Signal Red (31 page)

'What?' I asked. 'Bruce, you can't be serious. I know I let you down . . .'

He took another hefty toke and passed the joint back to Roy. 'I know you did, too, Tony.'

'But I didn't grass you up, mate.'

'So you say.'

I found I didn't feel frightened, despite the ominous turn events had taken. If it had been Charlie, Gordy or Buster with the gun, then I might have thought there was a chance of being shot. But I was fairly certain Roy wasn't going to blast me. And it certainly wasn't Bruce's style. If he had asked Charlie to top me - and I only had Roy's word for that - it might have been a figure of speech.

'I wish I'd been on the track that night.'

'Do you?' asked Roy.

'I don't think there're many people would swap places with any of us,' said Bruce. 'Oh, to begin with maybe. That morning, when we got back to Leatherslade, fuck, I'll never forget that feeling when we realised how much we had.'

'The news came over the radio,' said Roy. 'At. . . what time was it the police first mentioned it?'

'About four-thirty, quarter to five.'

'"They've stolen a train", they said. "Got a million quid".'

Bruce laughed. 'It was Ronnie's birthday. He started singing "Happy Birthday to me .. ."' His face dropped. 'That was the high point, I'd say. Then look what happened to us. Roy? Promising career pissed away.'

Roy flinched, but there was no arguing with the assessment. When Roy had come out he had tried to pick up where he had left off out on the track. But a dozen or more years had gone and so had his reactions, although his nerve was still intact. But three drives, three crashes, the third breaking his leg, demonstrated what prison had robbed him of.

'And Ronnie? Fuckin' clown in Rio. The town joke. And bloody homesick, so I hear. Charlie? Shot by some pikey on a fuckin' bicycle. What's the world coming to, eh? Shot in front of his wife, too. I mean, we kept the wives out of it. There's no respect any longer.'

I felt a flash of irritation. I knew it was the drugs making him loquacious, but still. Old gangsters telling you that the world has gone to shit, about when you could leave your back door open, coppers gave you a clip round the ear and the Krays were nice to kids and old ladies. I was surprised at Bruce - such rose-tinted sentimentality wasn't his style. It must be the dope, I reckoned.

'Leave it out, Bruce, he was messin' with the bloody Colombians. They don't know the old rules, do they? They kill you, your wife, your kids. Charlie was out of his depth.'

Bruce raised his eyebrows, but I could tell he agreed. Nasty in South London was not the same as nasty in Medellin.

'Buster selling flowers.'

I laughed. 'At least he got a movie made about him.'

Bruce sighed. 'Didn't even recognise myself in that.'

I knew he had been a paid adviser on the movie, Buster, but said nothing. I thought Larry Lamb had done a half-decent job of capturing him, given the quality of the script. But it made Buster out to be like Charlie Drake the comedian, whereas I remembered him as a scary little fucker.

There was always some confusion over who coshed that driver. They claimed there was too much going on to be certain. My money, though, would be on the flower-seller and his spring-loaded cosh. Not that the movie had had the guts to show that.

And even if he didn't land the blow, I heard it said that Buster had a 'Let Him Have It' moment in the cab, yelling for someone to clout the poor bloke. It was just one of those things where the truth had become very blurred over the past thirty years. Just like the role of a snitch.

'You know, Bruce, maybe nobody grassed you up.'

'Bollocks.' It was Roy. 'Why would you say that? They was on us like a ton of bricks from day one.'

'Because of the driver,' I said. 'Because someone hit the driver.'

Bruce laughed. 'You're kidding. If we'd coshed that driver and got a hundred grand, you think there would have been that hunt? Don't get me wrong, it was fuckin' stupid. But when they found out how much money there was - two and

a half bloody million - then it was all hands to the pumps. And they leaned on every source they could.'

He sucked the last of the life from the roach and put it out in a saucer, adding, 'Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now.'

I realised he still had his suspicions about me. 'Fuck this.' I stood up, walked over and made to snatch the gun from Roy's hand, but he was too quick for me. He placed it on the table out of my reach, with his hand spreadeagled over it.

There was a pause while they wondered what I might do, and I let them ponder for a couple of heartbeats. Then I slammed my fist on the table and headed for the door.

