Signal Red (4 page)

Eight

Fortess Road, North London, October 1962

'What the fuckin' hell are these?'

Tony Fortune looked up from his cornflakes, sucking a stray one off his lip as he did so. Marie was standing in the doorway to the kitchen of the flat they rented in Tufnell Park, dangling his set of twirlers.

He shrugged. 'Just some bunch of keys from the garage.'

She tossed them onto the pine table.

'Oi. You'll scratch it.' He moved the keys onto the Daily Mirror, with its cover photograph of Oswald Mosley, who had caused a riot addressing his Union Movement. Nasty old fascist.

Marie walked in and leaned over the table. She was dressed in the dark jacket and skirt she wore to work at the Midland Bank. She stabbed at the enormous ring of keys of various shapes and sizes.

'Twirlers.'

Well, it was true there were some skeleton keys among them, but most were legitimate. 'You know what it's like. People always losing their keys and need the car opening.'

'And people always need cars "opening" when the owner's not about.' She blew out her cheeks, making the freckles stand out even more. Marie had long red hair and the palest of skins that betrayed her Irish roots. Her enormous, extended family was in the business - the ducking and diving business - working the north-west of England. She had deliberately distanced herself from them - apart from her brother Geoff, who turned up like a bad penny every few months for a handout - but she had been around enough car thieves to recognise a professional key-set when she saw one.

When they had met, at a dance in Kilburn, she had known who Tony was and what he was. A ringer. A man who took stolen cars and turned them into something else: unrecognisable, untraceable stolen cars. In order to move the relationship on, he had been forced to renounce the ringing game. It was something he had never regretted, not really. But it had its moments, which you couldn't say about running a showroom in Warren Street.

Marie had her hands on her hips, her 'fierce' pose. 'There are coppers who would arrest you just for having those things.'

'There are coppers who will arrest you for being in possession of a tongue in your head,' Tony shot back. 'It's a regular tool of the trade.'

'What are you up to, Tony?'

'What do you think I'm up to?'

'What am I supposed to think when you come home at all hours stinking of thinners?'

He laughed at that. The splashes of cellulose thinners on him were legit. He'd been respraying a Standard van for a local joinery firm. 'I'm not at it,' he said with all the conviction he could muster.

'Because I have a job in a bank now,' she reminded him. 'But how long do you think I'd keep it if they thought my old man had friends who were partial to the balaclava.' She rubbed her stomach. 'Look what you've done.'

She walked over to the old-fashioned metal kitchen unit, pulled down the drawer and rummaged for some Alka-Seltzer. 'You give me indigestion. I shouldn't wonder if I've an ulcer.'

He stood up, crossed over and put his arms around her. She let a hand rest on his crotch, saying, 'I swear if you go bogey on me I'll pull it off.'

He turned away from her slightly, just in case she was considering a warning shot across the bollocks. 'You really know how to win a man's heart.' He kissed her neck.

'I can still smell the thinners.'

'I'll cover it up with a splash of Old Spice.'

'Not now, Tony.' She moved his arms aside with that practised combination of sharp elbows and a quick wiggle that women perfected at an early age. 'One of us has a real job.'

'So have I.'

'How many cars you sold recently?'

Tony bristled. 'As it goes . . .' He pulled the roll of notes from his pocket, undid the elastic band, and let the cash flutter onto the linoleum floor.

'What's all this?' She knelt down and he could see her stocking-tops. He didn't bother to help as she gathered up the five-pound notes. She was laughing as she did so, until she realised how much there was. The laughter died and the smile faded soon after. 'What's this from, Tony? It's a—'

He waited for her to make a joke on their surname. None came. This was no laughing matter.

'A quick turnaround yesterday,' he lied. 'Car came in, gave him a ton for it. Customer walks in half an hour later. Cash on the nose.' 'What car?'

He hesitated, sticking as close to the truth as he dared. 'Some nice old Jag.'

She stood up and handed him the sheaf of notes. He wrapped the band around it again. 'Can't have been that old. There's a hundred and fifty quid profit there.' 'Give or take.'

Her eyes flashed with amusement. 'A hundred and fifty dead. I count that stuff all day long, remember. You sure it's bona?'

'As my dick is long.'

