Roger Cordrey had the OS map spread out on his lap, while Bruce fussed with a flask of tea. They had been driving up and down their designated section of the line for several days now, but kept coming back to this spot. They had looked at the viaducts discovered by some of the other scouts, but one was far too high – a heavily laden bag tossed over could kill someone on the road below – and the other had no stop signals nearby.
'I reckon it is,' said Roger. He indicated towards Linslade, on his right, beyond the small bridge that crossed the line, giving access to Rowden Farm. 'Dwarf single down there, which will be switched to amber.' Then to his left. 'Home signal there has to be on red.'
Bruce hesitated while a goods train groaned past them at not much more than walking speed, drowning out the conversation. When it was clear he asked: 'All of which you take care of?'
Roger grinned. He had done it on the Brighton line enough times, although they had never taken a decent haul, and some of the attempts had been fiascoes. But the false stop light part of the plan, that always worked a treat. 'Leave it to me. Never fails.' He took the tea. 'Cheers.'
'But how can you be in two places at once?'
'How do you mean?'
'Doing two signals? Shouldn't we have someone on the dwarf, another on the home gantry?'
Roger pursed his lips. Bruce knew what he was thinking. Tricks of the trade. Roger was valuable, would more than earn his whack, by interfering with the signals. If he spilled the beans on how to do that, if anyone with a couple of crocodile clips could switch the lights, then he became redundant.
'Look, I don't give a fuck how it's done, Roger. I'm not going to make a career out of nobbling the Royal Mail. I just want to make sure you aren't stretched too thin. I could put a man up there with you.' He had someone in mind – Ralph. A distant relative, not a hardened crim, but a good worker and, most of all, dependable.
'We'll see,' said Roger. He changed the subject and pointed across the tracks to the low buildings that constituted the inhabited part of Rowden Farm. 'That's a bit close.'
'It'll be three in the morning. I know farmers are early risers, but that'd be ridiculous.'
'Still, should cut the phone line to it.'
That made sense. Even if they did spot something, the owners wouldn't be able to raise the alarm. 'Good idea. Drink up. Mustn't hang about too long.'
Bruce's new Lotus Cortina – its side flash as green as Roy 's envy when the driver saw it – was parked off the main road next to a farm entrance on the B488, which cut through quiet pasture and rolling woodland. He had pulled off onto such turnings many times in recent days and inevitably had left tyre- marks. He would have to get the boots on the car changed. The police used tyre-tracks like fingerprints now – both as evidence and a convenient way to place you at the scene. In fact, it was best if he retired the Lotus, just in case anyone had clocked it over the past week or even taken the licence-plate. He had read there was a DB5 due in September. It might be nice to go back to an Aston. The last one had cost him a fortune in garage bills, but that might not be an issue this time around.
'Of course, you are still half a mile short,' said Roger. He gestured at the track behind them that led up to the elevated crossing. 'No way you can get the bags up this embankment and over to the main road. Not without giving everyone a hernia. It will have to be bridge 127.'
He pointed down the line to Bridego Bridge, which was, according to the plate on its side, BR's crossing number 127. It was a relatively low span over a narrow country lane, with easy access up the embankment at the side of the arch to the track itself. There was even a parking area for fishermen who visited the small pond next to it. But it was, as Roger had said, a good half-mile away. Trotting up the track like pack mules was also out of the question.
'So once the train is stopped, we have to move it up to the bridge?' asked Bruce.
'Well, you don't have to move the whole train, do you? Just the HVP.'
Bruce sipped his tea. 'So we uncouple the business end and shunt it the half-mile.'
'That's right.' At Crossing 127 they would be dropping the bags down a slope to the roadway, not carrying them uphill to one, the only option where they were now. 'To where we can unload the bags straight down into the vehicles.'
They sat and thought about this for a minute. 'Roger?'
'Yes?'
'Can you drive a train?'
'No. I can stop them, that's usually enough.'
'So we need a driver then. Although they do tend to come complete with one, don't they? Trains, I mean.'
Roger screwed his face up. 'In my experience they are stroppy bastards, these BR types. If the fucker at the controls says you can go and fuck yourself – well, you're fucked, aren't you?'
That was true. Drive the train or we'll beat your brains out. Go on, then. The whole thing could come down around their ears because of one bolshie driver. 'OK, best have a think.' Bruce stood up and threw the dregs of his tea towards the track. 'What's this place called again?'
'Sears Crossing.'
'Sears Crossing,' he repeated. 'Right. Sears Crossing is where we catch our train.'
Thirty-four
New Scotland Yard, June 1963
Len Haslam took one glance at Billy Naughton, sitting rigid at his desk in the Squad room, and knew something was wrong. 'Fuck me, lad, you look like someone who drank seven pints and three scotches last night.'
'Don't exaggerate. Five pints. Two scotches.' He did feel rough around the edges, his stomach burning from all the alcohol – celebrating the nicking of the Islington Post Office gang – and no food. But that wasn't why he felt queasy.
Duke, fresh-faced apart from a razor nick on his upper lip, grinned. 'Right. Must have been me who did the seven and three then – and I feel fine. So what's up with you, Junior? Need to see Dr Kildare?'
Dr Kildare was the half-bottle of scotch that Duke kept handy in case a hair of the dog was needed.
'Leave it out. Got to see the TM.'
TM stood for Top Man: Commander George Hatherill, overall head of Scotland Yard's C Division, the business end, and a classic Old Sweat, who had been everywhere, seen everything.
'He asked for you?'
Billy said he had.
'Could be a good thing,' Haslam told him. 'You never know.'
Billy doubted it. He hadn't made much of an impression over the past few months, could hardly claim to have established himself as a thief-taker.
'By the way, I forgot to ask you last night. Did you turn up anything on that bloke who was with Bruce Reynolds?' Len clicked his fingers in front of Billy's eyes. 'Come on, boy, snap out of it.'
'He's a writer,' said Billy distantly.
'A what?'
'A writer,' he repeated.
'What kind of fuckin' writer? A sign writer?'
'Journalist. Author. Colin Thirkell.' Billy fetched one of the paperback novels he had bought at Foyles from his drawer and tossed it onto the desk.
Duke picked it up and read the title.'Black and Blues. What's this?'
'About the clashes between the coloureds and the police. In Notting Hill.'
'Is he a coon-lover then, this Thirkell?'
Billy shrugged. 'I haven't read it. He's queer though.'
'How do you know? Is it because he takes men's dicks up the arse? Is that the clue?' Len leered at him, making Billy feel even more nauseous.
'Drinks at the Moorhen off Tottenham Court Road.'
'Ah. Queers and nig-nogs.' Duke scanned the rear of the novel. It was a twin-strand story about Dexter, a Jamaican seaman who ends up as a pimp, and Stirrup, a Detective