Signal Red (18 page)

Billy upended the Oxo tin on the bed and began to sort the notes into piles according to denomination. He nodded his head to 'Surfin' Safari' as he did so, the harmonies interrupted periodically by the atmospheric whistling that was one of Radio Luxembourg's specialities.

He didn't notice the song end, or the next irritating advertisement break for the stupid pools system. He was busy looking at three hundred and thirty-three pounds and ten shillings. And that was just crumbs, picked up here and there. He had more than three hundred pounds, yet he was still living in a station house, listening to music on a cheap transistor and eating meals in a police canteen.

Billy carefully repacked the cash, thinking about a better hiding-place, before deciding he should put it in the Post Office or a building society. It was, perhaps, time for Billy Naughton to move up in the world. And if the drinks, backhanders and tips weren't entirely legal, then so what? It wasn't as if he didn't put the hours in - and did anyone ever mention the word 'overtime'? Was there ever talk of time-and-a-half or double time? No. A fifteen-hour day got you twelve and sixpence subsistence pay. Subsistence if you ate at the Wimpy every day, that was.

The Dynatron's signal drifted to interference, white noise interspersed with the snap and crackle of ghostly voices captured from the radiosphere. It reminded Billy of an electronic seance when that happened, like he was eavesdropping on ancient wireless broadcasts. He half-expected an ethereal voice to emerge from the static: We are receiving reports that something has happened to the Titanic. . .'

Billy reached up and switched the radio off, then placed the box back into the suitcase and pushed it deep under the bed. He resolved to ask Duke where the best place to keep his money was. It shouldn't be under the Dunlopillo mattress. Not in a room with no lock on the door, as was still the rule in London station houses. It should be somewhere secure and legit, somewhere it could grow. After all, it wasn't as if he had done anything wrong, was it?

'This is it, then?' Bruce asked Roger, as they sat on a locked toolbox in the shadow of the concrete hut and watched a passenger service rattle by on one of the four lines. It had been easy to hop over the fence and walk down the embankment to the little depot, with its hut and toolshed. Both men wore donkey jackets over blue boiler suits, and they looked like any team of gangers taking a break, watching trains go by in bright sunshine.

Roger Cordrey had the OS map spread out on his lap, while Bruce fussed with a flask of tea. They had been driving up and down their designated section of the line for several days now, but kept coming back to this spot. They had looked at the viaducts discovered by some of the other scouts, but one was far too high - a heavily laden bag tossed over could kill someone on the road below - and the other had no stop signals nearby.

'I reckon it is,' said Roger. He indicated towards Linslade, on his right, beyond the small bridge that crossed the line, giving access to Rowden Farm. 'Dwarf single down there, which will be switched to amber.' Then to his left. 'Home signal there has to be on red.'

Bruce hesitated while a goods train groaned past them at not much more than walking speed, drowning out the conversation. When it was clear he asked: 'All of which you take care of?'

Roger grinned. He had done it on the Brighton line enough times, although they had never taken a decent haul, and some of the attempts had been fiascoes. But the false stop light part of the plan, that always worked a treat. 'Leave it to me. Never fails.' He took the tea. 'Cheers.'

'But how can you be in two places at once?'

'How do you mean?'

'Doing two signals? Shouldn't we have someone on the dwarf, another on the home gantry?'

Roger pursed his lips. Bruce knew what he was thinking. Tricks of the trade. Roger was valuable, would more than earn his whack, by interfering with the signals. If he spilled the beans on how to do that, if anyone with a couple of crocodile clips could switch the lights, then he became redundant.

'Look, I don't give a fuck how it's done, Roger. I'm not going to make a career out of nobbling the Royal Mail. I just want to make sure you aren't stretched too thin. I could put a man up there with you.' He had someone in mind - Ralph. A distant relative, not a hardened crim, but a good worker and, most of all, dependable.

'We'll see,' said Roger. He changed the subject and pointed across the tracks to the low buildings that constituted the inhabited part of Rowden Farm. 'That's a bit close.'

'It'll be three in the morning. I know farmers are early risers, but that'd be ridiculous.'

'Still, should cut the phone line to it.'

That made sense. Even if they did spot something, the owners wouldn't be able to raise the alarm. 'Good idea. Drink up. Mustn't hang about too long.'

Bruce's new Lotus Cortina - its side flash as green as Roy's envy when the driver saw it - was parked off the main road next to a farm entrance on the B488, which cut through quiet pasture and rolling woodland. He had pulled off onto such turnings many times in recent days and inevitably had left tyre-marks. He would have to get the boots on the car changed. The police used tyre-tracks like fingerprints now - both as evidence and a convenient way to place you at the scene. In fact, it was best if he retired the Lotus, just in case anyone had clocked it over the past week or even taken the licence-plate. He had read there was a DB5 due in September. It might be nice to go back to an Aston. The last one had cost him a fortune in garage bills, but that might not be an issue this time around.

'Of course, you are still half a mile short,' said Roger. He gestured at the track behind them that led up to the elevated crossing. 'No way you can get the bags up this embankment and over to the main road. Not without giving everyone a hernia. It will have to be bridge 127.'

He pointed down the line to Bridego Bridge, which was, according to the plate on its side, BR's crossing number 127. It was a relatively low span over a narrow country lane, with easy access up the embankment at the side of the arch to the track itself. There was even a parking area for fishermen who visited the small pond next to it. But it was, as Roger had said, a good half-mile away. Trotting up the track like pack mules was also out of the question.

'So once the train is stopped, we have to move it up to the bridge?' asked Bruce.

'Well, you don't have to move the whole train, do you? Just the HVP.'

Bruce sipped his tea. 'So we uncouple the business end and shunt it the half-mile.'

'That's right.' At Crossing 127 they would be dropping the bags down a slope to the roadway, not carrying them uphill to one, the only option where they were now. 'To where we can unload the bags straight down into the vehicles.'

They sat and thought about this for a minute. 'Roger?'

'Yes?'

'Can you drive a train?'

'No. I can stop them, that's usually enough.'

'So we need a driver then. Although they do tend to come complete with one, don't they? Trains, I mean.'

Roger screwed his face up. 'In my experience they are stroppy bastards, these BR types. If the fucker at the controls says you can go and fuck yourself - well, you're fucked, aren't you?'

That was true. Drive the train or we'll beat your brains out. Go on, then. The whole thing could come down around their ears because of one bolshie driver. 'OK, best have a think.' Bruce stood up and threw the dregs of his tea towards the track. 'What's this place called again?'

'Sears Crossing.'

'Sears Crossing,' he repeated. 'Right. Sears Crossing is where we catch our train.'

Thirty-four

New Scotland Yard, June 1963

Len Haslam took one glance at Billy Naughton, sitting rigid at his desk in the Squad room, and knew something was wrong. 'Fuck me, lad, you look like someone who drank seven pints and three scotches last night.'

'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 classic 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 fuckin' 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 title.'Black and Blues. What's this?'

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

'Is he a coon-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 dicks up the arse? 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. 'Coon-lover,' he confirmed. 'As well as an arse-bandit. What time are you seeing the TM?'

'Eleven.'

'Well, don't get trapped by one of his bloody 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. 'Pass 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 glass 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 shirt, 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 Nazi 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 entitled 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.'