The robbery made headlines both on television and in the newspapers. Mrs Longbotham was shocked to learn that it was her local branch that had been robbed and said so to a number of her friends. The robbers had got away with a great deal of money too and so far the police investigation appeared to be going nowhere.

Back at headquarters, Inspector Sheppard was having a very bad week. The Commissioner had asked if he had any clues and he had had to say no. Then he had asked his men, if they had any clues and they had also said no.

‘Descriptions?’ he growled.

‘None, guv. They were wearing balaclavas.’

‘Fingerprints?’

‘None, guv. They were wearing gloves.’

‘So how did they get in?’ he shouted, almost at the end of his patience.

His words were greeted with a shrug of the shoulders.

‘And the getaway car?’

‘Dunno if they even had one guv. CCTV didn’t pick up anything, only an old school coach.’

‘So was it an inside job? And what about the kid?’ the inspector asked.

This was greeted with another shrug of the shoulders.

‘This is hopeless,’ he groaned. ‘We’ll never get them at this rate.’

Then learning he had make a statement to the press, which was rather the same as jumping into a pond filled with piranhas, he changed into his best uniform and went out to meet them.

‘I can promise you we’re closing in. I had extra men posted all along the M5 corridor, which is why banks in Gloucester, Cheltenham, and Cirencester weren’t targeted. It’s rather like corralling horses,’ he explained. ‘Gradually, we are driving the gangsters so far south they will fall off Lands End.’

Since OC rarely read the newspapers and never bothered with the news, he didn’t know any of this. And since Mrs Longbotham knew nothing about her son’s journey back to Bristol, neither did she.

A few days later OC misplaced his Filofax. On the Tuesday, he had been round to visit Cash, who was very low.

‘I’ve come to do some homework,’ he announced.

Cash looked up from his inspection of the garden, in which he’d been counting the droplets of rain falling from the basketball hoop.

He jerked his head towards a pile of exercise books. ‘Help yourself.’

OC stared at him. This wasn’t like Cash at all. ‘Have you sorted them?

Cash shook his head. ‘Not interested, no more,’ and went back to counting raindrops.

Suddenly, OC didn’t fancy doing sums either. And because he didn’t feel very happy at Cash’s house, he went straight home leaving his Filofax behind.

Surprisingly, he managed very well for a couple of days. After all, as Kitty had promised, his memory had improved. But suddenly he missed it and, after school, called round to ask Cash if he knew where it was.

‘You can look, if you like,’ Cash said, his voice as listless and dull as the weather. OC stared round his friend’s bedroom, a pile of chocolate wrappers and crisp packets lying on the floor.

‘What’s the matter? Are you unhappy?’

Cash shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine, really.’ Because he was, except he wasn’t. He burst into tears. ‘I wanted to be a master criminal, but now I can’t.’

OC stared at his friend. ‘Why not?’

Cash sniffed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Because master criminals need legs to run away from the police and I can’t run.’

OC thought about it for a moment. As far as he was concerned, Cash’s argument lacked logic. Doctors had told him he couldn’t do things because of his strange brain. They’d been wrong. He could do all sorts of things, like maths and science and chess and tidying and studying trees. ‘Why do you want to run away from the police? They’re nice.’

‘I might have to if I become a bank robber.’

‘Can’t you be something different then? I wanted to be a scientist. Now I like trees. You can change.’

Cash sniffed. ‘But I want to make money – pots of it – like bank robbers.’

OC then said something astounding. Better than all the things he’d said that year. ‘You don’t need legs to make money, you need a brain, and you’re great at that.’

Cash for the first time in weeks.

He turned away from the window. The squeak in his chair vanished and his eyes began to sparkle.

‘You’re right! I am good at making money. I shall become a stockbroker and make a bankful of money trading in stocks and shares. That’s brilliant, OC. Tomorrow, I’ll start studying the Financial Times again. Who needs second-rate gangsters, anyway? That Birmingham lot, they couldn’t see a good thing if it was handed to them on a plate. They’re bound to get caught one day, eh, Philip?’

‘Yes,’ said OC.