Signal Red (32 page)

Ralph spoke up. 'How far are we from the train?'

'We're about twenty-seven miles away,' said Bruce. 'Give or take.'

They all understood at once. The idea of lying low for a week was shot. They would have to start pulling out. Charlie was thinking the same as Bruce. 'We'll have to have it on our toes. And any of us with form, we'd better have a fuckin' good story to tell.'

'And if we aren't at home when they come looking. . .' said Roy letting it tail off. Like the others, he was well aware that the London Airport robbery was similar enough in planning and execution for the Yard to make connections.

'Brian, remind me, what do you need?'

'A whack for the man in Glasgow. The cash for the HVP coach boys. The finder's fee for Mark who introduced me to Jock. We can put the last two together. Mark says he will see the railwayman all right. And my share, of course.'

A lot of money, thought Bruce, then stopped himself. There was enough to go round. Even for this Mark, who had done fuck-all apart from make the intros.

'And some drinks for the boys in the estate agent's office maybe,' Brian continued. 'Few grand. Just in case they tumble this place. We want to make sure our stories tally and that nobody can remember what you look like, Bruce.'

It occurred to Bruce that perhaps Brian wasn't padding his total. It didn't matter: he had brought in Mark and the Jock in the first place.

'Charlie will help you count it out. Won't you, Charlie?'

'With pleasure.'

'You've got cases with you?' Bruce asked. 'We're running short.'

'In the car,' said Brian.

'Start counting it out then. Charlie will show you which piles you can use. We'll leave in the morning. Staggered. We do this co-ordinated, we stick together, and we stay in contact. It's all for one and that crap. We are a unit, a good one, let's stay that way.'

'What about the farm?' asked Charlie.

'We clean it till it sparkles. Then we clean it again. Then

we get Tony to come up and do it again. And anything we can't clean, we burn.'

Charlie Wilson was just parking up his Rover outside the Ten Bells, opposite Spitalfields Market, early on Friday morning, when he heard. He had dropped off Gordy at the Tube, so he could go back to Putney, then Charlie had driven to East London to kick-start his alibi: that he had been 'on The Fruit' every morning that week from 5.30 a.m. There were a dozen porters and a couple of traders who would swear to it, no problem.

It had been dark when he had left the farm, now his eyes felt tired and gritty in the grey light of an East London dawn. The others would be scattering, too. Bruce had announced he was going off to buy a couple of Austin Healeys, Roger that he would buy a car in Oxford, and most of the others would be ferried by Brian to hole up at his place for a night or two.

Roy, sensibly in Charlie's mind, had opted to travel back to London by train rather than join Brian's party. Tiny Dave Thompson, too. It was a mistake to have too many people in one place. Too much cash to be able to explain away.

In the boot of Charlie's Rover was his share of the haul, £150,000, plus Roy and Tiny Dave's whacks and a big drink for Frenchie who had stumped up some of the investment cash when the funds ran low. It was a lot to get rid of. He felt as if he could sense the heat from the bundles of notes bleeding from the boot. What was that song? 'Too Hot to Handle'. Bloody right.

He was about to turn off the ignition when the news came on the radio. The robbery was, of course, the first item. A special unit had been put together at Scotland Yard to run

down the Great Train Robbers. It was to be headed by - he knew what was coming even before the announcer said the name - Tommy Butler.

Tommy Butler. A right attention-seeking humourless weirdo, who lived with his dear old mum and, therefore, only had the job to occupy his time. The Grey Fox. The Sad Bastard, more like. If he was bent, he was Bent for the Job, but although Charlie had heard rumours about bungs and backhanders, they needed to be taken with a large pinch of Saxo. Still, a special unit at the Yard - that sounded serious.

The bulletin continued with news about the train driver. He was out of danger and out of hospital, but still very poorly. The driver, the driver, the driver. They pushed it forward every time, just in case people should get the wrong idea about the job. Just in case someone felt like saying, 'Good on ya, son.' There it was, the shadow of - what was the old cunt's name? - Jack Mills. He would be on TV soon: bandaged head, black eye, hangdog look, blinking into press flashbulbs. Fifty-eight years old. Coshed mercilessly. What sort of men are these? Hunt them down, now.

