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boxes must be full. Maybe the old bastard who was their informant had been right. Perhaps there was half a million quid in there. He felt the Moet gurgling in his stomach already as he strode through the door to the outside.
    As he left the building, he raised his bowler to the policemen in the Zephyr pulling away from the kerb. The fact that one of them saluted him almost caused Buster Edwards to wet himself with laughter. They're just asking for it, he thought. Just asking for it.

Five
    RAF Hemswell, Lincolnshire, October 1962
    Tony Fortune had always thought Go-Karts faintly ridiculous, like dodgems freed from their overhead electric grid and sent round the track. That day at the missile base changed his mind for good. As the flag dropped on Roy James's race, the field of cars seemed to bunch together like a flock of starlings, and began to weave in the same way, as if one organic unit. The noise of the 200cc engines and the stench of oil, rubber and petrol was exhilarating. Unlike at Goodwood or Silverstone, the drivers - alarmingly vulnerable on their tiny chariots - flashed by feet away from the spectators. The physicality of wrestling with such a small yet potent machine was all too apparent as they approached the first bend.
    'Those Go-Karts got limited slip diffs?' he shouted to Bruce.
    'Don't let Roy hear you call them that. They're karts, not Go-Karts.'
    'Why?'
    'He says it's like calling every racing car a Vanwall or a
    Cooper. Go-Kart is just another make, so he reckons. Anyway, it upsets him - and I don't want him upset. There are no diffs at all though, not limited or otherwise. If you want to corner tight, you have to lift one of the rear wheels. If you get it wrong . . .'
    As if to demonstrate his point, one of the karts drifted wide, catching the rear of another; it spun out in a cloud of dust and an explosion of hay as it crashed into the bales.
    The mass of men and machines began to pull apart as they came into the second lap, with four drivers breaking away from the pack. Tony didn't have to ask which one was Roy. He was the one in third place throwing the machine into the dogleg between the missile silos with one rear tyre spinning in thin air. There looked to be a good ten inches of space between rubber and track.
    'Jesus, he's going to overcook it, isn't he?' Tony muttered.
    'Wouldn't be the first time, mate,' said Gordy.
    'How many laps?'
    'Ten,' replied Bruce.
    The field began to stretch out, the initial solid wall of engine noise devolving into the buzz of individual machines. Roy was still third, but he was slipstreaming the kart in front, so close that Tony thought they must be touching. It was a risky strategy, because if Roy didn't match his opponent's braking exactly, he could end up going over the top of the man in front.
    Gordy detached himself and came back with three teas, all of them heavily sugared, and a Mars Bar each.
    Roy made his move on the fourth lap, just as he approached their position, seemingly moving directly sideways, and taking not only the second man, but rejoining his line in front of number one. The former leader braked as he saw Roy was about to tangle with his front wheels, and the number two and three made contact. The pair of them pirouetted together, off into the grass on the inside of the track. Angry, frustrated fists were raised as the dustcloud settled, but the damage was done. Roy James was now in the lead, where he looked set to remain.
    Bruce put his tea in the crook of his arm and applauded. 'See, stunts like that may not be what you always want in a racing driver.' He shook his head in admiration. 'But in a wheel-man . .. fuckin' gold dust.'
    Roy was examining his silver trophy as he walked up to Bruce, Gordy and Tony. He held it up to show them. 'I could knock out a better one than this during the fuckin' potter's wheel interlude,' he sneered.
    'I didn't say', said Bruce to Tony, 'that Roy here fancies himself as a regular whatsisname. The one who made the