Signal Red (23 page)

Janie snapped her fingers. 'Let me see that, will you?'

'Do you speak to all your staff like that?'

'Just the handsome, insolent ones.'

He passed it over. She glanced down it as she wheeled the trolley, stopping in the first section. Then she gave a little whoop of satisfaction. She had noticed an omission. When she spoke, the Janie of the Soho bars, voice rasped by cigarette smoke, had returned.

'And what are you going to do? Wipe your arses with the Sporting Life? Here, give us a hand.' She reached up to pull down one of the twelve-packs of Bronco lavatory paper. 'You'll need a lot of this, all the shit you blokes talk.'

'Hold on,' Tony said, remembering something.

'What is it now?' Janie had reverted to the posh bitch.

'Gloves.' He held out a pair.

'Gloves? Oh, lord. Why on earth?'

'Bruce's orders.'

'Did he say they had to be brown gloves? Did he supply any black ones?'

He was losing patience now. 'Janie, it's not fuckin' Hardy Amies. It's a cash and carry. I don't know what it is with you and Bruce and Mary and, frankly, I don't care. Just put the fucking things on.'

She smiled. 'My, you really are quite attractive when you flush like that. Do you go that colour when you fuck?'

He put his hands up. 'Married. Baby on the way. Wife has carving knife and knows how to use it. What's more, I might be stupid, but I'm not stupid enough to get between you and Bruce. Clear?'

'You flatter yourself, mister.' Then she smiled. 'Is your wife all belly and big blue-veined tits?' She squeaked in a pantomime imitation of a woman's voice. "'Oh Tony, don't spunk on the baby's head. Let's wait till the christening'.'

'Put the gloves on, Janie.'

With a display of huffing, puffing and tutting, she thrust her hands into the oversized gloves. They loaded a couple of packs of the toilet paper into the trolley. Then she consulted the list again.

'No salt? Tony, be a dear and get that drum of Saxo over there. And you could do with some fruit. A nice tinned fruit salad. Del Monte, perhaps.' She was being sarcastic now, he could tell, ridiculing them. 'And condensed milk. Carnation. Bruce has a sweet tooth, you know. And candles. In case the power goes. Who in blazes wrote this?' Tony kept mum, allowing himself a tiny shrug. 'I'm going to have to go through this carefully. You push, darling, I'll follow. Then maybe we can have a little celebration later, when we're done? Just the two of us.'

'No.' Tony had no desire for any part of his body to be used ;is an instrument of revenge against Bruce. 'Isn't going to happen.'

Janie scowled and muttered something obscene. Tony grabbed the handle of the trolley. It was going to be a long, long day.

Commander George Hatherill fell asleep soon after they settled into their seats on the train to Paddington, and seemed determined to snooze all the way to London. Billy Naughton was left to gaze out of the window at an astonishingly verdant landscape. The cold winter had given way to a wet spring and now a damp summer. 1963: The Year of Crappy Weather. Farmers and holidaymakers grumbled, but fields and hedgerows seemed to glow a deep, happy green.

Billy tried to digest all that had gone on while he had been in Cornwall. Hatherill had refused to answer questions about how he obtained the Oxo tin, whether Billy had been personally targeted, or if it was a general sweep. He simply said that the 'old way of doing things' was going to come to an end. He didn't want young coppers like Billy caught up in it.

The TM had admitted that his own record was not without blemishes. Apparently, he had been wrong about the Free French in London: he had reported that they had interrogated one of their own men, suspected of being a spy, who subsequently hanged himself. He now believed that the French had had a torture chamber in St James's and had behaved like Nazis. 'But it was war. And they were our allies. What good would the scandal have done? I wanted to believe them, so I didn't follow my instincts. I have regretted that ever since. They murdered some of their own. I am sure of it now.'

