Signal Red

'Can I see?' Tony asked, taking a step closer.

Reluctantly, the lad handed over the red exercise book.

'Just Land Rovers, is it?'

'Army.' It was a whisper.

'Army vehicles. Got any tank transporters?'

The kid pointed enthusiastically to an earlier entry.

'They're the best, aren't they? Sad to say, you've got the wrong one here, mate. Ex-Army, you see. Just bought it. Haven't had time to respray it. Just took the badges off. Sorry. I'll rip-'

He went to tear the page out when he heard a gruff voice behind him.

'Jeffrey. Are you bothering this man?'

It was the father, forty-ish, ex-military himself by the look of him and the dazzling polish on his brogues.

Tony turned. 'No, not at all, we was just talking car numbers. Telling him it was ex-Army.'

'Sorry. Boy's obsessed. War films, soldiers, model kits.'

'I was the same. Anything with John Wayne or William Bendix.'

The man sniffed at the mention of Hollywood 's war. 'Yes, well. Look at the travesty of The Longest Day. Did you see that? We were hardly in it, according to the Yanks. You hear what one of the producers said on the radio? "There'll always be an England… just as long as America is around to save its backside". Bloody cheek.'

'Well, nice chatting to you.' Tony, sensing a sore point about to be scratched until it bled, offered the book back. The sulky boy snatched it.

'Jeffrey, manners.'

Roy was back in the car and sounded the horn to help extricate Tony. 'Right, got to go.'

As he turned, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. The lad was scratching out the Land Rover's reg, even as the dad turned him away back towards the Vauxhall.

Now he had to hope the father erased the incident from his mind as well.

When they arrived at the tatty farm, Bruce, Buster, Jimmy White, Ronnie Biggs and Stan, the train driver, were all there in the house. Stan, who had been kept tucked away till now, was in his fifties, thin and cadaverous-looking, and was mostly occupied in using his nicotine-stained fingers to make roll- ups. The others were unpacking the supplies and laying out the uniforms and balaclavas. Roy and Tony set about emptying their Land Rover so Biggsy could make the final adjustments to the paint job.

'Gloves!' Bruce kept reminding them. 'At all times. Even when you eat or wipe your hairy arses, OK?'

While they were unloading, a Jaguar appeared on the track, driving up towards the house. Tony relaxed when he saw Brian behind the wheel. As it swept to a halt, flicking gravel everywhere, Roger Cordrey, Ralph, his new assistant, and Jim Hussey climbed out. The latter looked even bigger than he remembered.

'Morning,' said Roger nervously, hefting a series of empty suitcases out of the boot. Clearly, he was expecting plenty of loot. 'Lovely day for it.'

Lovely might be going too far, but at least it wasn't raining and the sun beamed out from behind the clouds once in a while. What a summer. Still, he would be able to afford to take Marie and the baby somewhere warm after that night. He hefted the last crate from the rear of the Land Rover and said, 'OK, Ronnie, all yours.'

'Do me a favour,' said Biggsy from the side of his mouth. 'Keep Stan company, will you? Feels a bit left out with this lot.'

'I'll get Roy to talk trains with him. I swear he likes them more than racing cars now.'

'Good one.'

'Oi, everyone!' It was Buster at the door. 'Bruce wants the vehicles away and everyone inside, curtains drawn. And tea's up for those that want it.'

Tony looked at his watch. It was early afternoon. At least twelve hours before they would pull out and head for Bridego Bridge and Sears Crossing. Time enough for a few rounds of Monopoly.

'There's someone coming!' shouted Buster from the kitchen.

Bruce leaped to his feet. 'Who is it?'

'Not one of ours. Someone walking up the drive. Jacket, gumboots. I think it's a farmer.'

'Everyone shut up!' said Bruce. 'Tony, you come with me.'

The pair of them stepped outside, blinking into the afternoon sunshine after the gloom inside. The man walking towards them was dressed in rough cords and an old waxed jacket, with a flat cap on his head. He certainly looked like everybody's idea of a Farmer Giles. 'Afternoon,' he said brightly.

'Afternoon,' said Bruce. Tony could see he was looking around for anything suspicious that they might have left out in the open. But the Army truck and Land Rovers were well hidden. Only the number of tyre tracks gave all the activity away.

'Wyatt's the name. Thought I saw some movement over here. You the new owners?'

'No,' said Bruce. Then he dried up.

Sensing the hesitation, Tony jumped in. 'We're the decorators.

They've just asked us to come over and spruce the place up. Lick of paint inside.'

The man grunted. 'Well, it could do with it. Who is the owner then?'

'A Mr Field,' said Bruce. 'Leonard Field. From Aylesbury.' This was true; Brian had put the farm in the name of another Field – but not a relative – who would be paid a drink as a front man.

'Thing is, I rent the field over yonder – for my sheep. And I was wondering if Mr Field would allow me to continue.'

'Can't say,' said Bruce.

'But unless you hear otherwise,' Tony said, 'you just carry on as before. We'll mention it to him.'

'That's very kind.' He hesitated, as if expecting to be asked in for a cup of tea.

Bruce, however, just glanced over his shoulder, saying, 'Well, best get back to it.'

'Yes. Right. Thank you.'

They watched the man walk back down towards the farm's gate. He turned once and raised a hand and they returned the gesture.

'Fuck,' said Bruce.

'Be all right,' said Tony, echoing the words of Geoff, his brother-in-law. 'No harm done.'

'He's seen my face.'

'You know what people are like. He'll have forgotten it by the morning.'

'Yeah.' But Bruce didn't sound convinced.

They turned and headed back in. 'Still,' suggested Tony, 'we can always go round to his place and kill them all, just to be on the safe side.'

Bruce's eye darted to him, thinking he was serious. Tony cracked a grin. The sight of Bruce laughing as they stepped into the half-light of the house reassured the others that all was well.

By early evening most of the team had gathered together. Charlie Wilson and Bobby Welch had swelled the numbers at around three in the afternoon. Tiny Dave Thompson, the London Airport man, had come by Morris Oxford. He would supply extra clenched fists just in case anything went wrong with the sorters.

Tony knew there had been some heated arguments amongst the principals over the final numbers. Extra bodies diluted the whacks. Charlie was also worried about security, that if outsiders were brought in, word would leak out about something big going down. It only needed a rumour for the Heavy Mob at the Yard to start sniffing around the usual suspects. Which certainly included Charlie and Gordy after the airport job.

But as Bruce had insisted, with only limited time on the track, the more hands, the greater the number of sacks they could load, therefore the larger the pot to be divided between them. Everyone knew that Bruce, Charlie, Gordy and Buster would take a slightly larger cut to compensate for their longer prep and expenses. Roy too, perhaps – that was down to Bruce. The rest would be divided equally, once the 'drink' for Stan and a few others had been deducted, including a whack to Brian and one for the mysterious 'fixer' in Glasgow. That meant, with Tiny Dave a late addition, thirteen into whatever the dividend was. So, eighteen slices of the pie in all. It was one of the biggest firms Tony had ever heard of and, as he looked around the room, he felt fresh admiration for Bruce, Charlie and Gordy. Not many men could pull all this together and keep it quiet.

As the hours passed and the atmosphere in the darkened rooms grew oppressive, the firm split into smaller groups. Jim Hussey, Jimmy White and Ronnie played cards. Stan sat quietly in the corner, rolling one fag after another, sometimes smoking a pipe for light relief. Roger Cordrey lay on a mattress and dozed.