Signal Red Part 18

'Don't exaggerate. Five pints. Two scotches.' He did feel rough around the edges, his stomach burning from all the alcohol - celebrating the nicking of the Islington Post Office gang - and no food. But that wasn't why he felt queasy.

Duke, fresh-faced apart from a razor nick on his upper lip, grinned. 'Right. Must have been me who did the seven and three then - and I feel fine. So what's up with you, Junior? Need to see Dr Kildare?'

Dr Kildare was the half-bottle of scotch that Duke kept handy in case a hair of the dog was needed.

'Leave it out. Got to see the TM.'

TM stood for Top Man: Commander George Hatherill, overall head of Scotland Yard's C Division, the business end, and a cla.s.sic Old Sweat, who had been everywhere, seen everything.

'He asked for you?'

Billy said he had.

'Could be a good thing,' Haslam told him. 'You never know.'

Billy doubted it. He hadn't made much of an impression over the past few months, could hardly claim to have established himself as a thief-taker.

'By the way, I forgot to ask you last night. Did you turn up anything on that bloke who was with Bruce Reynolds?' Len clicked his fingers in front of Billy's eyes. 'Come on, boy, snap out of it.'

'He's a writer,' said Billy distantly.

'A what?'

'A writer,' he repeated.

'What kind of f.u.c.kin' writer? A sign writer?'

'Journalist. Author. Colin Thirkell.' Billy fetched one of the paperback novels he had bought at Foyles from his drawer and tossed it onto the desk.

Duke picked it up and read the t.i.tle.'Black and Blues. What's this?'

'About the clashes between the coloureds and the police. In Notting Hill.'

'Is he a c.o.o.n-lover then, this Thirkell?'

Billy shrugged. 'I haven't read it. He's queer though.'

'How do you know? Is it because he takes men's d.i.c.ks up the a.r.s.e? Is that the clue?' Len leered at him, making Billy feel even more nauseous.

'Drinks at the Moorhen off Tottenham Court Road.'

'Ah. Queers and nig-nogs.' Duke scanned the rear of the novel. It was a twin-strand story about Dexter, a Jamaican seaman who ends up as a pimp, and Stirrup, a Detective Inspector on the Vice Squad. 'c.o.o.n-lover,' he confirmed. 'As well as an a.r.s.e-bandit. What time are you seeing the TM?'

'Eleven.'

'Well, don't get trapped by one of his b.l.o.o.d.y stories. If he mentions the Penn murder case, fake an epileptic fit. The big kind.' Duke handed the book back. 'Filth. But it means he might have just been trawling the gutter for background to one of his stories.'

'What shall we do about him then?'

Len Haslam thought for a moment. They had a lot on their plate. Millen was pressuring them to find Michael Morris, who had escaped from Lewes Prison swearing to kill the woman who had sent him a Dear John letter. There had been a dozen sightings over the past three weeks and it was known he had bought a Luger in Brighton. Some queer nig-nog lover in Notting Hill who liked to hang around with thieving toerags like Bruce Reynolds wasn't much of a priority.

Just then, the operator called out Duke's name, telling him he had a call. 'Pa.s.s his name along to the Vice,' he advised Billy. 'He gets caught cottaging, tell them to let us know. Otherwise, we'll save him for later.'

George Hatherill's nickname of Top Man wasn't just a respectful courtesy tide. Billy stood before the man's desk in an office crammed with commemorative photographs and awards, going back to before the war. Hatherill was well past the age when he could have retired, but there was always one last little job for him. Right now, with the senior management laid low by a series of unforeseen deaths - three heart-attacks and a cancer that had spread with terrifying speed - and long- term illnesses, it was to supervise a reorganisation of the Yard.

But everyone knew he was really sniffing around for the Last Big Case, the one that would seal his career.

Hatherill was portly and avuncular, smoked like the proverbial chimney, enjoyed a good gla.s.s of wine - thanks to his pre-war travels on the continent on police business, which also gave him his eight languages - and was always well turned- out. Today he had on a dark three-piece suit, with a white saw-toothed handkerchief in the top pocket, a finely pinstriped s.h.i.+rt, Windsor-knotted tie and, although Billy couldn't see them, doubdess mirror-finished shoes.

Billy was aware of the man's career and its scope. Hatherill had met Hitler and Himmler when he was investigating forgery of British fivers in Germany before the war. Which was ironic considering that during the war Hitler and Himmler went into the same forgery business. He had even been allowed to tour Gestapo headquarters and got a good sense of n.a.z.i justice. He had also been responsible for the capture of Peter Griffiths, the so-called Beast of Blackburn. The latter had raped a three-year-old girl whom he had abducted from her hospital cot. It was said Hatherill stood virtually every officer in the Met a drink the day Griffiths had hanged.

