The Obedience of Fools

By Martyn Taylor

Alfred Burke was part of an Urban legend, engines retired from service and put into cold war storage, back up for when the worst case scenario became a reality. Others had their own agenda and the legacy of their work creates a threat as real today as when the Black Fives disappeared. A mystery that has lingered like the last wisps of the steam engines he worked with, and just as difficult to grasp, but he knows what happened and that makes him useful and valuable.

He has hidden the secret where it may be found if you know what you are looking for, to see it you must believe, and if you believe you will see it.

Less scrupulous parties want the information and don't care how they get it. Steel and Josie in the thick of it again in a race to uncover the secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martyn Taylor
• Release date: Nov 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311561657

Martyn Taylor

Yorkshire born, in Sheffield, now living in Rotherham. Married to Anne, and living in a quirky house with a lot of stairs and an enormous amount of books. Started writing more years ago than I want to remember, inspired by Ian Fleming, John Buchan, Alistair Maclean and Jack Higgins. Working in longhand, by typewriter and then with an old laptop and a printer. "One day I'm going to write a novel" arrived and in August 2002 became "Today's the day!" A beginning, an end and the urge to write. The result was ICELINE, a thriller about abduction, smuggling and dodgy diving in Western Scotland. CONTROL:ESCAPE is the second novel about Steel and the characters at The Grange, revealing more of the place and the people who pass through its doors. Both now published here at Smashwords. There will be more! WHAT YOU ASK FOR was the Nanowrimo entry for 2012; reaching the 50,000 word target in 29 days and carrying on to finish the story. Currently undergoing proof-reading and editing prior to submitting it for the Premium catalogue here at Smashwords. The fourth novel in The Grange series THE OBEDIENCE OF FOOLS draws its name from a quotation by Douglas Bader and weaves its way around the Urban myth of the Strategic Steam Reserve. Fascinated by the human stories behind history, the intmate aspects of great events. Myths and legends, folklore and intrigued by urban myths. I enjoy a film with a good story, Matrix (all three parts), V for Vendetta – the final scene outside parliament with the masked crowds; Dambusters; Where Eagles Dare – Richard Burton on the radio with "Broadsword calling Danny Boy" Call in at my website and blogspot for updates on new work and smashwords discount coupons

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Contact Martyn Taylor

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Chapter One.

November 1963

The swinging red light ahead of the locomotive disappeared in a drift of rain slanting across the track. The heavy panting of the cylinders as the engine topped the incline and eased over the summit slowed as the driver applied the brakes and brought it to a stand-still. Ahead of him, through the ports in the front of the footplate he saw the light stop swinging and move along the track. The progress was accompanied by a stinging rain stuttering against the metal sides, he checked the brake and swung out of the cab, lowering himself carefully in the darkness of the leeward side of the engine.

The red light was lifted and he saw the cold gaunt features in the haunting red glow and grinned. You picked a right bleeding night for this one Alfred, best weather we've had yet. The engineer grinned in the light of the lamp.

Alfred Burke trimmed the lamp, reducing the light to a faint glow behind the glass. Thank you Harry, I didn’t pick the weather.

Picked you though, how long have you been hanging about?

An hour, maybe longer I don’t know, bloody rain gets everywhere, Christ I'm freezing! He shoved his free hand into the pocket of his overcoat and dragged a damp handkerchief out. Alfred Burke wiped the droplet of rain from the tip of his nose and gave it a blow. He noticed the fireman leaning out of the cab. How much does he know, anything?

He knows as much as I do, and that's little enough, just so long as there are no questions asked.

There won't be, there's so much stuff moving around after hours we can barely keep track of half of it, the paper chase is already messed up somewhere.

And that's how you can do this?

Enough of the questions, I'll tell you more when I have something.

Just a link in a chain Alfred, that's all we are, but whose the weak one?

I said enough, now come on, we've a couple of miles to go and then we can move her on to the spur.

Harry Breakspear pulled the oily rag from the back pocket of his overalls and wiped his hands, smearing them with a fine layer of oil, Come on Alfred, up you get. he stood behind Burke on the track and gave him a boost up the steps into the cab. Alfred tucked himself into a corner out of the way and the Fireman flipped open the firebox with his shovel and then swung a load of anthracite into the flames. Breakspear eased the brake and opened the throttle and the double action pistons snorted steam into the night. The old workhorse moved slowly down as Breakspear felt his way down the line, watching for the curve of metal ahead where the line split and the points were already positioned to swing the engine on to the spur.

