Signal Red (12 page)

Twenty four

London, March 1963

The celebrations kicked off with champagne cocktails at the Ritz. They cost a whopping eleven bob each, but Bruce insisted that they were the best in town and well worth every penny.

'A lump of sugar in the bottom of the glass, one drop of Angostura bitters—'

'Anger what?' asked Buster.

Bruce ignored him. 'A dash of brandy, not too much or you kill the champagne stone fuckin' dead, ice-cold bubbly and an orange peel. Lovely.'

Buster sipped his drink. 'Very nice.' He winked at Bruce. 'If a little poncy.'

The small group, all but one suited and booted, sat in a corner of the bar. Roy thought its green and gold decor could do with refreshing, but then he was drinking orange juice. Judging from his friends' reactions, the cocktails packed quite a kick; you wouldn't worry about the state of the wallpaper after two of them.

They were celebrating first Charlie and then Gordy getting off. The steel bowler had been replaced by the larger one that Buster had slipped the bent bogey in Postman's Park. Somehow, he had switched them in the evidence room at Cannon Row.

Roy watched as Gordy and Charlie toasted each other. Brian, taking his due for his machinations behind the scenes, was there as well as Bruce, Buster and, looking dangerously glamorous next to the Colonel, Janie Riley in a black sheath dress.

'One more and we'll have dinner at Madame Prunier's and a drink at the A and R club. Then maybe catch the Blue Flames at the Flamingo. All on the emergency fund.'

The cash from the robbery had been divvied up so each of the principals got around seven grand each, and what was left was split into two pots, the emergency fund, for things like bail, and the investment fund. A few drinks and a slap-up French meal on St James's plus a few rounds at boxer Freddie Mills' club and watching Georgie Fame would empty out the emergency fund. That left ten thousand in the investment pot. And that had to kick-start the next job.

Td like to make a toast,' said Roy. 'Gentlemen?'

The others fell silent.

'A toast to Gordy and Charlie, of course.'

There were some grunts, but nobody raised their glasses. There was more to come.

'And Brian. Nice one.'

Nodding heads all round.

'But we shouldn't forget we lost a soldier.' Roy looked at Bruce, who clearly approved of the military analogy. 'Tonight, we are a man down. Gentlemen, I give you Mickey Ball.'

'Mickey Ball,' the others said in unison, before drinking, all of them thinking of the five years he had pulled down. It was on the high side because he refused to name any accomplices.

Bruce came over and sat down next to Roy. 'You know we'll see him all right, don't you?'

'Yes, I know. Be nice to have something for him to come out to.'

'True.' Bruce thought of the empty coffers. 'Well, while he was inside, Charlie heard about something interesting that might be right up our street. Mickey will get a drink out of it. Absent friends and all that.'

'What sort of thing?'

Bruce leaned in. He hadn't been going to say anything until he learned more, but he felt he should show Roy he was thinking ahead, and of Mickey.

'A train, my son.'

'What kind of train?'

Bruce looked surprised. There was only one sort of train that would interest him. 'The money kind.'

CASH & CARRY

Twenty-five

Headley, Surrey, May 1992

My legs wobbled slightly as I opened the gate at the bottom of the path and stepped towards the siege house. Nerves, I guessed. The young copper had turned back; I was on my own. No light shone from within. I wasn't sure what the form was. Did I go up and knock? Wait until the door opened?

In the end I strode up the gravel as if I was just popping round for a chat - which, in a way, I was. Apart from the fact that one of us had a gun and was probably unhinged by recent events. I walked up the three marble steps between the pillars, rang the bell and waited.

An indistinct voice answered. 'It's open.'

I pushed the door and it swung back. The Yale lock had been clicked into the withdrawn position. It was dark inside.

'Come in and close it behind you,' said the disembodied voice.

I did as I was told.

'Release the catch so it locks.' I had him now. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs in the cold, black hallway. As my eyes adjusted I could see the shape of Roy James, looking shrunken, no bigger than a child I could also make out the faint glint of metal. The gun.

