Signal Red (27 page)

sauce? So you stop outside and then Tony comes with two coppers?'

'And his missus. Holding her belly.'

'They got into squad cars?'

'Yup. But I reckon they was going to the hospital.'

'The Flying Squad do a lot of things,' said Charlie quietly, 'but they don't deliver babies. That's a different 999.'

'Could be they were after Tony for something else. This, maybe,' offered Roger.

'Not likely,' said Bruce, sensing a flash of the jitters from the signalman. 'Or we'd all be in it.'

'Tony's solid,' said Roy. 'You know that.'

'He'd better be,' muttered Gordy, expertly shuffling a deck of cards, despite his gloves.

'Forget Tony for a minute, can we?' Roy said. 'What about the train, Bruce?'

'Oh, yeah.' Bruce had neglected to tell them about his call to Glasgow. He had arrived back at the same time as Tiny Dave, discovering they were a man down. 'It's left on time. Close to a hundred HVP sacks. One point five million.'

Ralph, normally the quiet one, gave a low, appreciative whistle and laughed. 'Fuck me.'

'But what about this business with Tony?' asked Roger, refusing to be swept along by the ripples of avarice spreading throughout the room. 'Should we wait for another night? Or forget it altogether?' The initial euphoria the signalman had shown for the enterprise had dissipated. He was nervous and sweaty now, complaining about missing his wife, outraged that he was expected to lie low at the farm with the others. Charlie had been designated to make sure he didn't fold on them. He only had to give Roger one of his looks and the whingeing died on his lips.

Bruce glanced around the room, at faces made yellow by cheap, low-watt bulbs and a half-dozen candles. He knew that some were thinking that, even now, police cars could be moving into position around the farm. 'We'll take a vote. All in favour of going ahead, raise their hands.' He waited until each man had made their decision. Charlie glared at Roger until the latter half-raised his arm.

'Right, then. It's unanimous. We go tonight.'

'The thing is, Tony,' drawled Len Haslam, 'it was your van waiting for the transfer.'

Tony was sitting in the interview room at Paddington Green, opposite Duke Haslam and Billy Naughton. He was both relieved and annoyed. Relieved because this was nothing to do with the farm or Bruce and the lads. Furious because his piece-of-shit brother-in-law had dragged him into this mess. Now he would miss out on his whack. The robbery would go ahead without him.

'What van?'

'Your Hillman Husky. There it was, parked up, just waiting for the loot to arrive. Classic switcher-oo. Oh, and Geoff had the keys in his pocket.'

'I told you, I bought the Husky off Geoff. He begged me to. Then while I was away . . .'

'Away where, Tony?' Billy Naughton asked.

'Southampton. Buying cars. Looking under them, examining engines. That's why I'm so dirty. You can check—'

'We will,' said Len Haslam.

Tony wasn't worried about that. As Bruce had suggested, he had set up a good alibi, well rehearsed, with his old pals in Falmer. He would have to kick it into play as soon as he got out.

'But about the Hillman Husky,' prompted Billy.

'It's mine, yes. But as I am sure my wife will have told you, Geoff came and borrowed it back. Or at least, I assume that is what he did.'

'And the Jag used in the robbery? Nice one, brand new.'

Tony shrugged. 'Not down to me. Look, have a heart, gents. My wife is about to give birth.'

'And you want to be there with the big cigar.'

'Yeah. Is that a crime now?'

The two policemen said nothing.

'I know you'd like to haul me in while you're at it, but I had nothing to do with it. Smash and grab? Is that my game? I might clock the odd motor now and then, but really. Talk about barking up the wrong tree. Now, can I get cleaned up and go and see my wife?'

'Go on, fuck off,' sighed Haslam. 'But don't go off on any more expeditions, all right? Stay close to home, son.'

'I'm about to become a father. Where else would I be?'

'In the Scrubs if we find out you're lying,' said Billy. He looked up at the ceiling, as if a thought had just occurred to him. 'You know anything about a big job going off, Tony?'

'Yeah.'

'What's that?'

'My wife squeezing a kid out. Biggest job of all.'

Len managed a thin smile. 'Nothing about a Bank Holiday tickle? That was the whisper.'

Tony scratched his ear as nonchalantly as he could. 'Nobody's whispered to me.'

'Right. Piss off then.'

After he had gone, the two men lit cigarettes. 'What do you think?' Len asked.

'The Bank Holiday is a bit thin.'