The firm was caught between Butler and Mills and a ten-grand reward. They were fucked now. No matter what Bruce had said, this was no time for musketeering. It was every man for himself.

Fifty

Scotland Yard, August 1963

There was only one show in town now for any self-respecting copper. If you weren't in it, you weren't just second division, you weren't even in the league. You were a kick-around Sunday side. The Train Squad, on the other hand, was Liverpool, Man U and Spurs combined.

An uncharacteristic gloom had settled over the Flying Squad room. They weren't used to thinking of themselves as second-best. Yet every other case paled beside THE GREAT TRAIN ROBBERY as everyone called it. Always said in CAPITALS. Len Haslam took his exclusion from the inner core particularly poorly, although Billy Naughton had half-expected Hatherill to bring him along and couldn't help feeling a little snubbed too.

But the top guys wanted this for themselves. Glory and headlines beckoned for whoever nailed these blokes, and the big boys wanted their share of it, that much was certain. As someone said, such Big Guns hadn't been wheeled out together since the Somme. Sequestered in their room, festooned with the brown cables of extra phones hanging from the ceiling, were George

Hatherill, Ernie Millen, Tommy Butler, Frank Williams, Peter Vibart, Gerald McArthur, Jack Slipper and Jim Nevill. They were sifting through what little evidence they had so far.

The rest of the Squad was on donkey work, tapping snouts and sifting records of those most likely to have a finger in the GTR pie. Billy and Len had done both those things and presented their findings. Len had put Gordon Goody at the top of his list of those worth a tug, because of the London Central Airport job, but no snitches had mentioned his name, nor any of the known blaggers they had pulled in for it. But the airport job was not the only possibility: those behind the Finsbury Park wages snatch, the Hatton Garden ram-raid or the Bishopsgate vault would have the right kind of pedigree, too. Old case files were dusted off and reexamined to see what names had cropped up in the frame back then.

But unless they could bring something concrete to the table, both Len and Billy knew they were out in the cold, shut out of the biggest investigation for years. What did you do during The Great Train Robbery, Daddy? their children would ask. 'Fuck-all,' would be the sullen reply.

Still, they had been told that the information fund was temporarily bottomless and that they should start casting cash around, like chum bait on the surface of the sea. Sooner or later, they would get a nibble.

'DC Naughton, line five!' the operator shouted.

Billy closed the file on his desk and dragged himself over to take the call. He was barely gone two minutes and when he returned Len noticed there was a fresh spring in his step and a glint in his bloodshot eyes.

'Who was that?'

'Come on.' Billy scribbled a request chit for a driver and car and passed it to the Duty Sergeant.

'What? Who was it?'

'Just some old dear reporting suspicious activity behind a Post Office. We've got to check it out, though.'

Len just about caught the fast wink that punctuated the sentence.

'You coming?'

Duke stood and stretched as if being dragged away from a session with Sophia Loren. 'Oh, OK.'

As they hit the corridor, heading for the garage, Len stopped Billy. 'Well? I know that was for the benefit of the big ears in there. Some old dear? Some old L.O.B., more like. What's really going on, Billy?'

He was right; it had been a Load of Bollocks. 'It was Marie - Tony Fortune's wife.'

'She out already?'

'No, she's still in hospital. Wants to see us. You got some money for flowers?'

'A few bob. What does she want to see us about? She's not putting the kid down for Hendon already? What's so urgent?'

Billy let rip with a 200-watt grin. 'She wants to give us the Train Robbers.'

Tony Fortune met Brian Field in a transport cafe off the A1. Brian looked bloody awful and his hands shook. At first Tony thought the stress had got to him, that he had cracked under the strain.

'You OK?' he asked as Brian's spoon rattled in the mug.

The other man gave a wry smile. 'Nothing a bacon sandwich won't cure. Me, Tommy Wisbey and Bobby Welch tied one on last night.'

He didn't mention that they had tied one on the night before, too. He did explain how the gang had split up: Bruce

and Ronnie Biggs had left in one of the Austin Healeys, Jimmy White and Ralph in the other. Charlie and Gordy had gone together, while Roger had a Wolseley he had paid £375 cash for in Oxford and had left in that. Roy and Tiny Dave had been dropped off at Thame. Brian had done the same for Stan the driver an hour later.

