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<h1>8</h1>
<p>Tam Bowie jumped like a startled rabbit when Jack climbed over the sumps and surprised him. He was down and out of
sight in a natural niche surrounded by the big yellow polyurethane tanks that would eventually be sunk with the
drains on the building site. The sun was high overhead and Tam’s overalls were stripped off his shoulders as he sat
slumped against the side, soaking up the rays, eyes closed. A tattered Knave magazine had flopped to the side,
opened at the centrefold and displaying a dark haired girl with impossible gravity-defying breasts, her spine
contorted into a pouting position that would have made a gynaecologist’s job a dawdle.</p>
<p>Jack thudded his hand hard against the side of the tank, making it boom like a deep bass drum and Tam came awake with
a start. </p>
<p>"Whah?"</p>
<p>"Lazy shirking skiver. Haven't you got work to do?" </p>
<p>"Lazy nothing." He rubbed his eyes. "I've been grafting all day, not like you, finished by twelve o'clock, half-day
merchant."</p>
<p>"P-forty five by twelve," Jack said without rancour but deliberately embarrassing Tam. "I just got my jotters. Give
us a job."</p>
<p>"Oh, hell man, did you get the bullet today?"</p>
<p>"It's worse than that," Jack said. "We're in a spot of trouble." He picked up the Knave and thumbed through it,
holding a centrefold wide. "I thought you got a <em>D</em> in biology."</p>
<p>"I've studied it a lot since then. What's the problem?"</p>
<p>"We might have to go early. At least start early. Andy Kerr's getting rid of the trucks at the end of the month.
They're coming to take them away."</p>
<p>"So?"</p>
<p>"So we haven't got a date for the decant. I'm going to have to get some inside knowledge. If we don't get a date
we're slaughtered before this thing gets off the ground."</p>
<p>He sat down in the sun, feeling the heat reflect of the big plastic tanks. </p>
<p>"What are these things?"</p>
<p>"Drain sumps. This place is too near the river and if there's a lot of rain, you have to hold it somewhere when the
tide's in. Then it drains away later."</p>
<p>"Big, aren't they?"</p>
<p>"This whole site needs ten of them, just to be on the safe side. They take a hell of a lot of rain."</p>
<p>"Do you fit them?"</p>
<p>"Come on man, I'm a plumber, not a navvy. They just dig a big hole and slot them in. I do the delicate work. I'm a
<em>craftsman</em>."</p>
<p>"Well get yourself along to Neil's place tonight. We've got to work out just what you <em>can</em> do."</p>
<hr />
<p>Neil Cleary had searched the old cellars at the back of the tenement gardens and found the biggest jam pan any of
them had ever seen. It sat on the hot gas ring while he poured a stack of corn kernels into it. </p>
<p>"What the hell's that?" Jed wanted to know. </p>
<p>"Bird feed."</p>
<p>Ed Kane looked up, eyebrows raised, face all questions. </p>
<p>"It's a long story," Jack said. He bent to the plans that were spread out over the table. </p>
<p>"How long have we got?"</p>
<p>"At least a fortnight," Neil said.</p>
<p>"No, I mean tonight."</p>
<p>"A couple of hours, my mother won't be back until after ten when the bingo comes out, but we have to disappear by
then."</p>
<p>"Doesn't she like you having your mates in?" Ed asked. Neil, like Jack, still stayed at home. </p>
<p>"No, she doesn't give a toss. But she'll be bringing my aunts with her and they'll all have a wee Carlsberg and a
vodka. That's their Friday night treat. Then they all start talking at once, non stop, total marathon earache. You
can stay for that if you want, but I'm telling you man, it's like Chinese water torture. It would drive you
demented."</p>
<p>Neil turned to the pan. "How much of this stuff do you put in?"</p>
<p>"Who knows?" Jack said. "My Grandad feeds it to the pigeons and they don't care. Just make sure you've got plenty.
