Pawser pulled up outside Admiralty entrance and looked in the mirror. He couldn't be sure but further back down the street a car sat with two immobile figures in its front seats. He checked the time. The dial on the analogue clock on the dash read eleven thirty pm. He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers and unconsciously checked the time again on his watch. Eleven thirty one.

The back door of the car swung open with a bang and two large holdalls landed on the seat.

He turned round and peered through the open door. 'Ok?'

'So far,' shivered Dirk. He slammed the door shut, ran back up the steps and reappeared bearing a large plastic box. Pulling open the passenger door he placed the box in the foot well and climbed in after it. 'That's it, let's go.'

As they drew off Pawser glanced back. Behind them the car's lights flicked on and it drew slowly into the street carefully keeping its distance as it turned and followed them down Park Street. 'Don't turn around Dirk, we've got company.'

'Tinker, tailor, solder, sailor. I wonder which?' Dirk pulled off this sheepskin gloves and checked the seal on the box.

More like 'Copper, Romany, Storeman and I hope, Spy. I hope there's no sailor tonight. We can do without Haggard and his running commentary on the status of his empty sac.'

'Bit risky this though, isn't it?'

'What choice did I have Dirk. I feel like Rome's about to be sacked by the Vandals and I'm standing in the Forum holding the keys to the Imperial mint.'

'Well I'd advise you to key an eye on your trinkets tonight, things could get nasty you know.' Dirk lifted a copy of The Times off the dashboard. 'Do you want to hear how it came out?' He rummaged through the newspaper and ran his finger down the Obituaries column.

'Died yesterday. Col. Freddy Flannigan at the Pony Club. Will be sorely missed by his wife, Pandora.

Service tonight will be held by the Rev P Bingham. Any parties wishing to see the casket should attend. The Old Brewery, Isle of Dogs.

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. Matthew 7:7.'

'Let's hope that does it. Did you get it run in the Irish Times as well?'

'To be sure.'

'Good, let's hope it brings them all running.'

The old brewery on the Isle of Dogs lay on a bend in the river Thames on what was once open marshland, its short stony beach a reminder of the time it once housed the hanging cages that contained the dried, chained bodies of executed pirates that acted as a salutary warning to the returning seamen making their way up river to the City port.

Pawser cut off the road, drove through the brewery's broken gates and watched as the car behind them slowed to a crawl then stopped. He drove on, over a rough patch of land before turning into a derelict warehouse. His lights like a solitary lighthouse beam, swept over the cracked concrete walls, gouged though with rusted girders, and piles of disguarded metalwork. He slowed as the lights picked out a pile of cardboard in one corner with a tramp asleep under a pile of faded blankets.

'Hey up,' said Dirk grabbing his attention with a wave of his hand, 'someone's already here.'

Pawser swung the car round. In the middle of the empty factory floor stood a gold Rolls Royce.

He drove across to it and pulled up short, leaving enough space between them to get out of there fast. Rolling the window down, he waited. Far above them the corrugated iron roof clattered up and down in the night wind. After a few moments the Rolls Royce flashed its lights.

'Right, come on then, Dirk. I'll bring the holdalls, you get the box. Let's hope Killerman's here in case it goes a bit wobbly.'

'I rather not think about that.' Dirk hefted the box onto his lap and kicked the door open.

They walked to the midpoint between the cars and dropped the bags and box on the ground. The cars lights flipped up to main beam.

'Bloody hell!' Temporarily blinded Pawser lifted his hand to shield his eyes. The Roll's doors opened and he could make out three dark figures walking around to the front of the vehicle.

'You'll pay for this Bingham,' a reedy Scottish voice rang out. 'I should have known it was you. If he's come to any harm you're a dead man.' Jocko, dressed in full highland regalia of tweed jacket, kilt and sporran, advanced toward them, a shotgun held at the ready in his arms.