He also lamented some of his persecutions of the queers. 'You don't appreciate how angry Burgess and Maclean made us. Those, those . . . buggers. So we overstepped the mark sometimes, I think. Putting out agents provocateurs, fishing for homos. Not a decent use of police resources, in retrospect. They can't all be Commie spies, can they? The queers, I mean.'

But misjudgements in his own life, he went on, like the

Duke Street torture chamber, meant he always gave coppers such as Trellick a second chance. Never a third, mind. But a good second.

Then he had settled down and fallen asleep, apparently content. Cornwall hadn't given him his Last Big Case, but it had given him the quiet satisfaction of solving a mystery and perhaps that of saving a young policeman's career, too.

Billy had assumed he would be severed from Duke, and said so, but Hatherill had said no. He had to confront temptation and deal with it. Running away was no answer. And Len's turn would come, the day when he had his hand in the wrong till.

Billy took himself off to the dining car for breakfast, treating himself to ham, egg and chips. He felt strangely calm, quietly elated almost. It was as if he, as well as the Cornish PC, had been given a fresh start. From now on, he would be a good copper. From now on, he would do the right thing.

As arranged, Tony dropped off the supplies with Jimmy White, who was acting as quartermaster, storing all the gear they needed in lock-ups across London. They would be taken up, along with some of the team, by lorry once the purchase of the farm was complete. Afterwards, Tony had given Janie a lift to Waterloo, where she would catch a train home, and he carried on north, glad to see the back of her.

When he got to the Holloway Road house, his brother-in-law Geoff was in the kitchen, a mug of tea in his fat hand. He was a big lad, with short ginger-ish hair, a round face and full lips. Tony often wondered if Geoff and his wife were actually biologically related. Because if someone was shuffling the genes, they were playing with a marked deck.

Tony wasn't best pleased to see Geoff. He had to have something to eat then go and meet Jimmy and Roy over in West London They had uncoupling practice. Bruce wanted three people who could unhook the HVP from the rest of the train, just in case. As three who had professed a desire not to wield the coshes, they had nominated themselves.

'All right?' he nodded brusquely.

'Do you want some, love?' asked Marie, rising to her feet with a soft, involuntary groan. 'It's fresh in the pot.'

'Stay there, I'll do it.'

She slumped back down.

'I were just saying, Tony. She's looking well, my sister, isn't she?' said Geoff.

Tony nodded. In fact, she had progressed from being 'blooming' as they said, to the puffy, sweaty when-will-it-be-over stage. Moving was an effort, and her squashed lungs weren't allowing her enough air. And she snored at night. 'Yeah.'

'Tony, I hope you don't mind, but I mentioned that thing to Geoff.'

'What thing to Geoff?' he asked as he checked the contents of the teapot and fetched a mug from the cupboard.

'That thing we talked about the other night.'

He turned and glared at her. Pregnant or not, she was out of order. 'You had no fuckin' right—'

Geoff half-rose from his chair. 'Hold on, mate.'

'Fuck off, Geoff. Stay out of it.'

'I didn't say much, luv. Just that. . . well, there was this thing.'

Tony put his hand around his forehead and squeezed his temples. 'Jesus.'

Geoff bleated his next words. 'I just haven't got much on, Tony. I said that to Marie, and she said you might have something you could put my way.'

'I don't. I don't have anything.' He looked at his wife, daring her to challenge him. 'It's not mine. Christ, I'm only there as a bloody tent-peg. Sorry, mate, no can do.'

'Tony . . .' Marie began.

'No can do,' he repeated forcefully, wagging a finger at each of them in turn. 'And if either of you mention this to anyone . . .' He thought of Charlie Wilson, and what he did to the Jag thieves. They got off lightly compared to anyone who threw a spanner in this works, especially at this stage. 'Look, it's not nursery stuff, all right? Big boys. Some nasty bastards. As I said, I would if I could, Geoff. If it goes off, I'll be able to bung you something, get you on your feet.'

