by Robert Ryan
Billy struck gold on the sixth of the smudges. Bernard Harwood bounced up and down in his seat, as if he needed the lavatory. He jabbed at the photograph with a shaking finger. 'Him! Him!'
Billy held it up at chest height. 'You sure?' 'Yes. Said he only collected diesels. Thought it was weird.' You should know, Billy thought uncharitably. Flipping the photo round, he found himself studying the delicate features of Roy James.
Letter sent to Train Squad, Scotland Yard
Dear Sir,
No doubt you will be surprised to hear from me. Especially after my trial at the Old Bailey for the London Airport Robbery. At the time of writing I am not living at my home address because it seems I am a suspect in the recent train robbery. Two Flying Squad officers recently visited my
home address and made a search of the premises, despite not having a warrant. To be honest, I am very worried that they will connect me with this crime.
The reason I write now is because the police always treated me very fairly during the Airport case. That cost me eight months and every penny I had, and to become a suspect in this last big robbery is more than I can stand. So my intention is to keep out of harm's way until the people concerned in the Train Robbery are found.
To some people, even writing this letter would seem like a sign of guilt, but all I am interested in now is keeping my freedom.
Yours Sincerely,
Gordon Goody
Paddy gave Tony the slip of paper with a number on it. He looked up from his desk in the office. 'Called while you were out.'
'There was no name next to the number. 'Who was it?' 'Didn't say,' the old man sniffed.
Tony took his jacket from the back of the chair. 'I'm just going out for ten minutes. Get you a sandwich?'
Paddy was frowning down at him, his lined face thrown into even deeper creases. 'That packet you gave me to look after…'
Tony looked at the floor as he shrugged on his jacket. 'Yeah?' 'It's all right, is it?'
'I told you. Just hiding it from the taxman.' 'Oh, all the profit from all those cars we've been shifting.' He looked out at the full showroom. 'I'm not stupid, Tony.'
'I know that. Which is why you'll always be able to say, hand on heart, "I thought it was tax money". Understand?'
Paddy nodded. 'I see.'
'But it won't come to that.'
Paddy spoke softly, his voice tinged with regret. 'I robbed a bank once.'
'What?'
'Well, more of a Post Office it was. In Ireland. For some of The Boys, if you know who I mean.'
'I think I do.' Although he wasn't sure whether he meant gangsters or the IRA. Perhaps they were one and the same.
'It was the only way to get my brother off the hook, y'see. So I did it, with a kid's plastic cowboy gun, handed over the money to some fella, and left the country. Never been back. But I'm too old to do much more of that, Tony.'
He put a hand on his shoulder. 'We'll sort something out, very soon.'
'I'd be grateful.'
But where? Was there a foolproof hiding-place for so much cash? 'I'll get you a sandwich.'
'Butter not marge, mind.'
'Of course.'
Tony walked quickly to Warren Street Tube. The scuffed wooden phone booth just inside the entrance was unoccupied, so he stepped inside and dialled the number.
'Tony?' It was Roy.
'Yup. How are you, Roy?'
'You know. Ducking and diving. You hear about Roger?'
'Yeah.'
'Roger – of all people. You know this bloke they lifted with him? Bill Something?'
'Boal. No.'
'Me neither. And they have Brian, too.'
'I heard.' Tony had pieced together what had happened during his own interviews with the Flying Squad. 'They tied him to the money in the woods, apparently.'
'What was that all about?'
'It was the drinks, left for someone to pick up, I reckon. What else could it be? You don't go dumping that much cash in the bloody forest otherwise, do you?'
'I suppose not,' said Roy. 'Someone's going to be pissed off, aren't they? Talking of which, I just wanted to tell you: Bruce is pretty narked about the farm. Last time we met he asked Charlie to have a word with you and Brian.'
A cold, prickly sweat broke out on Tony's forehead. 'Have a word' could mean several things, depending on Charlie's mood, but even the mildest – an up-close-in-your-face bollocking – was less than pleasant. And at the other end of the spectrum…
'Fuck.'
'All I'm sayin' is, watch your back. Bruce will have calmed down by now. To him it's a figure of speech, know what I mean? But Chas… What happened anyway?'