Alfred Burke pulled his coat around him and tried to get further into the corner, staying out of the fireman's way and gaining what protection he could from the weather dashing against the metal plates of the cab. The small lantern he carried had the last skerrick of warmth he had felt for over two hours before had climbed on to the footplate. Ten minutes later Breakspear kicked his foot, and Alfred shook his head, despite the cold and the noise he had dozed.

Alfred, you're on.

Burke pulled himself to his feet, stepped backwards out of the footplate and down the steps. He turned the lantern up, but the red glow barely touched the darkness and he stumbled down the track, missing his footing on the wet sleeper timbers and each twist of his ankle brought muted swearing from his lips.

He reached the points and dragged the lever over, stiff with underuse he strained until it reluctantly swung and the points shifted. He stepped back and watched, listening to the pulse of the steam and the engine moved onto the spur. Once it was over the points he swung on the lever and returned them to their original position then followed the engine.

Annoying as it was, the foul weather blowing in from the Atlantic and beating against the high moors of the Pennines were a blessing in disguise. Few enough people ventured on to these heights at night anyway, but even the hardiest of souls would have to be working out here to be anywhere near on a night like this.

The rear light of the engine glowed dully ahead of him as the engine stood, waiting, outside the closed doors of a small engine shed. It took the three of them, Breakspear, Burke and the Fireman to open the doors and get her inside. Alfred Burke locked and chained the doors while the engine was eased right into the shed, then found a couple of pressure lanterns, the old Tilley lights lit quickly enough and he hung them on hooks along the wall. The faint hiss of the mantles added their soft tone to the background. There was enough room for one more, about the same size, to squeeze in behind her. Breakspear release the pressure in the boiler and the blast of steam and noise was deafening within the shed, a counterpoint to the fury lashing itself against the high arched windows and streaking the dust covered glass with veins of rainwater.

The noise subsided and an eerie stillness filled the vaulted building, disturbed only by the sounds of the fire being extinguished. The Fireman swung out of the cab with practiced ease, a shovel of burning coals in his hand and carried them to an iron brazier in the corner. He dropped the coals into the wrought iron bucket and added a couple of shovels of fresh coal. The small fire began to glow and spread its warmth around the shed. He repeated the process with another two and the chill dispersed. Not enough to work up a sweat.

Breakspear worked methodically, and quietly, assisted by the fireman as he closed down the engine. This was the end of the line for her, the old lady was being retired, and thanks to Alfred Burke she was spared the breaker's torch for the time being; a pile of dirty canvas tarpaulins in a corner of the shed was pulled apart and the sheets dragged over the engine; carefully masking anything that might have identified her. Her number and the British Rail crest had been painted out. Breakspear stood back and admired his handiwork. That should do nicely.

He stood by the brazier closest to the double doors, streaming quietly in the heat from the glowing coals and held his hands above the heat, driving the warmth back into his body. The rain had eased, as though knowing they were now indoors and beyond the torment of wind driven spikes of chilled water. Burke occasionally stepped closer to the door and listened at the gap between the sections, pressing his ear closest to the rectangle of the wicket door cut into the main door. The sound of the rain still drowned almost every other sound, but there was a feeling of doing something useful at least by listening out. The fireman shovelled more coal into the brazier by the door and then began to clean his shovel, wiping the coal dust and scrubbing it under a tap. He used the blade as a frying pan, sterilized by heat of the firebox and cleaned, Alfred Burke was prepared to ignore any last bits of coal adhering to the metal when the young lad loaded it with thick slices of gammon and cracked a couple of eggs on to the hot metal.

The lad served them between slices of bread, a thick crusty loaf sawn into doorsteps and slathered with butter that dripped out of the sandwich when you bit into it. A mashing can of boiling hot tea appeared and the chipped enamel top that served as a mug was passed around, the scalding liquid a symbolic sharing of the responsibility for what they had just accomplished.

Harry Breakspear passed the mug to the Fireman, Suppose I'd better introduce you to each other, Johnny, this is Alfred Burke, Alfred, this is my eldest, Johnny.

Johnny Breakspear nodded over the rim of the mug, Pleased to meet you, Mister Burke.

Just Alfred, Johnny, Alfred will do.

The young man nodded again but said nothing.

That how you know you can trust him, Harry?

Natural isn't it, blood thicker than water and the all, he would have followed me, probably took the old girl on when I retired. We'll never know. There was a hint of sadness in his voice.

