Warren Street, Central London, October 1962
Tony Fortune was polishing the bonnet of a signal-red AC Ace Roadster when the big Rover purred to a halt outside his rented showroom. It was a P5, the imperious political barge much loved by government ministers. Except this one was the newer coupe, with a raffish and rakish roofline. It gave just a hint of flash to what could be perceived as a very staid motor. Tony stopped applying the Super Hard Shell Turde Wax and waited to see who emerged from it.
Recognising the spindly figure unfolding itself out of the car like a cobra emerging from a basket, he shouted to Paddy, his mechanic, who was out the back: 'Put the kettle on, mate. The poncy stuff.'
Then Tony returned to polishing, grabbing a few more minutes, hoping to give the Ace the high lustre it deserved before his visitor came inside. He had loved cars all his life. He still had the first one he had ever owned, although it was now scratched and battered and missing a wheel. It was a maroon Series 30 Daimler, magically unearthed by his mum for a birthday during the war and treasured until peace came and Dinky Toys production resumed.
Bruce Reynolds – the man from the P5 – beamed as he saw Tony glance up at him through the plate glass. As tall, dapper and bespectacled as ever, Bruce adjusted the collar of his cashmere topcoat, smoothed down the front, with its concealed buttons, and strode into the display area. He stood and appraised the stock with an expert eye, dismissing most of it, before nodding at the Ace.
'That's nice.'
Bruce had an appetite for sports cars. Last time Tony had seen him he'd been squiring his young wife Franny in a sleek Austin Sprite. 'More up your street than the Rover, Bruce.'
Bruce looked out into the street at the P5. 'That? It's Charlie's, not mine.' No surname was needed. He meant Charlie Wilson, one of Bruce's childhood friends who had grown into a formidable blagger and hard man. 'He likes the leg room. My Aston's playing up again, so he lent it to me. You're right about the Rover, though. Bit too Reggie Maudling for my liking.'
Tony smiled and held out his hand. Bruce made him laugh, always had. Tony's love of cars had progressed to 'borrowing' them when he was a young teenager. Which in turn had led to a meeting in borstal with an ambitious thief called Bruce Reynolds, who had a sideline in equally ambitious daydreaming. The slightly older lad used to describe in tedious detail The Good Life he would be acquiring for himself, once he pulled off The Big Job. It was a lengthy litany of quality cars, bespoke clothes, young attractive women, the finest booze and the best of mates, all to the accompaniment of the Modern Jazz Quartet and George Shearing. Even then, Tony had known it was a remarkably mature ragbag of aspirations for a young lad. And judging by the expensive sliver of a gold watch on his wrist, plus the fact that he had apparently acquired an Aston Martin, Bruce had ticked off at least some of his wish list. But Tony knew keeping up appearances was all part of the game. Bruce would walk and talk the high life even if he only had a half-a-crown in his Post Office Savings book.
'You doin' all right?' he asked Tony.
'Can't complain. There's more competition now, of course.'
Since the war, when it had been Spiv Alley, Warren Street had become car dealers' row. Initially it had been pavement jobs, cash only, no questions asked about such things as logbooks. But in the past few years, the ground floors of the office blocks had been opened up into showrooms and most of the dealing was more or less legitimate. It was still buyer beware, though, and you couldn't be sure that the name of the dealers – or the salesman – would be the same from one week to the next.
'How's the wife?' Bruce asked.
'Fine. Franny?'
'Good, thanks.'
'You workin'?'
Bruce's bony shoulders moved towards his ears in a noncommittal shrug. 'This and that.'
The role model for Bruce might be Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, but the 'work' sometimes fell short of that. One week it might be a safe full of cash or jewels, but the next it could easily be a few dozen packs of Navy Cut from a tobacconists or a shipment of 30-denier stockings. If there was good information and a margin to be had, you went at it. Even a thief with ambitions like Bruce couldn't go after the Crown Jewels or the Bank of England every day.
