He watched Morgan disappear into the side street in the far corner of the square and nodded. So far, so good. The sun burst through the clouds, touching the fine spray of the fountain with colour and he smiled. There were times when life could really be very satisfying. He lit a cigarette, got to his feet and strolled away.

Duncan Craig watched him leave from the rear window of the old Commer van which was parked on the far side of the square. He, too, was smiling, but for a completely different reason. He turned and patted the chromium barrel of the directional microphone mounted on its tripod and started to dismantle it.

12

It was raining hard when the van turned into Brag Alley and braked to a halt, the light from the headlamps picking out the faded lettering of the sign on the wooden doors that blocked the far end. Gower & Co – Monumental Masons.

‘This is it,’ Morgan said. ‘Right – let’s have you, Jack.’

Fallon, a large, heavily built Irishman, jumped out, a pair of two-foot cutters in his hands that sliced through the padlock that secured the gates like a knife through butter. The gates swung open and Harris, the wheelman, took the van into the yard and cut the engine.

Fallon was already levering up the manhole in the alley and Morgan and Martin unloaded the van quickly and joined him. He dropped into the tunnel and they passed down the heavy cylinders for the oxy-acetylene cutter and the other equipment and followed him.

Harris dropped to one knee and Morgan whispered ‘Replace the manhole, shut yourself into the yard and sit tight. An hour and a quarter at the most.’

The manhole clanged into place above his head as he dropped down to join the others. He switched on the powerful battery lantern he carried and its beam cut into the darkness. In spite of the thick cables, there was room to crawl and he moved off without a word, Fallon and Martin following, each dragging a canvas hold-all containing the equipment.

It was bitterly cold, the insulating jackets of the heavy cables damp with condensation, and at one point there was a sudden whispering like dead leaves rustling through a forest in the evening and a pair of eyes gleamed through the darkness.

‘Jesus Christ, rats,’ Jack Fallon said. ‘I can’t stand them.’

‘At these prices you can afford to,’ Morgan said and paused as his torch picked out the name Chatsworth Steel painted in white letters on the wall. ‘Here we are.’

‘Not much room to swing,’ Martin commented.

‘Never mind that. Get the bloody gear out and let’s have a go.’