Signal Red (25 page)

'Yes. Right. Thank you.'

They watched the man walk back down towards the farm's gate. He turned once and raised a hand and they returned the gesture.

'Fuck,' said Bruce.

'Be all right,' said Tony, echoing the words of Geoff, his brother-in-law. 'No harm done.'

'He's seen my face.'

'You know what people are like. He'll have forgotten it by the morning.'

'Yeah.' But Bruce didn't sound convinced.

They turned and headed back in. 'Still,' suggested Tony, 'we can always go round to his place and kill them all, just to be on the safe side.'

Bruce's eye darted to him, thinking he was serious. Tony cracked a grin. The sight of Bruce laughing as they stepped into the half-light of the house reassured the others that all was well.

By early evening most of the team had gathered together. Charlie Wilson and Bobby Welch had swelled the numbers at around three in the afternoon. Tiny Dave Thompson, the London Airport man, had come by Morris Oxford. He would supply extra clenched fists just in case anything went wrong with the sorters.

Tony knew there had been some heated arguments amongst the principals over the final numbers. Extra bodies diluted the whacks. Charlie was also worried about security, that if outsiders were brought in, word would leak out about something big going down. It only needed a rumour for the Heavy Mob at the Yard to start sniffing around the usual suspects. Which certainly included Charlie and Gordy after the airport job.

But as Bruce had insisted, with only limited time on the track, the more hands, the greater the number of sacks they could load, therefore the larger the pot to be divided between them. Everyone knew that Bruce, Charlie, Gordy and Buster would take a slightly larger cut to compensate for their longer prep and expenses. Roy too, perhaps - that was down to Bruce. The rest would be divided equally, once the 'drink' for Stan and a few others had been deducted, including a whack to Brian and one for the mysterious 'fixer' in Glasgow. That meant, with Tiny Dave a late addition, thirteen into whatever the dividend was. So, eighteen slices of the pie in all. It was one of the biggest firms Tony had ever heard of and, as he looked around the room, he felt fresh admiration for Bruce, Charlie and Gordy. Not many men could pull all this together and keep it quiet.

As the hours passed and the atmosphere in the darkened rooms grew oppressive, the firm split into smaller groups. Jim Hussey, Jimmy White and Ronnie played cards. Stan sat quietly in the corner, rolling one fag after another, sometimes smoking a pipe for light relief. Roger Cordrey lay on a mattress and dozed.

Most of the rest played Monopoly, although Bruce took up his role as the commander, moving among his troops, keeping morale up. Buster organised the kitchen, announcing it was Fray Bentos pies for tea, along with a rabbit stew, using an animal Jimmy White had sideswiped on the road. The former Para was adept at living off the land. But one rabbit didn't go far among so many big chaps.

'Where's Gordy?' asked Roy.

'Ireland,' replied Bruce.

'Ireland?' asked a jittery Ralph, alarmed at the news of being a man down. 'Shouldn't he be here?'

'He will be. Brian is picking him up from the airport and driving him here. It's his alibi - that he was in Ireland.'

Bruce knew that Gordy was a little nervous, although he would never tell the others. After narrowly missing going down for the airport job, he felt exposed. No matter what the evidence, the Squad might lay the train at his door. Hence the alibi and his preference for arriving after dark. Gordy was taking no chances.

'Missus thinks I'm chopping wood in Wiltshire,' chipped in Ronnie. 'Lumberjackin', like.'

'She's gonna think choppin' down trees pays bloody well,' offered Buster. 'Will someone give me a hand in here? It's like feedin' the bleedin' five thousand. Anyone got any loaves and fishes?'

'Anyone fed the cat yet?' asked Roy.

There were a few howls of derision. The farm had come with a rather bedraggled tom, prone to pissing in corners and on beds. It wasn't universally popular, but Roy seemed attached to it.

'I'd best do it then.' Roy got up and went into the kitchen area, looking for something suitable for the cat. A bleary Roger levered himself up from his mattress and followed. He began breaking open the packs of cutlery that Jimmy had provided. The first beers were cracked, although Bruce told everyone to take it easy. He didn't want anyone drunk on duty or busting for a piss at the wrong time. On the other hand, he knew some of them needed a little drink to steady their nerves. He himself would abstain, apart from a little nip of brandy from his silver Mappin & Webb hip flask, a present from Roy. The fact that Roy hadn't paid for it didn't detract from its value as a gift: it was an important memento of Le Furet's days as a Third-Floor Man. He would, however, smoke a cigar just before; a good Havana always calmed him down.

