'Big Bad Bobby Welch here has requested handcuffs, which is a good idea. Might have to restrain the driver or the sorters. Gordy, can you get some? Six pairs. Say it's for magic tricks. Or fancy dress. Bobby also requested a shooter to scare the driver. Not a good idea. I said it before, I'll say it again: no shooters, real or otherwise. Is that clear?' Bruce paused, just to ensure the point was taken. 'Roger, you have all you need for the light change? Again, double it. Back-up everything. We don't want to be there watching the Six-Five Special rolling down that line through a green light, do we? And gloves. I want everyone to bring two pairs. And you wear them at all times. There must be no prints anywhere. Brian is going to arrange cleaners to sanitise the whole place after we have gone. If the coppers do locate the farm, they won't find so much as a skid-mark on a toilet bowl.'
Bruce took a long breath, and consulted his list again. 'OK, now we come to alibis. You will need alibis, too, for the time we are away. And not "I was alone watching Michael Miles on the box for a week". A good one with lots of witnesses, preferably a vicar or a nun. Similarly, you will need some idea of what you are going to do when you get back to London and where to put your money. At the very least you are going to have a good few grand. I don't have to tell you that there are plenty of snot-rags out there who will offer to take it off your hands. Be very, very careful. Wives and girlfriends will sniff out you're flush the moment you walk through the door. They like a spending spree, and women have very different ideas to us. To them, a diamond ring from Bond Street isn't a spending spree. That's just what they deserve.' Buster gave a rueful chuckle. 'Talking of money, Charlie, what about the horsebox? Charlie is bringing up a horsebox because it won't look suspicious and you can transport a lot of bags in it. Buster, you can always sit in it and neigh, just for authenticity.'
Bruce gave a wry grin and put his list down, saying, 'Now we need to talk about where we'll each be on the tracks and what our job will be. Any questions so far?' He looked around the room. 'Good, because I have my blackboard here to go over what will happen on the night. All right, all right, settle down. Fuck me, I feel like Mr Chips sometimes. Oh, one thing I forgot. As I said, we might be holed up for some time. So I’ve got us a Monopoly set.'
'A fuckin' Monopoly set?' Jim Hussey turned to Tommy Wisbey, who was sitting in the back seat. Roger was driving them back towards Brighton, where they were to pick up the last of the cash from their previous train jobs that was being 'minded' by one of the operators on the West Pier. It was time, as Bruce said, to concentrate on the Big One. For the moment, the South Coast Gang was being wound up.
It was the early hours, little traffic. Roger was sober, careful as they hit the A23 south of Croydon; he didn't want to be walking any white lines for a policeman. The car stank of the other two men's beer and fags.
'Who Dares Wins?' added Wisbey.
'Oh, you can't have a shooter because it might go off and hurt somebody,' lisped Hussey in a high-pitched feminine voice.
'Hey, lads,' said Roger meekly. 'Have some respect. It's Bruce's tickle. He calls the shots.'
'Or not havin' the shots.' The other two giggled like very overgrown schoolboys. 'He treats us like we got muscle between our ears sometimes.'
'Yeah, well sometimes you have,' said Roger, suddenly angry. 'Look, he wants you for what you are good at. Puttin' the shits up people. Now if you want to join the cooking and dishwashing rota-'
'Fuck off. Can't we get some bird in for that?'
'And a bit of the other while she's at it.'
Roger shook his head. They were nice enough boys, but something on this scale was beyond their experience. Hussey was a car thief who readily used his fists whenever he deemed the occasion demanded it. Which, when he was in his late teens, had been surprisingly often. Now he had calmed down, and tried his hand at pickpocketing. If caught, though, he was still liable to try and punch his way out of trouble.
Tommy Wisbey was a bookmaker and thief who intimidated by his size and rarely needed to thump anyone. If he did, Roger was under no illusion that those ham-hocks of arms – he looked like Popeye when he stripped down – would cause some damage.
'Just do what Bruce wants and you'll get your whack. Equal shares, he said, once the expenses are deducted. How fair is that?' Bruce could easily have upped his own stake, or insisted that the originating gang – the Heathrow boys, essentially – deserved a higher cut. But Roger knew Bruce thought an unequal division of the spoils led to resentment, which might cause someone to grass when his perceived 'tiny' whack ran out. There would, after all, be a hefty reward on offer.
'You know he said we might need a few more bodies?' asked Wisbey. 'Not for the washing-up, but at the train. What about Freddie Foreman? Or Frankie Fraser?'
Hussey shook his head. 'You'd have to keep those two on leashes.'
'Nah, they're all right. Good boys,' insisted Wisbey.
Roger knew the names. They were a couple of enforcers for the likes of the Richardsons and the Krays. They had reputations for violence that left Bobby Welch, Tommy and Jimmy looking as threatening as Rag, Tag and Bobtail. Bruce wouldn't like that. There was something else Bruce wouldn't like. 'Fraser is red-hot, isn't he?'
'I suppose,' said Wisbey.
'He was on Police Five,' said Hussey. 'Wanted for doing some bloke.'
'So don't approach anyone till you've cleared it with Bruce or Charlie or Gordy. They only want people they know, remember?'
The other two grunted. The euphoria caused by alcohol fading, they lapsed into silence, their arms folded. Jim's head began to nod as he fell into a fitful snooze.
After fifteen minutes, Tommy Wisbey spoke.
'There's one thing I'm really pissed off about, Roger.'
'What's that?' asked Roger, annoyed that they should be so ungrateful. Plenty would take their places.
'Meself, I prefer Cluedo.'
Thirty-nine
Bridego Bridge, July 1963
'Here we go. Now!'
Roy let the clutch in and Tony felt the front of the brand new Mini Cooper S judder as the power hit the front wheels. Next to them came the deeper roar of an Austin Healey 3000 Mk. II roadster, with Bruce behind the wheel.
The two cars shot out of the car park next to the fishing pond and turned right, Bridego Bridge receding rapidly in the Mini's mirror. Unlike the Healey, which filled it.
'He's got more power than us,' shouted Roy as he worked the Mini's gearbox.
The Austin pulled out behind them. Tony could see it in his wing mirror, Bruce behind the wheel, Gordy somehow folded into the passenger seat. It was a race and the last one to Leatherslade would buy lunch at the Red Lion pub in Brill. Bruce had taken the Austin Healey on 'a test drive', as he was considering buying one when he got his hands on the cash. This probably wasn't the kind of test drive the garage had in mind.
'Read the map,' Roy instructed. 'Check the sharpness of the bends, and whether they are right- or left-handers.'