'I met Brian. He told me to torch it. I was on my way up and I got a tug. Nothing I could do.'
'Brian left you to do it by yourself?'
'Yeah. Said he had things to sort out.'
'What was more important than the farm?' Roy yelled. '"One big clue", the paper said.'
'I know, Roy, I know. But the Old Bill is on my case. I can't move. They know I was at the farm, God knows how. Keep banging on about it.' Jack Slipper, Len Haslam and Billy Naughton had all interviewed him before they had let him go. They knew he was good for it, but so far had no proof. If they
found some, he could wave goodbye to his new son for ten years or more. The thought made him physically ill.
'They've tied you to the farm?' Roy asked.
'Not physically, but they seem certain I was there. They can't get me for the actual tickle, but they want me for some of it at least.' There had also been the sly allusion to 'helping him out' if he were to turn the others in.
'But you kept your gloves on, right?'
'Course I did. Nobody mentioned my dabs being there. Where's Bruce now?'
'Gone to ground. So has Buster. Says he's going abroad. Gordy's off to Spain for a while.'
Tony glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a familiar, and unwelcome face. 'And Charlie?'
'With the family. Look, don't worry about him. It was probably nothing. Be lucky.'
'You too, Roy. You too.'
In the Buckinghamshire Police incident room, Len Haslam and Billy Naughton stood before one of the two enormous blackboards that had been borrowed from the local Aylesbury Adult Education Institute. On them were written the names of all those in the frame for the robbery. The writing covered both boards, more than forty names in all. A code had been devised, updated daily. After each one was a colour-coded letter. S just meant suspect; KAO was Known Associate Of; I stood for Interviewed, with the officer's initials and the date in brackets afterwards; WFQ, Wanted For Questioning; DQ was for Detained for Questioning, with a cipher for which station; and a red C meant the suspect had been charged. So far, only three names had gained the C: Brian Field, Roger Cordrey and Bill Boal.
Jim Hussey, Tommy Wisbey, Ronnie Biggs and Bobby Welch were all T status. Slipper, Williams or Hatherill had interviewed each one. All were suspects by association, either with Cordrey or with the name heading the list, Bruce Reynolds.
Gordon Gordy was up there, despite his letter proclaiming his innocence, since Len had been able to prove he hadn't been in Belfast on the night of the robbery, but had left two days earlier. Ronald 'Buster' Edwards had earned his place because of connections to Roger Cordrey.
Tony Fortune was on a different list, one reserved for those who had in some way aided and abetted the actual robbery. The Squad would get him for accessory before or after the fact, they were sure.
The young PC in charge of updating the board finished adding the last of the morning's abbreviations and turned to the two Squad detectives. His tunic was covered in a coating of multi-coloured chalk dust. He looked as if he had been baking with Technicolor flour.
'I see how these boys fit together, but what tipped the wink about this Reynolds?' he asked, tapping the name he had just written in.
'I don't know,' said Len truthfully – although he had a shrewd idea. George Hatherill and Ernie Mi
llen were adamant he was a key player but would offer no reason. Which meant the info came from Geoff Barrow. It was their lead. 'Guv'nor's call.'
They had driven up by car that day to attend the twice- weekly catch-up session with Malcolm Fewtrell, when information was pooled and cross-checked, only because more senior officers were still pulling in every villain in London and putting them through the wringer. The idea was it
concentrated the mind when they discovered it wasn't some junior detective facing them, but the heard-it-before expressions of Hatherill or Millen or Tommy Butler, Jack Slipper or Frank Williams. It was said hotels in Brighton and Eastbourne were booming as every face with form in the capital decided it was a good time for a seaside holiday.
'What's that?' asked Billy, pointing to a bright red question- mark hovering above Bruce's name.
'Mr Big.'
'What?'
'Mr Fewtrell thinks there must be someone behind it. A planner. He says that this is too complex for your average villain. Must be a Mr Big.'
'What, like Dr No?' sneered Len. 'Maybe we should see if Sean Connery is free to lend a hand.'