We've got two hours, so let's get down to it." Jack flattened out the blueprint creases and Ed and Tam leant
over. </p>
<p>"That's the bottling hall," Ed said. Jack recognised the plan from his visit. His eye traced the white lines of the
filling rack where the bottles shunted round on a circular gantry to have the whisky force-injected down their
necks. "Which part do you want?"</p>
<p>"You tell me. I'm guessing here, but it's that big steel tank that holds all the whisky, isn't it?"</p>
<p>Ed agreed. "That's where it's going to be, sure. But it takes three days to get it from the barrels in there. I know,
because I'll be the one rolling them up the ramp and hooking the bungs out. You're talking five hundred barrels,
give or take. Less if they use butts or hogsheads, but it's all got to come out the bunghole."</p>
<p>"Tam should know. He's good at biology."</p>
<p>"Go take a flying f...."</p>
<p>"Anyway, you'll never get it out of there, not if it takes three days to put it in."</p>
<p>"How long does it take to bottle all that lot?"</p>
<p>"Another three. You can only go as fast as they can stick the labels on, but it's all automatic. They've got pressure
pumps, the lot."</p>
<p>Jack sat still for a minute, head in his hands, thinking hard. He turned the blueprint over, closing his eyes to
recall the scene in the decant hall. The next level down from the metal platform they'd stood on was on the next
sheet. He unfurled it and flattened it out, keeping the first one at the side, so they could have a ready
reference. </p>
<p>"This is the important part. That's where Tam comes in."</p>
<p>The tracery of pipes showed up white against the blue. </p>
<p>"You're the expert, you can tell us what's what"</p>
<p>Tam angled his head so he could read the blueprint. </p>
<p>"You got to be joking. I'm a plumber, not a rocket scientist."</p>
<p>Jack sat back, brows down. "Come on, man. You put in central heating, I've seen it. This is just the same thing,
isn't it?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, right." Two positives made a flat negative. "Central heating is ten radiators and a circuit of ten mil copper.
What the hell is this?"</p>
<p>Ed broke in. "You got coolers, drains, blend feeds, washers."</p>
<p>"So which ones are which?"</p>
<p>"Don't you know?"</p>
<p>"How the hell should I know? They're just a lot of squiggly lines."</p>
<p>Jack put his face in his hands. "Get with the program, Tam! What's the point in being a plumber if you don't know
what pipes are for?"</p>
<p>"Where does it say what these bloody pipes are for?" Tam demanded. </p>
<p>Jack patiently tapped the bottom of the blueprint, where a schematic of varying lines matched up with a list. He
looked at Tam: "Great achievements involve the co-operation of many minds - Alexander Graham Bell. First
ensure mind is clear. Then put it in gear. Release the clutch slowly. Proceed with caution."</p>
<p>"Sarcastic prick," Tam said sheepishly. "Right. What have we got?"</p>
<p>"Donny, that last lot of whisky that went down the drain. It came out the south side, right?"</p>
<p>Donny screwed his eyes up, made a left and right signal while he worked out east and west. </p>
<p>"Sure. It came right down the pipe and into the golf course drain, remember? Billy Butler was as mad as a wet
blanket."</p>
<p>"Here, look at these." Jack handed him a set of colour prints that zoomed in to the base of the distillery wall about
fifty yards inside the perimeter fence. </p>
<p>"You never got these done in Boots, did you?"</p>
<p>"It's digital.. Take a look and tell me where the stuff came out."</p>
<p>Donny held the prints up, scanning them one by one. The fourth showed three low down entrances on the wall, each
protected by a small metal grate that was fixed with a padlock. In front of the three little gates was a wide
concrete depression which fed into a drainage grille. </p>
<p>"One of them, but I don't know which one. Does it matter?"</p>
<p>"Sure it matters, and we have to find out. That's not too far from the cooperage, you reckon you could take a swing
past and sniff around."</p>
<p>"Better I do it," Ed said emphatically. "I'll be moving the barrels that way anyway."</p>
<p>"We need those doors off, so it'll take a pair of cutters. We can replace the padlocks. I'm guessing they never get
opened one month to the next."</p>
<p>Ed shrugged and they turned back. </p>
<p>"Does this stuff need sugar or salt?" Neil was getting the kernels ready. </p>
<p>Tam traced the lines with his finger, leaning close to the print. </p>
<p>"That's the big wash drain," Ed said. But you got the floor system as well. Everything gets hosed and then
chlorinated. There's a third one for the washroom."</p>
<p>"How do they get the whisky out for bottling?"</p>
<p>Tam sat up. "There. That's a big pipe. Is it copper or brass?"</p>
<p>Ed shrugged again. "Beats me. I can try and check."</p>
<p>"Good man," said Jack. "We need the specs and then we have to do a divert. That's a whole mess of pipes down there,
