Signal Red (15 page)

'Congratulations. First one?' Tony nodded. That explained why she had been disappointed in him, Jimmy thought. Broody women have big plans. 'This'll come in handy then.'

'What will?'

'The tickle. This train thing, whatever it is.'

Bruce had been very tight-lipped, insisting this was simply a reconnaissance mission, just to confirm certain facts. They were not to let their minds run away with them.

'I don't know if I'm in yet, do I? I mean, if they need a driver. And it's not really my thing.'

'What isn't?'

'Robbery with violence, I think they call it.'

Jimmy chortled. 'Nor me, son. This is not going to be just some smash and grab. I don't like the rough stuff either.'

Tony was surprised. Jimmy had a reputation. 'You were a Para.'

'We're not all Sergeant bloody Hurricane. We had a bit of finesse. So does Bruce. I wouldn't be here if I thought we was just the heavy mob. Hold up.'

They heard the whistle of an approaching train and squinted into darkness broken only by what appeared to be a random pattern of red and green lights. The powerful loco of the Night Mail appeared, its twin beams glaring like jaundiced eyes, and above them the duller glow of the tripartite screen. Tony knew people were sentimental about steam, but he had to admire the monstrous brutality of the diesel that shouldered its way under the station lamps and disappeared from view. It was all solid muscle and attitude, like a steel-clad bull terrier.

They wound the Vauxhall's windows down and listened. The TPO sat, obscured by the station buildings and roof, its engine thrumming at idle, for another ten minutes. Then came a coarse whistle, the low grunt of the engine taking the strain, and the money train pulled out. Next stop, Euston.

Jimmy White slapped Tony's thigh, making him jump. 'Best go out and buy that baby the biggest fuckin' cot you can find. If I know Bruce, and he's thinkin' what I think he's thinkin' - then we're in the money. Fortune by name . . .'

Tony smiled as if he hadn't heard that one.

Jimmy was still whistling the tune 'We're in the Money' when they pulled out of the car park and headed back to London on empty roads, each lost in their own thoughts of untold riches.

Thirty

South-east England, June 1963

It seemed appropriate for Bruce to catch the train down to Brighton, rather than take the Lotus. It meant breakfast in one of the Pullman carriages, after all, and they had the place nearly to themselves, as most morning traffic was 'up' to the city. He had taken Janie Riley along, now dressed as a prosperous middle-class housewife in twin-set and pillbox hat. He would park her at the Grand or let her do some shopping while he met the Flowerpot Man. Bruce didn't like to bring in outsiders, but the more he thought about it, the more he needed particular expertise. After all, this was a moving target. He had heard - from Buster - that the Flowerpot Man could take care of that. Buster had told him about the train jobs on the South Coast Line, engineered by a pretty solid team. Small beer, Buster had said, but the principle was sound.

'Looks like summer is finally here,' said Janie, making conversation with the white-jacketed steward as he fussed around them with the tea and toast.

'About time, miss.'

Bruce glanced out of the window. London had fallen away and Janie was right, the countryside was bathed in a diffuse pale yellow and the sheep were sunbathing rather than shivering. The winter and spluttering spring had played havoc with the country. The football league was still in disarray, with dozens of postponed matches yet to be played, and race cards had been scratched for weeks on end. It had been the coldest year since 1740, so the Express said. Bruce didn't know about that, but he remembered the one of 1947 - the bombsites, suddenly pretty under the thick crust of snow, but even more dangerous than before. His mate Jimmy Standing had jumped into what looked like a harmless snowdrift and fallen into one of the firefighters' emergency water tanks from the Blitz and broken his leg. Bruce still remembered the sight of the red-streaked bone poking through flesh and the sound of the poor sod's whimpering.

'Bruce.' Janie brought him back to the attentions of the steward. 'Full breakfast?'

Bruce could still feel an echo of the queasiness that the wound had brought on. 'Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs,' he said. 'Hold the tomatoes and black pudding.'

'Very good, sir.'

Janie concentrated on lighting a cigarette and Bruce went back to thinking about trains. The team so far was himself, Charlie, Gordy, Buster and Roy. Good men all, but just not enough. He would add Jimmy White to that and, for sheer muscle, Tommy Wisbey. Old Tommy would make both Frank Nitti and Elliot Ness shit their pants. Bruce loved the TV series The Untouchables, and often wondered if he should give the gang a moniker like that. That, and a soundtrack by Nelson Riddle. Although he already had a tune for the job. Of late he had been playing Charles Mingus's Ah Um and the track

'Boogie Stop Shuffle'. Just the right tempo for a great heist sequence with sudden dramatic stabs from the horns and the wah-wah of plunged trumpets. He could see the tide sequence, designed by the guy who did Anatomy of a Murder or John Cassavetes's Johnny Staccato.