Damn Alfred, she's got years left in her, hardly used; what is she, five years old, and good for another thirty.

Steady on Harry, I'm not sure she'd last that long.

There's plenty that would though, what about the new one, bloody great two-ten-oh, Evening Star, poetic, bloody pathetic. He fished a twisted roll up from his pocket and leaned and used the shovel to bring a hot coal out of the fire to light the cigarette.

Harry, times are changing, faster than we can imagine.

Alfred, for a sensible bloke you talk rot sometimes, it's political, all of it, and you can talk to yourself 'til the bloody cows come home and nothing will change it.

Come on Harry, that's…

Ridiculous, no it's not, and you know it as well as me, otherwise we wouldn’t be out here on a godforsaken night like this trying to keep the old lady from the scrapyard, would we.

Johnny Breakspear watched the two men, eyeing them up and noticing that subtle change, Alfred Burke and his dad went back a long way and that meant they could argue until they were blue in the face and still remain friends. Voices might be raised, but it would never come to blows, insults might be hurled across the few feet separating them, but that would be it and half an hour later they would be staring over the edge of a beer glass talking the genial rubbish that passes for conversation when the ale starts to loosen tongues.

Harry reached for the mug from his son, who handed it over reluctantly. He stared at the dregs in the bottom and hoisted the can by its wire handle and refilled the top. The tea had stewed, the rich dark brew had taken on a bitterness that Harry ignored as he swallowed the mugful in one and put the lid back on the can. If we get caught, I'll be lucky to get a job on the North Bay Railway in Scarborough.

Harry, the paperwork is as good as legit, and besides whose going to miss one engine?

It won’t stop with one though will it Alfred, we both know that.

He was right of course; the plan had worked this time and the chances that it might work again were too good to pass up, and there would always be the enticement every time they pulled it off, one more, one more, and so on.

Alfred Burke smiled at the truth of it, the buzz was too great, and there was room for another one in here. The idea was simple enough; lose them in the paper chase, misdirection and confusion were his allies here.

Harry Breakspear walked to the wicket door and opened it a crack, the rain had slowed to a depressed drizzle, a cheerless cloud of moisture that clung to everything and found a way through, the sort of drizzle that could wet you to the skin by looking at it. He closed the door and slipped the bolt home. Come on, no point hanging around, it's not posing it down, this is as good as it gets tonight.

He collected a Tilley lamp from the hook on the wall and handed it to Alfred, Check outside, we'll tidy up in here.

Johnny began pouring water on the braziers, steam and smoked poured off the fires, filling the vault above them. How we getting home Dad?

Ask Alfred, he was sorting that out.

Mister Burke...

Alfred Burke stopped by a door in the wall, My car's outside, I'll drop you off.

Satisfied with the answer Johnny went back to dousing the fires. The last wisps of steam wafted upwards and he put down the bucket as Burke came back in through the door.

Ready when you are.

Breakspear collected his bag and his mashing can and lobbed the shovel back on to the footplate. Johnny, get moving. he looked at the shovel, Bugger it, he pulled it off the engine and carried it outside.

Souvenir?

Bloody good shovel, not wasting it; nobody will want it where she's supposed to have gone.

Alright then, come on get in. The dark green Morris Minor already had its engine running, warming up, and Johnny wriggled past the front seat into the back and bundled their possessions into his arms as Harry passed them to him. Harry dropped heavily into the passenger seat and closed the door.

Alfred Burke did a final sweep around the old shed and checked the padlocks on the doors. Old worn locks picked up as he travelled the country surveying the track. Old locks on an old building that no-one uses that was the ticket. A new lock might arouse suspicion and that was the last thing he wanted. The shed had to look the way he found it, as though no-one had been near the place in years. He settled himself at the wheel of the Morris and closed the door, any tracks left by the car would have to take their chance, and to leave no trace at all would be impossible, just nothing that might invite a closer look.

He drove in silence, lost in his own thoughts and his passengers settled down, Johnny lumped across the back seat clutching the bundle of possessions and snored, the noise mingling with the revving of the engine as Burke negotiated the ruts and puddles along the track. Harry got out to open the gate and closed it behind the car as it pulled through on to the road. Alfred handed him a padlock, Harry looped the chain around the woodwork and snapped it shut. He splashed mud in to the foot well and slammed the door too hard. Tiredness was beginning to chivvy away at Burke.

