Signal Red (3 page)

Three

RAF Hemswell, Lincolnshire, October 1962

The three-minute warning siren sounded, its hideous cry carried, appropriately enough, by the wind from the east that came across the North Sea and then blew unimpeded over the flatlands of Lincolnshire. Every man and woman on the base momentarily froze as the wail gathered its breath, rising to a full scream. All but the very youngest had the sound of sirens cauterised into their brains, either from the early days of the Blitz, the later, more insidious threats of V1s and V2s, or, in recent years, the pointess Civil Defence exercises.

Roy James scanned the sky, hoping, if these were indeed the final minutes of his life, to see the sleek silver English Electric Lightning of the RAF powering north to meet the bombers, intent on revenge for the millions who would die. The sky remained unsullied, however, apart from a lone Vickers Viscount rowing between the thin cumulus. Instead, the siren faltered and died. A test.

What a place to stage a race, he thought. But there was a keen karting club on the base, run by a kid called Mike

Lawrence, and driving between missile silos did, Roy had to admit, add a certain sense of extra danger to the proceedings.

He folded his slender frame into his kart, checking straps and connections as he did so. There was a tap on his helmet and he looked up into the grinning face of little Mickey Ball.

'Your fan club is here,' Mickey said, pointing at the sparse crowd of spectators.

Roy picked out the towering shape of Gordon Goody, in his long leather Gestapo-style coat; next to him the willowy Bruce Reynolds, aka the Colonel, fussing with his shirt collar, as dandyish as ever. Completing the trio was a third man Roy didn't recognise. He wasn't short, being five ten or eleven, but he looked it next to the other two. The stranger was about Roy's age - younger than Bruce and Gordy - with fairish hair and a frown, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was doing there.

A distorted voice came over the Tannoy system. 'Engines, gentlemen, please.'

Roy knew what the visit from Bruce and Goody meant. About half a million quid, with a bit of luck.

Goodbye Italkart, hello Brabham.

Strapping himself in, Roy lowered his visor and gave the signal for Mickey to kick the Bultaco into life.

Four

Comet House, Heathrow Airport, West London, October 1962

As he washed his hands for the fifth time, Ronald 'Buster' Edwards wondered why he had ever agreed to get involved with this malarkey. Sometimes you did it for the laugh, for the buzz, for the sheer hell of it. And sometimes it was just for the money. But he didn't need money, not at that moment. The club was doing OK. However, when they were putting a firm together, it was hard to say no to that little wave of excitement - euphoria, even - that swept through your brain and made your stomach fizz like it was filled with best bubbly. And there was always the fear that next time, they wouldn't ask you at all. What's more, he had to be honest with himself. Running a drinking den was fine - but it was also on the dreary side, a life oddly becalmed, waiting for a seductive wind to fill its sails. And right now Bruce, Charlie and Gordy were blowing a gale through his rigging.

A tall, thin-faced man in a pinstriped suit came into the Gents, gave him a sharp glance and Buster smiled. 'Mornin'.'

'Good morning,' came the frosty reply. The man hesitated, as if he was going to ask Buster what his business was on the third floor, but his bowels got the better of him. He slipped into a cubicle, and Buster heard the lock slide across and the ping of braces.

Buster looked out of the window at the graceful Air France Caravelle coming in to land. It made him think he'd like to be on one of the sleek jetliners, heading to Paris or Cannes. Bruce had told him so much about Monte Carlo and Nice, he felt as if he'd been there already, experienced the Mediterranean sun on his face. The way the Colonel told it, it'd been like Cary Grant in To Catch A Thief down there, with Roy and Mickey as his sidekicks. Except, unlike Cary's character, Bruce hadn't retired.

Buster realised he had been so distracted by thoughts of the Riviera, he hadn't noticed the blue armoured van that had left the Barclays Bank that was just visible down the road and was now heading for the entrance to the airport and on to Comet House.

Quickly rolling down the sleeves of the pinstriped suit he was wearing, he checked his appearance in the mirror - putting on a bit of weight round the chin there, Ronald - and slotted the bowler hat onto his head. He almost burst out laughing, thinking he looked more like Bernie Winters in a sketch than a City gent. The lavatory flushed in the closet behind him and Buster grabbed the folded umbrella he had left dangling from one of the sinks and hurried out to the lift, almost knocking over the lavatory attendant, who had been on his break, as he did so.

At first, Buster thought he'd bollocked it with his daydreaming: the entrance lobby to Comet House was empty, but two receptionists were behind the desk. It was a shift changeover, the blazered young man taking over from the woman in the blue blouse. Good, he'd prefer it to be a man. No qualms about a little touch of cosh action there. Buster could see the dark shape of the van parked outside, but no sign of the bank guards. Perhaps, he fretted, they had already passed through.