She slapped his shoulder. 'Don't be crude.' He could see she was already thinking about what the cash could buy. A refrigerator. A decent television. A holiday.

'Sure we can squeeze a meal at the Carousel out of it.' She smoothed down her skirt and straightened her jacket. In one deft movement she tied her hair back and became every inch the severe bank cashier. 'I have to go. Love you.' 'When I give you money.' A smirk. 'Take it or leave it.'

The guilt at lying only kicked in after she had gone, while Tony made himself a fresh pot of tea. Well, it was a one-off. Just repaying a favour. There was no way on God's earth that Tony Fortune was going to get involved in any tickle for Bruce Reynolds, that was for sure.

They had ringed the two Jags in part of a disused bus garage in Camden, not far from the Met's Stolen Car Squad at Chalk Farm. Tony didn't do much apart from changing the plates and swapping the vehicle ID plates over. He also put a Webasto sunroof in the burgundy model, which would throw anyone looking for the original car, and changed the wire wheels on the metallic-blue one for regular steel disc wheels. He could sell on the wires, no problem.

Mickey Ball ventured up north to help drive the cars south from Camden to where Roy wanted them - in Battersea, within walking distance of his garage and the shop where he sold antique silverware. He and Tony took different routes. It didn't do to be going around in convoy, just in case some copper put Mk 2 and Mk 2 together and got a sniff of something.

Tony went via Westminster Bridge and made it there first, and as he bumped down the track that punctured a scruffy row of terraced houses, he spotted Roy waiting at the garages, with the doors to both open. He chose the nearest one, waited until he had cleared the rutted access alley and accelerated. He roared past the lock-up, slammed on the brakes, engaged reverse and propelled the Jag into the dark interior, stopping it with an inch to spare before the bumper engaged with the tool rack at the rear.

As Tony squeezed out of the driver's door Roy was making exaggerated waves in the air to clear the dirt the tyres had kicked up. 'Done that before, have you?' he smirked.

'Once or twice.'

'Wait till you see Mickey. He goes in like a mum trying to park her pram.' He closed the garage doors and engaged the clasp lock. 'You done any driving?'

Tony knew what kind of driving he was talking about. 'Not the way you mean. Not serious.' A couple of high-speed chases after he had been spotted in a wrong 'un was the closest he had ever come to being a wheel-man. And that was six, seven years ago.

'Stoppin' for a drink?' Roy asked.

'Best get back,' said Tony.

'Give you a lift somewhere?'

'The Tube. Cheers.'

'Just wait for Mickey.'

'Right.' He offered Roy one of the new Embassy Filters, which Marie had started buying, saying they were better for you than unfiltered.

'Nah. I don't. Stopped the booze, too.'

'Why?'

'Slows you down. For the racetrack.'

Well, Bruce had said he was serious about his racing. Tony lit his cigarette from a Colibri lighter. He smoked in silence for a while.

'Bruce wondered if you wanted to stay on.'

Tony looked down at Roy, who was a good four inches shorter than him. 'Stay on?'

'Get involved, like. In the job. It needs a sizeable firm. Room for one more on top, as they say.'

The next step was, he would have to ask what exactly the job was. That was as good as saying 'Yes, count me in.' You didn't tyre-kick with these lads. If you said you were interested, it meant you were interested. Not merely curious. Curious was bad.

He was flattered. Roy would only have asked if both Bruce and Goody had given the say-so. But he could hear two things. One was the familiar thrum of a Jaguar 3.4 as it changed down a gear, ready to turn into the lock-ups. The second was his scream as Marie twisted his testicles off and toasted them on an open fire.

'Tell Bruce thanks all the same, but I got a lot on at the moment. Wouldn't want to let you all down at the last minute.'

Roy swung back the doors of the second garage to their full extent, ready to receive the Jag that was bouncing towards them. 'Sure. Don't worry. There's always a next time, eh?' 'Yeah,' said Tony. 'Maybe next time.'

Nine

Twickenham, West London, November 1962

Bruce always supplied the music. Even if the meet was held at someone else's house, he would still turn up with a selection of his LPs. The first real gathering for this job was held in Buster's flat in St Margaret's Road, Twickenham. Bruce liked Buster, but he had a tendency to musicals: My Fair Lady and The King and I and, even worse, after a drink or two, Flanagan and Allen. Underneath the fuckin' Arches, indeed.