Breakspear pulled his jacket tight about him. Anybody else got a key for that lock.

No. The word was clipped, sounding shorter than it should, it got lost.

In a manner of speaking, in your pocket. Burke glanced sideways and realised Breakspear was smiling and Burke felt the tension in him begin to fade.

In a manner of speaking...

There was a grumbling, shuffling movement on the back seat and Johnny muttered on the edge of sleep, Are we there yet? The snoring continued. Both men burst out laughing and Alfred Burke slowed to maintain control of the car. Half an hour of driving and he pulled up at the end of a street of terraced houses Harry and Johnny climbed out on to the wet pavement. The clouds were breaking up and a pale moon peeped shyly through ragged tears in the clouds.

Will you be around the yard tomorrow Alfred?

'Fraid not, I have been summoned, I'm off to London.

What you been up to now?

Don't say that, I'll have to keep a straight face, and that will be hard enough knowing what I've just done, we've just done.

We must do it again sometime. Harry chuckled, parodying the invitation he had heard at so many parties for other parties that never happened.

I'll see you on Saturday for the usual.

At the usual?

Where else. Breakspear closed the car door and stepped back, away from the kerb as the rear tyre of the Morris hit a puddle in the gutter and splashed dirty rainwater where he had been standing.

*****

Chapter Two

December 1963

Alfred Burke looked up as the door opened and a dark suited figure walked into the office. Good morning, may I help you?

I think you may be the man I'm looking for. The man sat down without invitation and placed an official looking briefcase on the floor beside the chair. Burke could see the gold crown on the black leather from where he sat at the desk. Self-assured and quiet, his visitor gave off an air of…something that Burke couldn’t quite pin down and it didn’t rest easily with him, Alfred Burke had a knack of reading people and this character was as close to a blank sheet as possible, he fidgeted with the clutter on his desk, consciously tidying and re-arranging.

I'll not keep you from your work; I wanted the opportunity to have a chat.

How can I help; I'm a surveyor.

Not just any Surveyor, you cover most of the Eastern region for British Railways?

With assistance, so how can I help, and what do you need help with?

I have the advantage, my card. he handed an embossed business card across the desk without saying his name. Burke read the card.

So how may I assist the War Office Mister Thornton?

You are already a signatory to the Official Secrets Act?

Naturally, and not just as a Surveyor on the Railways.

Of course, you're service record. Forgive me.

Alfred Burke felt the acid in his stomach go bloop. You've seen my record.

A natural precaution in these troubled times.

Can I offer you anything? Burke lifted the receiver off the cradle, desperately wanting to turn the conversation in another direction, any direction.

Tea would be delightful.

He dialled the extension for his secretary. Moira, can you find Mrs Harris, Tea for two in my office.

Thornton couldn’t hear what she said in response.

Probably better not, I'll call when I'm free. He replaced the receiver and sat back. Mister Thornton twitched the hem of his overcoat. We should not be disturbed, is that agreeable?

Very, now, shall we start, or wait until Mrs Harris has delivered the refreshments.

The rattle of the tea trolley outside the office told Burke that the redoubtable Mrs Harris had been closer than he thought. He bustled into the office with a tray bearing two cups and saucers in the inevitable pale green, stainless steel teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug. Alfred got up from behind the desk and relieved her of the tray and gently ushered her out of the room. It shifted her quickly, and his haste gave her something to chatter about on her rounds.

Mister Thornton took the tray and laid it on the desk and motioned for Alfred to resume his seat. Burke sat down and nodded his thanks at the cup handed to him across the blotter.

To business, Thornton sat down and sipped, mmm, nice very nice, my compliments to your Mrs Harris.

Alfred dutifully sipped his own tea and was surprised, it was quite good.

You have an extensive knowledge of the railway network under your charge?

I do.

So you probably know most of the out of the way places, the odd branch lines and spurs that no longer serve as part of the…how can I describe them…operating system?

Alfred didn’t like the way this could be going. I suppose you could say that.

I am saying that, we know you have spent time exploring the extremities of the system.

Alfred Burke smiled and put his hands in the air. All right, it's a fair cop as you might say, I do, in my own estimation I would consider myself something of an expert.

Not just in your own estimation, you come highly recommended. Major Thornton had another sip of his tea. Burke's stood barely touched, cooling on the desk.

So how do I live up to the recommendation?

Storage, I'm looking for storage.

Storage, and how do I fit into that search?