I pulled the button down and heard the latch snick into place. 'Hello, Roy. Long time.'

'Yeah. A very long time.'

I rubbed my hands together. 'Christ, it's cold in here.' 'Is it?'

'Yes, it is. You got any heating?'

'The boiler's broken. There's a gasfire in the kitchen.' He gave a loud, self-pitying sniff. 'They coming to get me, Tony?'

I shivered again, not from the chill in the air this time, but from the odd dispassion in the words he spoke. They were colder than the house. 'Eventually, Roy.'

He stood. 'Fancy some tea?'

'I do, Roy. I have biscuits.'

'You go and light the fire. I'll put the kettle on. Matches are on the mantelpiece.'

It was a huge kitchen, stone-flagged, with a fireplace large enough to roast an ox in. Much of it had been boarded up, leaving a triple-element gas fire. While he fussed with the kettle I lit it, almost singeing my eyebrows.

The sole illumination was a 100-watt bulb hanging above the table with no lampshade and it made his skin look waxy and accentuated the shadows under his eyes. Once I had unloaded the biscuits onto a plate, I stood near the now-glowing fire, letting it warm my legs. He sat at the table, the pistol - a Browning automatic - in front of him.

'You remember that winter?' Roy asked. 'Sixty-two and three? That was fuckin' cold.'

It had been beyond cold into absolutely freezing, the sort of temperature that made your very bones ache. Trains shut down, there were power cuts, blizzards. The days and weeks of ice and snow and grim, low skies had been very bad for the car business, and me with a baby on the way. Roy, too, had suffered disappointments as more and more race meets were cancelled. Had he got consistent early practice in, he would have progressed to International Formula Junior more quickly, which would have meant the chance of sponsorship, which meant. . . well, it could have changed everything for him.

'It's all turned to shit, hasn't it, Tony? For me, anyway.' He paused. 'Fuck, I've given that speech too many times. But I was good.'

'We all knew it, Roy.'

'I hope he fuckin' dies.'

'Your father-in-law? No, you don't.'

He took a deep breath. 'No. I don't. But sometimes I think I was happier in nick.'

'Don't say that.'

'Well, you know, in one way it's a lot less aggro. Just do your time. Out here, fuck, it's a battle, isn't it? Every day a battle. I saw Buster the other week on his flower stall. Says the same. Gets him down.'

'Buster always had a black streak,' I said carefully. 'You know that. Things just look bad now. Nobody's died. It's a bit of a domestic that got out of hand, that's all. I think we should go outside, Roy.'

'Why?'

'Before they come inside.'

He suddenly looked up at me, his eyes suspicious. 'Why did you say yes?'

'To coming here?'

'No. That day I came to the showroom and asked you to drive for us on the train job. Why did you say yes?'

It had been April, winter easing its terrible, almost malevolent grip at last. Nobody who lived through those months would ever forget it. Britain was thrust back to the Middle Ages - cold enough for Frost Fairs, almost. I had said yes for the same reason they all had: the money. I had no ready cash, too many cars nobody wanted to buy - the only people doing well in the motor business were the makers of anti-freeze and snow chains - and a wife who was pregnant. A wife who suddenly wanted a bigger house and things for the baby. Nice things. Expensive things.

Roy had come asking for two more Jags and I'd said no, not with the Chalk Farm boys looking my way. So he had asked whether, if they sourced the cars from elsewhere, I would take the second wheel. For good money. Buy-you-a-nice-flat kind of cash. Yes, I'd said, even though I knew what had happened to Mickey Ball. Five years.

I told myself I wouldn't ever make that kind of mistake.

Yeah, right.

Twenty-six

London, May 1963

Billy Naughton thought the girl would pull away as he came, but she kept her mouth clamped over the end of his cock until the last spasm had passed through it. When he had finished, she stood up and crossed the dingy room to the sink where she spat loudly while the detective buttoned himself up.