That train of thought took him from Waldo's, the Greenwich Village jazz club that featured in the Cassavetes TV series, to Bobby Welch. Bobby also ran a drinking club, but it was not as classy as Waldo's, being an after-hours dive popular with the better kind of toms and their punters - and Bobby himself was always short of cash, being the kind of gambler that bookies put out bunting for. Buster said he had done some very handy work with the Flowerpot Man on this very line. If Bruce brought in Bobby and Jim Hussey - a painter and decorator with a sideline in being very handy in a ruck - then he would have a formidable group of intimidators in Gordy, Bobby, Tommy and the two Jims. That was real muscle power. It was spreading the net wider than he liked by going beyond the Comet House team, but even Charles Atlas would think twice about kicking sand in those faces. The Intimidators. Was that a suitable name? It was for the heavy section of the firm, at least. Bruce chuckled to himself.

'Bruce?' Janie finished her cigarette with a deep inhalation and let the smoke stream from the side of her mouth. 'I have something to ask you.'

Bruce leaned back as the breakfast arrived and was placed before him. 'What's that, luv?'

Janie fixed him with a very direct stare, in case he should drift off again. She stubbed out the cigarette in the Brighton Belle ashtray and switched on a blinder of a smile. 'I wondered if you would talk to a friend of mine. As a favour.'

Bruce didn't like the sound of that. Favours could lead to all sorts of trouble. 'What kind of friend?'

The Queen and Artichoke was close to Victoria Park in Bethnal Green. A grubby little boozer, known to its regulars as the Q&A. it had an unusual mix of clientele, comprising East End locals and students from the hostels on Victoria Road which were part of the Sir John Cass Foundation. The two groups had co-existed well enough in a kind of uneasy truce until recently, when the students had become more selfconsciously bohemian, or 'beatnicky' as Frank, the Q&As guv'nor, preferred to call them.

Sunday lunchtime though was for the fellas only, with arty types told to drink elsewhere. There was sometimes a stripper, but always cockles and crisps on the bar and Marion, the guv'nor's missus, pulling pints. Marion Castle was a Diana Dors type, an ex-beauty queen (albeit from Butlin's in Clacton), who kept the boys' attention with her Jayne Mansfield-like stretch tops.

Charlie Wilson arrived a little after one, and the Q&A was already soupy with cigarette smoke. He pushed his way to the bar and helped himself to snacks. Marion fetched him a mild and bitter and as he paid her he said, 'Frank in?'

Marion took a long, hard look at him and he knew she was weighing up whether he was Old Bill. The turned-up corner of her scarlet lips suggested she was reaching that conclusion.

'Charlie Wilson,' he answered. 'Friend of Andy Turner.'

Marion's face relaxed. She pulled one more pint and went out back. Frank appeared when Charlie was halfway through his drink. He was a squat, red-faced little fucker who only came up to Marion's shoulders. Both cheeks sported a flower of broken capillaries and one eye was AWOL, darting all over the shop. He could only assume he provided for Marion in departments other than looks.

His wife nodded over to indicate Charlie, and Frank positioned himself behind the pumps. 'Charlie, is it?'

'Yeah.' They shook hands. 'Andy said I could have a word.'

'Did he?'

'Said you could get me a motor.'

Frank blew his florid cheeks out. This wasn't the time or the place. 'It's fuckin' Sunday, mate. Day of rest.'

Charlie took a sup of his pint. 'No rest for the wicked.'

'Yeah, well, there is for this one.' Frank turned to go. Charlie looked at the clock. It was quarter past. He reached over and grabbed the landlord's shirtsleeve. There was a tearing sound from the shoulder and the man swore.

'Don't go, Frank,' Charlie beseeched him. 'You'll miss the show.'

The landlord glanced over at the stage, but the girl was still sitting at the table next to it, talking to her minder.

'Not that one.'

Charlie was aware of the character next to him taking an interest in what was occurring, but ignored him. The landlord pulled away. 'What the fuck is your game?'

'That your Jaguar in the street?'

Frank's brow furrowed like a ploughed field. 'Yeah—'

The Q&A's frame shook as the timer detonated the gelignite, which had been placed inside condoms, in a cut-open Duckhams tin filled with petrol. Every face turned jaundiced as a wall of yellow flame engulfed the Jaguar parked outside and the frosted window cracked with the sound of a whip snapping. There was a second blast as the petrol tank ignited and now all those nearest the street stampeded away as the inferno pumped heat through glass and brick into the pub.

Marion screamed, a noise that threatened to take out the rest of the windows.

Frank looked open-mouthed at Charlie. Then he pointed a loaded finger at him. 'You are dead, mate. You don't know who you are messin' with.'

As Frank leaned forward, his face like a bulldog with a boot up its arse, Charlie punched him. Then, just to be certain, he smacked the bloke next to him who had taken far too great an interest in his bit of business. The man staggered back, giving Charlie a bit of space to contemplate his predicament.

There was a dull thud that shook the floorboards under his feet and a long whooshing sound outside as the interior of the car began to burn. The pub's customers were recovering from their shock now, and he felt all eyes turn towards him. Most of them were nothing, no threat, but there were a couple of lads who might cause him trouble. Of course, even they wouldn't be sure what they might be getting into.

