Signal Red

'The girl's head wasn't sawn off, Billy,' Hatherill said quietly. 'The pathologist is wrong.' He took more wine. 'The thing is, if she had been on the beach for a week, washed back and forward, those marks could have been caused by the sand. I've seen it before. Body washed ashore at Margate that had come all the way round from Lowestoft. Woman in a dinghy, caught in a storm. Bones sticking out of limbs when she was washed up, and what looked like wool covering her. She was left there for a few days because they thought it was a sheep. But it was kapok. The stuffing of her lifejacket looked like sheep's wool. But in those few days, the ends of the bones were abraded by the sand. Same here.' 'So…'

'So there was a big storm a few days before she was first spotted by the boy. He said so. Here and in the Channel. I want you to check all the shipping companies, see if they have any missing passengers.'

'Missing passengers?'

'Woman overboard.'

'You think she came off a ship?'

Hatherill sipped his wine once more and looked at it admiringly, swirling it in the glass. 'This really is very, very good. You don't expect such good wine in Cornwall.' He glanced around the dark, scruffy room, which smelled mostly of shag tobacco and stale beer. 'Especially in a pub like this. Must compliment the landlord. Yes, I think she came off a ship. Either in the Atlantic or the Channel. The head could easily have been swiped off by a propeller, especially if she went over the stern. My only question is, was the bobby who found her in on it or not?'

Billy had lost the thread. 'You mean PC Trellick? In on what?'

'You know there are two kinds of bent policemen? Some bend the rules so they can get the villain. We call that bent for the job. There are others who are obviously in it only to feather their own nest. Bent for themselves.'

'You are wondering which Trellick is?'

Hatherill held the last inch of wine in his glass to the light, checking for sediment. 'No. He's a third type, I think, one we don't get so much in London. Bent for his family. That's a different kind of pressure. No, I'm not wondering about him.' He grabbed the padded envelope and slid the contents out onto the table. 'I'm wondering about you.''

Billy stared down at the red and silver object before him. There was a screaming in his ears, a hundred jumbled questions melded into a cacophony, and a rising feeling of panic clutched at his chest. There was no mistaking what it was. It was a common enough item, but he recognised each dent on the lid. It was the Oxo tin from under his bed, the one containing his three hundred and thirty-three pounds, ten shillings.

Thirty-seven

London, June 1963

Roy had cut a hole in the chainlink fence two weeks ago and it still hadn't been repaired. Careless. He pulled back the wire and stepped aside to let Bruce climb through. It was gone midnight and, although a few blue-ish lights shone in the shunting yard, there was no sign of another soul.

Nevertheless, Roy kept his voice down as he ducked through after Bruce.

'Thing is, lying low at this farm, aren't we sitting ducks? We could be down the Ml and back in London in, I dunno, thirty minutes. Forty tops.'

'And if they put up road-blocks?' said Bruce, bored with the argument. 'And I told you, imagine it on Police Five. Did anyone see a convoy of high-speed cars entering London? Yes, they bloody well did.'

They slithered down an embankment onto gravel and paused, ears pricked, listening for any sign that they had drawn attention to themselves. An owl hooted, so clear and cliched, Roy thought it must be fake and said so.

'What, you think we've stumbled into an Apache raiding party?' Bruce hissed.

They straightened their overalls and strode towards the dark, angular shapes of the parked rolling stock, as if they had every right to be there. Bruce had a torch with him, but he kept it off. It would do to blind anyone if they were confronted.

'Look, Roy,' he whispered as they walked. 'I know you don't think a tickle is complete without a fast motor, but this one is different. I still want you in charge of the transport, goes without saying. Happy if you bring Tony in. But no Jags or Daimlers, OK?' 'OK'

'Fuck's sake, you might even get to drive a train. That should keep you happy. Where is it?'

'Follow me.'

They moved between dark, silent coaches and wagons, crossing over the tracks, Roy looking to left and right, hoping to find the engine he had picked out on his last venture into the yards.

'They've moved it,' he said.

Bruce sighed. 'It's a train, lad. That's what they do. Move.'

'Let's try over here.'

The coaches, trucks and tankers gave Bruce the creeps. They were slumbering behemoths, mechanical dinosaurs parked into dormitories and he felt as if the creatures could wake at any moment. Lights would come on, vacuum pumps throb, steam lines hiss, and one of them would demand to know what they were doing. Could be his gran had read him The Little Engine That Could one too many times as a kid, he reckoned.

'What about that one?' asked Bruce, pointing to a square block of metal on wheels.

'No. That's an O-Eight. I want an O-Three.'

As their eyes adjusted to the half-light and deep shadows, Roy tugged at his sleeve. 'Seen it.'

'That thing?' It was a squat little shunter, sitting alone on an empty section of track. 'It's a bloody great monster that pulls the mail. Not something you wind up.'

'They're like cars. If you can drive a Mini, you can drive a Roller.'

Bruce wasn't convinced, but followed Roy to the engine. He flashed the torch to locate the footholds and they both clambered up the side. Roy unzipped his leather jacket and produced a thick, well-thumbed book. On its cover were the words NOT FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC.

'What's that?'

'The manual.'

'You nicked it?'

'Drivers leave them lying around all the time. They just get another one. Shine the torch on the controls, will you?'

Bruce did as he was told and Roy thumbed through the book.

'Thing is, Bruce, if I am to drive the train, which I am happy to do, what do we do with the other driver? The real one.'

Bruce didn't understand the question. 'We'll take care of him.'

'That's what I'm worried about. I don't… you know. I never like the heavy stuff.'

Bruce stifled a laugh. It was hard to imagine the diminutive driver ever getting tucked into anything physical that didn't involve nuts and bolts. That had been enough. 'Me neither, Roy. That's why we have double acts like Wisbey and Welch. Look, you see those ugly fuckers climbing into your cab, you'll likely shit yourself. There'll be no problem, I'm sure. But you stay out of the way until they need you. OK?'

'OK' Roy located the page he wanted. 'Here we are. There'll be a key.'

'A key?'

'Like a car. But they always leave them lying around.' He began to run a hand over the metal shelves and surfaces. 'Here we are.' He fetched a bunch of keys from the top of the black metal control box, placed one in the ignition slot, then a second, until he had the right one and it turned freely. He pressed the starter button. The diesel coughed twice and rumbled into life.

Bruce felt the vibration through his feet. 'That it?'

'No, we got to wait for the air pressure to hit about sixty pounds.' Roy tapped a dial. 'Or none of the controls work. Release the handbrake, will you?'

Bruce looked around the cab. 'Where?'

'Behind you.'

Bruce turned to find a metal disc with projecting handles on its perimeter that looked like a shrunken steering-wheel from an old sailing ship. Stamped on the wall above it was an arrow with Off in one direction, On in the other. He heaved it towards Off.

'Right, we're at pressure. Track ahead clear?'

Bruce swung his head out of the open-sided cab. There seemed to be a decent length of shiny clear rail, but then darkness shrouded the far end, masking whatever lay farther on. 'For a few hundred yards.'