They were in a grey cubicle above the Hat Trick on Berwick Street. It was one of those come-on places with a hawker at the door who promised punters no end of delights but, in the end, sent them to a grim basement in Rupert Court where they were fleeced all over again. Its real business happened in the warren of tawdry rooms above it: a bed with a mattress that didn't bear thinking about, a dresser, a sink and a sharp smell that a gallon of Dettol couldn't hide.

The girl rinsed her mouth and looked at him with a disarmingly direct gaze. Billy felt himself blush. She was barely in her twenties, skinny, with a black Helen Shapiro semi-beehive that was in need of fresh backcombing. She spoke with an accent he couldn't place, apart from it originating north of the Watford Gap. 'You been eating spicy food, have you?' she asked, smacking her lips.

Buckling his belt, he checked the front of his trousers for stains. He recalled that the team had been for a curry at some place off Regent Street the night before. When he admitted he had never had an Indian before, Len had made him order vindaloo. Bastard. 'You can tell that?'

She gave a grin that dimpled her cheeks, softening the hard lines around her mouth. 'Look, love, after two years of this I can tell whether the customers prefer fruit gums or fruit pastilles.'

Two years? He thought briefly of all the cocks she had sucked in that time and shuddered. She had offered more, but now he was glad he just went for the oral.

There was a banging on the door and he heard Duke's voice through the thin chipboard and ply. 'You finished, lover boy? Come on, wipe your dick on the curtains and let's be havin' you.'

Billy gave a shrug and reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pound note. The girl arched an eyebrow. 'Blimey, a copper who leaves a tip. Is that a pig with wings I can see?'

He threw it onto the lurid shiny bedspread, then felt he had to say something as he put on his jacket. 'Look, Paulette, wasn't it?'

She nodded. 'Well, Pauline as was. But the punters like a French name. Among other things.'

'I don't normally do that. .. you know.'

'Do what?' She was teasing.

'Take advantage.' It wasn't strictly true. Len Haslam had nobbled him out for a similar 'treat' to drown their sorrows at Gordon Goody slipping through their fingers. It was a 'stag do' after a lock-in at a pub in Bermondsey. There had been blue films and a couple of willing girls high on, appropriately enough, blueys.

"Course not,' she sneered as she sat on the bed. Its overworked springs gave a tired groan. He went to continue but she held up a hand to silence him. 'Look, darling, one of your lot comes round for a free gobble every week or so. Happy to oblige. GTP, eh?'

It stood for Good To Police and described anywhere that gave discounts or free samples to the Force. 'But I don't want to listen to any speeches. Some of you coppers, the fresh ones like you, get sucked off and turn into Sir Galahad. Start suggesting I'm special, tell me how they'd like to help. But you are no different from the bastards that run this place, sonny. Or the punters. At least they pay decent.' She picked up the note and tossed it back at him. He let it flutter to the floor. 'Go on, fuck off, there's probably someone with real cash downstairs waiting for a good time. Types like you ruin the business, you do.'

He opened the door. She had folded her arms across her bony chest. He stepped out into the narrow corridor, leaving the pound note where it had fallen onto the greasy carpet.

Despite the occasional visit to the working girls, Soho wasn't their patch, not really. The Flying Squad left it to Vice and West End Central, who had it carved up like a very fat, filling meat pie. But Duke had a few contacts he liked to keep sweet, ones he had known before they had gravitated like bluebottles to the shit-heap of Old Compton Street and environs. And besides, as he was fond of saying, a free quickie never did anyone any harm. A perk of the job.

In the division of spoils at the Big House they had caught

two cases, one a jewellery lift in Hatton Garden, the other a vicious Post Office raid in Islington, and spent the rest of the day flitting between the two locales, achieving very little that Billy could see, except winding up the local coppers and sinking a few pints.

They finished their shift at the Lamb and Flag, where Billy felt a cloud of gloom descend around him as he lit what would be the first of many fags. Duke sensed his mood at once. 'You think we've been wasting our fuckin' time, don't you?'