'Oi,' said Roy, getting to his feet and raising the pistol. 'Where d'you think you're goin'?'

'Leave it out.' Bruce pulled him back down into a chair. 'Build us another one, Roy,' he said, passing the tin over to him.

Roy did as he was told. I backed towards the hallway.

'Where are you going, Tony?' asked Bruce.

'You want to know who snitched on you? I'll get you the man who knows.'

'Who's that?'

'Billy Naughton.'

Forty-eight

GPO Headquarters, London, 9 August 1963

DS Malcolm Fewtrell's train robbery conference took place in a stuffy, first-floor room that was too small to contain all the interested parties. Only the press was excluded; that still left the CID, the Robbery Squad, the Flying Squad, the London & Provincial Crime Squad, the Intelligence Squad, the Bucks CID, the GPO, British Rail and six banks, as well as the government in the shape of two junior ministers.

George Hatherill had positioned himself in the second row of metal-and-canvas chairs. Tommy Butler was at the back of the room, with Jack Slipper. He had to admire the elegant Fewtrell's composure. He was dressed in a three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt and a red-and-blue striped tie, and displayed no signs of nerves as he stepped up to the dais.

'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.'

Hatherill looked around. He could see plenty of gentlemen, but he couldn't spot a single lady. But then, Fewtrell had a better view of the room.

'Before we start, I would just like to remind you that this

is a briefing for concerned parties. I shall explain what we know so far at this very early stage, and then invite questions. But what is discussed in this room should go no further. The press are not necessarily our allies on this one.' Fewtrell took a sip of water. 'Do you think we could open a window? Thank you.'

He held up a newspaper. 'My local, page one. For those at the back, the headline is: "The Great Train Robbery".' There were some sniggers. 'Just in case you are not familiar with silent flicks, that was the tide of a very old film. A Western. One of the first, I believe, if not the first. So, straight away this sounds like something romantic, daring, dashing. It isn't. I am certain we all recognise this for what it is. A sordid crime, committed purely for gain. We are fortunate that only one man was injured, the driver. I am sure the gang would not have hesitated to use force on anyone else who put up too much of a fight. The driver, Jack Mills, has been seen by a doctor and is doing reasonably well. As to the estimate of the amount taken, it has now passed two million.' There were some low whistles. 'And the bad news is, we have recorded serial numbers for a tiny proportion of that.'

A significant amount of the notes had been designated as too worn to remain in circulation and been scheduled for destruction. Nobody recorded the numbers of those sacks. And the scruffy oncers and fivers would be a lot easier for the thieves to spend without attracting suspicion than crisp new notes.

'What proportion, Chief Superintendent?' someone asked.

Fewtrell looked irritated. 'Could we save the questions until the end, please? Otherwise we'll never get through. We do have a press conference to give later. But to answer that one question - less than two thousand pounds.'

There were audible gasps and Fewtrell nodded to signal his agreement. It seemed inconceivable that the gang could have got away with so much untraceable cash.

Fewtrell then went through the mechanics of how the train was stopped and the timetable of activities. He read partial statements from each of the witnesses. Then he said something that was music to Hatherill's ears.

'We will, of course, need the assistance of Scotland Yard in this matter. I find it hard to imagine that these are first-time criminals. It is likely we have come across them before, which is why the coaches and signals are still being worked on by the fingerprint boys. I don't need to tell my colleagues in the police force of the criminals' common modus operandi in these cases. The haul would have weighed between one-and-a-half and two tons. Tyre-tracks at the scene suggest at least one lorry. Such vehicles are normally dumped within a few miles and transferred to smaller, faster cars. But one of the robbers said something curious. "Don't leave for thirty minutes." Now, I think that is a psychological slip-up. Don't worry, I am not going all Herbert Lom on you. But let us say it would take them half an hour to get to their hideout and under cover. Might that not dictate what he says to the poor GPO men. "Lie down, don't move for thirty minutes, by which time we will be underground." Which means that we are looking for a changeover site at a distance of not more than thirty miles. We also have unconfirmed reports of a hitchhiker passed by an Army convoy in the early hours. Exact location not known, but to the west of where the robbery took place. At the moment, we are checking with the Army as to whether any official convoys were on the road at that time. As you can appreciate, it is a large undertaking. However, at least some of the robbers wore Army uniforms, so it is

looking as if the two may be connected.' He took a deep breath. 'Now, any questions?'