So once he arrived and shrugged off his coat, Bruce took charge of the Pye radiogram. June, as always, had made sandwiches and put out some sausage rolls. As far as she was concerned, this was a gathering of a betting syndicate, and she would never question that. It was best the girls knew as little as possible about what really went on at these meets. After all, the rule about grasses didn't apply to wives; they weren't expected to be able to hold up under pressure from people like Tommy Butler or the Flying Squad's Frank Williams. So it was best they kept their heads in the sand, emerging only to make the sarnies.

It was just the core members of the team present, it being prudent to keep things tight in the early stages. All jobs bled information, it was inevitable. Who was doing what - and how much it was worth - was as much the fuel of conversation in the pubs, clubs and spielers such men frequented as the usual mix of football, cricket and the horses. It was essential to make sure that the leak, the whisper that something big was on, came late in the day, when the police were left with crumbs, not the whole cake.

So today, it was just Bruce, Buster, Gordy, Charlie, Roy and Mickey. Only Mickey looked ill at ease, thought Bruce. Jittery. But he was all right, Mickey, he just got a lot of gyp from his mum about the sort of company he kept.

Most of them were chatting, apart from Charlie, who was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Bruce noticed the tightness of his shirt over his chest. Charlie's bulked out, he thought.

Bruce turned off Z Cars on the TV and selected Ahmad Jamal's But Not For Me from his stack of records. He ran a finger over the stylus and groaned.

'Buster, when did you last change your needle? You've got enough fluff for Cyril Lord on the end of this.'

'"This is luxury you can afford by Cyril Lord".' Buster sang the carpet ad as he handed out the beers. 'Dunno. You have to change them, do you?'

'See you later, love. Off to Bingo.' It was June leaving. They all shouted their goodbyes.

Bruce bent down and examined the end of the diamond-tipped stylus. It still looked good and sharp, not like some of the chisels he saw in people's homes. Probably all the muck had protected it. He plucked it clean then lowered it onto the record, listening to the familiar rhythm of the drummer's mallets as the beat began, soft yet insistent, with the accent from the hiss of the hi-hat. Beautiful.

'I am using these to show the perimeter,' said Buster, waving a plastic cow at the group to get their attention. He pointed at the fencing that he had used to create a circle on the coffee table. It was from a Britain's farmyard animals set. 'This is my niece's birthday present, so be careful.'

He placed a barn next to one of the lengths of plastic fence. 'This is Comet House.' Next he positioned the farmhouse down the road. 'Barclays Bank. I haven't got any aeroplanes. We'll take it you know they'll be taking off and landing in the middle there. We have the armoured car.' He produced a Massey Ferguson tractor.

'Bloody hell, Buster, who's pulling this job?' murmured Charlie. 'The Archers?'

Gordy nearly choked on his Shippam's fish-paste sandwich and it was a few moments before order was restored. Bruce put the record arm back to the beginning of the Jamal album. He loved the opening number, 'Poinciana'. The dynamic always made him think of the tempo of a good tickle. Soft and tentative at first, a theme stated, then developed, becoming more sure and intricate - but not too tricksy - building to a solid crescendo with an inventive climax, then the slow release, the feel of a job well done. Villainy or sex, 'Poinciana' stood as a fine metaphor for both.

Buster had at least got a couple of Corgi diecasts to stand in as the getaway cars - neither of them Jags though - and the farmer and his various farmhands represented the security guards.

'Right, gentlemen,' Bruce said. 'Any thoughts so far?'

'I'd give the milkmaid one,' offered Charlie, pointing at the overly voluptuous figurine.

'That's enough,' said Bruce, adopting his best stentorian tones. 'OK. Listen, please. Let's run it down.'

Over the next forty-five minutes beer gave way to scotch and the air filled with smoke. After each of the principals had spoken, Bruce asked if there were any questions.

'We're still short-handed,' said Gordy. 'A couple of extra bodies wouldn't go amiss.'

'We could bring in Ronnie,' suggested Bruce. 'Ronnie Biggs.'

Foreheads were collectively furrowed as they tried to place the name. 'Who?'