'Nooo . . .' Billy said, drawing out the word to breaking-point.

'Look, get over the idea that we have to be Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Whatsit,' said Duke, supping his eighth beer of the day. 'Sooner or later it'll fall in our lap, just like that tom of yours earlier.'

Billy smirked along with him, but there was no humour in it. His dick had been itching for the last couple of hours, even though he'd washed it in various scabrous Gents' sinks since the encounter. He was beginning to wonder if you could catch the clap from blowjobs.

'The thing you have to remember about villains is they are either stupid or overconfident or both. Some of them have intelligence, or rather rat-like cunning. A few have imagination, but not many. Which is why they stick to their patches. Territorial, see, like any animals. Yet we think of them as some kind of Raffles. You know, gentlemen thieves backed by a criminal mastermind. Now there's a fuckin' contradiction in terms. Criminal bleedin' masterminds. I tell you, if they were so mastermindy, you think they'd do the same thing over and over again? Do you? Does the team think, eh? I don't fuckin' think so.'

He was shouting now, and Billy looked around. The pub was almost empty, just a few woozy stragglers, and they weren't paying much attention. A buzzer went for last orders, but it didn't register with Duke. Billy knew that coppers were conditioned to ignore such sounds, like the opposite of Pavlov's dogs. At the sound of the bell, act like fuck-all has happened and it's got nothing to do with you. Which, with a flash of a warrant card, it rarely did.

'Well, does the team think?' Duke said, savouring the phrase. 'Not much, Y'Honour. Can't teach an old slag new tricks. Can you, Billy?'

A slyness had crept into Duke's voice and Billy realised he wasn't as pissed as he was pretending to be. He punched the older man on the shoulder. 'You cunt.'

Duke took that as a compliment and flashed his nicotine-stained teeth. 'You know this place used to be called the Bucket of Blood? Because of all the bare-knuckle fights outside. Back in . . .'

But Billy wasn't having any of that old flannel. 'Spare me the history lesson, Len. There'll be more blood on the floor if you don't tell me what you picked up.'

Duke reached into his pocket and took out a small square of paper which he unfolded and laid on the bar towel in front of them. There were two registration numbers on it. 'Bingo,' he said. 'All the three point fours, nickety-nick.'

Billy picked up the scrap and stared at it. 'What you on about?'

'Last weekend, just gone. Two Jags go missing within half a day of each other. And not any old Jags. Three point fours again. What does that tell you?'

Billy didn't need to think too hard. 'The Comet House boys?'

'Precisely. The City gents. Old fuckin' habits, see? Jaguar three point fours. The motor of choice for the discerning wheel-man everywhere.' His eyes were suddenly sober, the glassy stare replaced by something altogether more steely. 'They took the piss, didn't they? So now we take a good, long look at Roy James, Buster Edwards and especially Gordon "Big Head" Goody, and this time we catch them doing a bit more than scratching their bollocks.' He pointed at Billy's empty glass. 'Fancy another, son?'

Twenty-seven

London, May 1963

Tony's stomach was burning as he parked the Hillman in a side street lined with tall Edwardian houses, a ten-minute walk from the lock-ups at Lee where Jimmy White had stashed the two Jaguars. The idea was to move them closer to the job, which was scheduled for that night. A train. Robbing a bleeding train. It was like the Wild West, with Bruce Reynolds as Cheyenne Bodie. No, he was a good guy. Paladin, that was the bloke, a gunfighter with a dark streak in him. Have Gun, Will Travel it said on his calling card. Except Bruce said no guns. Using a shooter was like Double Your Money, he had told them, only here it was called Double Your Jolt.

Marie had sensed there was something up. She had never stopped asking questions. Where are you going? What are you doing? Why are you staying the night? Is it a woman?

No, it's not a woman. Well, she believed that. Because it was the truth. If only. No woman would churn his insides like this. His cover story - alibi, he supposed - was that he was going to buy a Ford Zodiac and a Zephyr in Southampton