The Queen and Artichoke was within the Twins' sphere of influence. It would be a madman who didn't take that into account before mixing things up. Charlie was lots of things, but he wasn't insane. He wouldn't have fried the car or hit Frank unless he had taken tea with Reggie at Vallance Road. Frank, apparently, hadn't been telling the Kray brothers about all his activities. They knew nothing about his sideline in nicked motors, on which they had been due a little something. So it was fine by them if Charlie taught him a lesson on their behalf. They would sweep by and mop

As Charlie stepped away from the bar, Marion finally ran out of puff and, as her piercing racket subsided, he sensed the mood of the crowd change. Bewilderment turned to anger, not least because their Sunday session had been so comprehensively disrupted. The stripper certainly didn't look in the mood to disrobe any more. The crowd shuffled a step closer. 'Oi!'

Gordon Goody pushed himself to his full height at the rear of the pub, knocking one of the tables over as he rose up like Reptilicus. He waited until he had everyone's full attention then, from beneath his trademark full-length coat, he pulled a baseball bat and stepped towards the group, brandishing it in his right fist. The crowd couldn't have parted faster if he'd been Charlton Heston.

'Time to go,' Gordy said, pointing with his free hand towards the rear as he poked one of the customers in the chest with the bat. Gordy had been in place for thirty minutes before Charlie's arrival, and had already ascertained that the rear exit he had cased the day before was clear. This way they could make good their escape without being toasted by a burning Jag.

Charlie pushed through to Gordy's side and the two slowly backed out towards the pub's yard and the Rover waiting in the alley with Roy behind the wheel. Charlie wanted Roy driving, just in case there was any pursuit, but it looked like the lad had earned himself an easy drink.

The flames out in the street were angrier now, turning the interior of the Q&A a deep crimson. Frank had staggered to his feet, but he remained behind the bar, holding his shattered nose. Another pane of glass cracked, causing the customers to start, as if a pistol had gone off. Charlie knew then they didn't have the bottle to come at them.

'Fuck me,' said Gordy as they bundled out, a roar of ineffectual outrage at their heels. 'I hope that was worth it.'

Charlie laughed as he yanked open the wooden gate that accessed the rear alley. 'Well, those cunts won't be nickin' Jags off us again, will they?'

'Morning, sir. It's Detective Constable Rennie here, from the Stolen Car Squad. Yes. I have some good news for you. We have recovered your Jaguar. Yes, I know. We were surprised as well. Don't get to make too many of these calls, to be honest. No, it appears to be relatively unharmed. Perhaps a slight scratch on one wing, but that will T-Cut out. Not today, I am afraid. We just want to check it for fingerprints and fibres, but that will only take a day or two. You should have it back by the weekend. Where did we find it? Well, there's the strange thing. It was left outside a police station in Romford, with the keys in the ignition. No, I can't imagine why. Maybe some villain had a sudden attack of conscience, saw the error of his ways. Stranger things have happened. Although not many. You are very welcome, sir, nice to have a result. Good day.'

Bruce Reynolds didn't have time for distractions and favours. He had a fucking great train robbery to plan. His brain was revving like one of Roy's racing engines, a jumble of possibilities, all centred on the TPO that left Glasgow every night.

But, after some horizontal persuasion in the Grand at Brighton, he had promised Janie he would take the meeting, answer a few stupid questions. The guy had suggested a meet in the Colony Rooms, but although he had drunk there - George Melly had taken him a couple of times - Bruce had never felt particularly comfortable there. Rude bastards, he thought, and not half as clever as they clearly thought they were. Being called 'cunty' a lot was not his idea of entertainment.

Bruce had originally chosen the New Crown Club at the Elephant and Castle, which was home turf, but knew just how intimidating that crowd could be, so he had switched to the

Star, a flower-decked pub tucked down a mews in Belgravia. It covered all bases from lords to layabouts. Roy popped in now and then for a soda water because it had been Mike Hawthorn's boozer and it still pulled a crowd of racing drivers and their acolytes. It was also home to a hardcore of very genuine criminals.

It was Friday lunchtime, with that fuck-it one-more-pint-and-a-fag end of the working week feel. Although very few of the patrons of the Star actually had a conventional working week, apart from the odd copper who wandered in. They caused no problem. You saw it on Zoo Quest, when herds of antelope allowed lions to stroll among them without getting too spooked. The animals sensed when the predator was on the hunt, otherwise they ignored them. So it was with the police who liked to think that getting pissed in places like the Star was all part of vital detective work.

Bruce had given a rough description of himself - tall, glasses, a copy of the Daily Express, light-blue shirt and navy-blue suit. There was a horseshoe-shaped bar on the right as you entered the pub, the rougher clientele nearest the door, toffs at the far side. To the left, through an arch, were the seats, and Bruce had taken himself through this and to the far corner, past the fireplace, against the wooden wainscot. That nook, beneath the portraits of Regency jockeys and Punch cartoons, was as close to a 'snug' as the Star got.