There wasn’t too much in it. Clive had spent a night talking to people who’d told him they were robbers. No proof, nothing concrete. That was about it. With luck it’d die a natural death. Next morning the photo was on the front page of the Sun. “HIPPIE ROBBERS” said the headline. The story puffed up the thin stuff from the Fop’s article, added a bit of spice – Cathy’s shirt in the photo was open at the top, showing, as I may have mentioned already, a partial glimpse of pleasantly curving bra-less tit. The story speculated a bit about pot and free love among the criminal classes. Also quoted some unnamed old lag who said he would never ever, in his day, have done a robbery with a sheila. Added that druggies in his opinion had no place in the criminal world. There was no comment from the Armed Robbery Squad. I went to Stan’s place in a state of high alarm. He and Jimmy were putting bags in their car when I got there. “We’re fucking off,” Stan said. “Queensland. Come along if you want.”
