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situations.
    ‘Oh, here he is,’ continued Bernie, as Dave, every inch the cheer-
    ful ex- copper, approached holding a tray laden with pints, smiling as he dispensed splashes of bitter over the seated customers between
    whom he weaved in size fourteen boots. Roy could well imagine
    Dave, uniformed up in dark blue serge, helmeted, red- faced, as the laughing policeman. ‘And that fucking bastard Vinny. How come
    he’s not here? What did you say again?’
    They turned to Roy. Patiently, above the din, he explained.
    ‘Vinny’s down in Sevenoaks tidying up.’ The office in Sevenoaks
    had been their base for the last three months. ‘He’s the only one
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    who didn’t meet the . . . clients.’ At this word the assembled party chuckled. ‘The chances of that bunch turning up down there are
    minimal, but it behoves us to be careful.’ Sage nods all round.
    It was in fact Vincent’s nephew, Barry, who had earned a sly
    £200 to go down to Sevenoaks in his overalls, unscrew the brass
    nameplate, wash down all the surfaces inside and clear out all traces of their existence. But that was part of another story, yet to reach its piquant denouement.
    They drank to absent friends, by which they meant Vinny, and
    discussed the latest model Range Rovers that they were thinking of
    buying. They did not touch on their personal lives, their wives or
    mistresses or children, or their homes. If questioned, they were just mates who met up for a drink and a laugh every so often. Roy presumed that each lived somewhere within the bounds of the M25 but
    outside the mighty city itself, in that mangled no- man’ s- land of sub-urbanized villages and towns, industrial wasteland, clusters of
    prefabricated metal DIY superstores and carpet warehouses. He
    assumed the others had carved out a small slice of grand comfort in the orbital motorway’s ambit, a green and pleasant acre or three
    topped off by a modest mansion and protected by fences, cameras
    and on- call 24/7 security.
    For Roy, things were somewhat different. He lived alone in a
    modest flat in Beckenham. His earnings were stockpiled, awaiting
    the next step. The next leap, indeed.
    Roy felt the left side of his chest tingle pleasurably, just on the nipple. This was what he had been waiting for with quiet inner
    anticipation. In this din others would not have noticed his mobile
    phone, on silent, vibrating in the pocket of his shirt. He let it buzz and shortly it stopped. He took a calm swig of beer and said, ‘Off to the Gents, lads. Got to point Percy at the porcelain. Could be a
    while. You know me and my bladder.’
    He stood and affected a drunken shamble towards the lavatory.
    Once inside he took a small bottle of mouthwash from his jacket
    pocket and gargled, splashed a little eau de cologne on his face,
    straightened his tie and combed back his distinguished white hair.
    He looked in the mirror and saw a bold, forceful man. He felt a
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    frisson of excitement. This is what it’s all about, he thought. He
    smiled to himself and left the toilet by the other door, the one close by the exit. Outside, allowing his eyes no more than a moment to
    adjust to the sunlight, he crossed the road briskly, straight and true, to the bank opposite. He had chosen his ground carefully.
    Inside he was met by a smiling Vincent and shook hands with the
    business manager. He was ushered into a private office. He looked
    at his watch and explained apologetically that he had only a few
    minutes before he needed to be on his way to his next meeting. Politicians, he said, with a self- deprecating, rueful smile and a raise of the eyebrows. Ministers! No problem, sir, no problem, purred the
    manager; everything is ready for your signature.
    Coffee was offered and politely declined. The documents were
    laid before Roy and he read them carefully, double- checking the
    numbers, though he