Paddy emerged with the Darjeeling, the 'poncy' tea that
Bruce liked. Bruce took the Castrol mug with a murmured thank you, sipped and smacked his lips appreciatively. 'The Champagne of Teas? You remembered.'
'You banged on about it so much inside, how could I forget?' Bruce stared at him, a slight smirk on his face, until Tony admitted the truth. 'All right, I have this guy who buys Mercs who likes it.'
'I thought it was a bit odd, keeping a caddy just on the off- chance I turn up.'
'Thanks, Paddy,' Tony said.
Paddy, a weather-beaten Dubliner of uncertain vintage, gave a smile that showed just how few teeth he had and retreated back to the workshop. 'Any more trouble from Mammie Jolson?' Bruce asked, the pleasantries over.
'No. I meant to say thanks.'
'You already did.' Tony had sent over a case of Chivas Regal. 'But it was Gordy really what put the word in. I mean, nobody's frightened of me, are they?' Hugh 'Mammie' Jolson had tried to collect pensions – protection money – from the dealers in the street. Most had paid up; Tony had called Bruce who had said he'd 'have a word', even though north of the river was no-man's land to him and 'having a word' wasn't his true calling.
Bruce was a thief, an opportunist, from smash and grab to safe-breaking, but he wasn't a strong-arm man. Not for him mixing it with the likes of the Krays, Richardsons, Frasers, Foremans or Hills. He enjoyed his elegant clothes and his good looks too much to get his hands dirty that way. Besides, as he said, nobody was ever scared of him; you wouldn't use Bruce to put the frighteners on anyone. But he knew men who were skilled at that kind of thing – men like Charlie Wilson or Gordon Goody.
Charlie was your down-the-line London chancer, not stupid by any means, but he conformed to type. As Bruce said of him, he was 'a hard worker, reliable and a very funny fucker when he wanted to be'. Gordy, though, struck Tony as a strange mix – a handsome face on a thug's body, a hairdresser with a taste for Jermyn Street finery and thick gold bracelets, who was also capable of sudden violence.
A Tony Curtis haircut and two broken arms, please, Gordon.
Anyway, however it had been achieved – and often Gordy's trademark growl and daunting physical presence were enough to generate results – Mammie Jolson was off his back.
'You need some better stock.' Bruce pointed at a split-rear- windowed left-hand-drive Beetle. 'Not bloody German bombers.'
'What can I do for you, Bruce?' There was a price to be paid for unleashing Gordy, they both knew that. Bruce didn't stray far from his normal South London patch of the Elephant and Casde, Wandsworth, Battersea, Camberwell and Peckham without good reason – unless it involved Bobby Tambling and Chelsea. He was here to collect.
'Jags,' he said, peering inside the Ace. 'This one straight?'
'Had a prang,' Tony admitted. 'Insurance write-off. Drives OK. Well, pulls to the left a little when you brake. Can't seem to sort that out.'
'Chassis?'
'Maybe. Have to put it back on the rig. Or sell it to some chinless wonder. I thought you used Yul for cars?'
John 'Yul' Jones was a slap-headed chiseller whose only resemblance to his namesake, Mr Brynner, was the absence of hair. 'That bald cunt is currently chatting to Tommy Butler about a little job he pulled in Penge that he neglected to mention to me. So we might not see him for a while.'
He said the policeman's name with a mix of disdain and admiration. The CID's Tommy Butler, who relished his nickname of 'the Grey Fox', had a way of getting confessions and convictions from even the tightest-lipped villains. And Yul's mouth was not that firmly zipped.
'What kind of Jags?' Tony asked casually. 'And how many?'
'The usual kind.' Nicked, he meant, and untraceable. 'Two.'
Tony hesitated. He knew that to ask any more questions would pull him deeper into whatever scheme Bruce Reynolds had in mind – and not necessarily to his benefit. Like the futile escape Bruce had organised from the Gaynes Hall borstal, which had ended with them doing a jolt at the much harsher Wandsworth unit. This time around, he didn't want to end up having a 'chat' with Tommy Butler like Yul. But Bruce was right: he needed better stock. A bit of cash to inject into the cars would come in handy, plus there was that Jolson business to square. 'Anything special? The Jags, I mean.'