Also outside, thirty feet back from the van that had travelled from Barclays, was a Ford Zephyr 6 police car, its roof light flashing lazily.

He remembered what Charlie had told him, not to break step no matter what happened. As he approached the conventional exit to the left of the revolving door, he was relieved to see two men emerge from the far side of the van. Each was carrying a metal strongbox, which they heaved onto a steel trolley. Their actions were observed by a supervisor with a clipboard. The men repeated this procedure, so there were four hefty boxes in place. Then they looked around, nodded to the waiting policemen to show all seemed in order, and wheeled the conveyance towards the lobby. Buster hesitated as he came face to face with the guards, with the glass door between them.

He grabbed the handle, jerked the door open and said loudly in his best, mellifluous Leslie Phillips voice: 'After you, gentlemen.'

One of the security men muttered his thanks and the duo trundled the trolley through en route to the BOAC vault in the basement. Buster could tell from the effort it took to overcome the inertia of the steel cart that the metal boxes must be full. Maybe the old bastard who was their informant had been right. Perhaps there was half a million quid in there. He felt the Moet gurgling in his stomach already as he strode through the door to the outside.

As he left the building, he raised his bowler to the policemen in the Zephyr pulling away from the kerb. The fact that one of them saluted him almost caused Buster Edwards to wet himself with laughter. They're just asking for it, he thought. Just asking for it.

Five

RAF Hemswell, Lincolnshire, October 1962

Tony Fortune had always thought Go-Karts faintly ridiculous, like dodgems freed from their overhead electric grid and sent round the track. That day at the missile base changed his mind for good. As the flag dropped on Roy James's race, the field of cars seemed to bunch together like a flock of starlings, and began to weave in the same way, as if one organic unit. The noise of the 200cc engines and the stench of oil, rubber and petrol was exhilarating. Unlike at Goodwood or Silverstone, the drivers - alarmingly vulnerable on their tiny chariots - flashed by feet away from the spectators. The physicality of wrestling with such a small yet potent machine was all too apparent as they approached the first bend.

'Those Go-Karts got limited slip diffs?' he shouted to Bruce.

'Don't let Roy hear you call them that. They're karts, not Go-Karts.'

'Why?'

'He says it's like calling every racing car a Vanwall or a

Cooper. Go-Kart is just another make, so he reckons. Anyway, it upsets him - and I don't want him upset. There are no diffs at all though, not limited or otherwise. If you want to corner tight, you have to lift one of the rear wheels. If you get it wrong . . .'

As if to demonstrate his point, one of the karts drifted wide, catching the rear of another; it spun out in a cloud of dust and an explosion of hay as it crashed into the bales.

The mass of men and machines began to pull apart as they came into the second lap, with four drivers breaking away from the pack. Tony didn't have to ask which one was Roy. He was the one in third place throwing the machine into the dogleg between the missile silos with one rear tyre spinning in thin air. There looked to be a good ten inches of space between rubber and track.

'Jesus, he's going to overcook it, isn't he?' Tony muttered.

'Wouldn't be the first time, mate,' said Gordy.

'How many laps?'

'Ten,' replied Bruce.

The field began to stretch out, the initial solid wall of engine noise devolving into the buzz of individual machines. Roy was still third, but he was slipstreaming the kart in front, so close that Tony thought they must be touching. It was a risky strategy, because if Roy didn't match his opponent's braking exactly, he could end up going over the top of the man in front.

Gordy detached himself and came back with three teas, all of them heavily sugared, and a Mars Bar each.

Roy made his move on the fourth lap, just as he approached their position, seemingly moving directly sideways, and taking not only the second man, but rejoining his line in front of number one. The former leader braked as he saw Roy was about to tangle with his front wheels, and the number two and three made contact. The pair of them pirouetted together, off into the grass on the inside of the track. Angry, frustrated fists were raised as the dustcloud settled, but the damage was done. Roy James was now in the lead, where he looked set to remain.

Bruce put his tea in the crook of his arm and applauded. 'See, stunts like that may not be what you always want in a racing driver.' He shook his head in admiration. 'But in a wheel-man . .. fuckin' gold dust.'

Roy was examining his silver trophy as he walked up to Bruce, Gordy and Tony. He held it up to show them. 'I could knock out a better one than this during the fuckin' potter's wheel interlude,' he sneered.

'I didn't say', said Bruce to Tony, 'that Roy here fancies himself as a regular whatsisname. The one who made the eggs.'

'Faberge,' said Roy.

'Yeah, Faberge. Roy's clever, see. When he did his borstal he learned silversmithing. Not like the rest of us. We learned fuck all.' Bruce looked at Gordy. 'Well, how to blow a peter maybe.' Then he stood back and pointed at each man in turn. 'Tony Fortune. Roy James.'

