Lynda La Plante - Civvies

The thought stayed with Dillon as they followed the youth along a dim corridor and turned a corner, arriving in a cul-de-sac at what appeared to be the porter's flat, judging by the spyhole in the centre of the door. Standing in plain view, the youth knocked, and then stood aside to let Dillon and Jimmy enter as bars slid back and chains rattled. A big, bearded man in a fawn polo-neck with a beer gut he'd been nurturing for some time did a rapid, expert frisking job. From Jimmy he took a portable phone, a neat little folding item in black and silver, and placed it on a side table. He went on down the passage, tapped on a door, pushed it wide, waving Dillon through.

As Jimmy went by, the man barred his way, and very lightly brushed the small of his back. Raising both hands, Jimmy smiled and gave a little shrug. 'Just for protection.'

Unimpressed, the man nodded, reached under Jimmy's jacket and removed the Browning 140-DA semi-automatic, dropping it in his pocket.

Dillon was fidgeting by the door when Jimmy came in. The small room smelled of stale whisky and even staler sweat, and the wheezing thick-set man in the shabby suit, brown Hush Puppies and black shades, standing at the open safe in the corner, neatly rounded off Dillon's stock memory of a British B movie circa 1953. He felt lost, out of his depth, and besides, Dillon thought moodily, this was Jimmy's picnic. Let him get on with it.

A silent ritual took place. Jimmy fetched up the velvet bag, held onto it until the man in shades had transferred several thick bundles of notes from safe to table, fifties and twenties. The man spread the diamonds on a velvet cloth, wheezing whisky fumes as he bent over to examine them. Jimmy flicked through the bundles, a quick rough tally, but enough to satisfy him. Confident, done it before. No sweat. He straightened up, opening the front of his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. 'You got the belts for us?'

Two black money-belts were produced. Jimmy stashed the notes away in the zippered pockets, handed one of the belts to Dillon, who wrapped it round his waist, securing it with velcro fasteners. When they'd finished, Jimmy said to the man in shades, 'Kid stays put until we're out of here, okay?'

The man nodded, pointed to a chair. The kid sat, picking his nose.

Dillon waited until they were clear, had put a corner between them and the concrete block. 'You think I'm blind?' Jimmy gave him a guarded, puzzled look. 'You're carrying, aren't you?' Dillon blazed, the tension erupting out of him, making his neck muscles bulge. He pushed Jimmy roughly. 'Aren't you!'

'I got a licence, Frank – it's okay!'

Fists clenched, Dillon walked off. He stopped and turned, nostrils twitching. 'Where do we go now? Come on, what's next?'

Jimmy took out the portable phone, pressed numbers as they walked back in the direction of King's Cross. Jesus Christ Almighty, Dillon was thinking, I must have fucking scrambled eggs for brains. Walking down some poxy back-street with fifty grand, a hundred grand – he didn't know how much and he didn't care – strapped to him, talk about a soft target…

'Everythin' watertight this end,' Jimmy was murmuring low into the phone. 'We're on our way back to base -' He listened, brow furrowing. 'What?'

Forward, sideways, back, Dillon was doing slow sweeps, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head. There was a bloke, forty, fifty yards behind, red anorak, pasty-faced, who might be out for a stroll, or going to the shop for fags, but Dillon had his doubts.

'Well what you want us to do with it?' Jimmy's voice rose half an octave and he brought it down. 'Strapped round our waists, where you think?' He glanced meaningfully at Dillon. 'Wants us to hang onto it!'

'You're bloody joking – you tell him we're coming in. I've had enough.' Dillon grabbed the phone. 'We're not wanderin' around friggin' London with… hello?… hello?'

Dillon thrust the phone back, eyes swivelling over Jimmy's shoulder. 'I think we've got a tail on us. Guy in a red anorak, see if he's still with us…'

Jimmy sneaked a look, a quick nod at Dillon. They kept on walking, picking up speed but trying not to show they'd rumbled him. The street they were in branched into another, running parallel with the lines that went into King's Cross. As they neared it, Dillon said, 'He's still behind us, an' he's still on his tod. What you think? Next corner? Make a run for it!'

'Okay. Soon as we hit the bend, next left, do a runner, split up. See you at King's Cross taxi-rank…'

The instant they turned the corner it was heads down, diving into a sprint, running like crazy; they'd covered all of thirty yards before either of them realised. Dillon skidded to a stop, staring at the high brick wall topped with broken glass, blocking off the street.

'Shit! You don't even know where we are! You prat! It's a dead end… it's a dead end!'

They whipped round, but it was too late. Red Anorak had turned the corner and was coming towards them.

Jimmy said, 'We're gonna have to take him -'

Before Dillon could say anything he was charging back, running like the clappers. Red Anorak stopped, started to turn and run, but Jimmy was fit and fast, on top of him like a ton of bricks, bringing him down with a flying tackle. The man's head bounced on the pavement, and before he'd rolled into the gutter Jimmy was up and at him, putting the boot in.

'For chrissakes, take it easy,' Dillon panted, coming up as Jimmy delivered another kick, seeing blood pouring from the man's gashed head.

'You see anyone else?' Jimmy's eyes were rolling in his sweating face. 'Go on, get to the corner, see if he's got anyone else with him – hurry. Move it!'

Dillon ran off. Jimmy ferreted inside the anorak, found a wallet and flipped it open. 'Oh shit!'

Encapsulated in a 4 x 3 inch plastic slip cover, a colour print of the man's ruddy face and ginger moustache. Above it, his name, rank and number: D.C.I. RIGGS.

'Come on,' Dillon hissed, racing back. 'What you waiting for?'

Shielding it with his body, Jimmy snapped the wallet shut and slipped it into his pocket.

Dillon nearly lost all his shirt-buttons getting the money-belt off. 'Here, take it – I never want to see that bastard Newman again!' He thrust it into Jimmy's lap, sitting alongside him in the back of the taxi parked on the hard shoulder of the Shepherd's Bush flyover. Two close calls in one afternoon, and he was sick of it. First Red Anorak, then evading the cops literally by seconds, ducking into a cab at King's Cross as squad cars came zooming in from all directions.

Dillon wiped his damp palms on his trouser knees. 'I lost half-a-stone sweatin' what would have happened if we got rapped over the head an' lost it.'

He jerked round, staring out into the gathering darkness as a police car, lights flashing, siren wailing, appeared over the flyover behind them and shot past towards the main roundabout. They watched it vanish towards White City. Dillon flopped back, limp as a wrung-out dish-rag.

'Come on, it's okay. So we had a bit of aggro,' Jimmy admitted, pulling the money-belt free and folding it with the other. His old cocky bravado was back, as if being chased by the police was all in a day's work, which probably wasn't far from the truth, Dillon was starting to realise.

The cab driver was looking over his shoulder and Jimmy rattled his knuckles on the sliding window. 'Oi! Keep your face to the front. What you think we are, couple of woofters? We're waitin' for a pick-up.'

A mite pissed off himself, the driver slid the panel open, beaked nose and bristly chin outlined in the green dashboard lights.

'I don't give a shit what you do, but parkin' here is illegal. Pay the fare – you wanna wait, that's your business! I can get fired for parkin' here.'