Pawser recognised the two men with McBride. One was the young storeman usurper who had refused him access to the Bonded store, the other, Hamish 'McMoan' was one of McBride's distant relatives who haunted the car pool. Both were holding old service revolvers pointed at Dirk and himself.

Dirk pushed up alongside Pawser. 'What's Rob Roy doing here? You don't suppose he's the inside man do you?'

'Could be, but god knows what he's talking about.' Pawser muttered under his breath. He stepped forward. 'Why Jocko, so nice to see you here. Out shooting other peoples foxes are we?'

'You know why I'm here you little bastard. You'll not be getting the ransom you know.' Jocko shouted, dropping a rucksack on the floor in front of him. 'I'll get you run out of the Service for this Bingham, together with Killerman and Maine and get you put on charge of aggravated kidnapping and blackmail.'

'Kidnapping and blackmail?'

'Don'na give me that Bingham, do you take me for a fool? Give me the box.'

'I'm afraid no one's taking anything fuckerhead except me.' The spectral figure of Spring Heeled Jack glided into the light.

'I wish he wouldn't do that,' Dirk jumped, 'it puts the willies up me.'

Jocko rounded Springer. 'What the heell do ya think you're doing here, Springer?'

'I've come for what you have Jocko and I'd advise you to stay out of this?'

'You've come for Wallace? I'll no give him up without a fight.'

'What the hell are you talking about you Scots simpleton? I've come for the money and the plates. Throw that haversack over here, Jocko. Glad you could make a contribution to the Police Fund. Bingham, I take it my goods are in the box and holdalls?'

Jocko spun his gun away from Pawser to Springer. 'No one's taking that box, Springer. You can have the money, what do I care. It's not mine anyway. But what's in the box is mine. So step back, I'll take it and leave you to sort your business out with Bingham.'

'Well let's see what we have shall we first shall we?' Springer floated across to the holdalls. 'You've got all of it I take it, Bingham? Or do I need to take reparations to make up any shortfalls.'

'What we have is here, Springer.'

'The plates?'

'Well err,' Pawser took one step back toward the car.

'Oh dear.' Springer released a hiss like an expiring snake from his hollow cheeks. 'Check to see if you have bought your paper bags boys, if not you'll just have to cup your hands and bear your little nuggets away... 'He stopped mid flow and looked back down the warehouse.

The air filled with the roar of a racing engine as a car tore across the floor toward them. Pawser recognised it at once; he never forgot a car he'd been thrown out the back of. The Jaguar slewed to a halt in front of the bags and the engine died as the O'Reilly brothers tumbled out.

Patrick sat on the bonnet of the car, produced a thin silver box and shook out a toothpick as Derry sauntered up to the bags and peered over his sunglasses at the assembled group. 'Hold your horses Springer I think yo'll be finding this is our gear.'

'Well put me in a poncho and call me Clint, if it isn't the Irish Mafia.' sang Springer.

'Well, well, bejesus it's our little friend with the running shoes. How's the Pie man?' Derry grinned at Pawser. 'You've done a fine job, me bogger, gett'in all our stuff and you've got Springer and all his friends along to help us load it up. Just massive.'

'You'll be working under a misapprehension my little leprechauns. My claim goes before yours.' Springer snapped.

'Not with the little chippers need'n it, it aint.' said Derry pulling a sawn off from under his coat.

'Who the hee'll are you.' Jocko swung his gun around and waved it at Derry.

'The O'Reilly's, Jocko. The head of one of London's crime syndicates, I'm sure you've heard of them.' Springer's voice pitched higher. 'They want this stuff as much as we do.'

'No one's taking anything!' Pawser stepped back, rested his hand on the door of his car and nodded at Dirk to do the same. 'I have a man in the rafters with a snipers rifle.'

'Then it's a stand-off then.' Jocko swung his shotgun up and advanced toward the box. 'No one really wants a cat do they? I've got hundred thousand for it here in this rucksack. Take the money. Just give me the cat box.'