They shook hands. 'Nice driving,' said Tony, and meant it.

Roy grunted his thanks.

'Tony here can get us what we want,' Bruce went on.

'Oh yeah?' Roy asked, his voice laced with disbelief. 'Mark Twos?'

Tony nodded. 'Any preference on what model?'

'The three point four,' Roy said firmly, accepting a fresh tea off Gordy and taking a sip. 'Bloody hell, Gordy, how much Harry Tate you spoon in there?'

'Put hairs on your chest.'

'And on my tongue.' He looked over his shoulder, where the Class Is were about to begin a rolling start.

'Why the three point four?' Tony asked. 'The three point eight is faster.'

'Yeah, 'course it is. And it's the same lump, just with a bigger rad and oil cooler. But somehow, the balance is all wrong. And the power output isn't as even; there's a good chance of wheelspin, especially on those Dunlops they fit. The three point four is a sweeter engine, gets the power down much more smoothly.' He shrugged. 'That's what I think anyway.'

'Well, you'll be the one driving it,' Tony said. 'Anything else?'

'I really like the metallic blue that Jaguar does,' said Roy with a smile. 'One of them in that colour would be handy.'

Tony nodded again. 'OK, Roy, a three point four Mark Two Jaguar in metallic blue. Leave it to me.'

The Class 1 karts came up to the start line, the flag dropped and, in a cloud of two-stroke, the angry buzzing of competition began again. 'I got another race after this, boys,' Roy told them. 'See you later.'

After Roy had left, Bruce said, 'I told you he was particular. There's one other thing he doesn't know about though, another mod.'

'What's that?' asked Gordy. 'A gun turret?'

Bruce stroked his chin as if he were actually considering it before breaking into a grin. 'No, more's the pity.' He turned to Tony. 'Just make sure you lose the back seats.'

Six

From the Daily Sketch, 16 October 1962

ACTOR LAMENTS LOSS OF 'PRIDE AND JOY'

TV's Peter Gunn, the American actor Craig Stevens, last night appealed for the return of his metallic-blue 3.4 Mk 2 Jaguar. The luxury saloon was taken from outside his home on Eaton Square, where he is renting a house with his wife Alexis, on Tuesday night. 'The car was a welcome-to-London present from Lew Grade,' said the actor. 'I have only had it a few weeks and it is my pride and joy.' Mr Stevens, who played private detective Peter Gunn for a hundred episodes of the series, is in England to film Man of the World, his new thriller programme, for Mr Grade. A reward of a hundred pounds has been offered for the safe recovery of the Jaguar.

Seven

New Scotland Yard, Central London, October 1962

Detective Constable William Naughton never did discover who put his name in the Flying Squad's 'book' at Scotland Yard. Whenever their peripatetic approach to crime took them to an outlying district, the Squad detectives were encouraged to keep an eye out for any likely prospects among the officers there. Names were logged back at New Scodand Yard - The Big House - and enquiries then made of DIs as to the subject's suitability for moving up a league.

Billy Naughton, like every other plainclothes copper, knew this. So whenever a unit of the Squad came to his station at Lucan Place, Chelsea, the young DC made sure he helped wherever he could, from taking fingerprints to pointing the blokes to the right pub for an after-hours drink. He'd been stuck as an Aide to CID for two years when he was called in to see his DI. 'Whose arse have you had your tongue up?' the latter had enquired with a grin. 'Some fucking blind and deaf idiot on the Flying Squad has asked for you.'

Whoever had written in the book that he 'showed promise', Naughton thanked him every time he walked into the shabby Squad room at New Scotland Yard on the Embankment. The rectangular space was dominated by the rows of desks where the eight teams did their paperwork. Along one wall was a bank of telephone booths. The air was rich with cigarette smoke, stale sweat, foul language and jokes in questionable taste. But to Billy it smelled sweeter than roses.

Naughton's first task was to check in with the Duty Sergeant, see what was in the message book and which outstanding warrants needed typing up. But there was always a small pause after he entered where he looked around the smoke-filled room - much of it Old Holborn generated by a couple of dedicated pipe-puffers - at the group of men, The Big House's finest, and almost pinched himself, unable to believe he was one of the elite. The tricky part, he knew, was staying in it.

DS Len 'Duke' Haslam, his face all sharp lines and widow's peak, threw a thumbs-up in greeting. He'd earned his nickname from his spot-on impersonation of John Wayne. He was able to nail it all, from the lazy drawl to the rolling gait, and he claimed to have seen The Alamo six times. Duke was the senior partner in their two-man team, assigned to show Billy the ropes. Unlike many others clobbered with a rookie, Duke didn't mind having a fledgling to nurse. Although only in his early thirties, Len believed in traditional coppering - and that included being free with your knowledge.