Billy shrugged. It was a small nugget, but a nugget just the same, picked up in a pub. 'That's all I heard. Heavies wanted for a Bank Holiday job.'

'I hope you didn't dip into the fund for that. Still, Bank Holiday isn't till the end of the month.' Len took out his pocket diary and flicked through it. 'Twenty-sixth.'

'It's likely to be a bank vault, eh, Len? They might be after sledgehammer men. Which is why they need muscle.'

Haslam nodded, impressed by the boy's thinking despite himself. 'A three-day weekend. Gives them an extra day to break through walls and what have you. A bank, yeah.'

'But we've got time on our side. Whatever it is should leak between now and then, Len.'

'True.' He inclined his head to indicate the departed suspect. 'You fancy Fortune for the jeweller's?'

'Not really. His brother-in-law confirms he had nothing to do with it.'

'Yeah, right,' he said. 'Probably as thick as Pinky and Perky, those two.'

'I don't get that impression.'

Duke Haslam dropped his cigarette into the tin mug in front of him. It hissed as it hit the half-inch of cold tea in the bottom. 'You don't get that impression?' he repeated. 'Mr Hatherill teach you impressions, did he? Go on, do Max Bygraves.'

Billy's time spent with the Commander was a sore point. Len felt his protege had been purloined and he had sensed a sea change in the younger man after his jaunt to Devon. After the West Country, Billy had been sent on a doping stakeout at Sir Gordon Richards's stables, at the request of the trainer, who was worried about some of his thoroughbreds' performances. Billy had not only caught a jockey administering powder to a favourite, but had picked himself up a strapping stable lass too. Billy was growing up.

'I can do Henry Cooper,' said Billy with mock severity, clenching a fist and waving it.

'What - bleed a lot?' Len sneered. He had been there at Wembley when Cooper had floored Cassius Clay, only for the latter to be saved when Clay's cornerman had protested that his fighter's glove had split. The delay enabled Clay to come back at Cooper and open up a cut on his eye, which led to the fight being stopped. All England was outraged for Our 'Enery, but Len felt the best fighter had won, even if he was an arrogant black bastard.

'I'm not saying Fortune is clean,' continued Billy. 'He doesn't smell right, I'll grant you that.'

Haslam bit his tongue. 'Doesn't smell right' was a prime piece of Hatherill Ham, fresh off the bone.

'But not for this. Geoff Barrow is an idiot. Not sure you can say the same about Tony Fortune. Still.'

'Still?' echoed Haslam. 'Still what?'

Billy Naughton raised his eyebrows and smirked. 'Still, let's put a tail on young Tony, eh?'

By midnight the tension in the farmhouse was building towards unbearable. All had changed into their outfits, the drivers and Bruce dressed as soldiers, most of those who would be on the track in boilersuits and balaclavas, although Roger had opted to dress like a vagrant, in case he was surprised on the gantry, and then he could pretend to be sleeping rough.

Bruce, outwardly calm and controlled, had to admit to some nerves. He checked and rechecked that he had everything he needed, that his walkie-talkie was functioning and that he had his balaclava, that the uniform - genuine ex-Army but altered

by Franny to fit better - would pass muster. Yes, he had to admit as he looked in the full-length mirror in the bedroom, he did have something of the officer class about him.

It was hard to believe, after the months of speculation, planning and scouting, that it was about to go down. Even more incredible was the thought of the amount of money that could be his - theirs - by the end of the evening. He'd be rich. Properly rich, not just enough for a flash motor and a few good dinners. But seriously, stonkingly rich. Maybe for life. That would be good. Bugger the Aston; if there was more than one million, he'd go for a Ferrari GTO. True, they cost a fortune to run. But he intended to have a bloody fortune, didn't he?

Bruce consulted his watch again, marvelling at how the hands were crawling round. As the second hand swept past the six he cleared his throat. 'OK, lads.'

They all stopped what they were doing.

'Head 'em up, move 'em out.'

There was the clatter of mugs being put aside, the rough scrape of chairs being pushed back, the sudden burble of excitement. Cigarettes were stubbed out, board games abandoned, dregs of coffee swallowed. 'Candles, gents. Don't want to come back to see a smouldering wreck.'

Roy, in charge of transport, shouted out a reminder of who was in what vehicle. 'And keep your speed down,' he said. 'There's only one racing driver here and even he's on a go-slow.'

