Signal Red

'Buster's organised a Monopoly tournament.' Ronnie smirked. 'They're playing with real money.'

'Cunts,' Bruce laughed. 'They still got gloves on?'

'Few of them took them off to count. It's not easy, you

know. Don't worry, they put Elastoplasts over their fingertips.'

'I hope so. So what's left to do?'

'We have to divide it into the whacks. Decide what to ditch. You know, which notes are too damaged or too Scottish. Thought you ought to be there for that.'

Bruce took a sip of his sweet tea, feeling his teeth tingle. Too much sugar.

'Bruce?' 'What?'

'Sorry about Stan. He was down to me, and-'

Bruce waved a gloved hand at him, dismissing the words. 'I wasn't there. I don't know what went on in the cab. The train arrived at the bridge. We got the money. That's all that matters. What are they saying on the radio?'

'"Vicious cosh gang robs train of one million and gets clean away".'

Bruce balked at the description. That was wrong. They weren't thugs, they were thieves. Having to hit the driver was a pity, but perhaps he had been playing the hero. Bruce would wager he would be now, milking it for all he was worth. It wasn't as if it was his bloody money. It was theirs. 'How much is the count?'

'I thought you'd never ask. Give or take…'

Bruce could tell from the tone it was going to be a surprise. 'Go on, spit it out.'

'Two point six million.'

The size of the figure hit him like the diesel loco they had just hijacked, driving the wind from his body. A pain started in his chest, as if the ton and a half of money was pressing down on it. Two point six mil? Bruce struggled to his feet and put his glasses on. 'Well, that'll do us, I suppose.'

A thought rattled through his brain and was gone, like a passing express. He registered it and tucked it away, but not before he allowed himself a little shiver. Two point six million. It's too much money.

Forty-seven

Headley, Surrey, May 1992

The sweet, pungent aroma of dope filled Roy 's kitchen. I wondered if the fumes were affecting my higher centres, if my hearing was hallucinating. I realised my jaw was almost touching the floor.

'What?' I asked. 'Bruce, you can't be serious. I know I let you down…'

He took another hefty toke and passed the joint back to Roy. 'I know you did, too, Tony.'

'But I didn't grass you up, mate.'

'So you say.'

I found I didn't feel frightened, despite the ominous turn events had taken. If it had been Charlie, Gordy or Buster with the gun, then I might have thought there was a chance of being shot. But I was fairly certain Roy wasn't going to blast me. And it certainly wasn't Bruce's style. If he had asked Charlie to top me – and I only had Roy 's word for that – it might have been a figure of speech.

'I wish I'd been on the track that night.'

'Do you?' asked Roy.

'I don't think there're many people would swap places with any of us,' said Bruce. 'Oh, to begin with maybe. That morning, when we got back to Leatherslade, fuck, I'll never forget that feeling when we realised how much we had.'

'The news came over the radio,' said Roy. 'At… what time was it the police first mentioned it?'

'About four-thirty, quarter to five.'

'"They've stolen a train", they said. "Got a million quid".'

Bruce laughed. 'It was Ronnie's birthday. He started singing "Happy Birthday to me…"' His face dropped. 'That was the high point, I'd say. Then look what happened to us. Roy? Promising career pissed away.'

Roy flinched, but there was no arguing with the assessment. When Roy had come out he had tried to pick up where he had left off out on the track. But a dozen or more years had gone and so had his reactions, although his nerve was still intact. But three drives, three crashes, the third breaking his leg, demonstrated what prison had robbed him of.

'And Ronnie? Fuckin' clown in Rio. The town joke. And bloody homesick, so I hear. Charlie? Shot by some pikey on a fuckin' bicycle. What's the world coming to, eh? Shot in front of his wife, too. I mean, we kept the wives out of it. There's no respect any longer.'

I felt a flash of irritation. I knew it was the drugs making him loquacious, but still. Old gangsters telling you that the world has gone to shit, about when you could leave your back door open, coppers gave you a clip round the ear and the Krays were nice to kids and old ladies. I was surprised at Bruce – such rose-tinted sentimentality wasn't his style. It must be the dope, I reckoned.

'Leave it out, Bruce, he was messin' with the bloody Colombians. They don't know the old rules, do they? They kill you, your wife, your kids. Charlie was out of his depth.'

Bruce raised his eyebrows, but I could tell he agreed. Nasty in South London was not the same as nasty in Medellin.

'Buster selling flowers.'

I laughed. 'At least he got a movie made about him.'

Bruce sighed. 'Didn't even recognise myself in that.'

I knew he had been a paid adviser on the movie, Buster, but said nothing. I thought Larry Lamb had done a half- decent job of capturing him, given the quality of the script. But it made Buster out to be like Charlie Drake the comedian, whereas I remembered him as a scary little fucker.

There was always some confusion over who coshed that driver. They claimed there was too much going on to be certain. My money, though, would be on the flower-seller and his spring-loaded cosh. Not that the movie had had the guts to show that.

And even if he didn't land the blow, I heard it said that Buster had a 'Let Him Have It' moment in the cab, yelling for someone to clout the poor bloke. It was just one of those things where the truth had become very blurred over the past thirty years. Just like the role of a snitch.

'You know, Bruce, maybe nobody grassed you up.'

'Bollocks.' It was Roy. 'Why would you say that? They was on us like a ton of bricks from day one.'

'Because of the driver,' I said. 'Because someone hit the driver.'

Bruce laughed. 'You're kidding. If we'd coshed that driver and got a hundred grand, you think there would have been that hunt? Don't get me wrong, it was fuckin' stupid. But when they found out how much money there was – two and

a half bloody million – then it was all hands to the pumps. And they leaned on every source they could.'

He sucked the last of the life from the roach and put it out in a saucer, adding, 'Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now.'

I realised he still had his suspicions about me. 'Fuck this.' I stood up, walked over and made to snatch the gun from Roy 's hand, but he was too quick for me. He placed it on the table out of my reach, with his hand spreadeagled over it.

There was a pause while they wondered what I might do, and I let them ponder for a couple of heartbeats. Then I slammed my fist on the table and headed for the door.

'Oi,' said Roy, getting to his feet and raising the pistol. 'Where d'you think you're goin'?'

'Leave it out.' Bruce pulled him back down into a chair. 'Build us another one, Roy,' he said, passing the tin over to him.

Roy did as he was told. I backed towards the hallway.

'Where are you going, Tony?' asked Bruce.

'You want to know who snitched on you? I'll get you the man who knows.'

'Who's that?'

'Billy Naughton.'

Forty-eight

GPO Headquarters, London, 9 August 1963

DS Malcolm Fewtrell's train robbery conference took place in a stuffy, first-floor room that was too small to contain all the interested parties. Only the press was excluded; that still left the CID, the Robbery Squad, the Flying Squad, the London & Provincial Crime Squad, the Intelligence Squad, the Bucks CID, the GPO, British Rail and six banks, as well as the government in the shape of two junior ministers.

George Hatherill had positioned himself in the second row of metal-and-canvas chairs. Tommy Butler was at the back of the room, with Jack Slipper. He had to admire the elegant Fewtrell's composure. He was dressed in a three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt and a red-and-blue striped tie, and displayed no signs of nerves as he stepped up to the dais.