so we have to get something in there so they won't notice. We need to get the stuff out of the tank and through that
wall."</p>
<p>"And how are you going to manage that," Tam asked. "It's not just a matter of turning a tap. You'd have to connect
this," he jabbed a finger straight down, "to this. Not easy."</p>
<p>"But you'll manage it, right?"</p>
<p>"How do you mean <em>I'll</em> manage it?"</p>
<p>"You're the technician. We're going to get you in there."</p>
<p>Tam sat up straight, jaw agape. </p>
<p>"You have to be jokin'. "</p>
<p>Ed laughed. "Hey, you know him better than me, and <em>I </em>know he's not joking."</p>
<p>"You trying to get me the jail?"</p>
<p>This time they all laughed, even Neil.</p>
<p>"Tam, if we screw up in this, we'll all end up in jail. I told you, you could lose your shirt. But there's nearly two
million in high tension hooch there, just waiting for somebody smart enough. We can't get it out if we can't get you
in, <em>kapeesh</em>? You know pipes, so you're the man. <em>Plumbermeister</em>."</p>
<p>"Jesus. The last central heating job I did I flooded a woman out. That's nothing compared to this. And where are you
going to be?"</p>
<p>"I'm the man with the plan. I know bugger all about pipes and drains."</p>
<p>"You're bloody cold-hearted crazy Keyser Soze. And just how the hell are you going to get me in there?"</p>
<p>"That's the interesting part," Jack said. "You're really going to love it."</p>
<hr />
<p>Gus Ferguson was up in the far corner of the bar in the Capstan, down near the river quay, well away from the front
door. The Capstan had been an old riverman's bar in the old days, when the barges and puffers brought in coal and
steel for the shipbuilding and herring from Loch Fyne way back before the war, and it still has that kind of
atmosphere; rough and ready, sometimes as rough, as they say hereabouts, as a badger's arse. The wood around the
gantry was blackened by more than a century of plug tobacco smoke. A back door led onto Barley Cobble and any number
of old narrow alleys, so if trouble came in the front, that was the exit for the wanted, the wary, and a variety of
stolen goods.</p>
<p> "What sort of gun was it?"</p>
<p>"How should I know? It went off right next to my ear. What you think? I'm going to ask the make and model?"</p>
<p>"Don't get smart. What did it look like, a revolver? A rifle? Was it a fuckin' shotgun?"</p>
<p>"No. It was one of those James Bond things. Shit, man, I don't know."</p>
<p>"And the shooter, what was he like?"</p>
<p>"He was done up like the bloody IRA, man. Had a fucking balaclava and big biker goggles and he sounded Irish as
well. </p>
<p>"Irish American," Foley chipped in. "a right hard nut an all. You could tell."</p>
<p>"Brilliant. You two tossers were supposed to slap that ginger prick around, give him a sore face and swollen balls
and what happens? You get tanked. Twice. <em>Jesus</em>."</p>
<p>He lifted his whisky. </p>
<p>"That milkman. Jake Lorne. Where's he getting IRA men to fight his battles? Is he connected? I never even knew he was
a Tim."</p>
<p>Cullen shrugged. "We were doin' him. No contest."</p>
<p>"Aye, right, so you were. You got another one in the eye. You don't look like you were getting first prize. What a
pair of tits."</p>
<p>"No, honest. He was down and taking it. We were getting tore in, and then this nutter comes in and pulls out a
shooter and nearly takes my head off with it. He had that barrel jammed in my neck. If he'd have fired it my brains
would have been all over the place"</p>
<p>"What brains? He'd have to be a fucking sharpshooter to hit your fucking brain at point blank."</p>
<p>"Swear to Christ Gus, he wasn't kidding. Then the two of them fuck off on a bike. That's definitely IRA style, innit?
That's how they topped that Irish bird from the paper. You don't mess with these loonies."</p>
<p>"Could have been UDA," Foley observed. "I think Lorne's a proddy."</p>
<p>"He's a fuckin' <em>milkman</em>, for christ's sake," Ferguson was beginning to lose it just a little. Some of the
guys down the far end of the bar looked up. Charlie Neeson started clearing tumblers off the deck, just in case some
hooking and jabbing ensued. A true professional, he got the big towel ready to protect his face from shrapnel.</p>
<p>"A mouth and a milkman, and they've made twats out of you two. And that means they've made one out of me an'all. You
get slapped around, what are folk going to think? You pummel his wee brother, a boy just out of school, couldn't
punch his way out of a wet poke. Very good. Real big hard men."</p>
<p>"It got Lorne going," Cullen said, beginning to laugh. </p>
<p>Ferguson snaked a thick forearm out and his beefy hand grabbed Cullen by the shirt collar. The smile died a
death. </p>
<p>"Aye, that's just what I need, eh? You want folk to think I go around slapping wee boys and getting tanked by their
big brothers? Jesus, I should slice you where you stand, loony tunes. That would fucking show them, and you as well.
