Signal Red (33 page)

'ABC, lads. ABC.' It stood for Assume nothing, Believe nobody, Check everything. 'She give you anyone else?'

'Bruce Reynolds. But we already have him down as a person of interest.'

'And you can't pull him just on some mad bint's word. Got to be better than that. And if Fortune does put his hands up for it, before you charge him in connection with the train you'll have to take him to Aylesbury.'

'We appreciate that, sir,' Billy said.

'And why aren't you taking this to Mr Butler or Mr Millen?'

Because you are the kingmaker in this, Len thought. The Big Cheese.

'Well, as Len says, apart from the tip-off, it's tangential at the moment. Thought we'd run it by you first. You might make connections we can't.'

Hatherill shook his head, well aware he was being flattered. 'I'm not sure why you are wasting my time with this, lads. We've pulled in almost every lowlife. What makes Tony Fortune so special?'

'His wife.'

'I thought you said she had just given birth? I don't recall a pregnant woman being involved at Sears Crossing.'

Len and Billy exchanged glances, confirming to each other that it was time to come clean. Knowing he had Hatherill's ear, Len let Billy do the talking.

'The wife is speaking partly in riddles and nods and winks.'

'That's women for you,' smiled Hatherill. 'Especially after they've had a baby.'

'We think Tony Fortune was offered the job but for some reason turned it down. Yes, I know half the villains in London are claiming that. We also think that the wife's brother knew about it.'

'Where is the brother?'

'Norwich.'

'The prison?'

Billy nodded vigorously. 'Sir. He was the driver on an armed robbery last week. Grafton Street?'

Hatherill waved him on with an impatient gesture of his hand. 'I know about it, yes.'

'Geoff, the brother, is up to his eyes in debt. When the train didn't come off for him, he went with the Clarence Brothers. Big mistake. Now he is looking at ten years.'

'But?'

'Marie Fortune reckons that if Geoff's charge were dropped to being an accessory - just driving, in other words - he might give us some names.'

'But Tony Fortune won't?'

They both shook their heads.

'Tony Fortune isn't stupid.'

'But this Geoff is?'

Len gave a grunt that might have been a laugh. 'He'd have to be, to drive for the Clarences. They make the Richardsons look like The Brains Trust.'

'Does Fortune know you have spoken to the wife?'

Again, they shook their heads in unison. 'He hasn't put anything together yet,' said Billy. 'He's not even sure why he was pulled. We're certain of it.'

'Good. Keep it like that. Wife might come in handy later as a bit of leverage.' Hatherill smoked on, thinking for a moment. 'I am assuming you lads would like to be attached to the Train Squad for this. Should it pan out, I mean.'

Neither of them denied it.

'In which case, I think you can leave this matter to Ernie Millen and me.'

'Sir?' Len asked incredulously. 'What do you mean?'

'Mr Millen and I will travel to Norwich. I'm sorry, but if you are right, this is too important to . . .' His words tailed off.

'Leave to junior officers?' Billy suggested.

'In a word, yes. You keep quiet about this. It has to be approached carefully. We also have to make sure no word of this gets out, certainly not into the prison population.' He could see disappointment in both their faces. 'In the meantime, drop everything else, report to Jack Slipper, see if he has anything needs chasing up.'

It took a moment for the last sentence to sink in. Slipper was one of the Train Squad. And if they were working for him, they were too.

'Sir.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Go on, piss off. Go and catch some train robbers, make me happy.' As they were almost out the door, he spoke again, softly. 'And boys, this better be right. I have many ambitions for what little time I have left in the Force. Going to Norwich isn't one of them.'

Ten minutes later the phone rang. It was Brigadier John Cheney, Chief Constable of Buckinghamshire, and what he told him put a big smile on Hatherill's face. He put down the receiver and then called the operator. 'Get me the Forensic Science laboratory. We've found the hideout.'

'Mrs Clark, is it?'

The fifty-year-old woman who had opened the door looked Roger Cordrey up and down and seemed relieved, probably because he wasn't Irish, black or a dog. 'You've come about the garage?'

