Signal Red Part 9

Still, with the sale of his kart and his share he had enough, just, for that Brabham. Let Bruce and Charlie s.p.u.n.k their share away on bespoke suits and tarts, Buster on that Sunbeam Alpine he claimed he'd always fancied and Gordy on . . . n.o.body was sure what Gordy spent his money on. Bigger and better hair-crimpers and driers, maybe. Or a new salon. Perhaps he wanted to be the new Mr Teasy Weasy demonstrating modern hairstyles to Cliff Michelmore on telly.

Roy picked up the current issue of Autosport, which had a Mark X Jaguar on the cover. He flicked through the technical articles on gas flow and came upon a beautiful cutaway drawing of the F1 Brabham, the one in which Jack Brabham himself, no less, had come fourth in the US Grand Prix, the first ever GP driver to score points in a car of his own design. It was built by Brabham and fellow Aussie Ron Tauranac at their workshops in Byfleet. This was the goal: Coventry- Climax powered, sitting on fat 13-inch front and 15-inch rears, twin Lukey m.u.f.fler exhausts, 174bhp at 8,300rpm. But that was walking before he could run. Karts to F1 in a single bound was unheard of. He'd have to prove himself in Formula Junior first.

The phone rang and he tossed the magazine aside. He knew who it would be. One of the lads to wind him up about Shaw Taylor. Roy 'Vicious Crook' James they would call him from now on. Made a change from Le Furet, the nickname his crimes in France had earned him. Les Flics had announced that the thief was able to scale drainpipes as if he had run up inside them, like Le Furet. Funny, it sounded better in French. 'The Ferret' didn't have quite the same ring.

He picked up the receiver. 'Yeah?'

'Roy?' It was Bruce.

'Yup. I saw it-'

Bruce cut him dead. 'They've picked up Mickey Ball.'

It was at that moment the doorbell rang.

Tony Fortune watched the two policemen enter the Warren Street showroom and start appraising his stock. The younger one clearly didn't know much, but the older guy, he went straight to an MGA that had the wrong grill on it. This was one of the Chalk Farmies, Tony thought, an MVE - Motor Vehicle Examiner - from the Stolen Car Squad. They were good, as he knew to his cost. Sharp enough to know when mileage and condition didn't match.

Paddy emerged from the workshop at the rear, an oily rag in his hands. He moved phlegm around his throat at the sight of the coppers, as if he was going to hawk over them but merely glared at the pair instead as they circled the MGA like carrion, and went back to cleaning spark plugs.

'I couldn't match the right year to that one,' Tony said to the MVE, explaining why the style of grill - it had too many vertical bars - didn't quite sit right with the body. 'Well I could, but you know how much they want for a new one?'

The younger man flashed his warrant card. 'Mr Fortune?' When Tony nodded, he carried on. 'Detective Constable Naughton. Flying Squad.'

Maybe, said a voice inside Billy's head, but for how much longer? After Gatwick, he had been savaged by Ernie Millen and Frank Williams, the heads of Flying Squad. It reminded him of the way you saw the lions at London Zoo tucking into a leg of lamb - with him playing the role of the dead sheep. Then the p.i.s.s-taking had started, about him being in the wrong place at the right time. Every time he gave a destination or address someone would tell him to make sure that wasn't Oxford Street, Aberdeen. Ha-f.u.c.king-ha. Unless he got a result on the City gents, his days at the Squad were numbered and his copybook permanently covered in blue- black Quink.

'This is Constable Rowe, of the Stolen Car Squad.'

'How can I help you gentlemen?' Tony asked. Rowe was examining the sticker on the MGA. It was up for 375, not a bad price. 'It's not an insurance write-off,' Tony a.s.sured him. 'Legitimate repair. Just you know what some people are like. Once they scratch their pride and joy.. .'

'It's not about that,' said Billy Naughton. 'It's about Mark Two Jags.'

Tony sighed. 'I'm right out, I'm afraid. Can't help you. Lot of demand for them, but we don't see many of them at this end of the market.'

'That's not what we heard.' What they had heard were names: Ball and James, drivers. And the cars? Word was they definitely came from Warren Street. Six grand reward from BOAC, it jogged a lot of memories.