'After dinner, we'll check the uniforms and go over it one last time,' Bruce announced. 'Just to be sure we all know what we are doing.'

'I could rob that train in my sleep,' Tommy Wisbey said.

'I already have. And spent the bleedin' money,'Jim Hussey replied.

'Not on that shirt, did ya? Fuck me, it looks like the test card.'

Jim looked down at his black-and-white patterned top. Then he pointed at Tommy's slacks and cardigan ensemble. 'Hark at Beau Brummell there.'

'What about you, Bruce?' Bob Welch asked. 'What will you do with your whack?'

Bruce scratched his ear. He knew what he wanted: a trip to America. That Austin Healey. Something nice for Franny. But after that, some land in the country. Bit of shooting, perhaps. Holland & Holland guns, tweeds - he'd always wanted a jacket with the leather elbow pads and 'action' pleats in the back - breeks, garters, shooting brakes, the lot. But all he said was, 'Mustn't count our chickens, Bobby.'

'I am going to buy Bond Street,' Tony announced, reaching for the relevant card and sorting out his £320 purchase price.

There was a pause before Jimmy White said, 'Bugger me, Tony. I don't think there's going to be that much on the train.'

'OK, you gannets, grub's up,' announced Buster. 'You grab a plate, a knife and fork and we'll serve you. And first one to make a crack about dinner ladies gets a fork in the eye. Clear?'

Bruce looked at his watch. 'And gentlemen, the Travelling Post Office Up train to Euston will have just left Glasgow.'

A ragged cheer of relief went up. At least it had begun now, the countdown to what should be a mighty tickle. In six hours, the convoy of thieves and heavies would be ready to roll.

There was another collective sigh of relief when Gordon Goody and Brian Field arrived, completing the firm. Gordy, who wore posh silk gloves, incongruous on a man of his bulk, had brought two bottles of Bushmills from his Irish jaunt. Brian, although nobody noticed at first, brought a long face.

The group was all sitting around the long kitchen table, having tea or instant coffee, a low cloud of cigarette smoke coalescing above their heads. The conversation was bright and breezy, sometimes bordering on the hysterical, heavy with tongue-in-cheek insults. The only sour note of the evening had been when Bobby Welch had discovered that nobody had thought to bring brown sauce. 'You can't have ketchup with a Fray Bentos steak and kidney,' he had said. 'It's a fuckin' crime.' He failed to see the funny side of this outburst.

'We saved you some food, boys,' said Buster to the new arrivals as they walked in. 'Although I had to stab Jim to stop him scoffing it.'

Charlie, though, had noticed the two men's glum demeanour. 'What is it, Gordy? You called Glasgow?'

The big man nodded. 'Train left OK, but with hardly any bags. Our man estimates it can't be more than a hundred grand.'

There was a low groan. The entire firm had been building themselves up over the past hours to seeing serious cash, and the deflating of the atmosphere was palpable and rapid. Ronnie ripped his gloves off and threw them down on the table. Roger looked as if he might cry. Charlie gazed at Bruce, deep in thought, and said, 'Hold on, boys. It's not over yet.'

He knew that some of the crew weren't convinced they could pull this off, and some had not warmed to Bruce's methods and leadership. Charlie wasn't one of them. Bruce dressed things up in a load of old wank sometimes - the movies, the clothes, the bloody jazz music - but beneath it all was rock-solid planning. Pockets of urgent conversation had broken out. 'Just listen up, will you?' rumbled Charlie, in the kind of voice that made people pay attention. The murmuring stopped abruptly. 'Bruce? What do you think?'

'Is it worth it for a reduced take?' Bruce looked around the room and did the mental arithmetic. To a firm of this calibre that kind of money was hardly worth getting out of bed for, what with the amount of cash already laid down. None of these lads were doing this to be left with seven or eight grand. It would be the airport all over again - big risks, meagre takings. 'No, I think it is worth waiting at least two more nights, maybe three.' He saw some faces pulled. 'Come on, we've come this far. Fuck me, even D-Day was postponed once, you cunts.'

That got some laughs and the tension eased.

'There's something else,' said Gordy. 'They've put the three new HVP coaches on.'

'Shit,' hissed Bruce to himself. 'That's earlier than expected. Couldn't the bastards making them have gone on strike or something?'