'Roy James, also known as "the Weasel"?' Billy asked as he read down the board. James was WFQ. Placing him at Euston looking at trains didn't amount to a watertight case – not unless being a weirdo became a crime. 'You ever heard him called that, Len – "Weasel"?'
Len shook his head. 'And he usually drives something, faster than Land Rovers.' It was his turn to read aloud 'Gordon Goody, KAO Brian Field.' He turned to the PC 'While we're up here, any chance we can take a look at die farm?'
'I think the forensics are finished,' the young man said. I'll go and check.'
After he had left, Len turned to Billy with the kind of smile on his face that always made the junior officer uneasy.
'We've got to get back,' Billy said. 'Slipper wants us to talk to Biggs again. We can't hang around.'
Slipper had gone through the OB – the Occurrences Book
– in Redhill and discovered Charmian's call about Ronnie and the woodcutting. The wife had blown her husband's alibi wide open. So now they had to ask him where he really was on the seventh and eighth of August.
'Don't you worry, Billy,' Len said with a wink. 'One day, Slipper will thank me for this.'
The farm disappointed the London policemen. Despite themselves, the Squad had come to admire the men behind the crime, if only for their style, bottle and chutzpah. They genuinely disagreed with those who painted them as latterday Robin Hoods – where exactly was the 'give-to-the-poor' part?
– but they could accept that the whole job was a cut above the run-of-the-mill. Unlike Leatherslade Farm.
Billy walked around the outside of the house. He had seen photographs, of course, and been surprised then that it wasn't some cute, half-timbered structure, only a dull, suburban dwelling. But with its blistered paintwork and neglected windowboxes, it looked even more down-at-heel than he expected. Hardly the kind of HQ Mr Big would choose. Didn't they operate from flashy penthouse flats with armed minions dressed in black?
'Len? Shall we go inside?' he shouted.
There was no answer.
'Len?'
He found him in one of the garages, kneeling down beside the Austin lorry. In his left hand, he had a brown suede shoe.
'What are you doing?'
'Shut up! Anyone out there?'
'No, they are either inside or at the gate.'
'Gently does it.'
Using a long-bladed screwdriver, he took a dried flake of
yellow paint from the can on the floor and pressed it onto the sole of the shoe. Billy noticed he was wearing gloves.
'Len…'
Duke stood and looked at his handiwork. 'There.' He slipped the shoe into a large plastic evidence bag and then placed it in his briefcase. 'Do you want to look inside?'
He went to push by, but Billy stepped into his path. 'What are you doing?'
The other man stripped off his gloves and shoved them into his jacket pocket. 'What does it look like I am doing? I'm fucking Gordon Goody.'
'Sir? You in there, sir?'
It was the young copper from the incident room.
'Just coming,' said Len.
When they emerged from the semi-darkness into the light, they could see the PC hopping from foot to foot in excitement.
'What is it?'
'Just come over the radio. They've got the fingerprinting results.'
'And?'
'Hundreds. We've got them all – Reynolds, James, Hussey, Biggs. We should get back. There's a big round-up coming.'
As they followed some distance behind, Len held up the briefcase containing the suede shoe. 'Ah well, Billy. We might not be needing this after all.'
Fifty-three
Goodwood Racing Circuit, 24 August 1963
Roy pulled into Goodwood's cramped, overcrowded paddock, almost slicing off a few toes. It was, as usual, a zoo, but a cracking one. Being invited to race at the Tourist Trophy meet was a big deal. There would be a cocktail party with the Duke of Richmond that evening and the next day a Driver's XI took on the Duke's players. Roy was not much of a batsman but he had a turn of speed as a bowler. But the match meant more than just rubbing elbows with a few nobs. It represented recognition, the tacit nod that you had been noticed, were a coming man, a driver to keep tabs on. Roy James was going up the ladder, to the roof.
As if it knew what rested on its shoulders, his car had performed well, lapping the tricky circuit – actually the perimeter road of a wartime RAF airfield – at close to 100mph. Only Peter Arundell in his Lotus-Ford was quicker.
As he pulled to a stop, hands reached out and patted him on the back. Bobby Pelham, Roy 's mechanic, had to push wellwishers aside to lever him out of the cockpit.
