Signal Red

by Robert Ryan

  Charlie had on a dark but well-cut suit that wasn't Burtons either.

  'You lads been putting it about?' Bruce asked, only half- joking.

  'Is that a Huntsman?' Charlie asked by way of reply, pointing to Bruce's suit.

  ' Davis. And I had it on order months ago. It's not off the fuckin' peg.'

  They walked towards the cafe, one eye open for Buster. 'Speak to Field?' Charlie asked.

  'No, his missus. He was out.'

  'He's always out.'

  'Has it been done?' Roy asked.

  Bruce shrugged. 'That's why we have to go and check. I can't get hold of Tony Fortune, either. What's in the farm that might cause us grief?'

  'Buster left some clothes behind,' Roy said. 'We couldn't burn them all because of the smoke.'

  'And there are the mailbags in the basement,' said Charlie.

  'They can't get prints off mailbags. And we always wore our gloves,' Bruce reminded them.

  Both looked down at the floor. Not always, the guilty glances said.

  'OK, there were a few lapses. But I scrubbed that place till my fingers bled. Remember?'

  Charlie did recall. He had had a go about the scrubbing and Bruce whistling that stupid Flash 'Spring Clean' jingle.

  'I said you should open a cleaning agency.'

  'So it's got to be pretty clear of dabs. But when Buster gets here, we'll go there, burn the lot. After all, we own it. We can burn the fuckin' thing to the ground if we want.'

  'Should've been done by now,' said Charlie. 'There's something else worrying me.'

  'What's that?'

  'Stan.'

  'What about him?' asked Bruce.

  'You know.'

  Bruce knew. He could tell by Charlie's expression. He was a frightening cunt when he had it on. Charlie might have his doubts about Brian Field's robustness but he was absolutely 100 per cent sure old Stan would fold if questioned.

  'No,' Bruce said.

  'No what?'

  'No topping people, Charlie.'

  'I wasn't-'

  'Yes, you was. Nobody gets killed.' Bruce used all the firmness he could muster. He couldn't back it up with violence, but he hoped he still had some authority left.

  'All right, mate. Just thinkin' out loud.'

  They entered the cafe, which was empty at that time of day, ordered three teas and sat at a red Formica table near the door. Roy played nervously with the tomato ketchup container.

  'You fixed OK, Roy?' Bruce asked. 'Still in the flat?'

  'No, thought I'd stay clear of that, just in case.' He had only gone there to dispose of his railway books and the Triang trainset. 'I'm staying with me mum,' he said. 'I can't go far. I got races.'

  'Charlie?'

  'At home with Pat and the kids. What else? Got nothing to hide. You?'

  'Thinking of moving out a bit. Look, lads, it's only a matter of time before we get tugged. They'll take in anyone who could do this. I reckon there're only about thirty blokes, maybe fifty, tops, in the whole country who would be capable of what we did. We know who they are and therefore so

  do Butler and his chummies. So they'll get to us eventually.'

  The teas arrived and they spooned sugars in. All looked up as Buster burst into the cafe, his podgy face pulsing red. He looked like a traffic light, thought Bruce. Or a railway signal. Buster glanced at the girl behind the counter, took a deep breath and composed himself. 'Another tea, love.'

  Then he put the folded newspaper on the table, spinning it slowly so all could read. It was the Evening Standard. There was a big splash headline.

  YARD CHIEF HATHERILL ANNOUNCES…

  We've found the gang's hideout!

  Bruce picked up the newspaper and scanned down the article, picking out relevant phrases. Mailbags found… food stocks for many men… money wrappers in basement… attempt to burn clothes… Yard has called in Detective Superintendent Maurice Ray, the 'Bernard Quatermass'' of fingerprints. He had drunk with Maurice at the Marlborough. Nice bloke. For a copper. Then he stopped at one sentence and felt his throat constrict.

  Malcolm. Fewtrell of Buckinghamshire CID described the Leatherslade farmhouse scene as 'One big clue.'

  One big clue? What did that mean? He threw the rag back onto the table and Roy pulled it towards him.

  'Oh Christ,' said Roy. 'Oh Jesus fuckin' Christ.'

  Charlie leaned over and his face grew darker. Those steely eyes narrowed once more, leopard-like.