In recent years he had gathered a reputation for long- windedness, for recapitulating highlights of his career, as if rehearsing for the memoirs he claimed to be writing. Some said he was only sticking around for the Last Big Case so he had a closing chapter for the book that wasn't ent.i.tled My Twilight Years Behind a Desk.

'I have been speaking to Mr Millen and a few of your colleagues,' said Hatherill, tapping Billy's file. 'They mostly have good things to say about you.'

Billy noted the 'mostly' and wondered what the caveats might be. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Of course, it is not easy fitting into the Flying Squad. They have their own way of doing things.' He arched an eyebrow. He was referring to the informal way of recruiting. The Flying Squad liked to 'bring on their own', which helped foster the camaraderie and elitism for which it was known. It also meant that when officers were transferred out, they sometimes had trouble adjusting to a different regime. 'But it appears you have made a good job of it.'

'Yes, sir.'

'But I think you need a wider experience. You did ten weeks' Detective School?' 'I did.'

'Then how long in plainclothes before coming across?'

'Six months, give or take. But I was an Aide to CID as well. In and out of uniform.'

'Mainly in,' said Hatherill, showing he had read the file. 'Not enough, m'boy, not enough. Well, pack your bags. Mr Millen has released you to me. We are going on a trip.'

'Trip?'

'Cornwall - Newquay. You know it?'

'No, guv.'

'Actually a little place called Perranporth. Look it up.'

He thought about Len's reaction. It would be something along the lines of 'teacher's pet'. 'Sir, how long will we be gone? I mean, I have ongoing cases-'

'I know what you have. It's a pretty light caseload though, now Islington is sorted. DS Haslam can handle it on his own. And we'll be away as long as it takes.'

Hatherill lit up a cigarette from a burnished walnut box with what could be a German eagle on it, picked out in silver. Almost as an after-thought he offered Billy one of the Senior Service. After a moment's hesitation, he took one. Hatherill lit both with an enormous desk lighter. 'Take a seat. Look, Billy, I'm long enough in the tooth to know that breadth of your experience will matter as much as its intensity. The Squad can't teach you everything. There is one investigation I recall that demonstrates that perfectly. Did you ever hear of the Penn murder case?'

Billy's heart sank. He remembered Duke's advice about feigning an epileptic fit if the guv'nor starting blahing. 'Rings a bell, sir.'

'Well, look it up, look it up. This one in Perranporth could be as interesting.'

Billy realised he had been spared a long walk down Memory Lane and brightened. 'What is it, sir? In Cornwall?'

'A headless corpse.'

Now the old windbag had his interest. The Last Big Case.

Bruce Reynolds had had enough. So had Franny. He hadn't told his wife exactly what he was up to, but she knew from the comings and goings, the phone calls, the drinking and the short temper that something big was on the cards and that Bruce was feeling the pressure.

So, on the night before the football match at Clapham Common, Bruce agreed to drive Franny down to Redhill to visit Charmian and Ronnie Biggs. The two girls could make dinner and have a good chinwag, while Ronnie and Bruce went to the local. It would do him good to talk about something other than trains. They parked their son Nick with Mary, a friend, and motored down in a TR4, borrowed from the garage that was reshodding and servicing the Lotus. Bruce took with him a copy of Afro Blue Impressions by John Coltrane, which he had picked up in Dobell's on Charing Cross Road. He presented it as a gift to Ronnie, the only one of his friends who would really appreciate it.

'I think you'll like it. Bit out there in places, if you know what I mean. It's got this mad twenty-one-minute version of "My Favourite Things",' Bruce explained as the two men left the house. 'Don't play it while Charmian's in the room. Drives Franny mental. She says he's just forgotten the tune, that's why it's so bleedin' long.'

The two men walked down to the Red Lion, which Ronnie said was his new favourite boozer. Bruce knew the beefy, avuncular Ronnie was a so-so thief but excellent company, and he was obviously popular: Biggsy was greeted by name by almost everyone in the place.

Having equipped themselves with mild and bitters, the two men found a table, away from the jukebox that was pumping out 'Foot Tapper' by the Shadows. A couple of burly would- be Hank Marvins at the bar were doing the Shadows' walk, swinging imaginary guitars.

'Look at those plonkers,' said Ronnie, speaking loudly so the men could hear. 'More Lee Marvin than Hank. I hope they lay bricks better than they mime guitar.' He laughed when that earned him synchronised V-signs. Satisfied, Ronnie turned to his old friend. 'You all right, Bruce? Look tired.'