'Yeah.' The big man stood, managing a smile that was a half-grimace. 'No harm done.'

Tony watched him grab his jacket, slip it on and leave, those three final words bouncing round the inside of his head like sub-atomic particles in a cloud chamber, as if there was nothing in there to impede their passage. No harm done.

Bruce clapped his hands to get the meeting started. 'First off, apologies for absence,' he announced. 'Brian Field can't be here. And Stan, the train driver, he isn't here because we didn't ask him. I would like to welcome Bobby again - thanks for the use of this room, Bobby, and we can all get a drink downstairs later - and Jim and Tommy. Some of you won't know Tiny Dave Thompson yet. He was at the airport with us. 'Nuff said.'

Bruce cleared his throat. 'Now the purpose of this meeting is logistics. To make sure we have everything we need to carry this job out and to do it in some comfort.' Roger gave a feeble cheer. 'Tony, here, has been the housewives' choice and done some shopping. He has the canned gear, the tea, the sugar and so on. Bobby has said he'll bring some beers and spirits from the club. And he'll only charge us wholesale. Always have a publican on any job, I say. Nearer the time we'll need perishables. For those of you who don't know, that means things that go off. Like Buster's insides when he's had six pints.' Someone groaned at the thought.

'Jimmy - we don't know how much cutlery and so on is at the farm yet. We need eighteen sets, just to be on the safe side. And light bulbs. You got some ideas about mattresses? And we'll need sleeping bags. Maybe Jimmy and Tommy can help on that score? Lovely. Charlie, being well-connected on The Fruit, can get us some fruit and veg from the market, can't you? I am partial to Cox's Orange Pippins m'self, but whatever. Thing is, we don't know how long the scream will last. Could be a day, could be a week. But if we keep our heads down, that'll be fine.' Bruce looked from face to face to be certain they understood. 'Roger and I have both got Hitachi shortwaves, so we'll keep an ear for what the bastards are up to.'

Bruce consulted his list. 'We need uniforms for the Army disguise - Gordy, Charlie and Roy are on that. Red berets if you can. Parachute Regiment. Who Dares Wins - remember that. Buster is sourcing walkie-talkies so we can communicate up and down the track. Whitey is going to buy one Land Rover and I have found an ex-Army Austin truck for three hundred quid in Edgware. We need another Land Rover. Tony, you got one lying around? Well, can you get me one? Doesn't have to be bought, you can put new plates on it. Ronnie, if you could take charge of making them look like kosher Army trucks. Which doesn't mean like the Israeli army. Like the real thing, serial numbers, badges and all. Stan still OK?' he asked Ronnie. 'Good. I'll meet him later this week. He knows he's on a drink for this, not a whack? Keep reminding him, will you? Roy, you will let Jimmy know anything you need for cutting wires and uncoupling coaches.' Roy said he would. 'And get two of everything. You drop one in the dark, I don't want the whole thing to go tits up because of a pair of missing pliers, understand?

'Big Bad Bobby Welch here has requested handcuffs, which is a good idea. Might have to restrain the driver or the sorters. Gordy, can you get some? Six pairs. Say it's for magic tricks. Or fancy dress. Bobby also requested a shooter to scare the driver. Not a good idea. I said it before, I'll say it again: no shooters, real or otherwise. Is that clear?' Bruce paused, just to ensure the point was taken. 'Roger, you have all you need for the light change? Again, double it. Back-up everything. We don't want to be there watching the Six-Five Special rolling down that line through a green light, do we? And gloves. I want everyone to bring two pairs. And you wear them at all times. There must be no prints anywhere. Brian is going to arrange cleaners to sanitise the whole place after we have gone. If the coppers do locate the farm, they won't find so much as a skid-mark on a toilet bowl.'