For the next five minutes the two coppers walked around the showroom. Tony knew the game. They would find something pony and use it as leverage to prise him open. Except there was not a hooky or pony item in the showroom, apart from the odd wind-back on the mileage, and nothing there was too greedy. After the Mk 2s he had made sure of that, just in case a day like this came around. He had been over it dozens of times; there was zero to connect him to the stolen vehicles, no physical evidence. Only if someone gra.s.sed would they be able to pin him to them.

'Can we see the log books for all these vehicles?'

'Of course,' said Tony. 'All except the Goggomobil.' 'This was a German microcar, once fas.h.i.+onable but made redundant by the better-performing and more s.p.a.cious Mini. 'That's in the post.'

He went out the back and fetched the stack of doc.u.ments from the safe and watched while they painstakingly matched car to book. He made himself a tea while they did so.

'What do they want?' Paddy asked.

'Routine.'

Paddy shot him a look that conveyed his disbelief. 'You been doing something behind my back?'

'No.'

Paddy pointed his wire brush at him. 'You know I did some time once. Never again, Tony. It's not fun.'

Tony poured his PG Tips and a second cup for Paddy. 'Don't worry, n.o.body is doing any time.'

Back in the showroom, Rowe was still lifting bonnets to crosscheck numbers with doc.u.ments.

Tony sipped the tea. 'Doing this to everyone on the street, are you,' he asked, 'or did my number just come up?'

They didn't answer, just carried on with their whispered deliberations.

The phone rang. It was his wife Marie, sounding jittery and almost teary, so he didn't mention the police. She immediately sensed something was wrong from the stiffness of his replies and quickly signed off. More grief when he got home.

As he came out of the office, Billy handed the fat pile of log books back. 'That all seems to be in order.'

'Good. Is this about that airport job?'

Billy pursed his lips and looked baffled. 'Can't say, sir. But what would make you think that?'

'Shaw Taylor. He's interested in Mark Twos as well, as I recall.'

Billy smiled. 'Oh yes.' He picked some fluff off his overcoat. 'Well, as you brought it up, and just to avoid any confusion, can you tell me where you were on the morning of the seventeenth, the day of the robbery?'

'At my sister's house in Reading. A christening. I'm the G.o.dfather. I'm pretty sure the vicar would remember.'

Billy had to admit that, as alibis went, it wasn't bad. 'I'm sure he will. Well, sorry to trouble you.' Billy turned to go then hesitated. He took out a photograph and held it at eye- level, so Tony could see it. 'Ring any bells?'

Tony looked at the picture of a young man leaning in a doorway, a c.o.c.ky smile on his thin face. 'No. Who is it?'

'Name's Derek Anderson.'

'What you want him for?'

To wring his b.l.o.o.d.y neck, thought Billy Naughton, then said, 'Just some routine questions.'

Charlie Wilson counted out the five-pound notes in the snug bar of the Two Kings in Clapham. Colin, the barman, made sure the two men weren't disturbed. Charlie stopped when he got to 500. Then he put two more notes on top, and then a third, pushed them over the table, and took a gulp of his beer. 'There you go. That should keep you all right for a while. But I'd leave it for a year till you show your face in London again. So if you are short, let me know, eh?'

'Yes, Mr Wilson.'

'Charlie.'

Derek Anderson beamed at him. 'Thanks, Charlie.'

'You did well to come to me when they tapped you on the shoulder. A stupider person might have . . .' he hesitated, '. . . been tempted. But you'd never get that much from the police kitty.'

'The money's not why I did it, Charlie.'

'I know.' Charlie took another gulp of beer. Derek had been desperate to get back into the family fold, to make amends. That was why he had risked coming to Charlie with a story about the Robbery Squad trying to squeeze him. He should have been angry with the kid, because it was his initial loudmouth act about them doing a job at the airport that had drawn the Old Bill in the first place. That and his drunken, disgruntled sulks once he had been banished. But when Charlie had told Bruce the police had been sniffing about, the Colonel had come up with the brilliant idea of a diversion, a dummy job. 'Just like D-Day,' he'd said. 'Hitler thinks we are coming ash.o.r.e at Calais, but no, wallop, we do the beaches at Normandy.'