You're the talk of the street, the pair of you. You walked into Mac's and they dodged out the back and left you
hanging like limp dicks."</p>
<p> He punctuated his words with hard dunts of his calloused knuckles against Cullen's chin. Cullen's face went bright
red, but he just took it, no chance of him coming against Ferguson. Foley stepped back just in case it all developed
into some serious hitting. He'd put on a clean pair of jeans just that night. </p>
<p>"Daft bastard. What were you going to do in front of a hundred witnesses? You were going straight to the Bar-L in
cuffs, that's what. I ask you do to a job, a bit of slap and tickle, and the pair of you come back like the walking
wounded, like you've been hit by a fuckin' truck."</p>
<p>He shoved Cullen one more time and let go, sending the other man stumbling back into the cigarette machine. It
rattled hard, and for a second Charlie Neeson thought it was going to come off the wall. It wouldn't have been the
first time. He stayed down the far end, polishing a clean glass, seeing nothing at all. </p>
<p>"Right. Stay clear of the pair of them. <em>I'll </em>find out who's who in the fuckin' zoo. Got that?"</p>
<p>Foley nodded. Cullen had barged into him on the way and his wig was slightly askew again. </p>
<p>"I want to know who the shooter was. If it was any of the Corrieside team, then I'll have the fucker. And once I've
found out, I'll sort Lorne out myself. No milkman's going to make a fanny out of me, right?"</p>
<p>Cullen nodded, ready to agree to anything.. </p>
<p>"You stay well away. From here on, you're collecting and delivering, okay?"</p>
<p>They both nodded. </p>
<p>"And if that delivery boy is going to bring hardware against me, he'll wish he'd never been born, IRA or no
<em>IR</em> fucking <em>A</em>." </p>
<hr />
<p>"All we have to do is find out when the decant is," Jack said. "We got three days from the start, maybe four, right
Ed?"</p>
<p>Ed was okay with that. </p>
<p>"Donny, we're going to need some barrels."</p>
<p>"Sure, I can fix you up. Sproat's going to have to sell the stock anyway."</p>
<p>"How will you get them?"</p>
<p>"Same as last year. Remember the river burst its banks? Half the used stock went floating down to the Clyde. Took
weeks to get them back."</p>
<p>"That's okay for you guys," Tam said. "But I still don't know how I'm going to get in there. There's security cameras
and dogs and those loony geese and damn customs men crawling all over the place."</p>
<p>Jack tapped his nose again. "Need to know. But take your tools. And by the way, it's no names after tonight. Neil,
any further forward with the mobiles?"</p>
<p>"Thursday. Friday latest. Paddy says no problem."</p>
<p>"Chargers as well. I don't want the thing going dead on us at the crucial. And I need hands-free stuff as well. Can
Paddy do that?"</p>
<p>"Sure he can. What do you mean no names?" Neil was peering over the pot. An ominous smell of burning fat heated the
air in the kitchen. </p>
<p>"Like Reservoir Dogs. Mr Pink, that's you."</p>
<p>"I'm not bloody Mister Pink."</p>
<p>"And Donny's Ginger minge." Tam burst out laughing. </p>
<p>"And you're Mr Banker."</p>
<p>Tam stopped laughing. "What's that mean?"</p>
<p>"Total wanker," Jack said. The rest of them hoo-hawed. </p>
<p>"No, seriously. Once we get the gear, we need a code. And we have to have some rules."</p>
<p>Neil turned from the big pan, went to Brad Pitt mode<em>: "</em>The first rule of fight club is, you don't talk about
fight club. The second rule of fight club is, you don't talk about fight club."</p>
<p>"Got it in one. We don't mention Aitkenbar, we don't talk about whisky, and if something goes wrong, we don't talk
about <em>anything</em>. First thing the cops do is divide and conquer, pretend your mates have grassed you up.