'Cat box? I have serious concerns about your sanity, Jocko.' Springer moved up and blocked Jocko's path.

'As do I!' A clipped voice rang around them. Pawser held his breath. He knew that voice and it was with a sense of relief he watched the dapper figure of Mr Bentley appear from the darkness.

'Who's dis idijot,' yapped Derry.

Mr Bentley put up his hand for silence while he carefully removed a piece of weft from the sleeve of his suit. Satisfied, he brushed his collar down and looked up. 'Ha, gentlemen, yes. My men have surrounded the building. They will relieve you of your little toys and we shall inspect the goods together shall we. I'm most interested to see what Pawser has bought to the party that you are all so keen to get your hands on.'

Out of the blackness emerged Bentley's team. Tall, hard men, in camouflaged gear and blackened faces, cradling automatic rifles in their arms, they pushed a few surly looking individuals in bulky puffer jackets in front of them. Springer's men, Pawser concluded, lurking in the shadows should their man need them.

'Drop the gun if you please, Mr Killerman.' Mr Bentley called up into the roof.

A rifle clattered down though the rafters, summersaulted twice through the air and impaled itself, barrel first into the roof of the Rolls Royce.

'Sorry Mr McBride!' A voice called from the above. 'I didn't see your car there.'

McBride's eyes narrowed to two thin slits as his fists tightened around his shotgun.

'Try not to shoot anyone, Jocko,' Bentley's voice had dropped and now carried a steely edge. 'Don't want you stealing Mr Killerman's accolade for accidental wounding's.'

'I was exonerated!' Killerman's sanctimonious voice echoed down from above.

Mr Bentley, impervious to Killerman's appeal, walked over to Derry and eyed his sunglasses with an air of distain before barking out. 'Drop your weapons on the ground everyone. I have men at every exit so no one should entertain thought of leaving this joyless little event prematurely.'

'Good, well done.' Bentley offered up a wry smile as the guns tumbled to the ground. 'That wasn't so difficult was it?' He strode purposely over to Jocko and gave him the look a prison officer reserved for one of his less popular inmates. 'Dressed for a game shoot in the highlands, Mr McBride? Have I caught you a grousious interuptus by any chance?'

'I've just come from a do,' muttered a surly Jocko.

'I don't need the details, Mr McBride.' Mr Bentley rested his foot on Jocko's rucksack. 'And what do we have here then?'

'None of your business, Bentley.'

Bentley kicked over the rucksack, a pile of fifty pound notes tumbled onto the floor. 'Taken from the Bonded store by any chance?'

'I'm not answerable to you.'

'But you are to the Government.'

'Looks like Mr Bentley's shot your fox, sir.' perked up Pawser

'Where's Wallace my cat, you cretin?'

'I'm afraid you're under some misapprehension, Mr McBride.' Bentley said. 'Mr Bingham does not know anything about your cat, nor do I. Nor it appears, does anyone here.'

'We know a bit about poodles if that helps, sir.' Dirk obliged.

'Shut it Maine, you're in enough trouble as it is.' Jocko cursed.

Bentley stared dismissively at Jocko before turning and looking at Springer who stood silent, wire framed glasses glinting in the car lights, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his leather overcoat. 'Nothing to say Springer? I see, taking the 5th are we until we can get some legal advice? Very wise. And you, Patrick and Derry isn't it. Don't say anything, I don't want to hear it. You'll follow Mr Black here outside where he has some transport ready. Off you go now, be good boys won't you.'

Pawser watched as the O'Reilly's and Springer and his team marched off to the waiting white transits. Mr Bentley approached the holdalls and the box. 'Open the bags and box, will you Mr Jefferies.'

Mr Jefferies hefted up both bags and tipped them out, scattering a heap of old telephone directories into the dust. He picked one up and flicked through it. Finding nothing he dropped it, looked at Mr Bentley and shrugged his shoulders.

Bentley looked quizzically at Pawser, 'and the box?'