So they had put out enough hints that they were going to turn over cargo at Gatwick to keep the police's eyes looking the wrong way, enabling them to do the Comet House job. Had there been a sniff of new faces or a stake-out at Heathrow, Charlie would have pulled them. When they did the job they were 90 per cent certain the tosspots had bought the dummy. It made it doubly sweet: a successful blag and red faces at the Yard. Shame the boxes weren't full. Still, the shortfall in cash wasn't down to Degsy. He'd earned his little bung.

As the young man reached for the cash, Charlie grabbed his scrawny wrist. 'And you aren't tempted by the reward?'

Derek tried his hardest to look shocked at the very thought. His hand was shaking and he could feel the pulse. It reminded Charlie of a hamster's heart hammering away when you picked it up. 'No, Charlie. Never.'

'Six grand?'

With his free hand, Derek tapped his stack of newfound wealth. 'At least I'll live to spend this.'

'That's right, my son,' Charlie agreed, releasing his grip. 'Go on, f.u.c.k off, see you in twelve months. Sure I'll have something for you then.'

Derek wrapped the money with an elastic band, folded it into his inside pocket and left. Charlie was still sitting in the snug, drinking, when Len Haslam, sporting a face like a sack of hammers, and two uniforms came in to arrest him.

Sixteen.

London, December 1962 The steam in the sanatorium at the Savoy Baths on Jermyn Street was so thick, it was as if super-heated c.u.mulus had fallen to earth and been manhandled into a cupboard. Through the swirling clouds, Bruce Reynolds couldn't tell whether there was anybody already in the room. He sat down on the hot, wet marble bench and waited while Buster made himself comfortable opposite. Neither spoke for a while, letting the vapour scour their lungs.

Eventually, when they were sure they were alone, Buster spoke. 'f.u.c.k, eh?'

'Yeah. f.u.c.k.' Bruce thought about the relatively poor haul. A few months' grace, that was all it would give him, before they would have to do it all again. 'On the bright side, it worked, didn't it?'

Buster laughed. b.l.o.o.d.y optimist, he thought. Bruce could be a regular Pollyanna. 'Yeah, it worked.'

'Shows what can be done with a little planning. Good, tight teamwork.'

'Yeah. True enough.' Buster took three deep breaths, feeling his airways burn and almost enjoying it. 'Didn't really do it for the camaraderie, Bruce.'

'No?'

'Nice though it is. A bit more cash wouldn't have gone amiss.'

'Yeah.' Sweat began to trickle into his eyes, and Bruce leaned forward. The moisture gathered on his nose and dropped onto the floor with a loud plop. 'Any news on Roy and Mickey?'

'Ident.i.ty parades,' said Bruce. 'But they only pulled them because of who they are. You know that. Anyone drives a bit handily, there are only six names on the Squad's list. Roy and Mickey are at three and four. Might have even been promoted to one and two.'

'You heard from Charlie?'

'Nah.' Bruce wasn't worried. Charlie often went to earth after a job. 'Probably taken Pat off to Jersey.'

Buster grunted. 'Been there once - never again. Full of stuck-up rich gits. Everyone seemed to be over sixty. Give me Brighton any day.'

They sucked more hot air for a minute, lost in their thoughts. 'Where do you think you'll be when you're sixty, Buster?'

Buster wiped his forehead. It was slippery with sweat. He was already looking forward to a cold shower. Bruce had a bit more stamina for this kind of thing than him. Man must have been a lobster in a former life. 'Parkhurst at this rate.'

'You miserable c.u.n.t,' Bruce said affectionately. He didn't understand the gloom that could afflict Buster. It was a mystery. Buster hated the idea of prison and he suffered deep bouts of melancholy about it, even on the outside. 'It might never happen.'

Bruce accepted pokey as part of the deal, the same way that life and death were intertwined; you couldn't have one without the certainty of the other. For him, his chosen path - the criminal way, some might call it - was a state of mind. It moved life to an intensity that was only rarely achievable in other ways. A film might do it, a few bars of Bill Evans, s.e.x, of course, but nothing else sustained that feeling of being larger than life, beyond its quotidian dullness, like being in the midst of a great take-down. Quotidian. That wasn't a word you heard every day. He had read that in JP Donleavy. He'd had to look it up, but he liked it. The Quotidian Life. It was what they all kicked against, some harder than others. Like Dangerfield in Donleavy's novel, or Marlon Brando in The Wild One, which Bruce had seen in France, he wanted to live these few years on earth at full tilt, not succ.u.mb to an anaesthetised greyness.