'Biggsy. Good worker. Reliable.' Bruce had met him in borstal and been impressed with his loyalty and tenacity. But he didn't feel as if he could force any more of his own opinions on the group. After all, Charlie had got the tip-off, which made it his job really. 'Charlie?'

'Not this time, Bruce,' he said softly. 'I'll have some names in the frame for our next meeting.' The odd quip aside, Charlie never said much in these sessions, not unless he had a point to make, but Bruce always took account of his opinion.

'Fair enough. Anything else?' Bruce asked.

There was a collective groan as the lights were snuffed out and the music slowed and then stopped completely. 'Bloody hell, Buster.'

'Hold on.' Buster went out into the hall and fed some shillings into the meter. The record wowed up to speed again and the lights flickered on. 'Sorry about that.'

'Where were we?' asked Bruce.

'At any questions,' said Gordy.

'Yes,' said Roy, leaning forward and pointing to the perimeter fence. 'I'd like to take a look at the gate we'll be driving out of. Which way it opens, that kind of thing.'

Gordy shrugged. 'It's chained shut. Opens inwards, which is a shame. But I reckon I can get a decent pair of bolt-cutters. And make it so nobody'll notice the cut.'

'All right,' said Roy, knowing that if Gordy said he could take care of it, he would. 'We should also look for a changeover spot. The Jags'll be all over the police radio within five minutes.' He looked at Bruce. 'And somewhere to lay up the cash.'

'Got just the place,' said Charlie. 'Norbury. I'll get it sorted out.' He meant so that a group of them could hole up for a week or more if need be. Mattresses, blankets, food, booze, reading matter - books for some, magazines and comics for others - cards and board games would all be needed.

'Right,' said Bruce. 'We all got a bit extra to do. Next meet in a week's time.'

'I ain't here,' said Buster. 'Brighton. Missus.'

Bruce didn't want any details. It would be a birthday or anniversary. Buster never forgot those things. Not for him the last-minute dash to the florists or the box of Black Magic from a corner shop. 'Ten days then. At my place.'

The men stood as one, stubbing out cigarettes and picking up the empties. They might be villains, thought Buster, but they were house-trained villains. 'Hold up, one last thing,' he said, brandishing a lined exercise pad and a Bic. He had forgotten about Bruce's little suggestion. 'Before you go, I need all your hat-sizes.'

The Flying Squad detectives could smell the stink of prison on John 'Yul' Jones as he was led into the interview room at Wormwood Scrubs. Piss, cheap soap and fear hung about him. Billy thought of the ad: 'Even your best friend won't tell you about B.O.' In the Scrubs that was because everyone smelled the same: Old Nick.

Yul was younger than Billy Naughton had expected, not yet twenty-five, with a totally bald pate and a round, boyish face that suggested a happy, overfed baby The effect was marred, however, by dark half-moons under his eyes that told of too many sleepless nights.

The barrel-chested warder pulled back the chair for him and Yul slumped down at the metal table. He was on remand, so he had on a nice blue cotton shirt and jeans. When he spoke, the voice that came out shocked Billy. It was that of a far older man, coarse and raspy. 'Gentlemen. What can I do for you?'

'Tommy Butler sent us.'

'Did he? You got a cigarette?'

Len Haslam glanced at the warder, who nodded. Billy handed over a pack of five Woodbines and a box of Swan Vestas. Yul took his time lighting the cigarette, never taking his eyes from them, wondering how he should play this.

'You should be honoured, you know,' Len said eventually.

'Why's that then?'

'Being collared by Tommy Butler. He doesn't do much thief-taking these days. Not personally. You've been nicked by royalty.'

Yul gave a smile that showed a chipped front tooth. 'I should ask for some whatsit then on my chamber pot. That fur.'

'Ermine,' offered Billy.

'Yeah. I'd like an ermine piss pot.'

'I think we might be able to do something for you. But that might be pushing it, Yul. Other cons might get jealous. They'd be wanting silk pyjamas next.'

Duke let it sink in that 'something' might be on the table. He looked around the room at the bare walls, the bricks painted a lurid, glossy green up to waist-height, then dirty cream above that. You'd do a lot to get out of this place.

'You're Buder's boys, are you?' Yul asked.

'Not exactly.'

'C Eight?' This was the section that contained the Robbery and Flying Squads, as opposed to C5, the CID. It meant Yul knew his coppers.

