Doc named a figure.

He was bought.

Networking. Wot a lovely word:

Hip

Contemporary

Sassy.

Arnold networked a series of clerks in the major banks. Not too many, but sufficient to provide the dates without arousing suspicion.

It had risk… sure. The old fall-out factor, but it worked. Plus too, a clerk blew the whistle he was on the bank ‘suss list’. Banks don’t rate loyalty, only profit.

I’d put a portion of map on the wall, let the Doc have a look.

Asked, ‘See anything you like?’

‘Never heard of that Bicester, means we’d pass thru Morse country.’

‘Put the wind up Sergeant Lewis, eh.’

Thursdays were best as the payrolls would be in but we didn’t want to establish a pattern. Sooner or later though, you had to figure on getting a tug. I’d only recently moved to Meadow Road, was burning money with the decorators. Jeez, what is it with those fucks, all that shouting. I’d said, ‘Hey… this isn’t the Grand Canyon, you don’t have to check for echo. Let’s keep the damn shouting to a minimum. How would this be… if a roar has to be made, and I don’t dispute the necessity, I’ll do it… OK I’m paying, so I’ll be roaring.’

Which I think put it across rather well. An informed and civilised outlay of the rules. They listened almost attentively and then continued roaring.

‘Hey Joe, where’s my hammer?… Cyril, wot’s gonna win the 3.30?… That Dettori ain’t worth shit… Three sugars and a sausage sarnie…’

Yeah, like that. I was contemplating a short stay in a hotel but I liked to keep an eye on the fucks. The doorbell rang. Would one of the decorators answer? Course not…

‘Not in my portfolio mate.’

I flung the door open, the hammerin’ behind me a decibel louder. Two men in raincoats, the hard-eyed look. You knew when they weren’t flogging double glazing or Mormons. Coats were too cheap.