Bruce took a long breath, and consulted his list again. 'OK, now we come to alibis. You will need alibis, too, for the time we are away. And not "I was alone watching Michael Miles on the box for a week". A good one with lots of witnesses, preferably a vicar or a nun. Similarly, you will need some idea of what you are going to do when you get back to London and where to put your money. At the very least you are going to have a good few grand. I don't have to tell you that there are plenty of snot-rags out there who will offer to take it off your hands. Be very, very careful. Wives and girlfriends will sniff out you're flush the moment you walk through the door. They like a spending spree, and women have very different ideas to us. To them, a diamond ring from Bond Street isn't a spending spree. That's just what they deserve.' Buster gave a rueful chuckle. 'Talking of money, Charlie, what about the horsebox? Charlie is bringing up a horsebox because it won't look suspicious and you can transport a lot of bags in it. Buster, you can always sit in it and neigh, just for authenticity.'

Bruce gave a wry grin and put his list down, saying, 'Now we need to talk about where we'll each be on the tracks and what our job will be. Any questions so far?' He looked around the room. 'Good, because I have my blackboard here to go over what will happen on the night. All right, all right, settle down. Fuck me, I feel like Mr Chips sometimes. Oh, one thing I forgot. As I said, we might be holed up for some time. So I’ve got us a Monopoly set.'

'A fuckin' Monopoly set?' Jim Hussey turned to Tommy Wisbey, who was sitting in the back seat. Roger was driving them back towards Brighton, where they were to pick up the last of the cash from their previous train jobs that was being 'minded' by one of the operators on the West Pier. It was time, as Bruce said, to concentrate on the Big One. For the moment, the South Coast Gang was being wound up.

It was the early hours, little traffic. Roger was sober, careful as they hit the A23 south of Croydon; he didn't want to be walking any white lines for a policeman. The car stank of the other two men's beer and fags.

'Who Dares Wins?' added Wisbey.

'Oh, you can't have a shooter because it might go off and hurt somebody,' lisped Hussey in a high-pitched feminine voice.

'Hey, lads,' said Roger meekly. 'Have some respect. It's Bruce's tickle. He calls the shots.'

'Or not havin' the shots.' The other two giggled like very overgrown schoolboys. 'He treats us like we got muscle between our ears sometimes.'

'Yeah, well sometimes you have,' said Roger, suddenly angry. 'Look, he wants you for what you are good at. Puttin' the shits up people. Now if you want to join the cooking and dishwashing rota—'

'Fuck off. Can't we get some bird in for that?'

'And a bit of the other while she's at it.'

Roger shook his head. They were nice enough boys, but something on this scale was beyond their experience. Hussey was a car thief who readily used his fists whenever he deemed the occasion demanded it. Which, when he was in his late teens, had been surprisingly often. Now he had calmed down, and tried his hand at pickpocketing. If caught, though, he was still liable to try and punch his way out of trouble.

Tommy Wisbey was a bookmaker and thief who intimidated by his size and rarely needed to thump anyone. If he did, Roger was under no illusion that those ham-hocks of arms - he looked like Popeye when he stripped down - would cause some damage.

'Just do what Bruce wants and you'll get your whack. Equal shares, he said, once the expenses are deducted. How fair is that?' Bruce could easily have upped his own stake, or insisted that the originating gang - the Heathrow boys, essentially - deserved a higher cut. But Roger knew Bruce thought an unequal division of the spoils led to resentment, which might cause someone to grass when his perceived 'tiny' whack ran out. There would, after all, be a hefty reward on offer.

'You know he said we might need a few more bodies?' asked Wisbey. 'Not for the washing-up, but at the train. What about Freddie Foreman? Or Frankie Fraser?'

Hussey shook his head. 'You'd have to keep those two on leashes.'

'Nah, they're all right. Good boys,' insisted Wisbey.

Roger knew the names. They were a couple of enforcers for the likes of the Richardsons and the Krays. They had reputations for violence that left Bobby Welch, Tommy and Jimmy looking as threatening as Rag, Tag and Bobtail. Bruce wouldn't like that. There was something else Bruce wouldn't like. 'Fraser is red-hot, isn't he?'