'Well, perhaps. I'd like you to talk to my man about it. He's particular, he is.'
Tony didn't like the sound of that. Some wheel-men were so superstitious they insisted on the same colour upholstery in their getaway vehicle each time, let alone whether the motor was booted with crossplys or radials. You could waste days trying to find or create exactly the right spec. 'Send him along.'
Reynolds grimaced. 'Let's not do it here. What you doin' Saturday?'
Tony shrugged. 'I was going to see Lawrence of Arabia.''
'He's busy.' Bruce took off his glasses and polished them with a spotless handkerchief before replacing them. 'We'll go up to the Midlands and watch my driver race.'
'Race? Who is it – Graham Hill?'
They both laughed but then Reynolds looked serious. 'One day, he could be. Mark my words. His name is Roy James. Pick you up here at about nine?'
As soon as he nodded, Tony Fortune knew that Bruce had snared him once again.
Franny Reynolds was behind the counter of the antique shop when he walked in. She was playing 'Let's Twist Again' on the HMV record player, her eyes closed, lost in the swinging motion of the dance.
Charlie Wilson stood and watched her for a while. It was a gaze of appreciation, rather than lust. She was married to one of his oldest friends; he had known Bruce since 1943, when they had shared an Anderson shelter. Bruce was the man who had once saved him from a chivving at the hands of a razor gang outside the Wimbledon Palais. Charlie had been all for taking them on, but Bruce reckoned that fourteen to one – he didn't count himself as a fighter – was not good odds, even for a little maniac like Charlie. Bruce, already tall for his age, had towered over Stevie Pyle, the leader, and talked them out of striping young Chas. Bruce had even ended up discussing Catcher in the Rye, The Naked Lunch and The Manchurian Candidate with one of the tearaways later, at the coffee stall on Battersea Bridge.
It was why Charlie trusted Bruce, though: he didn't think like the rest of them. Charlie, Buster Edwards, another South London thief, and to some extent Gordon Goody ran on tram- tracks. You knew where you got on and got off with them. Bruce had a series of branch lines, which meant his mind went in different directions.
Chubby Checker was nearing the end of his invitation to the dance when Charlie finally spoke, his voice an imitation of Bruce's lighter cockney accent. 'What do you think this is? The Scotch Club?'
Franny nearly leaped out of her skin. Charlie began to laugh at her flustered fumbling with the arm of the record player. It made a loud scratching noise as the needle ripped across the grooves. She turned and faced him. 'Chas! You bastard!'
Charlie smiled at her. She was lovely all right, even devoid of make-up as she was now. Bruce had once dated her older sister but it was Franny who had written to him while he was inside, sixteen-year-old Franny who was waiting, all grown up, when he got out. Today, in slacks and a stripy top, she could still pass for a schoolgirl.
'You ought to get a bell on that door,' he told her. 'Anyone could sneak up on you.'
'We don't get that many customers.'
Charlie looked around the store. It was called Milestones and it was meant to be an antique shop, although most of it was tat. There were bentwood chairs piled high, a pair of old joannas, a couple of oak tables, bed headboards, a wall of wardrobes, chrome fireside sets made redundant by High Speed Gas, and canteens of cutlery in velvet-lined boxes. But nothing you might call an heirloom. It was hard to imagine anything in the shop being a Milestone in anyone's life. That wasn't the point; its job was to give Bruce a respectable front, like Charlie's work at the fruit and veg market or Gordy's hairdressing. 'Anything new in?'
'This record player,' she said, sliding an LP of Nina Simone out of its sleeve and putting it on the turntable. That would be Bruce's influence, of course. He loved all that American jazzy stuff. She changed the speed with a flick of the dial. 'And some Clarice Cliff stuff Bruce is excited about.'
'She a singer too?'
Franny hesitated, unsure whether he was pulling her leg. 'Pottery. It's out the back if you want to see.'