'Yup.'

'Sweeney?' A nod acknowledged this. 'All right then.' He seemed satisfied that he was dealing with men with some clout at least. 'So what we going to talk about?'

'Motors,' said Billy.

Yul stuck out his lower lip, as if pleased. He was on safe ground here. Nothing about his cellmates or any of the more outlandish plans to go over the wall. Outside. Talking about the outside was safer than discussing the inside. 'What kind of motors?'

'Fast. Four-door,' said Len. 'That kind.'

'Mr Butler suggested to us,' added Billy, 'that you might know where a man who wanted a particular type of Jaguar might go, were you not available to source it for him.'

Yul's jaw tightened and he looked from one policeman to another. 'I don't know what all that means.'

Duke laughed suddenly, a violent explosion of mirth that made Yul flinch. 'Don't be ridiculous. My friend here might have made it a little too convoluted, but you know what we're saying. You want a car for a job, you come to you, Yul. Everyone knows that.' He pointed a finger as the prisoner made to speak. 'Shut up. All we want to know is: with you out of the picture, where would someone go? If they were in the market for a couple of fast Jags.'

Yul considered, smoking his Woodbine for a minute. 'They'd go to the Old Kent Road or Warren Street, wouldn't they? I can't give you names.'

'No?' Len asked quietly. 'Shame. 'Cause we can't do anything without a name, can we?'

'Well, we haven't discussed that yet, have we? What you can do for me?'

Len shot forward over the desk and Billy thought he was going to strike Yul for a moment and so did the prisoner, because he scraped the chair back out of arm's reach very sharpish indeed. The warder stood by, his face implacable. He'd seen it all before.

'Look,' Len said, 'you don't have to be a cunt all your life. You can take a day off. Today, for instance. You know how this works. Two Jags, stolen to order: who is doing the stealing and who is doing the ordering?'

It might seem a ridiculous idea, that one man would know about two cars in a city of thousands of them, would have knowledge of a particular criminal in its vast underclass. Except it wasn't that vast. Not once you took out all the petty chancers. When it came down to it, the hardcore blaggers constituted a small close-knit community.

Yul shrugged. 'If I hadn't been put on remand, I could've helped you.'

'If you weren't on remand, we wouldn't be having this little chat at all, would we?'

Yul accepted this truth with a nod. 'All I can tell you is which firms it might be doing the ordering.'

'And the drivers?'

Yul shook his head. 'You know them as well as I do.' Again, there were no more than ten or twelve top-class wheel-men in the capital.

'So, what've you heard? Who might be the market for a three point four?'

Yul moved his chair back in and drummed his fingers on the table. He glanced over his shoulder. 'This'll be worth my while?'

Len Haslam looked up at the warder and, with an inclination of his head, pointed him at the door. Once the big man had left, Billy told Yul, 'Tommy Butler said we could make it worth your while. Said you had his word.'

'I see.' The prisoner started on another cigarette, his tongue worrying his teeth. 'Well, before we get into that, there is one thing you can do for me straight off.'

Len relaxed, feeling the fish wriggling on the hook. 'What's that, Yul?'

'Have a word with the M.O. Get me on the asthma list.'

'Asthma?' Billy asked.

'Wheeze something dreadful, I do. Ask Stevie James, who I share a flowery with.'

A flowery dell, Billy automatically translated, a cell. He winked at him. 'I think you need an inhaler. Is that what you are saying?'

'A Benzedrex one, yeah.'

A supply of Benzedrex inhalers would make Yul a prince of the block, able to exchange hits of the amphetamine - usually boiled up as a soup - for fags or favours. At Chelsea Billy had come across plenty of lads marked for Borstal who suddenly developed bad lungs and tight airways. Never mind that the inhaler was mainly a decongestant that had little effect on asthma or that the only way to get a kick from it was to dissolve the drug-soaked strips of blotting paper inside, which meant taking in a nasty dose of menthol as well. The result was the 'minty-burp', which plagued users for days afterwards. The ragged high, they claimed, was worth the continuous taste of too-good-to-hurry-mints.

'Used to be a Teddy Boy, did we, Yul?' asked Billy. The Teds liked their inhalers and their pep pills as much as their bicycle chains and cut-throat razors.