Don't believe them because if you do, then we're all going down. Everybody must have total amnesia."</p>
<p>"Who said that?" Jed said, going for the laugh.</p>
<p>Jack pulled out his little notebook. He looked at Tam: "You're Harley. Neil, you can be Elvis."</p>
<p>"Uh huh-huh."</p>
<p>Jed waited expectantly. "Bullitt."</p>
<p>"Suits me, boss."</p>
<p>"Donny, you can be Tarzan."</p>
<p>He did the expected yell, beat his chest.</p>
<p>"And what about you?" Tam asked.</p>
<p>"I let my music speak for me. You can call me Retro."</p>
<p>Tam was about to respond when a key rattled at the front door and bustling noises came down the narrow lobby. </p>
<p>"What's that smell?" A woman's voice, throaty with cigarette smoke. "Something's burning in here. <em>Neil!</em>"</p>
<p>"Is your Neil cooking?"</p>
<p>"That'll be the first time. He can't make corn-flakes without burning them." Women's laughter echoed up the hallway
and the door opened. </p>
<p>"Oh hullo boys. Dear me, it's a full house tonight. Are you having a wee party? And Neil, son, what on earth is that
awful smell?"</p>
<p>"Hi Ma, did you win?"</p>
<p>"No son, no luck tonight. Never even got a line. What are you doing, making jam?"</p>
<p>"No. I thought I'd made the boys some sweet corn," Neil said. </p>
<p>"Pop corn," Jack corrected. "Hullo Mrs Cleary. He's practising for Masterchef. We're the judges."</p>
<p>"But it's not working."</p>
<p>The second woman bustled in. "That's awfully nice, cooking for your pals, Neil."</p>
<p>Neil was leaning over the pan and the smoke was beginning to pool around the ceiling light in darker billows. The
smell of burning spread out. </p>
<p>"Neil, are you sure you know.... "</p>
<p>Something exploded in the pan and he jerked back as a white missile whirled over his shoulder. </p>
<p>His mother squealed. </p>
<p>"What in the name of the wee man... ?" The second aunt let out a little yelp and barked her shin on a chair. </p>
<p>Suddenly the whole pan seemed to leap off the stove and the corn simply blasted out in a fountain that crackled like
fireworks. A piece fell into the blue gas flame and flared alight. Neil jerked back in alarm, covering his face and
volcano of popcorn erupted outwards, hitting the ceiling and walls, bouncing off the work surface, and cascading to
the floor. In a few seconds it was almost ankle deep. </p>
<p>Jack and the rest of them ran for the door and left Neil to explain to the squealing women, while the corn torrent
began to pile up on every surface and ricocheted off the walls. </p>
<hr />
<p>Alistair J. Sproat slapped the paper down on the long mahogany desk that had been polished by the fine wool and tweed
elbows of his ancestors for almost two centuries.</p>
<p>"They want have the whole plant listed?"</p>
<p>"No," Jamieson Bell said. "Not the bottling hall and the warehouses."</p>
<p>"But all of the distillery? The malt house, the still-room?"</p>
<p>"And the pot stills themselves. They're a hundred and fifty years old." Jamieson Bell might be the council leader,
but old habits died hard hereabouts. The ship owners and distillerymen always had a finger in the works and though
the shipping was long gone, the Sproats still wielded some power in this town. </p>
<p>"Scottish Heritage could get involved. Almost certainly they <em>will</em> get involved. We've had a request to apply
for listing."</p>
<p>"Which you will no doubt file until this deal is done?"</p>
<p>"If I can. It might not be just as easy."</p>
<p>"I don't understand this, Jamieson. You run the council and you make the decisions. What else is there to know?"</p>
<p>"If it were just a case of getting a request, we could keep it going long enough, but they've gone to the press, and
they've got some muscle."</p>
<p>"Who are <em>they?</em>"</p>
<p>"Charter 1315" Bell said. "A bunch of teachers and academics. Tree huggers and friends of the earth, but they're a
loud bunch of agitators. They took us on a couple of years back over the river rights, and we don't want to go down
that road again if we can help it. They could cause us a lot of trouble in an election year."</p>
<p>"I've forked out for every damned election you've ever faced," Sproat said, finger poking the air in short stabs for
emphasis. </p>
<p>"I know you have." Bell tried placation, "And don't think it's not appreciated, Alistair."</p>
<p>Sproat stared him down, scenting a sell-out. </p>
<p>"The problem is, some people have been researching the Bruce Decree. It could be these Charter people."</p>
<p>"And that's supposed to mean something to me?"</p>
<p>"I'm afraid it could mean a lot. To both of us. You've got your unions set to picket because of the jobs loss, and
Charter 1315 are fighting to have the buildings listed. But the Bruce Decree, that could blow you out of the water."