'Just in Time' came out of the HMV's speaker, the voice cool yet brittle, giving the song a slightly menacing edge.
'Nah. Only making conversation,' Charlie said. 'Bruce about?' She shook her head. 'Know where he's gone?'
'Didn't say.'
Charlie put his hand in his pocket and brought out a handkerchief, which he placed on the counter. He flipped it open to reveal a ladies' timepiece. 'Put that in your display, will you, Franny? We'll go fifty-fifty on it.'
Franny picked it up. It was a Cartier gold bracelet watch, probably from just after the war judging by the patina on it. It caught the light beautifully as she draped it over her wrist.
'Where'd you get this?' she asked.
'I know and you don't have to. Looks good on you, Fran.'
She smiled at him. There were plenty of people frightened of Chas Wilson and those steely blue eyes of his. Bruce had taught her not to be. Charlie, he explained, had watched his father squander any money the family had, then had suffered the belt when the last of it had gone and his dad couldn't afford the pub. Charlie's aims in life were simple: never to be poor and scrabbling like his father, and never to let anyone get the upper hand, at least physically, ever again. Charlie had worked hard to earn his reputation, Bruce said, and now that rep did most of the work for him.
'It's pretty,' she said. 'Classy, too.'
Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh, as if he had just been browbeaten into a decision against his will. 'Oh go on, you can have it.'
Her jaw dropped and she gave a little squeak. 'Charlie, I couldn't.'
'I only got it in payment for a debt.' This was true. Although the man would be in deep shit once his wife found out how he had settled the loan. 'You must have a birthday coming up.'
'Not for months.'
'Early present, then.'
'No. Bruce'll-'
'I'll square it with Bruce. I'll tap him for twenty sovs, so he'll know it was business.' She had already fastened the catch. 'Although seeing it on you gives me a certain amount of pleasure.'
She looked flustered, not sure if he was flirting or not. It made her momentarily uncomfortable. 'Charlie…'
'Rather than the fat cow who owned it, I mean. You couldn't see it in the folds of her flesh at all.'
'What about Pat? Wouldn't she like it?'
Charlie smiled. 'Pat's got enough tom to start her own shop.'
Franny unclipped the bracelet and laid it down on the white cotton square once more. She admired it for a few moments. 'I'll ask Bruce before I wear it. Just in case.'
'Very wise,' he said, with studied solemnity.
Franny sighed. 'This all right, is it – this work he's doing with you? Whatever it is.'
Charlie shrugged. 'Be fine.'
'But you're worried about something, aren't you? Is that why you came to see him?'
Very perceptive, he thought. She wasn't just a pretty, well- scrubbed face. 'Nothing serious. Just a little problem with one of the boys, is all. Tell Bruce I'll be at the Lambeth later.'
'I will.' She scribbled a note to remind herself. 'And thanks for this.'
'You're welcome. I like things to go to a good home.'
He turned to leave and Franny asked: 'Charlie, how bad is the problem?'
He smiled and his ice-blue eyes seemed to darken. Franny remembered some of the stories she had heard about Chas from his younger days and suppressed a shudder.
'Nothing I can't take care of,' he said.
They drove up the Ml in the Rover, with the lanky form of Gordon Goody behind the wheel. Bruce Reynolds had turned up dressed in flat-fronted checked trousers and a Lanvin sweater over a pastel Dare & Dolphin shirt, managing to make both Tony – in his Dunn's sheepskin, and Goody, in his trademark long black coat – look dowdy.
The Rover's V8 happily pulled them to 90mph, effortlessly passing the Hillmans, A30s and Morris Minors plodding up the middle lane. The Rover had a Smith's Radiomobile that was audible even over the tyre noise the big car generated at close to the ton. Saturday Club was on, with Eden Kane, but Bruce switched to the Home Service.
'"Forget Me Not", indeed,' he said, naming the singer's signature tune. 'Chance'd be a fine thing.' He swivelled round in the front seat. 'You seen that film Too Late Blues?'