  Bruce pulled at his earlobe, a sure sign of agitation. 'I tell you what, Charlie,' he said softly. 'Next time you see Brian Field or Tony Fortune, do me a favour.'

  'What's that?'

  'Have a word with them.'

  Charlie nodded almost imperceptibly. 'Strong words, Bruce. Very strong words.'

  Fifty-two

  Dorking, 15 August 1963

  It was Jenny's thighs that did it. Colin normally gave his neighbour a lift to work and so far they hadn't had much more than a kiss, a cuddle and quick play around the stocking-tops. But the Morris Minor was in for a service and Colin had suggested he could manage to give her a lift to the factory where they worked – he on the shop floor, she in accounts – if she didn't mind riding pillion on his Triumph.

  So Jenny had worn tight black slacks that had drawn a disapproving tut from Colin's wife as she had thrown her leg over the machine in the driveway. Colin felt her thighs hot against the top of his buttocks and an idea began to form in his fevered mind.

  Jenny noticed the filthy look she was getting, even more intense than usual. 'I'll be changing at work, Mrs Rogers,' Jenny said with a smile as the wife glared at her from the doorway. 'Can't wear a skirt on this, can you?'

  Colin didn't have a spare crash helmet for her, so he

  forewent his own, but still put on the goggles. He waved to his wife, kick-started the bike, and set off.

  'I'm taking a different route!' he yelled over his shoulder as they burbled to the end of the road.

  'What?'

  'Different route.' 'OK.'

  'Stay off main roads. Avoid the A25. Safer.'

  'As long as I'm not late.'

  'Hold tight!'

  She did so and he felt her breasts press into his shoulder- blades. She squealed when he took the first bend, her legs pinching together.

  Colin felt the stirrings of an erection as he twisted the throttle. Her hair was whipping across his neck and, as she leaned closer, he could feel her breath, smell the Yardley.

  A car overtook them, forcing him towards the kerb. He was a little rusty so he slowed his speed. 'All right, Jenny?'

  'This is fun!'

  He took a left, leaning the bike over steeply, feeling the grip of her thighs tighten. There was little traffic now so he let the speed creep up and they roller-coasted over the gentle undulations, Jenny laughing every time her stomach dropped. Ahead was a patch of woodland known locally as The Bluebells, although it was the wrong time of year for the flowers.

  He backed the throttle off and changed down, letting the engine idle as they coasted to a halt.

  'What's the matter, Colin?'

  'Overheated.'

  'What, the engine or you?' asked Jenny with a grin.

  'A bit of both. Hop off.'

  'I can't be late.'

  He watched her slide off the seat and made a pretence of sniffing it. She slapped him, giggling. 'Oi, don't be a perve.'

  He heaved the bike onto the stand and said, 'Five minutes.'

  'Yes, I'd heard that about you.'

  Taking her by the hand, he led her over the grass verge towards the trees. There was very little traffic on this B road, so he wasn't worried about the bike. He was more concerned about doing something about the bulge in his trousers.

  He stopped at the first tree, leaned Jenny against it and kissed her. She snaked her hands around his neck to pull him close. He squirmed against her and worked a hand onto the sweet, warm flesh beneath her sweater. A horn hooted and they turned to see a Cortina, the driver sh
outing something unintelligible and flashing a thumbs-up.

  'Not here, Colin,' she whispered.

  She led him deeper into the stand of trees, where sunlight streaking through the random grid of the canopy made glowing jigsaw patterns on the forest floor.

  'Here,' he suggested.

  'No, just a bit further.'

  'So I'm hoping.'

  She slapped him again. 'We should have brought a blanket. I don't want to turn up all mucky.'

  'We can use my jacket.'

  The ground sloped down to a small fern-filled hollow. As they stepped into it, Jenny's foot snagged and she stumbled forward.

  'Ow. What was that?'

  Colin bent down and extracted a smart pigskin holdall from the undergrowth. 'Someone's bag.'

  He stood and looked around. The bag was new and, judging by its condition, it hadn't spent more than a night out in the open, if that.

  'Let's go,' said Jenny, suddenly spooked. 'Your engine must be cool by now.'

  'Hell-o,' shouted Colin tentatively, aware his opportunity was slipping away from him. His own engine hadn't cooled at all. 'Anyone there?'