He raised his drink. "Literally and figuratively."</p>
<p>"I'm all ears," Sproat said. </p>
<p>"Your plan to demolish the distillery and infill in the old harbour basin, that's the real problem."</p>
<p>"Filling that in saves me three million in landfill tax and gains me another three acres, nearly four. What's the
problem?"</p>
<p>"According the decree, after the battle of Bannockburn, Bruce moored his warship in the river basin. As a reward, he
made a royal decree and granted the river and the basin to the people of the town in perpetuity. Allegedly the Bruce
Decree has never been repealed."</p>
<p>"For God's sake. That was seven hundred years ago."</p>
<p>"The chief librarian tells me some people managed to get into the archives. I'm trying to find out how, but they've
got a copy of the old decree charter. Apparently it says the river belongs to the people, and that would include the
harbour."</p>
<p>"And?"</p>
<p>"And unless we find a way of proving that the inlet is not the one Robert the Bruce used, they could have a good
chance of wiping the floor with us. They could hold everything up for years."</p>
<p>"Trust me," Sproat said. "That is <em>not</em> going to happen. This deal goes through in six weeks or we forget it,
and when I say <em>we, </em>I mean <em>us. </em>You included. And I'm telling you, this land has been part of my
family's estate for two hundred years and it still is. My great whatever-times grandfather had them dig the inlet
out to float barrels downstream for export."</p>
<p>"Not according to the archives."</p>
<p>"I don't give a damn about the archives. You make this go away and it will be very much worth your while. Once this
deal is done, I'll be in a very generous mood. What's it going to take?"</p>
<p>"Well, I suppose nothing's impossible, if you've got the will."</p>
<p>"And the incentive," Sproat added, dripping sarcasm. </p>
<hr />
<p>Kate Delaney was still high after the Charter 1315 meeting in the town hall, and he took advantage of it to ask for a
favour. She'd caught up with Jack on his way home with a pile of mail in a haversack slung over a shoulder and
surprised him at the corner of Drymains Street. </p>
<p>"We'll beat them," she said, without preamble. "We've got a team of people working on architectural research. If we
can get the buildings listed, Sproat can't demolish them, and that could halt the whole development."</p>
<p>"As long as you can hold him off for a while anyway."</p>
<p>"But you're off to sea aren't you? Shovelling coal on a lugger."</p>
<p>"It's diesel."</p>
<p>"Never mind what it is. If we can stop the sale of the land, Sproat could be forced to re-think, and that could at
least save the dairy. We've got to try."</p>
<p>He had the bag held tight under his arm and normally he'd be pleased to dawdle up the road with her and maybe
persuade her to invite him in for a coffee or a nightcap. The last time he'd done that she'd got her sketch book out
and done him in pastel and that had ended up in oils the MacLellan Galleries, but now he wanted to get home and get
through the stuff they'd managed to snatch from Tim Farmer's house. He had all the research he needed from the river
boatmen.</p>
<p>It had been dark and the pigeon loft was empty, thanks to the Pigeon Club sense of justice. </p>
<p>"Whose house is this?"</p>
<p>"Doesn't matter. Some old geezer ran away with a woman. He'll be gone for some time."</p>
<p>"You sure?" Ed kept his voice low. </p>
<p>"Maybe he'll peg out on the job. He's pushing seventy."</p>
<p>"Hope I'm still going when I'm that age."</p>
<p>"Hope I'm still going when I'm half that."</p>
<p>"I thought you were already."</p>
<p>"Very funny, Eddy."</p>
<p>Ed searched the bird-hut first, going by feel in the shadows over the door lintel and checking under a couple of
feeder trays. </p>
<p>"People leave their keys in the garden hut most times," he explained. </p>
<p>"How do you know?"</p>
<p>"My cousin was an expert. He got me into a whole heap of shit when I was a kid."</p>
<p>Ed checked a couple of flower pots, but old Tim Farmer had been more careful then than he was now. The house was
secure. </p>
<p>"What now?"</p>
<p>"Shhh... I'm concentrating." Ed had his fingers through the letterbox on the back door, eyes tight closed. Something
knocked against the inside panel. </p>
<p>"Typical," he said. "He must have skinny hands."</p>
<p>"What is it?"</p>
<p>"Letterbox at the back. Nobody gets mail in the back door." Jack's eyes had accustomed themselves to the dark and he
could see Ed smiling in the faint moonlight from a thin crescent in a cobalt sky. He drew his hand out slowly, along
with the braided twine. Metal jangled softly and a mortise key dangled between them.</p>
<p>"Bingo."</p>
<p>The door opened with hardly a creak and they were inside. The kitchen was cold and the still air held a flat scent of
