'It's a bargain!'

The three of them looked at it in silence, and then at each other. Dillon scratched his head. Bargain? More like a death-trap on four bald wheels.

He fretted about the money situation all the way back to base. They needed ready cash to buy transport, and they needed transport in order to make some ready cash. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Jimmy had something cooking on the back-burner; but why was it, Dillon brooded, that Jimmy's cooking always had a bit of a niff to it? They bought two six-packs of Red Strips at the local off-licence and sat in the pink office with the stag, two silent telephones, and an empty filing cabinet for company.

'I see the toothpaste and sleeping bag's still here,' Jimmy said, returning from the lavatory, zipping up his flies. He gave Harry a meaningful look. 'You not found a place to kip yet?'

'It's tough with no dough!' Harry protested.

Jimmy put his jacket on. At the door he said to Dillon, 'If you want to think about it, call me later. But it's money in the hand, enough to put down on the Granada and the wagon.' His tone said, if you can't shit, get off the pot – let's do it!

Dillon finished off the can, crumpled it in his fist. 'You known why!' he said, spots of colour appearing in his cheeks. 'I want us to be legit – we start off doin' dodgy runs, and we screw up -'

'How?' Jimmy leaned over the desk, arms spread wide. 'Tell me how? It's carryin' gear from A to B, and it's five grand cash!'

'Nobody gives nobody nothin' for free, Jimmy. An' I told you, anything to do with this Newman sucks.'

Jimmy made a dismissive gesture, as if wafting away five grand. 'Fine, say no more…'

'So how dodgy is it?' asked Cliff. 'I mean, what is this A to B crap? What do we have to do?'

Jimmy sighed and chanted off, 'We pick up gear from Heathrow Airport warehouse and we take it to the East End. How can it be dodgy? It's all been through Customs.' He tapped his open flat palm. 'Five grand cash, in the hand…'

Harry perked up, sucking Red Stripe from his moustache. 'Sounds the business to me! What's your problem, Frank?'

Dillon closed his eyes, rested his forehead on the tips of his fingers. 'Okay,' he said wearily, 'let's go for it.'

Dillon emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around him, still faintly steaming from the shower. He explored the cleft in his chin where he'd nicked it while shaving, and looked at his fingers for blood. From the tranny downstairs in the kitchen the Radio 5 weather-woman was cheerfully telling the nation to expect sunny spells and the chance of showers, and above her voice he heard Susie calling, 'Frank! Frank, are you coming down?'

She ran halfway up the stairs and caught him on his way through to the bedroom. 'Didn't you hear me? Mr Marway's here with Jimmy. Come and meet him.' Suddenly her face lit up in girlish exuberance. The job with Marway's MiniCabs seemed to have released fresh reserves of energy, renewed her zest for life. She'd been and had her shoulder-length russet hair layered and re-styled, and wore make-up every day, not just at weekends. But Dillon wasn't charmed by this new, younger, liberated Susie; the world was uncertain enough without finding you'd swapped an old reliable model for an updated, streamlined version with a fresh paint job.

'I did a perfect three-point turn!' Susie beamed at him, and beckoned with red fingernails. 'Come and say hello to Mr Marway…'

Dillon opened the towel. 'Like this.'

Susie rolled her eyes and went back down.

In the living-room Jimmy was sitting in an armchair, little Phil on his knee, listening raptly to Marway. Success always impressed Jimmy, and it was obvious that the Sikh businessman had achieved it, in the way he dressed, his refined voice, most of all his sense of composure, perfectly at ease with himself. And he seemed quite happy to pass on the secrets of his success.

'If you can prove you'll employ more than six men, then you'd be in line for a government small business loan,' he was explaining, and added frankly, 'That's how I started.'

Free money. Jimmy was interested. 'How much are these loans?' he asked.

'Depends on your collateral,' Marway smiled. 'But anything up to fifty thousand…'

Jimmy pursed his mouth in a silent whistle, more impressed than ever. Fifty Big Ones. Worth investigating.

'You ready?' Dillon said to Jimmy from the doorway, shrugging into his leather jacket. He jerked his head and turned to leave.

Susie stood up. 'Frank, this is Mr Marway -'

'How ya doin'?' Dillon gave a distant nod without looking at the elegant businessman in the pale cream silk turban. And with a curt 'Let's go,' he was on his way out. Jimmy ruffled Phil's cropped thatch, jet-black as his Dad's, and went after him.

Technically the security wagon was 'on trial', and rusty old crate that it was, at least it was transport. Jimmy drove them up to Hackney, while Dillon stared sullenly out, grousing, 'What does he know he's just givin' the wife drivin' lessons!'

'Way you carry on, you'd think he was givin' her a lot more than -'

Jimmy nearly swerved into a bus as Dillon cracked him one across the knuckles.

'What in Christ's name's the matter with you…! I was jokin' – an' he seemed an all right guy.' Jimmy glanced across at Dillon's stony profile. 'We should try this government loan gig. He said -'

'I'm not interested in what he said.'

Jimmy snapped at him. 'Well you should be. He's in the same business. We can use him – and Susie can palm us a few jobs.'

'She won't be workin' for him long,' said Dillon, more a dire threat than a vague promise. He had to brace himself against the dashboard as they pulled up outside Stag Security. Jimmy blasted the horn, then slammed the door as he got out. His portable telephone beeped. He went over in a huddle next to the basement railings. Harry thudded up past him and opened the passenger door.

'Where's Cliff?' Dillon asked.

'He rung in, he can't make it. Somethin' to do with that mealy-mouthed chick of his…'

Dillon glared. 'He's gettin' married to her!'

Harry was somebody else not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness this morning. 'I don't care if he's workin' out with Sylvester Stallone – he should be here!' Squashing his big arse in next to Dillon on the bench seat.

Jimmy came round the front of the wagon, folding his portable phone, and climbed in. 'Little change of plan… we hold the stuff here until the morning. Newman's not got the space cleared yet.'

Dillon punched the windscreen, which visibly shifted in its rubber mounting. 'This stinks already!'

Jimmy twisted the key to start up, and as the wagon moved off in a haze of swirling blue smoke, he said tightly, breathing through his nostrils, 'I'm just tryin' to get things organised, Frank…'

Nine large tea chests, which at Dillon's conservative estimate must have weighed two hundred pounds apiece. While Jimmy signed the release dockets under the watchful eye of two Customs officials, Dillon and Harry slid the last one into the back of the wagon, already sagging down to the axles. 'That Cliff's a connivin' sod, I'm knackered!' Harry grumbled, mopping his face. Dillon said so was he, and told him to belt up. Back at base they had it all to do over again, in reverse. It was after six when they'd finished, the crates overspilling the passageway into the office, and now they really were knackered.

'Okay, that's the last,' Jimmy said, ticking it off. 'Want me to lock up?' he asked Dillon.

Harry answered. 'Naaa, I'm dossin' down here.' Slumped on a crate, fanning himself, he looked up and down. 'If I can find room for me sleepin' bag.'

Footsteps coming down from the street, and Barry Newman walked in, bringing the bracing tang of Gucci aftershave into the ripe sweaty atmosphere. His minder, the thickset guy with the widow's peak that Dillon had seen in Newman's office, lurked by the door.