up a narrow staircase that doubled back on itself. Jimmy rapped lightly and after the sound of locks and bolts, a door opened a cautious three inches, held by a heavy chain. A pair of pouchy eyes appeared in the gap.

'This is Frank, Morris -' Jimmy motioned Dillon forward, to be scrutinised – he's a friend of mine, okay? Just the two of us.'

They sidled in, following Morris's shambling bulk into a tiny workshop that was sweltering to death from a Calor gas stove, the single grimy window screwed up tight. A youth with lank greasy hair parted in the middle sat on a high stool picking his nose, pin-prick eyes impassive as Dillon unfastened his belt and lowered his trousers, releasing the leather carrying pouch strapped to his waist and dropping it on the workbench. Morris switched on a powerful desk spotlight, swung a magnifying lens on a bracket into position. With long slender fingers he extracted the velvet bag from the pouch and tipped it out. Dillon felt his mouth go dry as the stones tumbled out, mesmerised, dazzled, the diamonds like a heap of white-hot embers flashing sparks on the blue velvet pad in the stifling, airless room. He ran a finger inside his collar. Couldn't take his eyes off Morris, who set to work, closely examining each stone through the lens, then weighing it, making a notation in a ledger, setting it aside and taking up the next.