mouldy carrots. They eased through towards the front of the house. Jack flicked on a little maglight, casting a pool
of illumination on the floor at the front door. </p>
<p>"What do you want?" Ed whispered. </p>
<p>"This." Jack was down on his knees, sifting through the pile of mail behind the door. </p>
<p>"Is that all?" Ed stood at the other end of the hallway, peering into the small living room. A row of trophies
glinted along the length of a shelf above the fireplace. "He's got some silver."</p>
<p>"Sure. All of it with his name on it. Let's try and stay out of jail for a while yet. "</p>
<p>Jack was separating the spam from the rest, rejecting all the book offers, the take-away flyers and the pigeon
magazines. </p>
<p>"Here," he said. Ed came down and hunkered beside him, the pair of them kneeling in the faint glow. Jack lifted up a
large manila envelope and focused the flashlight on the address. A post office sticker showed it had been
redirected. </p>
<p>"Sparta D'Angeli? Who are they?"</p>
<p>"The key to our fortune. Ever wanted to be a company director?"</p>
<p>"Sure, wear a suit, fart about all day. And I want to win the lottery an' all."</p>
<p>"Now's your chance. You've just been appointed to the board as director, special projects."</p>
<p>"What do I have to do?"</p>
<p>"More of this." Jack started sorting the mail, moving fast, weeding out Tim Farmer's mail from the envelopes from the
banks in different names. He just watched for the redirect mark and started to build up a small bundle, whispering
to himself as his hands moved. </p>
<p>"What's it for?"</p>
<p>"The only way to get ahead is to set up for your self. Nobody takes you seriously unless you look the part and talk
the talk, know what I mean? <em> </em>And I need this to make Sproat an offer he won't understand. First rule of
business. Get an image and some credibility."</p>
<p>"Just the same as conning folk."</p>
<p>"What's the difference?"</p>
<p>"What offer are you going to make?" Ed's voice was just a whisper. </p>
<p>"I can't tell you yet. I've still got some detail to work out, but you have to think of every eventuality, and I just
want to keep ahead of the game<em>.</em>"</p>
<p>"You really think we can pull this off?"</p>
<p>"It's gone okay so far. You got us in here, didn't you? Anyway as long as we pull most of it off. <em> </em>Then you
have to work out what you do if you don't, and even more important than that, what we do if we <em>do</em>."</p>
<p>"And what will <em>you</em> do?" It was a serious question. Jack experienced a little unreality flip. Here they were,
kneeling behind somebody else's letterbox in the middle of the night, calmly discussing the proceeds of a robbery.
"You say there's a million eight." </p>
<p>"You work it out yourself. No income tax, no VAT. No money back, no guarantee."</p>
<p> "Just like Del Boy. And what about selling it? You going to have to bottle it? "</p>
<p>Jack grinned in the dark. "You think we should use the dairy? That might be an idea!"</p>
<p>"It'll take a long time to shift a zillion bottles." </p>
<p>"Lateral thinking. We have to cut the time down, and I have a plan. But first, it's supply and demand. We have the
supply, we create a demand, and there's always a demand for good scotch. Look what happened during prohibition.
Everybody wanted booze. We have to get ourselves a real- life prohibition scenario."</p>
<p>"Okay, but you'll have the customs on your tail."</p>
<p>"Not me. <em>We</em>. If we don't do this right they'll be all over us like a bad suit. Trick is to think of ways to
do it right. Make them look the other way."</p>
<p>"So now what?"</p>
<p>"We have to start a diversion. So we're going to start a shipping business." Jack turned back to the bundle of mail.
"You have to speculate."</p>
<p>"Hey," he said, lifting up a small brown envelope into the cone of light. "What's this?"</p>
<p>"What's what?"</p>
<p>"A present from Uncle Ernie. Sandy won the premium bonds last month. Fifty notes. This old bugger's won something as
well." He grinned in the dark and stuffed the envelope into his inside pocket. "Finders keepers. I'll say this was
delivered by mistake."</p>
<p>He was just turning to pick up the first bundle when something slammed into the door only inches away from his
head. </p>
<p>"Jesus!" His heart vaulted into his throat and sat there shivering. </p>
<p>"Come out you old bastard," a man's voice bellowed. "I know you're in there."</p>
<p>"Shit! Who's that?" Ed's voice was a harsh shaky whisper, and Jack could almost hear the sudden pulse beat in his
temples. </p>
<p>The door slammed again, making the letterbox flap open and close with a snap. Dust flew. </p>
<p>"Get out here and take what's coming, you geriatric lecher."</p>
<p>"Who the hell is that?"</p>
<p>A heavy boot crashed hard into the bottom panel, sending little splinters spinning into the circle of light. </p>
<p>"Turn it off, for Christ sake."</p>