Then the remaining crew had been ferried to the Fields' place and there had been a two-day celebration. It was quite raucous; at one point one of the neighbours had complained. But the robbers had gone now.

'What did Bruce say?'

'I've forty-eight grand in the van outside. He says you are owed that much.'

Tony's throat went dry. 'Cheers.'

'There's the same again if you take care of the farm.'

That sounded unpromising work. 'It must be crawling with police up there.'

'They haven't got that far out yet. You'd be OK if you take the A40 and approach it from the west. I'd come with you, but there's a lot to do my end. A fuck of a lot.'

Tony thought for a moment. It might just assuage the guilt and frustration he felt at missing out on the job. And the cash would certainly help placate Marie. She had left a deposit on a Silver Cross, just like the Queen used. He could be in and out before anyone saw him. 'What do you want me to do at the farm?'

Brian signalled for his bacon sandwich. 'At this stage of the game? Don't fuck about, Tony. Torch the lot.'

'Hello, is that Aylesbury police? Yes. My name is John Marris. Like the potato, yes, but with two "rs". I'm a farm labourer, a herdsman. I live on Oakley Road, and I thought you might be interested in

what I have just seen. I was woken last night, in the early hours, by lots of comings and goings. Cars and the like. I knew they must be coming from this farm, you see. So today I just had a peek, a bit of a nosey, wondering what the new owners were up to. It looked deserted, but all the curtains were drawn, like. In the middle of the morning. Thought that was odd. Except that each one had a corner turned up. As if someone wanted to spy on anyone coming up the lane. I nearly left then, because it was a little creepy, but I went to one of the outbuildings. There was a lorry in there. A yellow one. Yes, yellow. Just been painted, though. Still wet. Then next door there was a locked garage. And round the back, a pit where things had been burned. Clothes, mostly, I think. Well, I haven't got a phone so I am calling from my employer's house. The number? OAK five seven four nine. I heard on the radio there was a reward? All right, I'll wait until someone gets back in touch. Oh, you'll want the name of the place. It's called Leatherslade Farm. Righty-o, thank you.'

Even the Verve Cliquot tasted sour to Bruce. He and Fran were holed up in a flat in Queensway. Mary Manson was looking after their son, Nick, just in case they had to move quickly. The place was in someone else's name, so he was quite happy to have champagne and smoked salmon sent over from Fortnum's. And they weren't the kind of company surprised by payment in cash.

So they drank champagne and decent claret and ate well, but Bruce found he could hardly move from the chair in front of the TV, the news bulletins came so thick and fast. On each one he expected to see a shot of the farm, those outhouses, the kitchen with its supplies, and grinning among them Fewtrell and Butler, the two coppers vying for the limelight. They were like Arthur Lucan and Kitty McShane, or Jewell

and Warris, those two - a double act you suspected hated each other away from the public gaze.

Bruce went over and over what could tie him into the robbery. The farm; the purchase had been handled by Brian Field's firm, mainly his associate Leonard Field and his boss John Wheater. They had met Bruce and Gordy. Weak link. So had the previous owners of Leatherslade. Stupid. He had also stashed his whack in a garage rented in his own name. Careless. It was time to put those things right.

Late afternoon, fifteen minutes before the 5.55 news, he grabbed his coat.

'Where you going?' Fran asked.

'Make a call.'

She didn't ask any more, simply refilled her glass and carried on watching Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School. Bruce was worried, but then that was his job. They would be all right.

He went to the call box and dialled Brian's number. He let it ring, put the receiver down and called again. He did this four times in total. No pick-up.

Bruce put the phone down for the last time, his anxiety heightened by the worms in his stomach.

A new plan was needed. Step one, move the money somewhere safe, perhaps away from London. Step two, start planning for a proper safe house. Oh, and step three, make sure the farm was sterilised.

Janie Riley had waited patiently for the phone call from Bruce. Just to let her know he was all right. That they could meet sometime. To thank her for her help. To give her a night out. Just like the old days. Smoking, drinking, jazz and sex. Four things she rarely got at home.

Nothing.