  'There's another bag, look. A briefcase.'

  'Don't touch it. I'll open this one,' he said.

  'No.'

  'Why not?'

  Jenny put her arms around herself, suddenly cold. 'Doesn't seem right.'

  'There might be a name and address.'

  'Go on, then.'

  He tugged at the zip, which was stiff from the pressure of the bag's contents. He had only got it a third back when the first bundle of notes sprang out. He lifted it up with thumb and forefinger. Then flicked it. Fivers. It was all fivers.

  Jenny popped the lock on the briefcase. She gave a little gasp and held its gaping top for Colin to peer inside. That, too, was full of fivers and one-pound notes.

  Colin stood, his throat dry, and took a step backwards. 'Stay here.'

  Jenny's voice squeaked when she spoke. 'Don't leave me.'

  'You'll be fine.'

  'What if they come back?'

  'Scream.' Money had replaced sex as his priority now. If this was what he thought it was, there might be a whacking great reward. 'I won't be long, promise.'

  'Where you going, Colin?'

  'To call the police.'

  The Phoenix pub, off Sussex Gardens, had become the unofficial HQ for Jack Slipper's part of the Train Squad. It was not on Tommy Butler's radar – few pubs were – and enabled the lads to discuss the various leads without Tommy jumping in and running off with them. And then claiming the credit.

  So each night, Slipper gave an off-the-record briefing to whichever members of his team were in the bar. That night, it was Len and Billy, both already feeling the strain of fifteen hours, seven days a week. Not to mention six pints in the Phoenix every night.

  'It'll be nine, ten days before we get definitive results on the prints,' the guv'nor said glumly.

  'So much for bloody Quatermass,' muttered Len.

  'There's a lot to dust and analyse at that farm,' said Slipper sympathetically. 'Maurice Ray knows he's got to get this right. Or else.'

  They were all acutely aware of the pressure on them from above, like a giant cast-iron press with a screw handle, slowly being wound to crush the life out of them. Find these men. Turn. Charge Them. Turn. Try Them. Turn. Make sure it sticks. Turn.

  'Has Roger Cordrey said anything?' asked Billy.

  'Not so as we've heard.' Like all the suspects would, Cordrey had finished up at Aylesbury. 'His mate Boal claims he had nothing to do with the actual tickle. Could be right. But Cordrey, you know, that gives us the possibilities of Jim Hussey and Tommy Wisbey. Both big buggers. If I wanted to scare some sorters, I'd choose to have them along.'

  'What about the money in Dorking?'

  'Around a hundred grand.'

  'Any of the right numbers?'

  Slipper drank his pint. 'No.'

  'But?' asked Len, sensing there was more. 'What else, guv'nor?'

  'There was a hotel receipt in the bottom of one of the bags. From Germany. Made out to a Herr and Frau Field. Brian Field.'

  Len spilled his drink down his front. 'What, Brian Field – the solicitor? The one with the German wife?'

  'That's the one.'

  Slipper had clearly already made the next connection, but he let Len say it anyway. 'The one who put together the defence for Gordon Goody on the airport job?'

  'The very same.'

  'Bugger me sideways.' Len was beside himself. 'I knew it was Goody. I just fucking knew it.'

  'Drink up, lads. First thing tomorrow, I want you down knockin' on his old lady's place in Putney, see if she knows where her little Gordy is.'

  'What about Field?' asked Billy

  'Malcolm Fewtrell is scooping him up, don't you worry.'

  'So the dominoes have started tumbling.'

  'Aye, lad,' said Slipper triumphantly. 'And we haven't even got the fingerprints back yet.'

  The Chief Warden of Norwich Prison poked his head around the battered metal door of the visiting room. 'Gentlemen, it's nine o'clock. Visiting hours finish at nine-fifteen and I need to get home. If you will hurry it along.'

  'We'll be as quick as we can,' said George Hatherill meekly. 'Thank you.'

  He turned back to Geoff Barrow, sitting on his Remploy chair opposite himself and Ernie Millen. He was scratching at the chipped enamel on the table. 'They don't know who you are?' he asked nervously.

  Millen shook his head. 'Told you, son. Anonymous. We were dropped off in town, we'll be picked up in town. Nobody will know who we are or what we wanted.'

