The robbers fled the scene in two high-powered Jaguar saloon cars, later found abandoned. Detective-Inspector Hugh Jarvis who will be leading the investigation said yesterday that they were looking for a criminal gang of: 'At least six men and one woman. We are appealing to any witnesses who saw the cars being driven to the airport or anyone who saw suspicious activity there in recent weeks. This a well-organised gang, and the raid took careful planning, but I would remind the public these are dangerous men.'
Police believe that very few criminals in the capital have the audacity and skill to carry out such a raid. 'It is only a matter of time before we learn their names,' a Scotland Yard spokesman said, although he did not dismiss the conjecture that there might have been 'foreign elements' involved completely. 'Crime is an international business now,' he added.
All airports and ports are being watched. DI Jarvis said anyone with information should not approach the men, but call Whitehall 1212. A reward is expected to be offered.
Fifteen
London, December 1962
The highlight of the week following the airport job was its appearance on Shaw Taylor's Police 5, which Roy watched in his flat above the Battersea garage. The police had discovered the Jags eventually, abandoned in Hounslow. They had also found the BSA motorbike, because the little bastard machine had failed to start for Roy. He had been forced to leave the area by bus, while Tiny Dave had driven the Co-operative furniture van to Norbury with the cashboxes and Mickey and Buster in the rear. The others had taken Tubes, trains and taxis.
Still, finding the cars had yielded nothing, because everything had been very well wiped down. Roy had used T-Cut abrasive cream on the doors and handles of the Jags to take off the top layer of paint, turpentine and thinner elsewhere. Those handling brollies and hats had been careful to wear gloves. So there were no latent dabs there. If there had been, they wouldn't all have been sitting in their respective homes or hangouts, watching Police 5.
'And did anyone see these two cars? Very smart Jaguars. Both stolen a few weeks before their use as getaway vehicles. They must have been stored somewhere.' Shaw Taylor adjusted his trademark thick-framed black glasses as he stared at the camera. 'Perhaps in that lock-up down the road? That disused factory? Were there any strange comings and goings in the middle of the night? If so, call the number I shall give you at the end of the show.'
Shaw Taylor moved to the rear of the Jaguar, hands in his sheepskin jacket, breath clouding the air in front of his face. Must have filmed this early in the morning, thought Roy. Taylor fished out one of the steel umbrellas and the metal bowlers from the boot. 'And look at this.'' He clashed them together. 'Solid metal, painted to look like the real thing and used to inflict – he shuddered – 'horrible injuries on innocent men. Make no mistake, these are not Robin Hoods or William Tells, fighting the Sheriff of Nottingham or Landburgher Gessler. These are vicious greedy crooks who have stolen the wages of hard-working men and women.'
Yeah, yeah, thought Roy as he turned off the TV and watched the image implode to a white dot. Not that many wages. When they had opened the cashboxes it was found that each contained around £15,000, rather than the £150,000 they had hoped for. Once the expenses were covered, Tiny Dave, Ian and Harry bunged a few grand, The Frenchman – one of the underworld's financiers who had laid out a few grand to help with set-up expenses – reimbursed and given his whack, there was only a pittance left each. And Bruce had insisted on 'taxing' that, creaming off enough to create a fund for the next job. The next 'Big One'.
It was a crying shame. It had been slick, daring and fast, and nobody got hurt. Well, a few headaches, but not much more. Certainly not the 'horrible injuries' Taylor had mentioned. No thanks to Buster though, who complained he never got to use his homemade cosh in real anger.
Still, with the sale of his kart and his share he had enough, just, for that Brabham. Let Bruce and Charlie spunk their share away on bespoke suits and tarts, Buster on that Sunbeam Alpine he claimed he'd always fancied and Gordy on… nobody was sure what Gordy spent his money on. Bigger and better hair-crimpers and driers, maybe. Or a new salon. Perhaps he wanted to be the new Mr Teasy Weasy demonstrating modern hairstyles to Cliff Michelmore on telly.
Roy picked up the current issue of Autosport, which had a Mark X Jaguar on the cover. He flicked through the technical articles on gas flow and came upon a beautiful cutaway drawing of the F1 Brabham, the one in which Jack Brabham himself, no less, had come fourth in the US Grand Prix, the first ever GP driver to score points in a car of his own design. It was built by Brabham and fellow Aussie Ron Tauranac at their workshops in Byfleet. This was the goaclass="underline" Coventry- Climax powered, sitting on fat 13-inch front and 15-inch rears, twin Lukey Muffler exhausts, 174bhp at 8,300rpm. But that was walking before he could run. Karts to F1 in a single bound was unheard of. He'd have to prove himself in Formula Junior first.
The phone rang and he tossed the magazine aside. He knew who it would be. One of the lads to wind him up about Shaw Taylor. Roy 'Vicious Crook' James they would call him from now on. Made a change from Le Furet, the nickname his crimes in France had earned him. Les Flics had announced that the thief was able to scale drainpipes as if he had run up inside them, like Le Furet. Funny, it sounded better in French. 'The Ferret' didn't have quite the same ring.
He picked up the receiver. 'Yeah?'
' Roy?' It was Bruce.
'Yup. I saw it-'
Bruce cut him dead. 'They've picked up Mickey Ball.'
It was at that moment the doorbell rang.
Tony Fortune watched the two policemen enter the Warren Street showroom and start appraising his stock. The younger one clearly didn't know much, but the older guy, he went straight to an MGA that had the wrong grill on it. This was one of the Chalk Farmies, Tony thought, an MVE – Motor Vehicle Examiner – from the Stolen Car Squad. They were good, as he knew to his cost. Sharp enough to know when mileage and condition didn't match.
Paddy emerged from the workshop at the rear, an oily rag in his hands. He moved phlegm around his throat at the sight of the coppers, as if he was going to hawk over them but merely glared at the pair instead as they circled the MGA like carrion, and went back to cleaning spark plugs.
'I couldn't match the right year to that one,' Tony said to the MVE, explaining why the style of grill – it had too many vertical bars – didn't quite sit right with the body. 'Well I could, but you know how much they want for a new one?'
The younger man flashed his warrant card. 'Mr Fortune?' When Tony nodded, he carried on. 'Detective Constable Naughton. Flying Squad.'
Maybe, said a voice inside Billy's head, but for how much longer? After Gatwick, he had been savaged by Ernie Millen and Frank Williams, the heads of Flying Squad. It reminded him of the way you saw the lions at London Zoo tucking into a leg of lamb – with him playing the role of the dead sheep. Then the piss-taking had started, about him being in the wrong place at the right time. Every time he gave a destination or address someone would tell him to make sure that wasn't Oxford Street, Aberdeen. Ha-fucking-ha. Unless he got a result on the City gents, his days at the Squad were numbered and his copybook permanently covered in blue- black Quink.
'This is Constable Rowe, of the Stolen Car Squad.'
'How can I help you gentlemen?' Tony asked. Rowe was examining the sticker on the MGA. It was up for £375, not a bad price. 'It's not an insurance write-off,' Tony assured him. 'Legitimate repair. Just you know what some people are like. Once they scratch their pride and joy…'
'It's not about that,' said Billy Naughton. 'It's about Mark Two Jags.'