'I suppose,' said Wisbey.

'He was on Police Five,' said Hussey. 'Wanted for doing some bloke.'

'So don't approach anyone till you've cleared it with Bruce or Charlie or Gordy. They only want people they know, remember?'

The other two grunted. The euphoria caused by alcohol fading, they lapsed into silence, their arms folded. Jim's head began to nod as he fell into a fitful snooze.

After fifteen minutes, Tommy Wisbey spoke.

'There's one thing I'm really pissed off about, Roger.'

'What's that?' asked Roger, annoyed that they should be so ungrateful. Plenty would take their places.

'Meself, I prefer Cluedo.'

Thirty-nine

Bridego Bridge, July 1963

'Here we go. Now!'

Roy let the clutch in and Tony felt the front of the brand new Mini Cooper S judder as the power hit the front wheels. Next to them came the deeper roar of an Austin Healey 3000 Mk. II roadster, with Bruce behind the wheel.

The two cars shot out of the car park next to the fishing pond and turned right, Bridego Bridge receding rapidly in the Mini's mirror. Unlike the Healey, which filled it.

'He's got more power than us,' shouted Roy as he worked the Mini's gearbox.

The Austin pulled out behind them. Tony could see it in his wing mirror, Bruce behind the wheel, Gordy somehow folded into the passenger seat. It was a race and the last one to Leatherslade would buy lunch at the Red Lion pub in Brill. Bruce had taken the Austin Healey on 'a test drive', as he was considering buying one when he got his hands on the cash. This probably wasn't the kind of test drive the garage had in mind.

'Read the map,' Roy instructed. 'Check the sharpness of the bends, and whether they are right-or left-handers.'

The Mini was shifting, the little tuned-up engine doing its best to roar, although as the Healey drew close they could hear the deeper note of its larger lump.

'Right at the end,' said Tony. 'T-junction.'

Tony's mouth went dry as he watched the turning approach. Roy appeared not to know where the brake was. At the last moment, he stamped on the middle pedal once, changed down, then went back on the gas. Tony hoped nothing was coming. Roy leaned on the Healey slightly and flung the little Mini to the right.

'Disc brakes,' Roy grinned. 'Fuckin' brilliant. Much better than the standard Mini.'

The Healey fell back as it took the bend in a more refined manner. Then Tony watched it grow larger in the mirror once more as Bruce got the power back down.

'Sharp right at Ledburn. You have to go into the village. Watch—'

Roy jerked the Mini out and zipped by a dawdling Triumph Herald, then tucked back in.

'Did I say right?' Tony corrected. 'I meant left.'

'Keep it together, Tone. There're only two choices, after all,' Roy laughed. 'Right or left?'

'Left. My side,' he clarified.

A pair of decent-looking pubs went by in a blur and Roy took the turning. Tony caught sight of startled residents, stepping back from the kerb as the two cars powered recklessly through their hamlet.

'Long straight section to a crossroads.'

'How long?'

'Half a mile.'

'Not enough for him to have us.'

Tony looked up from the map. It was beautiful rolling countryside, the roads lined with hedgerows, guarded with stands of extravagant horse chestnuts.

'How far? This it?'

'No. Be signposted Wing.'

'Hang on.'

A throbbing filled the Mini's cabin. 'Christ, he's right behind us.'

At a particularly splendid horse chestnut, Roy put the Cooper S into a power slide, the snub rear-end poking out, almost touching the Healey's gleaming chrome bumper. Bruce backed off, giving Roy enough space to complete the turn, catch the drift and get the full bhp of the 1071cc engine onto the asphalt.

Tony, his heart thumping away, checked the OS map once more. 'Through Wing, left towards Cublington.'

Another couple of pubs, more outraged country folk and a left turn. The ominous black Healey was behind them again.