'DC Naughton! Line Four.'

The operator's deep baritone boomed over the hubbub of conversation. Naughton raised a hand in acknowledgement and crossed to the battered booth. Like all of them, its walls were defaced by hastily scribbled numbers and names, some of them going back twenty years, and the cubicle not only stank of fags, but there seemed to be lingering undertones of whisky-breath too. He wondered if Bill Cunningham, a DS notorious for his DTs, had been using the telephone before him.

'Naughton, Flying Squad.'

'You love saying that, don't you, you smug cunt? Naughton, Flying Squad, oh and possessor of the biggest cock in Scotland Yard. And the biggest head.'

Naughton laughed. 'Hello, Stanley, what got your goat?'

Harold 'Stanley' Matthews had gone through police training at Hendon with Billy Naughton. They had boxed together and played football, later on opposing teams when they ended up in different districts. Naughton though, had slipped ahead in the promotion race, with Matthews trailing behind. Stanley was now an Aide to CID at Chelsea, his old job. Billy Naughton had never let on that he had recommended him to his DI before he left Chelsea, was the one who had got him out of uniform, away from the dullness of Brentford.

'Been on Early Turn. Got here at five-thirty. You lads swan in at. . . what time is it? Bleedin' nine o'clock gone. You lot think villains punchin those hours?'

Naughton laughed. 'Most of the villains I know don't get up till midday - don't even know there are two eleven o'clocks in a day. How's Chelsea?'

Stanley dropped the pretence of irritation. 'Good. I'm on the footie team already. And bagged a police flat off Holland Park. Hayley is well chuffed. Well, mostly.'

Billy Naughton knew Hayley, Stanley's young wife, and liked her, but like most non-Force wives, she didn't fully understand The Job. He was glad he hadn't been saddled with a missus yet. He had quickly discovered what a hindrance they were to ambitious Squad officers.

'Hayley will have to get used to the fact that there's a bit more to do after-hours than Brentford,' he said. Whereas the suburbs had very little nightlife, Chelsea was full of pubs, clubs, not to mention celebrities. You couldn't throw a stone down the King's Road without hitting an actor or an artist or a pop star.

'Just a little. And it's more interesting. We had this bird in yesterday,' Stanley went on. 'She was a bit of a looker, demanding we arrest her boyfriend for pulling out her pubic hair. To prove it—'

Naughton laughed as he interrupted. 'She hoiked up her dress and showed you the evidence. They sent her to you, did they?'

There was a heartbeat of a pause before realisation dawned at the other end of the line. 'Oh, fuck.'

'Don't worry, she'll come round again and you can point some other green sod at her and snigger as he writes up the report.'

There was a tap on his shoulder from Duke. He mouthed the words 'Boss wants to see you,' and Naughton felt his stomach cramp.

Ernie Millen, the head of the Squad, always found time to keep an eye on the new lads. Rumour had it he gave you three months to show you had what it took - perseverance, an instinct for villainy and a decent sense of humour - to stay with the Squad. Millen and his trap-faced deputy Frank Williams were the ones who decided which new bloods should get a permanent place in the room. There was one trait that Williams prized above all else: the ability to 'bring in the work' by being proactive, using informants or dangling bait in front of suspected villains. And as it was common knowledge that Williams had the casting vote as to whether an apprentice had made his number and stayed in the Squad or was quietly transferred out, it was a good idea to 'get some in', as they said.

'I gotta go, Stanley. Glad it's all tickety-boo.'

'That's not why I called, mate. I remembered what you said, about keeping a note of villains' favourite wheels. Well, yesterday we went to Eaton Square. Car been nicked. We made a fuss 'cause of whose it was, this actor bloke. A Yank. But anyway, the car they took was a three point four Jag. Metallic blue. Only about a thousand miles on the clock. You always said to follow the motors, didn't you?'

Naughton found himself nodding, even though he had borrowed the phrase from a DI at Acton.

'Billy? You there?'

'Yeah. Sorry, I was just thinking.' Just thinking that according to the OB - the Occurrences Book - another Jag had been taken in Savile Row, just down the road from West End Central police station, the cheeky buggers. Some poor bastard - well, not cash-poor obviously - being measured up at Anderson & Shepherd had come out to find his wheels missing. A 3.4 Mark 2. Burgundy. Also showroom-fresh. 'Thanks, Stanley.'

'Well, just returning the favour, mate.'

'Yeah. Cheers.' What favour? He must have found out about him putting a word in. Maybe Stanley wanted Naughton to repeat the exercise at the Squad. Well, it was too early for that. Naughton hadn't got his own feet under the table yet, and here he was being summoned to see Millen. He rang off, thanked the operator in his cubbyhole, and threaded between the desks, thinking he might just have a bone for The Boss to chew on.