  'And this will help me?'

  'Geoff, we'll do our best. All be on the QT though, won't it? We can't very well stand up in court and say: "Mitigating circumstances – Geoff Barrow gave us some right ripe names". Not unless you want to come out of the shower room with an extra arsehole.'

  Millen looked at Hatherill with distaste. 'It won't come to that, George. Will it, Geoff?'

  'I fuckin' hope not.'

  'We have only ten minutes left.'

  'And we won't be coming back next week,' said Hatherill. 'It's not like Beat the Clock.''

  'I can't tell you where I got these names.'

  'Of course.'

  Geoff took a deep breath. The two detectives waited. It was like a dive off the high board. The nerve could go at any point up to the launch. After that, it was too late to turn back. 'Bruce someone. Begins with R,' Marie had actually told him the full name, but he wanted to hold some things back. They were meant to be detectives, after all. 'You know him? You going to write this down?'

  Hatherill shook his head. 'Ernie has a phonographic memory.'

  'Oh. Right. Well, they call this bloke the Colonel.'

  'Do they indeed?' said George, with a smile. 'But spare us

  the initials shit, Geoff. Full name.' He scowled. 'Now, or the deal is off.'

  Geoff swallowed hard. 'Reynolds, that's it. Bruce Reynolds.'

  Hatherill relaxed. Same name as the anonymous caller gave. Which meant Geoff Barrow might be on the level.

  'He had a couple of old mates with him, by all accounts. From when he did time.'

  'Names?'

  'No, sorry.'

  Well, Reynolds's known associates were already being checked. It wouldn't be hard to generate a list of likely accomplices. 'Who else?'

  'A racing driver. Don't know his name. "The Weasel" is the nickname he goes by.'

  'The Weasel? Nobody else?'

  'Bits and pieces. Jimmy, an ex-Army bloke. No surname. A fella who has a club in South London. Edward something… or something Edward. And someone called Goodman. Or Goodrich. Antique dealer.'

  Goody, thought Hatherill, but kept it to himself. Don't lead the witness. 'Half the villains in London are antique dealers, Geoff. You'll have to be more specific than that.'

  Geoff went on like this, dropping hints and half-truths, until the warder banged on the door. Most of what he had tol
d them was based on what his sister had spilled, which she had got out of Tony. The other names were from the Clarence Boys, who had big mouths.

  At the last minute, he threw in a couple of extra blokes for good measure, men whom he knew had nothing to do with the robbery, but were faces he owed money to. They would have a hard time collecting from inside. Always assuming he

  didn't spend too long in there and end up at the same nick. 'I don't want any of them sent here.'

  'This is a geriatric prison, Geoff. Old men and first-timers.'

  'That's me,' said Geoff. 'First offence.'

  'More by luck than judgement,' said Hatherill, rising to his feet.

  'We'll keep our part, best we can,' said Millen.

  'If you can just answer this one last question?' Hatherill added. 'And think hard.'

  'What's that?'

  'Someone's put your brother-in-law Tony Fortune right in the frame for this. Any thoughts about that you would wish to share?'

  Billy tried not to stare too hard at the boy's face. It was covered with pustules, some of them straining with the pressure beneath them, looking as if they could pop at any moment. They were sitting in the stationmaster's office at Euston, and Spotty Muldoon was the fourth train enthusiast he had interviewed.

  It had seemed like a good idea. Surely the robbers would have cased their target at both ends of its journey? And on the platform there was a readily available group of witnesses. That was what they did, didn't they? Hung around stations, watching. But if the previous trio were anything to go by, they only had eyes for trains, not human beings. If someone should fall under a loco, Billy had the impression they'd be able to tell you the bogey layout of the fatal engine, but not whether the victim was male or female.

  He passed the boy the bottle of Vimto he had asked for. 'Your name is Bernard…?'

  'Harwood.' Billy wrote it down and then the address the lad volunteered.

  'And you come here most evenings?' 'Yes. After school. Monday to Thursday. And Saturday mornings, too.'

  'How long do you spend?'

  'Depends. An hour on week days, perhaps four or five on the weekend.'

  Christ, how boring, Billy thought.

  'Now, I am going to show you some photographs of men and I want you to tell me if you have ever seen any of them down here. Understand?' 'Yes.'