Signal Red

Tony sighed. 'I'm right out, I'm afraid. Can't help you. Lot of demand for them, but we don't see many of them at this end of the market.'

'That's not what we heard.' What they had heard were names: Ball and James, drivers. And the cars? Word was they definitely came from Warren Street. Six grand reward from BOAC, it jogged a lot of memories.

For the next five minutes the two coppers walked around the showroom. Tony knew the game. They would find something pony and use it as leverage to prise him open. Except there was not a hooky or pony item in the showroom, apart from the odd wind-back on the mileage, and nothing there was too greedy. After the Mk 2s he had made sure of that, just in case a day like this came around. He had been over it dozens of times; there was zero to connect him to the stolen vehicles, no physical evidence. Only if someone grassed would they be able to pin him to them.

'Can we see the log books for all these vehicles?'

'Of course,' said Tony. 'All except the Goggomobil.' 'This was a German microcar, once fashionable but made redundant by the better-performing and more spacious Mini. 'That's in the post.'

He went out the back and fetched the stack of documents from the safe and watched while they painstakingly matched car to book. He made himself a tea while they did so.

'What do they want?' Paddy asked.

'Routine.'

Paddy shot him a look that conveyed his disbelief. 'You been doing something behind my back?'

'No.'

Paddy pointed his wire brush at him. 'You know I did some time once. Never again, Tony. It's not fun.'

Tony poured his PG Tips and a second cup for Paddy. 'Don't worry, nobody is doing any time.'

Back in the showroom, Rowe was still lifting bonnets to crosscheck numbers with documents.

Tony sipped the tea. 'Doing this to everyone on the street, are you,' he asked, 'or did my number just come up?'

They didn't answer, just carried on with their whispered deliberations.

The phone rang. It was his wife Marie, sounding jittery and almost teary, so he didn't mention the police. She immediately sensed something was wrong from the stiffness of his replies and quickly signed off. More grief when he got home.

As he came out of the office, Billy handed the fat pile of log books back. 'That all seems to be in order.'

'Good. Is this about that airport job?'

Billy pursed his lips and looked baffled. 'Can't say, sir. But what would make you think that?'

'Shaw Taylor. He's interested in Mark Twos as well, as I recall.'

Billy smiled. 'Oh yes.' He picked some fluff off his overcoat. 'Well, as you brought it up, and just to avoid any confusion, can you tell me where you were on the morning of the seventeenth, the day of the robbery?'

'At my sister's house in Reading. A christening. I'm the godfather. I'm pretty sure the vicar would remember.'

Billy had to admit that, as alibis went, it wasn't bad. 'I'm sure he will. Well, sorry to trouble you.' Billy turned to go then hesitated. He took out a photograph and held it at eye- level, so Tony could see it. 'Ring any bells?'

Tony looked at the picture of a young man leaning in a doorway, a cocky smile on his thin face. 'No. Who is it?'

'Name's Derek Anderson.'

'What you want him for?'

To wring his bloody neck, thought Billy Naughton, then said, 'Just some routine questions.'

Charlie Wilson counted out the five-pound notes in the snug bar of the Two Kings in Clapham. Colin, the barman, made sure the two men weren't disturbed. Charlie stopped when he got to £500. Then he put two more notes on top, and then a third, pushed them over the table, and took a gulp of his beer. 'There you go. That should keep you all right for a while. But I'd leave it for a year till you show your face in London again. So if you are short, let me know, eh?'

'Yes, Mr Wilson.'

'Charlie.'

Derek Anderson beamed at him. 'Thanks, Charlie.'

'You did well to come to me when they tapped you on the shoulder. A stupider person might have…' he hesitated, '… been tempted. But you'd never get that much from the police kitty.'

'The money's not why I did it, Charlie.'

'I know.' Charlie took another gulp of beer. Derek had been desperate to get back into the family fold, to make amends. That was why he had risked coming to Charlie with a story about the Robbery Squad trying to squeeze him. He should have been angry with the kid, because it was his initial loudmouth act about them doing a job at the airport that had drawn the Old Bill in the first place. That and his drunken, disgruntled sulks once he had been banished. But when Charlie had told Bruce the police had been sniffing about, the Colonel had come up with the brilliant idea of a diversion, a dummy job. 'Just like D-Day,' he'd said. 'Hitler thinks we are coming ashore at Calais, but no, wallop, we do the beaches at Normandy.'

So they had put out enough hints that they were going to turn over cargo at Gatwick to keep the police's eyes looking the wrong way, enabling them to do the Comet House job. Had there been a sniff of new faces or a stake-out at Heathrow, Charlie would have pulled them. When they did the job they were 90 per cent certain the tosspots had bought the dummy. It made it doubly sweet: a successful blag and red faces at the Yard. Shame the boxes weren't full. Still, the shortfall in cash wasn't down to Degsy. He'd earned his little bung.

As the young man reached for the cash, Charlie grabbed his scrawny wrist. 'And you aren't tempted by the reward?'

Derek tried his hardest to look shocked at the very thought. His hand was shaking and he could feel the pulse. It reminded Charlie of a hamster's heart hammering away when you picked it up. 'No, Charlie. Never.'

'Six grand?'

With his free hand, Derek tapped his stack of newfound wealth. 'At least I'll live to spend this.'

'That's right, my son,' Charlie agreed, releasing his grip. 'Go on, fuck off, see you in twelve months. Sure I'll have something for you then.'

Derek wrapped the money with an elastic band, folded it into his inside pocket and left. Charlie was still sitting in the snug, drinking, when Len Haslam, sporting a face like a sack of hammers, and two uniforms came in to arrest him.

Sixteen

London, December 1962

The steam in the sanatorium at the Savoy Baths on Jermyn Street was so thick, it was as if super-heated cumulus had fallen to earth and been manhandled into a cupboard. Through the swirling clouds, Bruce Reynolds couldn't tell whether there was anybody already in the room. He sat down on the hot, wet marble bench and waited while Buster made himself comfortable opposite. Neither spoke for a while, letting the vapour scour their lungs.

Eventually, when they were sure they were alone, Buster spoke. 'Fuck, eh?'

'Yeah. Fuck.' Bruce thought about the relatively poor haul. A few months' grace, that was all it would give him, before they would have to do it all again. 'On the bright side, it worked, didn't it?'

Buster laughed. Bloody optimist, he thought. Bruce could be a regular Pollyanna. 'Yeah, it worked.'

'Shows what can be done with a little planning. Good, tight teamwork.'

'Yeah. True enough.' Buster took three deep breaths, feeling his airways burn and almost enjoying it. 'Didn't really do it for the camaraderie, Bruce.'

'No?'

'Nice though it is. A bit more cash wouldn't have gone amiss.'

'Yeah.' Sweat began to trickle into his eyes, and Bruce leaned forward. The moisture gathered on his nose and dropped onto the floor with a loud plop. 'Any news on Roy and Mickey?'

'Identity parades,' said Bruce. 'But they only pulled them because of who they are. You know that. Anyone drives a bit handily, there are only six names on the Squad's list. Roy and Mickey are at three and four. Might have even been promoted to one and two.'

'You heard from Charlie?'

'Nah.' Bruce wasn't worried. Charlie often went to earth after a job. 'Probably taken Pat off to Jersey.'