Tony said he hadn't.
'Good movie. About a jazz man. Bobby Darin's in it and… that little fella, you know who I mean. Played Johnny Staccato on the box.'
'John Cassavetes,' grunted Gordy.
'Blimey,' said Bruce, looking across at the big man with a puzzled expression. 'When did you turn into Dilys Powell?'
Gordy just grinned.
'Anyway, that's who Roy reminds me of. He's not a big bloke, but intense. Committed. Know what I mean?'
'Yeah.' Although Tony had no real idea what he was talking about.
The Ml, touted as the Highway to Birmingham, actually fell short of the city, ending in Northamptonshire. Their speed dropped as they came off the motorway and hit the A road, and Tony settled down in the leather of the rear seat and nodded off, just as Bruce retuned to Eamonn Andrews and Sports Parade and began to fret about Chelsea's new season in the second division, hoping they could bounce back up. As an Arsenal fan, Tony was used to disappointing Saturdays, although it hadn't yet come down to the ignominy of relegation. But the Gunners had never been the same since Tom Whittaker died in 1956. Now there was a manager…
'Oi, Tony – Sleepy Bollocks. We're here.'
He pushed himself up the seat, unmussed his hair and rubbed his eyes clear. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Out for almost an hour. They were on a B road now, in a short queue behind an MGA, a Morris Oxford and one of the brand new Ford Cortinas, which Tony hadn't had a chance to drive yet.
At the head of this line, a young lad in a duffel coat was collecting the five shillings entry and parking fee. Next to him was a large sign telling them they were about to enter War Department property. Then a board proclaiming that this was RAF Hemswell, home to No 97 (SM) Squadron. Someone had scrawled the letters CND across the sign and underneath Yanks Go Home. There was, indeed, a US flag fluttering over the gate, indicating that USAAF personnel were deployed on the base. Tony had done his miserable National Service in the RAF. He knew what all this meant.
'I thought we were going to see a race?' he said.
'We are,' Bruce replied.
'What, an arms race?'
Gordy edged forward in the line as the Cortina drove into the site and then turned to look at Tony. 'What you mean?'
'Don't you two ever read the front of the papers? This is a bloody nuclear missile base.'
Holland 's Gym, Elephant and Castle, South London, September 1962
Charlie Wilson counted the repetitions as he crunched his biceps with the twenty-pound dumbbells. He'd been doing the same routine for six months now, and although he wasn't yet Steve Reeves, he could see the difference in his physique. It was harder, leaner. Old Man Levy had been forced to let out the chest of his latest suit jacket, and allow more material in the sleeves so Charlie could flex his arms. Now, when he walked into the Mayflower or Donovan's, he could feel the dip in the volume of the conversation as the mugs looked him over. He'd always had a reputation, usually backed up with blades or a revolver. Now he didn't feel he needed anything other than his bare hands to make his point. He was even fitter than when he'd fought bare-knuckle with the pikeys in Barnet, and he'd been bloody hard to put down then.
Lately, he had built a fitness room in the shed at home in Clapham. His wife Pat joked he must be training for the
Tokyo Olympics. He was training, that was true, but not for any athletics. With a new house, three kids and a wife, never mind the cars, clubs and the clothes to support, he needed more money than ever. That's what he was in training for.
Although he had the home gym, it did him good to get out from under Pat's feet during the day and he liked Danny Holland's place. Danny had the best equipment, some of it Jack LaLanne from the States, as well as the standard punchbags and speedballs of boxing. Charlie relished the satisfying smack of leather on leather when they were used by a pro, loved the smell of liniment and sweat that was missing from his domestic set-up. But when he put down the dumbbells and wiped his face, all was quiet. There were no grunts, groans or thrown punches because there were no other clients. Danny had booked him an hour clear, all to himself.
He heard the thud of footfall on the stairs. The heavier tread would be Ray Cauli, so-called because of the pair of misshapen ears bracketing his head that testified to a long but not very illustrious boxing career, sometimes in the ring but mostly in the field at the gash fights at Epsom and Epping Forest. The softer sound would be Derek, the lad Ray was 'escorting' to the meeting.
