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up her dress and showed you the evidence. They sent her to you, did they?'
    There was a heartbeat of a pause before realisation dawned at the other end of the line. 'Oh, fuck.'
    'Don't worry, she'll come round again and you can point some other green sod at her and snigger as he writes up the report.'
    There was a tap on his shoulder from Duke. He mouthed the words 'Boss wants to see you,' and Naughton felt his stomach cramp.
    Ernie Millen, the head of the Squad, always found time to keep an eye on the new lads. Rumour had it he gave you three months to show you had what it took - perseverance, an instinct for villainy and a decent sense of humour - to stay with the Squad. Millen and his trap-faced deputy Frank Williams were the ones who decided which new bloods should get a permanent place in the room. There was one trait that Williams prized above all else: the ability to 'bring in the work' by being proactive, using informants or dangling bait in front of suspected villains. And as it was common knowledge that Williams had the casting vote as to whether an apprentice had made his number and stayed in the Squad or was quietly transferred out, it was a good idea to 'get some in', as they said.
    'I gotta go, Stanley. Glad it's all tickety-boo.'
    'That's not why I called, mate. I remembered what you said, about keeping a note of villains' favourite wheels. Well, yesterday we went to Eaton Square. Car been nicked. We made a fuss 'cause of whose it was, this actor bloke. A Yank. But anyway, the car they took was a three point four Jag. Metallic blue. Only about a thousand miles on the clock. You always said to follow the motors, didn't you?'
    Naughton found himself nodding, even though he had borrowed the phrase from a DI at Acton.
    'Billy? You there?'
    'Yeah. Sorry, I was just thinking.' Just thinking that according to the OB - the Occurrences Book - another Jag had been taken in Savile Row, just down the road from West End Central police station, the cheeky buggers. Some poor bastard - well, not cash-poor obviously - being measured up at Anderson & Shepherd had come out to find his wheels missing. A 3.4 Mark 2. Burgundy. Also showroom-fresh. 'Thanks, Stanley.'
    'Well, just returning the favour, mate.'
    'Yeah. Cheers.' What favour? He must have found out about him putting a word in. Maybe Stanley wanted Naughton to repeat the exercise at the Squad. Well, it was too early for that. Naughton hadn't got his own feet under the table yet, and here he was being summoned to see Millen. He rang off, thanked the operator in his cubbyhole, and threaded between the desks, thinking he might just have a bone for The Boss to chew on.

Eight
    Fortess Road, North London, October 1962
    'What the fuckin' hell are these?'
    Tony Fortune looked up from his cornflakes, sucking a stray one off his lip as he did so. Marie was standing in the doorway to the kitchen of the flat they rented in Tufnell Park, dangling his set of twirlers.
    He shrugged. 'Just some bunch of keys from the garage.'
    She tossed them onto the pine table.
    'Oi. You'll scratch it.' He moved the keys onto the Daily Mirror, with its cover photograph of Oswald Mosley, who had caused a riot addressing his Union Movement. Nasty old fascist.
    Marie walked in and leaned over the table. She was dressed in the dark jacket and skirt she wore to work at the Midland Bank. She stabbed at the enormous ring of keys of various shapes and sizes.
    'Twirlers.'
    Well, it was true there were some skeleton keys among them, but most were legitimate. 'You know what it's like. People always losing their keys and need the car opening.'
    'And people always need cars "opening" when the owner's not about.' She blew out her cheeks, making the freckles stand out even more. Marie had long red hair and the palest of skins that betrayed her Irish roots. Her enormous, extended family was in the business - the ducking and diving business - working the north-west of England. She had deliberately distanced herself from