<p>Jack hit the button and the faint light died. </p>
<p>"I saw you," the voice came again, angry and petulant at the same time. </p>
<p>"It's Gordon McLaren," Jack said. "He's well pissed."</p>
<p>"What does he want?"</p>
<p>"Old Farmer ran away with his missus. He's not happy."</p>
<p>"I know her. She's a torn-faced old slag," Ed whispered. "Who would want her back?"</p>
<p>"No accounting for taste."</p>
<p>The boot hit the door again and threw off more paint splinters. Jack scrabbled back in case the bottom panel came
spinning off. </p>
<p>"He'll have the whole street up."</p>
<p>"That's what I was thinking." He started moving slowly up the hallway. </p>
<p>Two more crashes shivered the door and there was more bawling and shouting, then, outside, a winking blue lit up the
frosted glass at the top of the door. </p>
<p>"Bloody hell," Ed whispered. "It's the busies."</p>
<p>"Get your skanky arse out here and take what's coming," Gordy McLaren sounded as if he was going to burst in to
drunken tears. </p>
<p>"What seems to be the problem here?" The voice was firm, a policeman's tones. </p>
<p>"That old bastard won't come out. "</p>
<p>"Which particular old bastard would that be sir?" PC Douglas Travers came up the path.</p>
<p>"The dirty old shite's been shagging my wife."</p>
<p>"Oh dear sir. That would be a disappointment."</p>
<p>"I want him out here to sort it out. Sort <em>him</em> out."</p>
<p>Jack and Ed sat dead still on the bottom stair. </p>
<p>"Not a good idea sir." A powerful flashlight beamed through the living room window, sending silver highlight
reflections from the line of pigeon club trophies. "And there seems to be nobody home."</p>
<p>"There is. I saw a light behind the door. The old bastard's hiding."</p>
<p>Footsteps thudded on the outside and then the knocker rapped four times in quick succession. </p>
<p>"It's the police, Mr Farmer. You're quite safe."</p>
<p>The flashlight pierced the darkness of the hallway and they jerked to the side, in against a couple of coats hanging
from hooks. </p>
<p>"Jesus!" Ed's whisper was just like a prayer. </p>
<p>The knocker rapped again and then a two-tone tubular bell chimed only inches from Jack's left ear. He jumped like a
cat. </p>
<p>"Sit quiet man!" Ed's stayed still as stone. </p>
<p>"The old man's away abroad." A woman's voice broke in.</p>
<p>"Is he hell. The old shite's in there with my wife."</p>
<p>"Come on sir. Let's go down the station and get this sorted out."</p>
<p>"Are you arresting me?" the voices were fainter now, down at the end off the path. </p>
<p>"No sir."</p>
<p>"Well go fuck yourself then." The footsteps thudded up the path again and then a weight hit the door with such a
clatter that it almost came right off its hinges. </p>
<p>"Right, get him."</p>
<p>"He'll knock the door in," Ed said. "We'd better shift."</p>
<p>Outside, the shouting got louder. The pair of them got off the stair and into the kitchen, closing the door behind
them. </p>
<p>"They'll come round here any minute," Jack said. He opened the back door. Round the front, somebody was bawling at
the top of his voice and they assumed it was Gordon McLaren. Another weight hit the front door again and Jack said a
silent prayer that the glass would stay intact. He had more mail to collect.</p>
<p>They came out into the dark of the back garden while round the front, the men's voices were getting louder and a
woman's had joined in. There was no way they could get to the front gate again, and lights were now coming on in the
neighbouring houses. </p>
<p>"Which way?"</p>
<p>"There," Jack pointed. A big lattice fence stretched from the pigeon hut to the neighbouring garden. It was six feet
high and in front of it, some dark shrubs huddled together. Jack slung the mail in his haversack and clipped the
flap shut and then the two of them took a run at the fence. Ed hit it with one foot raised, intending to clamber
over the top, but his other foot got caught in the thorns of the shrubs and he fell forward. His weight careered him
over the shrubs, slammed him into the thin lattice and the whole fence buckled and cracked from top to bottom with a
sound like a gunshot. Ed slipped, hit the dirt. Round the front the noises suddenly stopped. </p>
<p>"Damn!" Jack was up and half-way over the swaying fence. The flashlight flickered round the side and sent a bright
beam up the path. </p>
<p>"Come on!" he was balanced there, swaying, but he managed to reach down, get a hand to Ed's collar, and hauled him
over. Ed scrabbled up, tumbled over to the other side, falling heavily and a big bamboo cane jammed right up the
crack of his backside. He let out a little squeak of surprise and pain and then the two of them were over, through
the withered chrysanthemums and hollyhock, out the gate at the far side and running hell for leather down Swanson
Street. </p>
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