Charlie stood up off the bench, put his foot on it, retied his Lonsdales and fetched himself a glass of water from the sink. At their meeting at the Lambeth Walk pub, Bruce had given him a free hand on this. It was Charlie who had brought the job to Bruce, but, as always, it was Bruce who had taken it and shaped it from crude concept to a workable plan. When, over pints of bitter, Charlie had told Bruce about Derek, however, he had deferred to him. 'Do what you think is appropriate,' Bruce had said. Just do it when I am not around was the second, unspoken part of the sentence.
The two men entered the second-floor gym puffing and wheezing. Derek had on a shiny Levy Tonik mohair suit and Cecil Gee Italian suede shoes. They all did now. The first bit of money in their pockets, they copied the boss and went to Levy in Whitechapel for their first taste of Dormeuil. That was why, on Bruce's advice, Charlie had decided to take his custom from Levy to Dougie Millings on Old Compton Street, Soho. Dougie dressed pop stars like Billy Fury and Wee Willie Harris, making silly stage outfits, but he could also produce the genuine article. And Charlie wasn't going to shout about who made his stuff this time. Let them find their own bleedin' tailors.
'Charlie,' Derek squeaked when he had his breath back, nerves taking his voice up the octaves. 'Ray here said you wanted to see me.'
Charlie rose to his full height. He had on a black Everlast vest and shorts. When he crossed his arms, he knew the biceps bulged impressively. He crossed his arms.
'Nice to see you suited and booted. I approve. But a bit out of condition, aren't you, Derek? Too many Woodbines?'
'No, I'm all right, Charlie. Straight up.' Derek had just turned twenty, making him a decade younger than Charlie, and he still had the pipe-cleaner thinness of a teenager. He was from that generation who were lucky enough to have just missed National Service. Or unlucky. Charlie had met some who claimed they had learned all they ever needed to know about thieving in the Army.
Charlie slapped the wooden bench. 'Stamina, that's what you need. Lie down here. No, no, serious. Don't worry, you won't mess up your whistle. Here, let me take the jacket. Nice shirt. Turnbull and Asser? Oh, Woodall's. Nice, that is. 'Ere, lie down.'
He threw the jacket across the room and it landed in a heap near the entrance.
Ray Cauli stood and watched impassively as Charlie laid the youngster prone on the padded wooden bench. Derek had begun sweating, moisture glistening on his upper lip. 'What 'ave I done, Charlie?'
'Nothing. Yet. But we'll sort you out. Ray, give us a hand, will you? Pass me that barbell and the weights.' He looked back down at a parchment-pale Derek. 'We'll work the chest first.'
Between them Ray and Charlie made a pyramid of the various weights that could be slid onto the steel shaft of the barbell.
'What's on it now?' Charlie asked himself. 'Sixty pounds. There you are. Take it. Go on, my son, take it. Arms straight. There we are. How's that feel?'
Derek grunted.
'I'll loosen your tie for you. There. How's that?'
'Fine.'
'Good. Now bend the arms and push it up again. Go on, like that. Let's do ten.' A tremor ran through Derek's arms as he lowered the bar to his chest then straightened them again. They all knew it wasn't the weight that was causing the shaking. 'Come on, nine to go.'
Charlie stood back and appraised him, as if he were a genuine protege. 'Three, two… one. Easy? OK, let's put a few more pounds on. Keep the arms locked.' He nodded to Ray and they selected a forty-pound disc each and slid it onto the stock. Derek let out something between a groan and a squeal.
'Ten.'
'I can't, Charlie-' 'TEN!'
As Derek struggled with the raises, his eyes screwed shut, Charlie leaned in close and bent at the waist. 'You know what I hate most in this life, Derek?'
'No, Charlie.'
'Yes, you do. Think. Seven to go.'
'Coppers?'