I want somewhere to store surplus locomotives, for a just in case scenario that is being explored at much higher levels than you or I.

Alfred Burke went white, the blood drained from his face and he felt his throat pulse race. Higher levels…

Security, you know how it works Alfred. Major Thornton smiled. Burke took a sip of his tea and the cup rattled in the saucer as he put it down.

My apologies, I had no desire to make you feel nervous. The smile was still there, but cold, like a fish.

Not much you didn't. Burke swallowed the tea. Right stay with it Alfred, they may know something, but assume they do and play everything by ear. They may not know as much as they think. Burke smoothed his hand across his stomach. No, that's alright, bit of a tummy upset, they both knew it was a little fib, a half-truth. Smith had that effect on people and knew how to exploit it. Half frighten them to death, and lead them on to the edge of something they would love to shout about in the pub, but know they can't.

Burke had to assume that they knew something of his activities, his knowledge of the system was well known, true, but why was a closely guarded secret, even his closest relatives had no idea. They already had him hooked, or so he thought, they would now play him; working him like a salmon or a trout at the fly until they could land him. Will I need to reach the higher levels, work with them?

Not necessarily, you would be working primarily with me, or should I say, more precisely for me, so whatever access you have will remain the same. At the moment, all I need is your knowledge gleaned from your normal duties, places where I might store my goods.

He reached down into the briefcase and lifted out a manila file, a wallet of thin card, and opened the flap. He pulled out three pages of typescript on Bank quality paper. The thin sheets rustled in his hand as he laid them on the desk.

Alfred Burke leaned forward and turned the sheets around, will I have to burn or eat these? The humour fell flat, Mister Thornton was being serious and the atmosphere in the room had changed. This is what he had come for, the social preliminaries had been dealt with, the dance of the ego performed and both of them knew exactly who was in charge.

Neither, they are general briefing documents, just make sure no-one else sees them, I will authorise their dissemination beyond this point, if I think it appropriate.

Is that usual, decisions like that made out here, in the field, is that what they call it?

Alfred, he had adopted an easy familiarity with Burke's first name, implying a degree of friendship that would never really exist, I act within my own briefing, as you will do, and up to a point I work with considerable independence of my superiors. They trust me, and I hope I may trust you.

The studious politeness in the man's voice and manner was beginning to make Burke feel edgy, and he felt the bloop of his stomach acid again. I hope so too. the words seemed feeble and insincere.

Thornton folded the flap on the wallet closed and tucked it back into the briefcase. He fastened the buckles.

Burke tapped the papers on the blotter. What shall I do with these?

Read, mark, learn and inwardly digest, as the prayer book says, and don’t let them out of your sight. Mister Thornton stood up and held out his hand, you shall hear from me shortly, and hopefully, we may have something to work with.

Alfred Burke shook the proffered hand, the grip was tight without being dominant and behind it he felt a latent power. Mister Thornton had not always worked from behind a desk.

Thornton let himself out of the office and Alfred Burke sank back into the seat at his desk. He stared blankly at the wall for a full ten minutes before he composed himself and turned his attention to the three typed pages laid on the blotter. He sipped the cold tea, discarded the idea of asking Moira to find Mrs Harris again for a fresh pot and began to read. The colour drained from his cheeks as he took in the instructions, and the acid in his stomach bubbled frantically.

He only just made it to the stall in the toilets by the stairs and the face that stared back at him from the mirror on the wall looked ashen, drained to the point of illness, and still his stomach protested. Burke washed his face and dabbed at the marks on his tie with a damp piece of toilet paper. The crisp medicated sheets disintegrated and left bits clinging to the material. He brushed them off with his hand. He saw nothing in the reflection that eased his discomfort, the face simply stared back. Alfred Burke made himself look as presentable as possible before he left the washroom and returned to his office. He kept a spare tie and shirt in the drawer of his desk and changed into them before he sat down and went through the pages again.

This had to be a joke, and a sick one, they had to know. Something had gone wrong, he must have made a mistake somewhere along the line, but where, how and who; who could have known?

The contents of the third sheet in the set made his jaw drop, the sheer audacity of it, and the scale of what was involved. Alfred Burke was going to be involved in this, whatever they did or didn’t know about him, the Breakspear’s and anyone else who had lent a hand with their little project; which was actually getting bigger. He was going to be on the inside of this, a cold realisation that going along with this might be the only way he didn’t go away for a very long time. He breathed deeply and realised that on the inside he could work his little scheme with greater confidence, and if the paperwork didn’t match up. Well, clerical error covers a multitude of sins, and he would need help sooner or later, and Harry and John Breakspear were the ideal partners.

