Part 11 (1/2)

Well, it was hardly service with a smile. 'You're not racing?'

A shrug. 'Can't afford it, mate.'

'Tell me about it,' said Roy sympathetically. 'Rich man's game.' Hulme nodded. 'Shame though. You're b.l.o.o.d.y good. Can I see Ron?'

'Really, he's under the cosh, working on the cars for South Africa.'

'Yeah, right. 'Course he is.'

The South African would be the final GP of the year and would decide whether Graham Hill or Jim Clark would be World Champion. Although Brabham weren't in contention for the top two places, with Stirling Moss out of action after a hideous crash, Bruce McLaren, who had won at Monaco, just had to be in the points to stay ahead of Surtees and take third. It would be a real boost for the Brabham-Climax team.

'Just that I want to order a car.'

'A car?'

'To race,' he added redundantly.

Hulme looked down at the case at Roy's feet. 'You one of those rich men we were just talking about?'

'Had a bit of luck on the Spot-the-Ball compet.i.tion.'

'Congratulations. What you after?'

'Formula Junior. A BT6.'

'You done much racing?'

'Karts. British team. Ron can vouch for me.' I know what I am doing, is what he really meant.

'A BT6 is five and a half thousand, including Purchase Tax. You must be good at spotting those b.a.l.l.s.'

Roy picked up the case. It was most of what he had earned from the job. Affording the running costs for any car he bought was going to be tricky, but he would worry about that later. 'I am. Think Ron'll take cash?'

For the first time Denny Hulme smiled, and when Roy left two hours later, he had a single-seat racing car specced up, a delivery date and a cha.s.sis number: FJ-13-62. He was on his way.

Eighteen London, January 1963 The council of war was held at the Trat - the Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street - on another bitterly cold day. A series of angry storms had lashed the British Isles and there had been four days of fog in London. Now the temperature was down in the bas.e.m.e.nt. So the men who entered the Italian restaurant were bundled up in coats, scarves, gloves and hats and took several minutes to disrobe as Alvaro, the manager, fussed around them, ordering vino ros...o...b..fore they had even sat down, and listing the day's specials.

Alvaro had selected a circular table at the rear of the room. There was Bruce, back from the South of France where he had gone immediately after the ident.i.ty parade. He was in the clear now. Fifteen hundred pounds, spread around liberally, meant his name was no longer a.s.sociated with the Heathrow job. Roy was present, as were Gordy, Buster and a young solicitor, Brian Field.

Gordy was only there because of Brian, who had secured him bail, which had been refused for Charlie and Mickey.

Bruce, a tanned and relaxed figure among wan winter-struck faces, ordered some antipasto for the table and said: 'Well, gentlemen, who is going fill me in? How's Charlie?'

'Quiet,' said Buster, who had visited him on remand. 'But calm.'

'What do they have on him?'

'The lavatory attendant,' said Brian. 'Good ID.'

'Is that all?' Bruce asked. 'Can we get to him?'

The solicitor shook his head. 'No.'

'Is he solid?'

'He's an old bloke. A good brief 11 make him wobble,' said Buster.

'And Brian has an idea,' said Gordy with something close to admiration. Theirs was not a normal client-counsel relations.h.i.+p. In fact, Bruce sometimes thought the angel-faced Brian, with his short hair, neat suits and sensible s.h.i.+rts, was the most bent out of all of them. He had, after all, a glamorous German wife with expensive tastes to support.

Bruce turned to look at the young man, not yet out of his twenties. He could almost pa.s.s for a teenager, albeit a particularly harmless, suburban one, apart from the flinty eyes. Bruce glimpsed a greedy venality in there.

'Well, there is a lad works at the airport - has done for two years. Never been on a plane, even though he has to watch them all day. That kid would love to catch a jet to New York or Rio.'

'Yeah? Go on.'

Brian hesitated as a large platter of ham, artichokes, olives and tomatoes was placed in the centre of the table, along with I stack of hot, crisp bread. 'So he'll say that he saw Charlie at exactly the same time as the robbery was taking place - but over with the plane-spotters.'

'Plane-spotters?' Bruce asked incredulously. 'Charlie? He can't tell a 707 from the hole in his a.r.s.e.'

'I'll slip him a copy of the Observer's Book of Jet Airliners,' said Brian with a smirk. 'Come the trial, he'll be an expert.'

Buster took a sliver of translucent ham and folded it into his mouth. 'OK, fair enough, that's confusing the attendant's evidence - can't be in two places at once,' he said eventually. 'But is that enough?'

Roy waved away the offer of wine and asked for lemonade. 'What about a juror?'

Brian nodded. 'Likely we can get us one. We'll have to wait on that, obviously.'

'How much for the kid at the airport?' Bruce asked.

'Two grand should do it.'

Two grand. The money from the score was dwindling fast. 'I'll get it to you,' said Bruce. 'What about Mickey?'

What he really meant was: would he go QE? 'He's holding up,' said Roy, knowing Mickey would never take the Queen's Evidence route. 'Saw him last week.'

'And what do they have on him?'

'Two witnesses who put him in Comet House.'

'What?' He looked at Brian. 'He wasn't inside.'