'Can't we get into them, then?' asked Tiny Dave Thompson, who hadn't heard that there was a new, more heavily armoured type of coach due into service

Bruce waved a hand. 'Yeah, yeah, but it adds twenty minutes or more. That's a lot. And there is the chance there will be more sorters in there, because the new ones connect to the rest of the train by a corridor. Bollocks.'

Brian spoke up, his voice even and calm. 'Bruce. Our man in Glasgow says he can take one HVP out, and that we should do the same to the one down here. There's only three been delivered. But it has to look like a fault, not sabotage, he says. Otherwise little alarm bells might ring.'

'Why the fuck didn't your bloke know these were coming on line?' asked Roger.

'I dunno,' said Gordy. 'Said he'd had to take a few days off. Personal problems.'

'Well, now we got personal problems of our own,' grumbled Jim Hussey.

'Be quiet, Jim, you great nancy,' said Roy to the big man, stinging him into silence. Bruce hid a grin. David and Goliath. The diminutive driver turned to Gordy. 'Did he say how? How to put the coach out of action?'

Gordy shook his head. 'No. Just said he had a couple of blokes he could bung a drink up there to make sure the new ones weren't available for a few days.'

'The brakes.' The two words were followed by a rattling cough.

All eyes turned to the new voice. It was Stan, spitting stray strands of tobacco from his lower lip as he placed a fresh roll-up between them.

'What about them?' asked Bruce.

'You need to fuck with the brakes. There's always teething troubles with these new models. So it won't seem suspicious if both go out of action. Always happens. You block one of the pipes with what looks like debris. Not the main one, but the feeders to the wheels. Iron filings work, and carborundum paste. Just looks like someone connected the pipes without cleaning them properly and the rubbish built up.'

'How do you know that?' asked Jim.

'Used to teach it during the war. At Beaulieu. To the saboteurs being parachuted in to France.' Everyone looked at the skeletal old man with a fresh set of eyes. 'You know where they lay up the coaches between runs, don't you?'

'Wembley,' confirmed Roy. 'I could go and do it in the afternoon. They sit there for three hours or more then. Be back here by the evening.'

'No,' said Bruce firmly. 'Not you. You need to be here to uncouple the coach.'

'Jimmy can do that,' objected Roy, pointing to Jim White, who nodded his agreement.

'Which is why he stays, too. Back-up on everything.'

'And Tony knows how.'

'Apart from that,' Charlie Wilson, who had been brooding on the change of plans, spoke up, 'did he say why there are

so few bags? Have we been rumbled? Someone talked out of turn?' He scanned the room accusingly.

'No, Charlie, calm down. He says the banks obviously haven't collected all the cash yet,' said Brian. 'Tomorrow might be better, or the next day. But not tonight.'

Bruce reached a decision. 'Tony?'

'Yeah?'

'You think you could mess with the brakes? You've been doing this uncoupling lark with Roy.'

'Sure I can. If Stan and Roy give us a few clues.'

'Piece of cake,' said Stan.

'Take Tiny Dave with you. Just in case there's trouble.'

Tiny Dave shrugged. It was all the same to him. Better a day off the farm than sitting cooped up for another twenty-four hours solid with a load of sweaty blaggers.

'OK,' said Bruce with fresh enthusiasm. 'So it's still on. Full steam ahead. Or full diesel in our case. We might get to be rich bastards, after all.' He picked up one of the bottles of Bushmills and unscrewed the top. 'But I suppose there's no harm in a little drink now. Get the uniforms off, I don't want you sleepin' in them, and grab a glass. And keep the bleedin' gloves on. Ronnie, that means you.'

'Oi, and boys,' said Bobby to Tony and Tiny Dave, 'if you are going back in town, pick us up a bottle or two of HP sauce, will you?'

'And some Kit-e-Kat.' It was Roy.

Bruce ignored him and concentrated on Tony and Tiny Dave. 'Apart from all that, keep your noses clean. You go in, bugger up the HVP coach, get back here. OK? Good. That's settled, then. Gordy, there's inflatable mattresses pumped up upstairs. Grab yourself a corner. We might as well get some sleep.'

Bruce waited until everyone else was busy, then signalled to Gordy and Brian to follow him outside. He stood looking up at the stars and a blurred, hazy moon, his mind racing. When he was aware they were behind him, he said, 'How much, Brian?'

'For what?'

'This drink. To take out the HVPs.'

'Ten.'

Bruce spun on his heel. 'Ten grand?'