*****

Chapter Three

Christmas Eve 1963

Harry Breakspear pushed open the door of the snug and eased his way through the crowd, dodging the balletic moves of the drinkers carrying their spoils back to tables, heavy set men with three pint glasses in their hands raised above their heads, twisting and turning through the throng, and the fog of cigarette smoke hanging just below the ceiling. He saw the gap appear and shouldered his way through it, dropping his elbow on the beer splashed bar to claim his place. The barmaid wiped her hands and then mopped up a puddle of beer on the woodwork. Evenin 'Arry, the usual?

Breakspear fished around in his pocket for a ten shilling note, same as ever Maggie. he raised his voice above the hubbub and another voice cut in. This one's on my tab Maggie. Alfred Burke pushed a pound note over Breakspear’s shoulder. Maggie lifted it deftly from his fingers, pulled a pint of Tetley for Harry and a double of Teachers for Alfred and put them on the counter. Harry passed the scotch over his shoulder and Alfred waited for the change before he eased away from the bar. They left the crowd behind and went outside, just for the quiet, inside anything less than a shout was inaudible; out here you could hear a mouse whisper.

You've been a bloody stranger lately, how did you find me.

Old habits, you always stop off on Christmas Eve, have done for as long as I've known you, and you're Dad before you.

And my lad will carry on the tradition…

By the way, where is the lad?

Courting, he calls it; I reckon he's just chasing skirt.

We've all been there Harry, some just didn’t get caught.

Never did, did you. Harry Breakspear wondered.

Bugger off mate, you caught the one you wanted, and she wanted you back and that makes you dead lucky.

And you're not here to discuss the future prospects of our John as a husband, so why are you here, you've been a bloody stranger for the last month. No bugger's seen you anywhere.

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

Fine, keep it to yourself then, what you done, won the bloody football pools?

Nah, everybody would believe that, this is seriously strange. You remember then night we left the old lady in the engine shed up on the tops, over the moors?

Yeh, what about it, he tapped Burke's chest with his finger, I've been waiting for the next party, so what went wrong?

You're never going to believe this… and Alfred Burke told of the visit from Major Thornton of the War Office, the story was accompanied by a string of, never, you're taking the piss, what and bollocks Alfred, you really are taking it, from Breakspear as he listened with rapt attention.

Breakspear swallowed a mouthful of beer and wiped the froth moustache from his top lip, you're dead right I don’t believe you, he lifted the glass in Burke's hand, how many have you had?

This is the first, had to be, if I looked the slightest bit pissed you'd have told me to sling my hook, wouldn’t you.

Still tempted to, come on Alfred you honestly expect me to believe that, a bloke from London walks in on you one morning without so much as a by your leave and tells you to start hiding locos, you 're chuffing loco.

I thought you might say that, so I brought you something. he fished the third page out of inside pocket and handed it to Breakspear, he handed the pint to Alfred and wandered across the street to a lamp-post and unfolded the paper, turning it for the best view in the light of the lamp he read it through slowly, Alfred could see his lips moving as he read through the page and he sensed rather than saw his friend's eyes getting wider. He folded the paper slowly and walked back to the pub doorway and collected his pint from Alfred's unresisting hand.

Alfred, have you read that paper, actually read it, of course you have, bloody hell. Alfred that's a sodding shopping list; talk about the pick of the crop.

Not just the cream, there's a lot of other stuff.

Are you sure they don’t know what we've been planning? Breakspear drained the glass in one and looked at the froth clinging to the lip. I need another drink.

I've asked myself that question a thousand times in the last four weeks.

Any answers?

Not one, just more questions, my associate is a tight character. Burke swallowed his scotch in one, wouldn’t give a door a bang.

Back in a tick, Breakspear nipped back through the pub door and left his glass on a table, Alfred propped his on the window sill, he reappeared and grabbed Burke by the elbow, come on Alfred, one of us must have some beer in the sideboard at home.

There is a question, working on the premise that your little piece of paper is genuine, and I'm not casting doubt on it for a moment.

Harry, you are a terrible liar, I don't believe it's genuine and I've met the man who gave it to me.

"Half a year ago they couldn't get rid of them fast enough, now they want us to swan around the countryside with a shopping list of