'I've been busy.'

Ronnie cracked a smile. 'When were you never?'

'What about you?'

'Usual. Bit of painting here and there. How's that racing driver pal of yours, Roy?'

'Doing well.'

'No more sponsors.h.i.+p? Doesn't he need a nice Duckhams sign painted on his car?'

This train job goes off, Roy won't need to go cap in hand to Duckhams, Bruce thought. 'Not yet. But the cash will come once he gets his name in the paper a bit more. They'd be daft not to invest in him. He's going places.'

Ronnie sniffed, as if suddenly a little nervous. 'Talking of investing, I was wondering, Bruce - you know, if you were interested in helping me set something up.'

Bruce waited. The sentence was ambiguous. It could mean lots of things.

'I mean something on the straight and narrow.'

'Not motors, I hope?'

Ronnie's last three-year stretch had been for a bungled car theft. It had been a harsh sentence, Bruce thought. Cars were so easy to steal, he wondered why everyone didn't do it. You could make a key that worked out of tinfoil for older models; newer ones had the serial number written on the dashboard or on the collar of the ignition lock. And when you went to get a key made, n.o.body ever asked you if you actually owned the car you wanted it for. Which, of course, made it tragic that Ronnie was caught for something that should have been child's play. He just wasn't a born thief.

'No. Painting and decorating. I've been doing this bungalow in Eastbourne. Seems to me, those seaside places need painting more than any other, what with the wind and the salt. Lots of demand for painters, but most of the blokes do a terrible job. Slapdash. No stripping back to bare wood, no filling. It's criminal.'

They both laughed.

'Ronnie Biggs, the decorator you can trust?' Bruce asked.

'Well, as long as you don't leave too much lying around.'

'What do you need?'

'I reckon one or two grand. Enough to cover a van, leaflets, adverts in local papers and all that.'

Bruce drank while he thought. Part of the plan he had spent the week putting together involved lorries, which would need disguising, with new plates and new colour schemes. 'A few hundred is the best I could manage right now, mate. Had some expenses. We might have a painting job for you, though.'

'We? You mean you and Fran?'

'Nooooo.' He let the word draw out. 'Me and some of the chaps.'

Ronnie shook his head vigorously. 'Look, Bruce, if it's anything not quite on the level, best count me out. Charmian said she'd have my b.o.l.l.o.c.ks on the mantelpiece next time.'

'Fair enough. But I might be in a position to help you out in a couple of months.'

'A couple of months? That long? Must be a big one, eh?'

'Just being careful. You know how it is. I don't think Franny wants to see me across a metal table again.'

He could see curiosity in Ronnie's eyes, the conflict of a man who wants to know more but is scared to ask. It would be like describing a gourmet feast to a starving man, so Bruce just said, 'Another?'

When he returned with the refills, Bruce asked: 'You OK for the moment though?'

'Scrabbling a bit. Working for this old geezer. Hasn't got a lot of money. House is in a right state. He pays me half in cash and half in b.l.o.o.d.y kind at the yards. Actually, you should bring your Nick down. Both the boys could have a go. The two Nicks.'

Like Bruce, Ronnie had called his son after Nick Adams, the Hemingway character. A love of Papa was something else, along with the jazz, which they shared. Hemingway, Miles, Brubeck, Orwell, Jamal, Fitzgerald, Mingus, Cheever, Dexter, Capote - it was their common language.

'Have a go at what?' Bruce asked.

'Driving the train.'

Bruce slopped a mouthful of beer onto his slacks. 's.h.i.+t.' He took out his handkerchief and blotted the mark on his thigh. 'What train?'

'That Stan Peters I was talking about - the bloke whose bungalow I'm doing up. Well, he's getting on a bit so he only- does some of the shunting once or twice a week now. But he takes Nick along on the footplate sometimes. Lets him do the horn, everything.'

Bruce couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. 'Footplate?'

Ronnie was puzzled and slightly alarmed at how Bruce's demeanour had suddenly changed. His body had become taut, as if he'd received an electric shock, his eyes were bulging and a pulse was throbbing visibly in his temple.

'So this . . . Stan,' Bruce asked, leaning forward, the pressure in his chest meaning he could only take shallow breaths. 'He's what, exactly?'

'I told you. A train driver.'

Thirty-five.

Cornwall, June 1963 The headless corpse had been transported to Truro and examined there by the local Home Office pathologist. In fact, as Billy Naughton discovered, it wasn't just headless, there was precious little of the rest of it left on the slab of the overlit mortuary. The internal organs had mostly disappeared as well as one arm, and the remaining limbs looked like sections of a barrage balloon, all bloated and blue.