Hatherill's hand shot up. Fewtrell pointed to him and he gave his rank and name to the audience. 'Were there any clues to identities? Names used in the heat of the moment?'

'No. As I said, they were careful not to mention any names, but one of the thieves called another "Colonel", although Frank Dewhurst is fairly sure the man was a Major. Or, at least, pretending to be one. Mind you, we can be sure that these layabouts wouldn't know much about Army ranks - probably spent their whole National Service in the glasshouse.'

Hatherill thanked Fewtrell and the questions continued. Hatherill meanwhile wrote a single line on his pad.

Any criminals nicknamed the Colonel??

Forty-nine

Leatherslade Farm, 10 August 1963

It seemed as if there was no other subject on the radio. Every news bulletin was about the 'Crime of the Century' or 'The Great Train Robbery' and each time, the amount stolen crept upwards. It was as if the GPO thought the public couldn't take the shock of the revelation of the final sum all in one go and had to be fed it incrementally.

The VHF, too, hummed with information about what the police were up to: fingerprints, helicopters, motorbike patrols. It was odd, thought Bruce. He had imagined them lying low, relaxing, till the scream blew over. But this wasn't a scream, it was the howl of a wounded animal, thrashing around, looking for revenge.

The atmosphere in the farm was tense. The money had been slacked, pending the final division of the spoils. Although the conversations still revolved around what they would do with such a windfall, the topic was kicked around in a desultory fashion. Each man knew they had to get the money somewhere

safe and then hang onto it before they could do anything as mundane as spend it.

That evening, Brian turned up to collect his own whack, the Jock's and various other 'drinks' he had laid out. The new arrival stood in the kitchen with Charlie, Bruce, Ronnie and Roy.

'I got a call from Tony Fortune,' said Brian.

'Yeah?' said Bruce. 'Where was he?'

'In a call box. He says well done. Turns out his brother-in- law pulled some stunt. They came to question Tony about the motors and his wife started to drop the kid. He couldn't get back up here.'

'I suppose he still wants a whack?' asked Charlie, who had taken a keen interest in the division of the money.

'Bollocks to that,' said Ronnie.

'He deserves something,' Roy retorted. 'As much as your bloody driver. And you'd have been more pissed off if he had come back with the Old Bill on his tail.'

Brian nodded his agreement. 'I told him he could earn the rest by acting as dustman.'

Bruce watched Charlie make a salt-beef sandwich, adding more salt from the cylinder of Saxo. The gloves were still being worn, but after all the manhandling of sacks and money, they were falling apart.

'Fair enough. Long as the coppers have lost interest in him.'

Brian Field waved his arms to indicate the farm around them. 'The police have lost interest in everything else but this. They want to know where you are holed up. We're top of the bill at the London Palladium. The star turn. Numero uno attraction now.'

Bruce's stomach contracted at that. He didn't want to be a star. Not in that sense. Not Public Enemy Number One. It was

hard to face up to, but as he had feared when he heard the total, it was possible there was just too much money. The authorities couldn't turn a blind eye to £2.6 million. It was like having a target painted on your back.

Buster entered the kitchen, frowning.

'What is it?'

'On the VHF. The order has just gone out to search all isolated buildings for Army-type vehicles.'

'Where?' asked Brian Field.

'Within a thirty-mile radius of the robbery. They have also appealed to the public to check any suspicious properties. There are roadblocks to stop and search any large vehicles.'

'Shit,' said Charlie through a mouthful of sandwich. 'There goes using the horsebox. Not unless we can get a horse to put in it.'

'No bloody room for the cash then,' said Buster. 'Use your loaf, Charlie. Have to take it out in dribs and drabs.'

'Riskier, in some ways,' said Bruce.

He scanned Brian's face for signs of alarm. The rest of the people at the farm - Stan and perhaps Ralph excepted - were pro villains. No matter what the police had on them, they'd stay calm and dumb. Bruce would make sure Ralph played it right, but Brian Field was a mere solicitor. However, there was no sign of panic in his eyes, which was good.