'And where will you be?' asked Buster, interrupting his thoughts.

'Me? Saint Tropez. Acapulco. Watching Frank at The Sands in Vegas and flying over to see Terry Downes fight and Rod Laver play.' He leaned forward and tapped Buster's knee. 'You got to have ambition.'

'My ambition is for Gordy to hurry up so I can get out of here.' Through a gap in the steam, Bruce could see Buster's pudgy face, red and glistening, with rivulets of sweat gathering at his chin. 'You thought about that other thing - for the next tickle?'

'Tickle? More like a belly laugh, Buster.'

'Is that a yes?'

Bruce shook his head, even though he doubted Buster could see the gesture. 'I'd love to do the Bank of England,' he said, 'but come on.'

Buster had been approached by an ex-messenger at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, who had given him details of the Watch. This was the system by which a rotating roster of staff members stayed the night at the Bank of England. Every employee gave up one night a month plus four weekends and a Bank Holiday a year. Each night at 6 p.m., every bank key - a hundred in all - had to be checked in and the bank secured. A convivial supper and rooms were provided. The odd guest was allowed in, but males only. The source had told them that the men-only rule was subtly undermined by smuggled mistresses in tuxedos or even kilts.

'You got to be able to hide in a place that size,' said Buster. 'My bloke says there's a dozen hidey-holes that could avoid the Sweep.'

At 10.45 each night patrols reported to the Bank's Security Control that every corner of the Old Lady had been swept and was free of stowaways intent on mischief.

'And the Guards? Just our luck we'd get the f.u.c.kin' Gurkhas.' The various Guards regiments took it in turns to supply the military presence overnight at the bank; but the Gurkhas occasionally did a stint. Bruce could imagine being gutted by one of those little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with his kukri.

'Who's being negative now?' Buster asked petulantly.

And what, thought Bruce, was the jolt for trying to rob the Bank of England? Ten years? Fifteen? Christ, a hanging judge might go as high as twenty. For a man who was bird- averse, like Buster, it didn't bear thinking about. But banged up they would be, because there was no way on G.o.d's earth Prime Minister Macmillan and Co would let anyone get away with tickling the Old Lady. Only politicians got to rob the country blind.

Bruce, not wanting to encourage his friend into despondency, said: 'You're right. Set up a meet with your man. It's worth dropping a bit of cash to see if he's on the level, if he can get us plans and the like.'

'Will do.' Buster made a blowing sound, like a whale breaching. 'I've got to get out of here, Bruce.'

Buster stood, just as the door opened, allowing steam to billow out into what suddenly seemed like an icy corridor. Standing there was Mannie, one of the attendants at the baths.

'Mr Reynolds. Mr Edwards. Sorry to interrupt your steam but there're a couple of gentlemen here to see you. When you are ready, they said. And not to worry about Mr Goody, they said. They have dealt with him already.'

A couple of gentlemen? Buster looked down at Bruce. 'f.u.c.k.'

'Yeah. f.u.c.k.'

'It doesn't look much like a villain's drum,' said Billy as he walked into Gordon Goody's neat, clean flat. There was G-Plan furniture, a Bush TV, Axminster carpets - none of that Cyril Lord tat - a well-stocked drinks cabinet and a sideboard containing some fancy Wedgwood tableware. In the kitchen was a nice new stove and the biggest refrigerator Billy had ever seen, taller than him, but that was probably the flas.h.i.+est item in the place. What kind of villain spends his ill-gotten gains on a fridge? he wondered.

'That's because his mum lives here, too,' said Len. 'WPC Waring has taken her off to tea and Bingo.'

Billy and Duke stood and watched as the mostly uniformed team went methodically through the place, unzipping cus.h.i.+ons and carefully lifting carpets. Billy was impressed. On too many of the warrants he'd witnessed being served, the searching officers had acted like Desperate Dans. Big and oafish. These lads had finesse.

'Nothing so far, guv,' said the DC from the local nick to Duke.