'Not bad,' Bobby said, as Roy pulled off his goggles and blinked dust from his eyes.
'Not bad?' Roy protested with a smile. 'A ton, not bad?'
'Lost your line on Woodcote,' Bobby tutted. 'Cost you.'
'Nearly lost the front end at No-name, thanks to bloody Dickie. Still, as you say, not bad.'
A tall, blazered figure pushed through the crowd. It was one of the track stewards, Major Grace – a crusty sort, very much from the right side of the tracks. However, he liked Roy and had always looked out for him at other events, no matter how rough and ready the young man's origins.
' Roy, your mother just phoned the office.'
'My mum? Is she OK?'
'She said you'd had visitors.'
'Visitors?'
'Yes. Wouldn't be more specific. Said you would understand. Insisted I give you the message.' The Major looked nonplussed, like a bawled-out schoolboy. Roy could imagine his mother taking him to task if he had even hesitated to carry out her wishes. She had a tongue like a stiletto when required.
Roy took off his helmet and handed it to Bobby. 'I know what that means. It's my uncle, from Australia. Look, Major, I've got to do some work on the engine overnight. Need to get it back to the workshop.'
'Can't you do it here?'
'I'd rather use my own tools. You know how it is.'
The Major knew full well that drivers and mechanics liked to cosset their steel and fibreglass babies on their own home turf. 'You'll miss drinks.'
'Well, it's more about the racing than drinking.'
The Major laughed. 'So some say.'
'I'll be back for the cricket.'
'That's more like it.'
As soon as the Major had left, Roy pulled Bobby Pelham aside. 'Can you take the car back to the garage?'
'OK. What's up?'
'That rubbish about "visitors". Means the Old Bill was at my mum's.'
Bobby looked shaken. 'Christ. About you-know-what?'
Bobby knew what Roy had been up to, but not the exact details of how much he had received for the job.
'Well, I doubt if it's because my Road Tax is overdue.'
Roy had been gripped by a sense of urgency. He looked at the
crowd in the pits, as if he expected to see Tommy Buder to be shouldering his way through at any moment. He walked to the Jaguar he used as a towing motor and searched in the boot, producing a fat envelope from beneath the toolkit. He handed it to Bobby. 'Wages,' he said. 'That'll keep you going for a while.'
Bobby looked inside and paled. 'Is it…'
'Just don't spend it all at once.' Roy slapped Bobby on the upper arm. 'I'm going to use the Mini. I'll call you when I know what's what, OK?'
Bobby could tell from the cast of Roy's face that he didn't expect things to be OK for a long time. 'Yeah – 'course.'
Tommy Butler wanted to do Charlie Wilson himself. Of all the names that had come into the frame with the fingerprints, he knew Charlie could be the most troublesome. He might not have the bulk of Hussey, Wisbey and some of the others, or the brains of Bruce Reynolds or Gordon Goody, but he was cunning. And he had a temper.
There was only one place where he wouldn't kick up a fuss. With his family. His wife and three daughters were Charlie's
very own Kryptonite, his weakness. The news had already gone out to all police forces that Charlie, Reynolds and Jimmy White – the first three with confirmed dabs at the farm – were wanted. Butler needed to lift Charlie before the item hit the evening news bulletins and the papers.
So, it was lunchtime when four squad cars pulled up outside Charlie's home in Crescent Lane, Clapham, circling like covered wagons in a Western. Tommy made the officers wait while he strode up to the bright yellow door and rang the bell.
Pat Wilson answered, ashen-faced. She would have seen the cars through the window. 'We're just having lunch,' she said, looking over his shoulder into the street. Neighbours were already appearing to take in the show.
, 'Can't wait for pudding, I'm afraid. I'll give him a sandwich at the station.'
'It's all right, Pat,' said Charlie from the hallway, grabbing a jacket.
'Charles Wilson?' Butler asked in his most formal voice.
'Mr Butler, please.' Both his eyes and words were pleading.
The policeman could see his three daughters standing at the foot of the stairs. He understood what Charlie meant. This was no time for doing it by the book. He could caution him later.