Billy felt himself blush as the two older men stared at him. I wish I were back in London, he thought. Even turning over queers in public toilets is better than this. But that wouldn't do as an answer.
'That the head was sawn off to prevent identification.'
'Then why not the hands?'
'Because… well, if the woman had no criminal record, the murdered would know we wouldn't have anything on file.'
Hatherill shook his head. 'But once we have a list of missing women in the area we could dust those houses. The murderer, if there were one, wouldn't know how long the corpse would be immersed, would he? If it is a he.'
Billy tried to think of something pertinent to say, but nothing came.
'Let's get the list of everyone who might have seen the body during the week it was there. Dog-walkers, beachcombers, fishermen, holidaymakers. We'll interview them all, reinterview if they have already been done.' Hatherill took out his cigarette case and placed a Senior Service in his mouth. He was enjoying himself. 'Then I want you to phone the Met in London.'
Billy assumed he meant Scotland Yard. 'We need more men?'
'Not the Metropolitan Police, the Meteorological Office. We are at the seaside, remember. I want a weather forecast.'
It had been raining persistently for two days until that morning and the sky was still a flat pewter colour, threatening more of the same. Clapham Common was greasy underfoot, the grass beaten into submission and dotted with muddy patches the size of small ponds. Bruce Reynolds was concerned. He knew how competitive some of these men could be. He imagined Charlie going for Jimmy, or Buster taking on Gordy and it all ending in grief.
'I want you to think about what you are doing.' Bruce tapped his temple forcefully with his right index finger. 'Think why we are here. We don't need any broken legs now, do we?' he warned them as they gathered on the edge of the pitch. 'It's not Yugoslavia versus Russia. And I don't want any Mujics. Got it?'
Tito's lads and Khrushchev's boys had faced up to each other in Group One of the previous year's World Cup in
Chile. It had been a scrappy match in all senses of the word, with on-pitch fighting and a broken leg sustained by Dubinski thanks to a heavy-footed tackle. The photo of the Russian's agony flashed around the world; Mujic was sent home in disgrace.
Bruce looked at the group of men gathered for a kick- about. Some, like Roy, had gone to town with their kit. He looked like a pocket-sized Roy of the Rovers. Buster, on the other hand, in his long black gym shorts and vest, looked more like Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track. Most were somewhere in between.
'Right, let's get the important bit over first. Gordy, pick your men. I'll have Roy and Tony.'
'Oh no, you don't,' said Gordy. 'Two fast wingers, I bet. You can have one of them.'
In the end, it was Bruce, Roy, Buster, Jimmy White and Charlie to take on Gordy, Tony, Ralph – a friend of Bruce's who would help with the signals if need be – Tommy and Roger. Brian Field, the solicitor, opted to stay on the sidelines. 'I'll peel the oranges at half-time,' he said with his cheeky grin.
'You can buy the pints at fall-time,' said Buster, pointing towards the Plough.
'Before we get started,' said Bruce, looking at Roger. 'I may have solved the problem of moving the train.' He suddenly had their complete attention, and felt like Alf Ramsey giving a pep talk. 'Ronnie Biggs knows a driver.'
'Will he let us at him?' Roy asked.
'No. It's his shout. I said I'd bring Ronnie in.'
Buster gave a loud sniff. 'None of us have worked with him. Not really.'
'I told you. He's reliable.' said Bruce, with feeling. He'd seen Ronnie beaten by screws till his testicles were like purple rugby balls, and he hadn't given an inch. 'He's keen.' The truth was, once Ronnie had realised the scale of the job, all his concerns about upsetting Charmian went out of the window. She wouldn't be miffed when she saw a heap of fivers on the bed. When he and Franny had left, Biggsy had given him a clear message. No Ronnie, No Stan the Engine Driver.
'He can be very useful,' Bruce went on. 'Ronnie's a big strong lad. Once we get the train to that bridge, we are going to need to get the bags down to the lorries.'
'Lorries?' asked Roy, dismay in his voice.
'I'll come to that,' said Bruce. 'And besides, Tony has worked with him before, haven't you?'
All eyes turned on Tony, but Tony examined Bruce's face. He had never even met Ronnie Biggs, let alone worked with him. 'Yeah. He's all right.'
'I can drive the bleedin' train,' said Roy, with a hint of petulance.
'What? You bought a Hornby Dublo?'
Roy glared at Buster. He had bought a train set, but hadn't told anyone about it yet. Besides, it was a Triang. 'No, I haven't got a bloody Hornby, but I've got the Railwayman's Handbook. Looks easy enough. I drive a racing car – how hard can a train be?'
Bruce flicked from face to face, gauging the mood.
'It would be nicer to keep it tight,' said Gordy. 'And not bring in too many outsiders.'
Bruce knew that wasn't going to be an option. On paper he had worked out they needed eighteen people to do this; sixteen at a stretch. They were still short. 'Well, we'll see if you can,' Bruce said to Roy.
'How do you mean?' asked the wheel-man.
'We'll go and find a train to drive. You lot have been doing the yards. You must know ways in.'
Several of them nodded. 'Security's piss poor,' added Gordy. 'Pair of overalls, you can walk right in and out, no questions asked.'
'And we've found the mail train,' said Buster with a grin, unable to keep the news to himself. 'Up near Wembley, in the sidings. As your man said, the HVP is not connected to the rest of the train by a door or corridor. It's self- contained.'
'Good. But I'll need to take a look for myself,' said Bruce. All they had to do then was figure out how to unhook it from the body of the train. But, as Roy would say, how hard could that be? Stan would know. If they brought Stan and Ronnie in, that is. 'And then we can let Roy play choo-choos.'
'Fuck that. Are we going to play football or what? It's going to rain soon.' It was Charlie who, as usual, had been listening without saying much. 'I paid two guineas for these.' He pointed down at his shiny new Puma Pele Signature boots.
Bruce picked up the ball. 'You're right. That's enough villainy for now. Twenty minutes, then half-time, another chat about the transportation we'll need, and change ends. OK? Right – my lads over here. I want to give you a proper talk without those dirty bastards overhearing.'
When Tony Fortune walked up the stairs to the flat, he was fully expecting a bollocking. Although he had changed after football – 4-2 to Gordy's team – his face was still mud-streaked and he smelled of sweat and beer. There had been two pints in the Plough and then most of them had adjourned to Bobby Welch's place in Camberwell for an after-hours session. Charlie, Bruce and Buster were still there. Tony, his head swimming with alcohol on an empty stomach, had headed back, no doubt to a ruined, cremated lunch.
'Marie,' he shouted as he came in, his nostrils twitching. Lamb. And it wasn't burned.
'In here, luv.'
His wife was in the lounge, watching television. 'Sooty?' he asked as he walked in, dumping his kit, just in time to see Harry Corbett get a squirt of water in his eye.
'Just waiting for Oliver Twist to come on.' She struggled to her feet, her belly weighing on her now.
'Sit down. Sorry I'm late.'
'Knew you would be. Didn't put dinner on till late. Be ready about six.'
'Lovely.'
'Shall I run you a bath?'
Even in his slightly befuddled state, Tony sensed something was up. A campaign was under way. 'What is it?'
'What's what?'
'Whatever it is that you have to tell me.'
She smiled at him, showing too much gum. 'Oh nothing, Tony. It'll wait. I'll run you a nice hot bath. There's a pale ale in the kitchen, if you fancy.'