Charlie jutted out his lower lip in approval. 'Not a bad guess. Bent coppers, that is. How can you respect a man who'll turn a blind eye for a fiver or a tenner? Why are they better than us?' He paused, as if thinking what tortures should befall such people. 'But no, that's not what I hate most. Not coppers, bent or otherwise. Three… two… one more, you can do it, me old china. Right, keep it up. I said keep it UR Arms straight, you fuckin' cunt.'
Derek's arms wobbled even more at this last spittle-rich outburst, but he managed to lock the elbows, although the barbell began to swing in an arc, like an inverted pendulum.
'No, Derek, what I hate most in this world is a grass.'
Charlie could tell from the whimper that escaped Derek's mouth, and the fact that he now had the complexion of a maggot, that he was going to piss himself or worse any minute. Turkish Delight, all over his nice new Bowl of Fruit.
'Charlie, I ain't-'
'Even worse than greasy coppers.' He indicated to Ray and they loaded up another disc each and slotted them onto the shaft. It was nudging two hundred pounds now. Charlie could have taken it; the lad couldn't. 'Grasses are scum. Wouldn't you say so?'
There were stains spreading under the arms of the Woodall's shirt, so big and dark that Charlie doubted you'd ever get the stink of fear from it. The barbell was clattering as the unsecured weights banged against each other.
'Yes, Charlie, you're right but I ain't no grass.'
Charlie stared down at him. Derek had forced himself to open his eyes so he could plead with them.
Charlie silently counted to ten. 'No, Derek. You're no grass. 'Cause grasses are Judases. They should be drowned at birth. If I thought you were a grass, I would have just wrung your fuckin' neck, here and now, and have done with it.'
The relief at hearing this was so great that Derek's poor, tortured muscles gave out. Charlie caught the barbell just before it cracked into the lad's sternum. He held onto it and rolled it over the chest until it rested against Derek's throat. 'What you are, you sack of shit, is a loudmouth.'
Derek's windpipe was being crushed so he couldn't really reply. He did manage to shake his head a fraction of an inch either way.
'Oh yes you are, Derek. A fuckin' big cakehole on legs – isn't he, Ray? Ray just nodded, Derek. I could get Sid the Coalman to put a hundredweight of nutty slack down that black hole of a gob and there'd still be room for me to reach in and pull your lungs out.'
Charlie lifted the barbell slightly, easing the pressure. When Derek spoke, the voice was raw, sandpapered. 'I swear I ain't said anything out of turn.'
'Oh no? Look, I know what it's like. You walk in an' they know you're with me, so you get served first, before the mugs. You get an extra on the house. You get the girls too, don't you? Works wonders. Well, maybe not in your case, you skinny little fucker. But even you would get a half-hour with the Gobble Twins, once they knew you were my boy. I accept that. We all start as privates, don't we? And we take whatever perks we can. I mean, what does Bruce say? We're in it for the three Cs: cars, cunt and cash, but not always in that order. But you, Derek, had to go one further. You tell people you don't just know Charlie Wilson, do a bit of work for him on the fruit at Covent Garden or Spitalfields now and then, but more than that, you know what Charlie is up to. Can't say too much, eh? Nod and wink. But it involves an airport.''
Charlie let the full weight of the barbell fall onto the throat, holding it there for a second while Derek struggled to push it away. The cold-sick colour of his face darkened as his oxygen supply plummeted. He coughed when Charlie finally lifted the steel away from his bruised flesh.
'Now, Charlie is doing a bank, OK? Well, not OK but not a disaster. A Post Office. Fine as far as it goes. I mean, nobody knows which Post Office, do they? But how many London airports are there, Derek? I mean real airports that handle gold and money and freight?'
Derek replied in a tremulous voice. 'One.'
'ONE! Fuckin' right. One. That narrows it down for any grasses earwiggin', doesn't it? One. Take the money or open the box, Derek?'
Derek's pupils darted left and right nervously. He didn't know what to say.