But the papers were full of his exploits, even if his name hadn't been put to them. Clearly, he had taken the cash and gone without so much as a by-your-leave. Off with Franny or Mary or even some other woman. Not a thought for Janie. Sent her to buy the grub, that's all she was good for. She should have been there to see it, to revel in the whole caper. She deserved that.

'Bastard,' she said to herself as she left the house and walked down the pathway towards the elaborate gates depicting rampant peacocks. Hideous. But her husband liked them. And it was his money. Besides, they didn't look out of place in this part of Surrey.

She turned left and walked into the village, past the green where the cricket club was setting up. A few looked over at her, in her bright floral summer dress and oversized sunglasses, and she let her hips sway a little more than usual. They'll be polishing their balls on their whites a little more vigorously than usual now, she thought.

She slipped into the red phone box outside the Post Office. Best not use the line at home, just in case. Afterwards she would go into the Cricketers and have a quick gin and tonic, even if it was only lunchtime.

She dialled the number written on a scrap of paper. She wouldn't tell them everything. She would just give them one or two. Bruce. Oh, and that smug git Tony Fortune. He had pissed her off that day when they were shopping. She could tell what he thought of her. He deserved to go down, too.

'Hello,' she said in her roughest voice. 'Is that Scotland Yard?'

The police Rover pulled Tony before he had even left London en route to the farm. He watched the light in the rearview mirror of his two-tone powder-blue Ford Capri coupe that he had taken from his showroom. The Capri was nifty, but there was no way he could outrun the Rover.

He slowed, changed down using the column gearshift, and pulled over, then studied the rearview mirror, watching the two uniforms approach.

A knuckle on the window. 'Step out of the car, sir.'

He wound the window down. 'Why, Officer? Was I committing an offence?'

The man crouched down. He had a bruiser's face, square and solid-looking with a five-o'clock shadow you could tell no razor could banish completely. 'Mr Anthony Fortune?'

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 'Yes.'

'Can you step out of the vehicle?'

Tony opened the door and did as he was told.

'Thank you, sir. Could you tell me what is in the boot, sir?'

'Jack. Spare wheel.'

'Mind if we take a look?' The policeman smiled. They were going to take a look come what may.

Tony reached in, pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them to him. 'Be my guest.'

The copper tossed them to his colleague.

'How did you know it was me?' asked Tony.

'Oh, an all-car message, sir. Quite distinctive, this vehicle. Bit of a lady's colour though, blue and white.'

'Bloody hell!' the other policeman yelled.

Tony sighed.

'Derek. Look at this.'

He followed Derek around to the rear and the three of them stared into the gaping boot and its eight cans of petrol and rags. Thank God he'd parked the cash Field had given

him with old Paddy his mechanic before picking up the Capri.

'What's this?' Derek asked, as he picked up a can and shook it.

'Petrol.'

He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. 'I can see that. You going somewhere?'

Tony sighed again. 'On a very long trip, I should imagine.'

'Hello, is that Brill police station? Who am I speaking to? Sergeant Blackman. Look, Sergeant, it's John Marris here. I called Aylesbury the other day and they never got back to me. I know they are busy, that's what I am talking about. The robbery. There is a farm here with a suspicious vehicle in it. And nobody has been around for days. I checked. Leatherslade. You know it? Yes, sold a few months ago. Never seen the owners. You'll send a man down, will you? Good. Because something funny has gone on there. Will you come yourself? Right. Constable Woolley. Tell him I'll meet him at the end of the lane in an hour. How's that?'

Fifty-one

New Scotland Yard, 11 August 1963

George Hatherill lit a cigarette and offered them around to Len Haslam and Billy Naughton. They were looking very pleased with themselves as they took one each. He wasn't so sure they had any right to be smug, not yet.

'So what have you got on this Tony Fortune?'

'Nothing yet,' said Duke. 'We're still questioning him.'

'But you are sure he is in the frame?'

'Tangentially.'

'Tangentially? Big word for you, Len. Did Billy here teach you that?' Hatherill wagged his cigarette at Duke. 'Expand on that.'

'We have two reasons to believe he was involved. One we'll explain in a moment, another from an anonymous tip-off. A woman.'

Hatherill snorted. Anonymous tip-offs didn't count for much, as far as he was concerned. They were often more about setttling scores than the truth. There had been lots of them so far, many no doubt naming the actual villains, but with no proof offered.