‘My diary will tell us,’ said Lefty. We crowded round while he struck a match. High tide at London Bridge was at two fifty-eight. It was perfect. A moment later we were climbing the wall. ‘Watch out for police,’ said Lefty. ‘They’ll think we’re going to rob a warehouse. If you see one, pretend to be drunk.’ This was rather superfluous advice. Across a moonswept open space we followed what used to be Fyefoot Lane, where many a melancholy notice board tells in the ruins of the City where churches and where public houses once stood.
