Signal Red (21 page)

'Tide were in. The thing was just here. It had seagulls on it. I didn't know it were a body right then, honest. Thought it was a seal.' Then the lad burst into tears.

Hatherill stepped forward and shot an arm round him, pulling him close. With his cigarette, he indicated that Billy should walk back up the beach and leave the two of them alone.

As Billy began the trudge back towards the low cliffs, he wondered what the hell he was doing out here. Why had Hatherill insisted on dragging him to Cornwall if he was going to exclude him? He had anticipated being Robin to the Top Man's Batman, Tonto to his Lone Ranger, but he was being treated more like Jimmy Olsen - the annoying kid - to his Superman. Or Boo-Boo to his Yogi Bear.

He reached a rock arch, expertly carved by the Cornish storms from the cliff-face, and sat at its base. He watched the two distant figures patrolling the shoreline, deep in conversation, devouring more bull's-eyes as they spoke, and pondered on what was going on back in London while they were messing about in the sticks.

'I fuckin' hate the countryside. It stinks. Phoar - cop a load of that. Worse than one of your farts, Gordy.'

'Shut up, Buster,' said Bruce. 'Wind your window up if you don't like fresh air.'

'Fresh? What's fresh about a cow's arse?'

They were heading west, past a string of dairy farms just outside Aylesbury, in the Jag they had borrowed off Brian Field. A 3.8. Roy wouldn't have approved, but Bruce was enjoying it. He clocked the milometer. More than twenty miles from Bridego Bridge so far.

'How much is this place?' asked Buster.

'Five thousand, five hundred pounds.'

Buster whistled.

'It's a whole farm, you cunt,' said Gordy.

'We got five grand left in the pot?' It was a good question, because the 'seed' money from the airport job was almost gone.

'I spoke to Brian. He'd do it through his boss, all above board. Make sure we only have to put ten per cent down for now. We can raise the rest, no problem. Go to the Frenchman if we have to, eh, Buster?'

Frenchie the Banker had put some money up for the airport, in return for a hefty percentage. 'If we have to.'

They had crossed over the A418, and were travelling on the B4011. The destination wasn't actually on the OS map, but Bruce had marked the spot with a Biro'd 'X', like a treasure map. 'The turning is at Oakley, on the Bicester Road.'

'Yeah, I remember,' said Bruce. He had already seen the farm, even met the owners, and knew exactly where it was. He wanted a second opinion about the place and location, that was all.

'And you've seen what is at Bicester?' Gordy asked.

'No.'

'The Army.'

'The Army,' repeated Bruce thoughtfully.

'And what do the Army do?' Gordy asked.

'Manoeuvres,' said Bruce.

'Sometimes at night,' added Buster, catching on.

'Brilliant.' Bruce's brain kicked into overdrive, as they all knew it would. 'That's bloody brilliant.'

They drove on in silence, each digesting what this new strategy might involve. In his mind, Bruce was already creating his uniform. Maybe he would get to be a real Colonel after all. A Major at least. Who was going to suspect the Army? Who was going to stand up to them? It was the perfect front.

'It's along here somewhere,' said Gordy eventually. 'Turning on the right.'

Bruce found the track leading to the farm, and bounced the Jag up the muddy lane, the cows to the right watching its progress with their blank stares.

'It's got a main house, ugly but big enough for the number of blokes we'll need, mains water, a generator for electricity, and plenty of outhouses, including sheds and a garage the size of an aircraft hanger. Means we can get everything under cover, in case of choppers.' Helicopters were a new threat; the police didn't have any of their own, but the RAF was only too willing to lend a hand.

'Twenty-seven miles,' said Gordy, looking at the clock. 'About a thirty-or forty-minute drive from the bridge. If you don't have a Jag.'

"Bout right, I reckon,' said Bruce, 'for somewhere to lie low till the worst of the scream blows over.'

'It's a bit of a shit-hole. What's it called again?' asked Buster, as the Jag took a right through an open gate and the first of the smallholding's down-at-heel buildings came into view.

'Leatherslade Farm,' replied Bruce.

They took the boy back home from the beach as the afternoon turned cold once more, with grey-tinged clouds lining up on the horizon and a shrill wind whipping low across the sand. Hatherill told the parents that he was a bright lad who had been most helpful. They offered the Commander and Billy a glass of wine. Hatherill readily accepted this unexpected bonus; Billy, suspecting any wine would have been made in the kitchen sink, opted for a small scotch instead.