Mr Jefferies unsealed the box, peered inside and snapped the top shut. 'Test tubes. I think we should get some assistance on this one, sir.'

'What are they exactly, Mr Bingham?'

'Twelve test tubes of Porton Downs's highest grade Snark, Mr Bentley. It's harmless, ask Killerman.'

'I think Pawser, you and Mr McBride have some explaining to do. You'll need to come back to be interviewed for the record. I can't say at this point what charges might follow.'

'I was being blackmailed, Mr Bentley, by him,' Jocko pointed an accusatory finger at Pawser. 'He put me up to it. He took my cat, Willaim Wallace and was demanding a ransom for his return.'

'Was he now- your cat you say. Catnapping, blackmail, ransom, strong words.' Mr Bentley rubbed his chin thoughtfully as if considering Jocko's case. 'That certainly does sounds like a matter of National Security. Perhaps we need to move the Country to a state of high alert.' He gave Pawser a surreptitious wink. 'I hope you haven't being using the Services resources like Professor Leatherbottom and his forensics team to get to the bottom of this matter. And I hope you've got proof it's Mr Bingham. That is a serious allegation.'

'Well, it must be him.' Jocko blustered. 'He's an idiot.'

'Not it appears as much as you, Mr McBride to have been caught red handed with this cash.'

'I don't have to explain myself to you, Bentley.'

'Ah, but you do Mr McBride. My operation here has been approved by the Deputy PM himself. Use whatever means necessary to get to the bottom of this he said. Whatever means.' Mr Bentley repeated with a sinister look. 'I'm acting in the National interest you see, there are wider issues at hand you may not be aware of.'

'What issues, I'm aware of everything.'

'How so?'

'I have people who tell me ... things. Discreetly. Things that old fool Berty doesn't know about. Think about it Bentley, Berty's days are numbered and I'm next up. So you'd be wise to fall in line if you want to keep your job.'

'People... things,' Bentley whispered conspiratorially. 'You've been holding back information from Sir Berty, information that could prove critical to him and his work. Dear, dear that's not very professional is it? You need to come in for a little talk. We have people who are very good at talking Mr McBride, as you'll know. Mr Black, take McBride and his associates down to the Interview Centre will you and bring his little bag of cash.'

'I'm not leaving until I've got Wallace.' McBride pulled angrily away from Mr Black's grasp. With a quick motion Mr Black grasped Jocko by the shoulders, flipped him around and twisted his arm up behind his back. Jocko omitted a little yelp before being thrust into the back of a waiting car and driven off.

Mr Bentley rested on the Rolls, folded his arms and contemplated the vehicle carrying Jocko away as it disappeared into the winter's night, then he looked Pawser up and down and soberly shook his head. 'It seems you are off at the deep end, Mr Bingham. I hope you know what you're doing. '

'So do I, Mr Bentley. But I'm beginning to have my doubts that'll I'll ever get this sorted. I still might be spending my retirement hanging round Portsmouth docks with a bag of roast coffee beans, a bucket of warm water and a short length of rubber hose.'

'It's that bad is it? Just remember to use a decent quality coffee and you'll be alright.' Mr Bentley nodded. Suddenly, like an electrified eel, he jumped up, whipped round on his immaculately polished shoes and exploded. 'STOP THAT MAN!'

On the edge of the far wall of the warehouse, the tramp was stumbling drunkenly toward the exit. The fracas being what it was he'd no doubt decided there were quieter places to get some kip. One of the guardsmen intercepted him and guided the protesting figure across to Bentley.

'Who are you my little man and what might you be doing here?' Bentley's forehead creased in puzzlement as inspected the shambolic figure. 'A disguise eh? Well off with these.' Reaching over he pulled off the tramps beard and lifted his mop of matted hair

'Mr Bentley, I was only ... tsk, tsk, tsk.'

Pawser drew a deep breath. 'Skippy, is that you?'