The men tumbled out past Roy into a lovely warm summer's evening, silvered by a big, friendly moon. The air hardly moved, wrapped round them like a light soft blanket. It was the kind of night, thought Bruce as he headed for one of the Land Rovers, where you could believe in fairies and elves.

The kind of night where something magical might happen. A miracle, even.

He felt a hand heavy on his shoulder as he opened the Land Rover's door. It was Charlie. 'Just want to say, Bruce, no matter what happens. Nice one.'

It meant a lot coming from Chas. Almost twenty years they had known each other; from bombsites to train jobs, it had been quite a journey. Bruce watched his old friend slide into what they called the 'heavy' vehicle - Charlie plus Buster, Tiny Dave, Tommy Wisbey and Gordy. Bruce climbed into the second Land Rover, into the passenger seat next to his second cousin. 'Quiet' Ralph had volunteered to take Tony's role as driver; Bruce was happy with that. As Roy had said, it wasn't a race. He switched on the VHF radio that was tuned to Buckinghamshire Constabulary.

Bruce turned around, elbow on the seat. He had Roger, Ronnie and Stan in the back, the technical team. 'Everyone all right?'

'Fine.' Roger was licking his lips as if he hadn't had a drink for months. He looked strained. Stan was rolling another fag, a slight tremor evident in his fingers. Ronnie was Ronnie, relaxed, ready for what the night would throw at him.

Roy gunned the engine of the Land Rover and pulled away first, taking his fearsome crew with him. God help anyone who got in their way, thought Bruce. The lorry that would carry the cash came out second, a tired-looking Jimmy White at the wheel, Bobby Welch next to him, Jim Hussey in the rear.

Ralph let in the clutch and they bounced towards the track that led to the B4011 and the back roads to Bridego. Bruce checked the time. Twelve-forty. In three hours he would either be a hero to these men or a dismal failure.

Nobody spoke for the first few miles, lost in their own version of what the coming twenty-four hours might hold.

'Eh,' said Stan eventually. 'I just had a thought.'

Fuck me, thought Bruce, that must be lonely in there. 'What is it, Stan?'

'It's coming from Glasgow, right, the train?'

'Yes.'

'And the money is from banks up there?'

'That's correct.'

'What if they're all Scottish notes?'

Bruce laughed. They would be a bugger to shift; even trying to get a single Scottish pound note accepted in London was hard enough. 'Tell you what, Stan.'

'What, Bruce?'

'If they are, you can keep the lot.'

'Someone on the road ahead,' said Ralph.

A figure was caught in the headlights, a solitary man on a lonely road at some godforsaken hour. His hand was stretched out, thumb pointing east.

'Hitchhiker,' said Bruce. 'Keep going.'

This was no time for Good Samaritans.

Tony Fortune lay staring at the ceiling in the flat, unable to sleep, his mind churning and restless. It flitted from images of Marie and the lovely, crumpled baby that had reduced him to tears, and the sixteen men in the farmhouse - seventeen if you counted Brian Field - waiting to pull off a ridiculously audacious crime.

And his poxy brother-in-law. Banged up for armed robbery, having tried to prove that he, too, could be a getaway driver.

He was disappointed about missing out on the payday from the train, mainly for Marie's sake. Maybe the others would

bung him a drink. He deserved at least that. Perhaps enough to pay for a nursery for the baby. And a nice pram. Marie would be home in a few days. He should get to work on doing some painting.

He leaned up onto one elbow and looked at his watch. Twelve forty-five. For a moment he imagined he could hear the grind of Army gears, smell the excitement and anxiety of the men in unfamiliar uniforms, see the gleam in Bruce Reynolds's eyes. Then he slumped back down and let his lids droop, willing sleep to come. Good luck, lads, he thought. Good luck.

Forty-five

Sears Crossing, 8 August 1963

Roy James's walkie-talkie crackled as he walked alongside the rails, heading for the gantry of the 'home' signal. 'Roy?'

'Yes, Bruce?' 'How you doing?'

'I've cut the telephone to most of the farmhouses. Had to leave one, because it would come down on some cowsheds. Make a hell of a racket.' 'OK. Trackside phone?' 'That's already out. How about you?' Bruce was ahead of them all as point man, ready to send the alert when the TPO Up train left Linslade. 'Smoking a damn fine cigar.'

That's Bruce, Roy thought. Always doing it in style. Roy heard the steel rail beside him buzz and looked over his shoulder, beyond Bridego Bridge. 'Train coming,' he said. 'What?'

'From the south. Train coming. I'm getting down.'