After they said their goodbyes, they walked back to the digs at the pub. 'Not a bad drop of claret, that,' said Hatherill appreciatively, smacking his lips. 'I fancy another. Join me? Then we'll have dinner.'

They settled into the corner of the inn, Hatherill with his large glass of red, Billy with a pint of mild. After he had taken a sip of wine and slurped it around his mouth unattractively, Hatherill gave a sigh of contentment then said, 'I'm just going up to my room to fetch something.'

Billy sat back, looking at the pictures on the walls. Seascapes mostly, some terrible oils, plus old pictures of lifeboat crews. A few of the locals glanced his way now and then, one or two of them muttering afterwards. The Inn of the Seventh Happiness it wasn't, he thought. He'd have as warm a welcome if he was carrying the plague.

He moved to the bar and ordered a packet of crisps - a transaction carried out mostly in grunts on the part of the barman. The crisps still came with a little twist of blue paper for the salt, a touch that was disappearing rapidly in London. He was shaking the bag to distribute the salt evenly when Hatherill reappeared and placed a large padded envelope on the table. The TM then ignored it as he went back to his wine.

He slurped some more before he spoke again. 'Why did you want to become a copper, Billy?'

The younger man had to smile. 'If I had a penny. . .'

Hatherill laughed with him. 'Me too. But you have to examine it, don't you? Why am I doing this? Is it because I read PC49 or watched Dixon of Dock Green? I suppose some of the kids watching Z Cars might be pulled in by that, eh? A whole generation of Barlows and Fancy Smiths. But that's not it with you, is it?'

'No.'

'It's to make a difference, isn't it? In a way an insurance clerk or a bank manager never can. We can influence society. We can find out who that poor dead girl is and we can affect people's lives. For good or bad.'

Billy wondered if the wine had gone to the Top Man's head. 'What did you get from the lad?'

'Not much. I got more from the parents.'

'The parents? They hardly said two words.'

Hatherill winked. 'Ah, but what they didn't say was important. And what they did.'

Billy racked his brains, but could think of nothing but polite chit-chat. 'Would you like a cup of tea? How about a nice glass of wine? A scotch then, how would that be?'

The pub's dog, a rough old collie, raised itself from the carpet, padded over and looked at Billy, its rheumy eyes on the crisps. He made to give it one but the dog bared its teeth. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you, he thought.

'The girl's head wasn't sawn off, Billy,' Hatherill said quietly. 'The pathologist is wrong.' He took more wine. 'The thing is, if she had been on the beach for a week, washed back and forward, those marks could have been caused by the sand. I've seen it before. Body washed ashore at Margate that had come all the way round from Lowestoft. Woman in a dinghy, caught in a storm. Bones sticking out of limbs when she was washed up, and what looked like wool covering her. She was left there for a few days because they thought it was a sheep. But it was kapok. The stuffing of her lifejacket looked like sheep's wool. But in those few days, the ends of the bones were abraded by the sand. Same here.' 'So . . .'

'So there was a big storm a few days before she was first spotted by the boy. He said so. Here and in the Channel. I want you to check all the shipping companies, see if they have any missing passengers.'

'Missing passengers?'

'Woman overboard.'

'You think she came off a ship?'

Hatherill sipped his wine once more and looked at it admiringly, swirling it in the glass. 'This really is very, very good. You don't expect such good wine in Cornwall.' He glanced around the dark, scruffy room, which smelled mostly of shag tobacco and stale beer. 'Especially in a pub like this. Must compliment the landlord. Yes, I think she came off a ship. Either in the Atlantic or the Channel. The head could easily have been swiped off by a propeller, especially if she went over the stern. My only question is, was the bobby who found her in on it or not?'

Billy had lost the thread. 'You mean PC Trellick? In on what?'

'You know there are two kinds of bent policemen? Some bend the rules so they can get the villain. We call that bent for the job. There are others who are obviously in it only to feather their own nest. Bent for themselves.'

'You are wondering which Trellick is?'

