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gallons of the stuff. Why they couldn’t pop down the off-licence I don’t know.’
    â€˜Was it legal?’ chirped Tigger.
    Bert and I exchanged pitying looks.
    â€˜Well, this isn’t fresh fruit, Roy,’ Bert went on, ignoring Tigger, who had started fidgeting again.
    â€˜What exactly are we shifting; and where, and when?’
    Bert looked at me, then at Tigger, who gave him a slight nod.
    â€˜Got a load waiting to go tonight if you’re interested. It’s not far away, and it goes as far as Barking.’
    That wasn’t very far at all. Not far enough to hire a driver and van unless there was something very dodgy about the cargo.
    Tigger was making money signs, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together.
    â€˜Cash?’
    â€˜In hand. A ton each.’
    â€˜And if we’re caught, we’ve never seen you before in our lives?’
    â€˜Me who? I’m at home watching the football on the telly.’ He sipped from his drink and added: ‘I hate football. The Eyeties are mad on it.’
    â€˜So, what’s the cargo?’ I asked, knowing I’d regret it.
    â€˜A load of crap.’
    Â 
    It was a white box van. Well, of course, it would be. The ubiquitous, anonymous, dirty white box-backed van used to transport most of the stolen goods in London. The Model T Ford of the criminal classes and probably big enough to get a Model T in the back if you could find one.
    It was parked nose first in a lock-up garage at the end of a street where unimproved Victorian terrace houses sprawled along one side down to the Stratford railway line and down the other, mid-size tower blocks of shoddily built ‘60s flats offered panoramic views over the Grand Union Canal. It was so obviously a dodgy location I’m surprised the police didn’t use it in their training films.
    Bert Bassotti didn’t help by looking furtively up and down the street before opening the first of three padlocks that held the doors. He looked like he’d done an Ealing Comedy acting course by post: Stock Character No. 31 – London shifty crook/spiv.
    Tigger had ridden with him from the pub in an ageing Ford Sierra and I had followed, parking behind them down the street a few yards. Not dead outside the lock-up, I noted, but close enough to make a run for it if need be.
    Bassotti got the doors open and disappeared inside. A second later, a weak, low-wattage light came on. Tigger and I joined him, Tigger easing the door closed behind me. ‘Can you drive one of these?’ asked Bassotti.
    â€˜Has it got wheels?’ I said.
    â€˜The keys are in. You’re going over towards Creekmouth down by Barking. Know how to get there?’
    â€˜Out of here, on to Bow Road, after the hospital and the police station’ – he winced at that – ‘hang a right on to the Blackwall Tunnel approach then cut off towards Barking before you hit the East India Docks. After that, follow your nose.’
    â€˜After that, you follow Tigger. He knows exactly where to go. There’s no rush. After midnight’s better anyway. Tigger knows what to do. When he’s dumped the stuff, bring the van back here and just snap the top padlock. Drop Tigger off wherever he wants to go.’ He finished his speech and started edging towards the door.
    â€˜Hang on a sec,’ I smiled. ‘I might drive a taxi but I ain’t on duty.’
    â€˜Tigger’ll have your wages,’ he said.
    â€˜Well, that’s different. Where to, sir?’
    Tigger pulled his tracksuit top together over his chest and put on his orphan-in-the-storm look.
    â€˜Wherever there’s a cardboard box I can call my own, and an empty lager can on which I can rest my weary head.’
    Bassotti shook his head slowly and breathed: ‘Fucking weirdo.’
    â€˜Just one last thing, Bert.’ He was by the door now. ‘What exactly are we dumping?’
    Bassotti nodded and Tigger opened the