'I have.' Sitting in the little Austin van behind him was his old pal Bill Boal, who had come along to help with the next stage of the job, stashing the money and starting a legitimate enterprise to account for it. For which they needed a garage. 'Yes. I telephoned.'

'Just that I've had some very strange people ringing. It's only around the corner. Would you like to see it?'

'Yes, please,' Roger said politely. 'But I am sure it will be fine. Just as long as it's dry.'

'Oh, very dry. My husband was a stickler for keeping it clean and dry. There are no oil stains and you could eat your dinner off that floor. Come in, I'll get you the keys and the rental agreement. Would your friend like to come in?'

Roger looked back over his shoulder. 'No, he'll be fine. We are going into business together.'

'Locally?'

'Wimborne. But we'll base ourselves in Bournemouth.'

'Well, come in, come in.'

Roger stepped inside a house crammed full of china ornaments. He kept his hands pressed to his sides in case he inadvertently sent a windmill or a doe-eyed flower-seller crashing to the floor. 'What line of work are you in?'

'Flowers.'

'Lovely. Come through to the kitchen.'

Roger walked down the hallway. The kitchen wasn't any less hazardous, as every inch of the wall seemed to have decorative plates hanging on it.

'If you'll just put your name, address and telephone number down here. And I'll need a month's refundable deposit and a month in advance. There are two keys. I'll keep one. Don't worry, I won't go in. It's just in case you lose yours.'

Roger hesitated. 'Two of us will be using the garage, so

we'll need both keys. My friend outside in the car, Bill - we share the car.'

Mrs Clark's face seemed to fold in on itself. She wasn't happy.

'It's unlikely we would both lose them, but we'll copy the serial numbers just in case. And pay for any replacement.'

She looked partially mollified. 'Very well.'

'And I can give you the deposit plus three months' rent now. In cash.'

Her face unfurled. 'Oh, well. How rude of me - would you like a cup of tea while you count the money out?'

'Yes, that would be very nice.'

'Then I'll walk you round and show you which one it is. Nice blue door, only just painted before . . .' She put a hand to her throat. 'Sorry, before my husband passed away.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'It's why I don't need the garage, you see.'

'We'll take good care of it.'

'I'm sure you will.'

She watched while he counted out the rent in one-pound notes. She looked at the tower of cash sitting on her kitchen table, and at the impressive roll he had peeled them from. (lash. Bundles of it.

As her husband used to say after a few pints, 'If it looks like shit, smells like shit and feels like shit. . . it's probably shit.' She hated the crudity, but William hadn't risen to Sergeant in the police force without a good nose for a wrong 'un. And he would say this one stank to high heaven.

'Here are the keys. Why don't you walk round, take a look and we'll have the tea when you get back and sign if you are happy?'

'Very well.'

'Fourth one in. Blue door.'

As soon as he had gone, Mrs Clark went to the telephone in her hall. She didn't pick it up until she heard the engine of the van they had arrived in start up. She watched its blurred image through the glass of the front door as it pulled away and executed a U-turn.

Picking up the receiver, she was about to dial, then she hesitated. She was probably imagining things. Bucks was a long way from Bournemouth, after all. Still, 'report anything suspicious' they had said. She dialled.

'Hello, operator? Can you get me the Desk Sergeant at Poole police station?' This was her husband's old station. She would get a sympathetic hearing there. And wouldn't it raise a smile in his former canteen if William Clark's widow were responsible for capturing the Great Train Robbers?

Bruce was the first to arrive. He parked his Austin Healey in the gravel car park of the cafe, just off the North Circular Road. It was five days since the robbery, and the news was still full of bluster and exaggeration.

Roy pulled in next in his Mini Cooper, with a scowling Charlie in the seat beside him. Just Buster now and they had the quartet who would travel back to the farm. Charlie hoped Buster would bring a larger motor so they could all fit inside in comfort. He wished he'd used the big Rover.

Bruce stepped out, careful not to scuff his new elastic-sided boots. When he saw the other two he had to laugh. 'Christ, we look like a bloody Freeman's catalogue.'

Roy looked down at his new clothes, the roll-neck and cardigan combo and dark blue slacks. 'Speak for yourself. This lot cost some serious dough.'

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 shouting 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.