Hatherill held the last inch of wine in his glass to the light, checking for sediment. 'No. He's a third type, I think, one we don't get so much in London. Bent for his family. That's a different kind of pressure. No, I'm not wondering about him.' He grabbed the padded envelope and slid the contents out onto the table. 'I'm wondering about you.''

Billy stared down at the red and silver object before him. There was a screaming in his ears, a hundred jumbled questions melded into a cacophony, and a rising feeling of panic clutched at his chest. There was no mistaking what it was. It was a common enough item, but he recognised each dent on the lid. It was the Oxo tin from under his bed, the one containing his three hundred and thirty-three pounds, ten shillings.

Thirty-seven

London, June 1963

Roy had cut a hole in the chainlink fence two weeks ago and it still hadn't been repaired. Careless. He pulled back the wire and stepped aside to let Bruce climb through. It was gone midnight and, although a few blue-ish lights shone in the shunting yard, there was no sign of another soul.

Nevertheless, Roy kept his voice down as he ducked through after Bruce.

'Thing is, lying low at this farm, aren't we sitting ducks? We could be down the Ml and back in London in, I dunno, thirty minutes. Forty tops.'

'And if they put up roadblocks?' said Bruce, bored with the argument. 'And I told you, imagine it on Police Five. Did anyone see a convoy of high-speed cars entering London? Yes, they bloody well did.'

They slithered down an embankment onto gravel and paused, ears pricked, listening for any sign that they had drawn attention to themselves. An owl hooted, so clear and cliched, Roy thought it must be fake and said so.

'What, you think we've stumbled into an Apache raiding party?' Bruce hissed.

They straightened their overalls and strode towards the dark, angular shapes of the parked rolling stock, as if they had every right to be there. Bruce had a torch with him, but he kept it off. It would do to blind anyone if they were confronted.

'Look, Roy,' he whispered as they walked. 'I know you don't think a tickle is complete without a fast motor, but this one is different. I still want you in charge of the transport, goes without saying. Happy if you bring Tony in. But no Jags or Daimlers, OK?' 'OK'

'Fuck's sake, you might even get to drive a train. That should keep you happy. Where is it?'

'Follow me.'

They moved between dark, silent coaches and wagons, crossing over the tracks, Roy looking to left and right, hoping to find the engine he had picked out on his last venture into the yards.

'They've moved it,' he said.

Bruce sighed. 'It's a train, lad. That's what they do. Move.'

'Let's try over here.'

The coaches, trucks and tankers gave Bruce the creeps. They were slumbering behemoths, mechanical dinosaurs parked into dormitories and he felt as if the creatures could wake at any moment. Lights would come on, vacuum pumps throb, steam lines hiss, and one of them would demand to know what they were doing. Could be his gran had read him The Little Engine That Could one too many times as a kid, he reckoned.

'What about that one?' asked Bruce, pointing to a square block of metal on wheels.

'No. That's an O-Eight. I want an O-Three.'

As their eyes adjusted to the half-light and deep shadows, Roy tugged at his sleeve. 'Seen it.'

'That thing?' It was a squat little shunter, sitting alone on an empty section of track. 'It's a bloody great monster that pulls the mail. Not something you wind up.'

'They're like cars. If you can drive a Mini, you can drive a Roller.'

Bruce wasn't convinced, but followed Roy to the engine. He flashed the torch to locate the footholds and they both clambered up the side. Roy unzipped his leather jacket and produced a thick, well-thumbed book. On its cover were the words NOT FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC.

'What's that?'

'The manual.'

'You nicked it?'

'Drivers leave them lying around all the time. They just get another one. Shine the torch on the controls, will you?'

Bruce did as he was told and Roy thumbed through the book.

'Thing is, Bruce, if I am to drive the train, which I am happy to do, what do we do with the other driver? The real one.'

Bruce didn't understand the question. 'We'll take care of him.'

'That's what I'm worried about. I don't. . . you know. I never like the heavy stuff.'

Bruce stifled a laugh. It was hard to imagine the diminutive driver ever getting tucked into anything physical that didn't involve nuts and bolts. That had been enough. 'Me neither, Roy. That's why we have double acts like Wisbey and Welch. Look, you see those ugly fuckers climbing into your cab, you'll likely shit yourself. There'll be no problem, I'm sure. But you stay out of the way until they need you. OK?'

'OK' Roy located the page he wanted. 'Here we are. There'll be a key.'