'Naughton called me.'
I didn't mention that Bill Naughton had said Bruce was too busy to help out. He was entitled to change his mind.
'Good of you to come, mate,' said Roy.
'Well, I didn't want to leave you hangin' in the wind, did I?
I don't think we've got very long, judging by the activity out there. The heavy mob has heaved up close to the gate. With machine guns.' Bruce nodded towards the pistol, still held slackly in Roy's hand. 'That'll be as much use as a fuckin' icecream dildo.'
From his jacket pocket, Bruce produced cigarette papers and tobacco and began building a fag. He looked up at me.
'How you been, Tony?'
'Can't complain,' I said, rinsing out the teapot. 'You?'
'I do OK.'
'What you driving now?' It was Roy.
'Don't ask,' shuddered Bruce. 'Ashamed to say. You know those fuckers sold my Austin Healey? The Mark Two Three Thousand? Lovely motor. Christ, I'd like that again. In order to claw back some of the proceeds, they said. Fetched double what it should've.'
'The power of celebrity,' I said as I poured the boiling water into the pot.
'Notoriety,' he corrected.
'Should've used fast cars,' said Roy.
'Leave it out, Roy,' Bruce said, not without kindness. 'Water under Bridego Bridge.' He shot me a glance that was loaded with meaning. 'We should have done lots of things. Can't change the past. Not unless you're bleedin' Doctor Who.'
After I had made the tea, I fetched the bottle of Johnnie Walker and placed it on the table, along with some glasses from the drainer. To my surprise, Bruce pulled out a block of dope, unwrapped the foil and scorched one corner with a lighter.
'Don't look so shocked. I picked up the habit at Maidstone. A good prison. You ever do Maidstone, Roy? Towards the end of my stretch, I had a year in the library there and a year as a gym orderly when I used to run ten miles a day, play badminton and then swim. Fucking marvellous life. No women, apart from those in Razzle and Club International. At least you didn't get any aggro from those girls. And Gordy, bless him, would send the odd beauty in for a quick fondle, just to let me know I was still alive down below. I got into smoking dope there.' He chuckled. 'Montecristo Number Twos being hard to come by. Stuff was a fuckin' revelation. Two happy years.'
I thought he was joking. And my expression must have given that away, since he went on, 'Straight up. When I came out I felt like doing something so I could go right back in for a joint with my pals. Now that is what you call institutionalised, eh?'
'Tell me about it,' muttered Roy. 'I was saying the same thing to Tony earlier. It's easier inside, somehow.'
Bruce gave a grin then lit the roll-up, taking a lungful and holding his breath while he passed the joint to Roy. The little man took a hefty toke.
Very clever, Bruce, I thought. He wasn't going to talk him down, he was going to dope him out.
The sweet aroma filled the air and I poured myself a finger of scotch, shaking my head when the joint was offered to me.
'Governor in Maidstone used to come in and say: "Bit smoky in here, isn't it, lads?'" Bruce told us, 'but while it was just dope, he was happy enough. The first two weeks after coming home, I'm walking on air. Life is sweet. I'm famous, I have friends, family. Then it hits me – bang! Like a train.' He winked. 'Or a cosh. That's it. Washed-up. Depression, it's a terrible thing. Eh, Roy?'
The driver simply nodded thoughtfully.
Bruce took the spliff back and sucked on it a while longer, indicating I should pour the tea. As I did so, he let out a long thin stream of smoke from pursed lips. 'Well, I'd like to say the gang's all here, but it's not, is it? But while we are gathered together in this cosy place, Tony, maybe you can answer me a question.' His eyes shone brightly and his mouth was drawn tight.
'What's that, Bruce?' I asked, my hand shaking slightly as I lifted the teapot.
'Why the fuck you grassed us up.'
Forty-one
6 August 1963
As arranged, the men came to the farm in dribs and drabs, their arrival staggered so as not to arouse suspicion from any nosy neighbours. Brian Field met several of them at the railway station during the course of the day, ferrying them backwards and forwards.
Tony drove up with Roy the morning after they had practised yet another decoupling in the shunting yards. Roy had mastered both types: the flexible screw kind, which required turning a tensioner before you could unhook them, and the buckeye – the commonest kind on HVPs – which had a simple release chain that you tugged to break the connection.
'The important thing,' he impressed on Tony, 'is that when you take off the vacuum pipe for the brakes, you have to reattach it to a dummy on the HVP. Otherwise the vacuum won't build because it'll leak out the open end.'
Confident now that he knew all there was to know about coach connections, nevertheless Roy was on edge, Tony could tell. They were driving north in a drab-coloured Land Rover, stolen from near Leicester Square by Bruce and Tony and painted by Ronnie Biggs, who had also sketched out the Army numbers he would fill in at the farm. If nothing else he was a good signwriter, that Ronnie Biggs.
'You all right, Roy?' Tony asked.
'Yeah, just thinking. Got a couple of Goodwoods coming up.'
'That all you thinkin' about?'
'It seems to me, Bruce isn't listening. I mean, I know it's his job and all, but…'
'But?'
'I think the farm is a mistake. I think we should have a decoy lorry we leave hallway to London. And there's too many of us. Fuck, it's like a real bleeding army, isn't it? You know, Bruce, Charlie, Buster, Gordy – even though he's a flash bastard sometimes – I know they are up to it.'
Tony thought this must just be the nerves talking. He had them as well, although Marie's change of heart had steadied them somewhat. Now there was no subterfuge at home, he found he was able to relax more. 'Is that all that's up?'
Roy smiled. 'I got offers of sponsorship. Esso and Shell, both bidding me up.'
'Great,' said Tony, with genuine enthusiasm. 'So you are thinking you don't need this?'
Roy shook his head. 'No, not at all. Hundred per cent, me.'
There was an undercurrent of irritation there. 'Timing's crap though, eh?'
'You said it.'
'Look on the bright side, Roy.'
'What's that?'
'It comes off, you can always put "Sponsored by Royal Mail" down the side.'
Roy laughed at the thought, then glanced at the fuel gauge. 'I'd better get some squirt.'
They pulled into a garage on the A40 and Roy got out to fill up the tank. It was then Tony noticed the kid.
'Fuck.'
He stepped out of the Land Rover and walked over to the boy. He was around ten, school blazer, short pants. 'Hi there,' Tony said, looking round for his parents. There was a Vauxhall Cresta at another pump, the attendant filling her up. No driver. 'Collect car numbers, do you?'
The boy nodded sheepishly. He turned around the notebook, which was filled with places, time and dates and licence numbers.
'Like trainspotting, is it?'
Another nod.
Tony glanced over at Roy, who was paying off the lanky lad who had pumped the three star. Roy shot him a quizzical look. Both of their Land Rovers had the same number-plates – the legit one from the vehicle that had been purchased as well as this nicked one – so if cops checked the reg against the make, it wouldn't throw up an anomaly. If, however, by some coincidence someone clocked the registration of the other, being driven by Jimmy, and the police realised they had two vehicles in one place on the day with the same number, then alarm bells could ring. It was all 'what if and 'possibly', but Tony had to think what Bruce would say. And didn't they get caught by number-plates in that movie The League of fucking Gentlemen Bruce was always banging on about?