'What's that? Box thirteen, you say? Let's see what's in Box thirteen. Oh dear. The booby prize.' Charlie changed his tone, letting some more menace creep into it as he lifted the barbell off Derek. 'You are going to fuck off out of my sight. And I mean out of it. No more suits from my tailors. No more suck-offs from the Gobble Twins. If I walk into a boozer and you're there, you walk out. You don't even finish your drink. Understand?'
'Yes, Charlie-'
'Mr Wilson!' he barked.
'Yes, Mr Wilson.'
'And if, after a year, I haven't seen your face or heard your name, then maybe we'll think again. Won't we?'
'Yes, Mr Wilson.'
'Get him out of here, Ray. I'm going to do some punchbag work.'
Ray yanked Derek to his feet. The youth made to say something, but Ray clipped him smartly around the back of his head. Charlie was busy tying on the gloves, no longer even aware that Derek was in the room. It was over. And as Ray would tell Derek later, he'd got off very lightly indeed. The Guv'nor must be going soft.
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.
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.
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.'
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.
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 punch-in 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.
Fortess Road, North London, October 1962
'What the fuckin' hell are these?'
Tony Fortune looked up from his cornflakes, sucking a stray one off his lip as he did so. Marie was standing in the doorway to the kitchen of the flat they rented in Tufnell Park, dangling his set of twirlers.
He shrugged. 'Just some bunch of keys from the garage.'
She tossed them onto the pine table.
'Oi. You'll scratch it.' He moved the keys onto the Daily Mirror, with its cover photograph of Oswald Mosley, who had caused a riot addressing his Union Movement. Nasty old fascist.
Marie walked in and leaned over the table. She was dressed in the dark jacket and skirt she wore to work at the Midland Bank. She stabbed at the enormous ring of keys of various shapes and sizes.
'Twirlers.'
Well, it was true there were some skeleton keys among them, but most were legitimate. 'You know what it's like. People always losing their keys and need the car opening.'
'And people always need cars "opening" when the owner's not about.' She blew out her cheeks, making the freckles stand out even more. Marie had long red hair and the palest of skins that betrayed her Irish roots. Her enormous, extended family was in the business – the ducking and diving business – working the north-west of England. She had deliberately distanced herself from them – apart from her brother Geoff, who turned up like a bad penny every few months for a handout – but she had been around enough car thieves to recognise a professional key-set when she saw one.
When they had met, at a dance in Kilburn, she had known who Tony was and what he was. A ringer. A man who took stolen cars and turned them into something else: unrecognisable, untraceable stolen cars. In order to move the relationship on, he had been forced to renounce the ringing game. It was something he had never regretted, not really. But it had its moments, which you couldn't say about running a showroom in Warren Street.
Marie had her hands on her hips, her 'fierce' pose. 'There are coppers who would arrest you just for having those things.'
'There are coppers who will arrest you for being in possession of a tongue in your head,' Tony shot back. 'It's a regular tool of the trade.'
'What are you up to, Tony?'
'What do you think I'm up to?'
'What am I supposed to think when you come home at all hours stinking of thinners?'
He laughed at that. The splashes of cellulose thinners on him were legit. He'd been respraying a Standard van for a local joinery firm. 'I'm not at it,' he said with all the conviction he could muster.
'Because I have a job in a bank now,' she reminded him. 'But how long do you think I'd keep it if they thought my old man had friends who were partial to the balaclava.' She rubbed her stomach. 'Look what you've done.'
She walked over to the old-fashioned metal kitchen unit, pulled down the drawer and rummaged for some Alka- Seltzer. 'You give me indigestion. I shouldn't wonder if I've an ulcer.'
He stood up, crossed over and put his arms around her. She let a hand rest on his crotch, saying, 'I swear if you go bogey on me I'll pull it off.'
He turned away from her slightly, just in case she was considering a warning shot across the bollocks. 'You really know how to win a man's heart.' He kissed her neck.
'I can still smell the thinners.'
'I'll cover it up with a splash of Old Spice.'
'Not now, Tony.' She moved his arms aside with that practised combination of sharp elbows and a quick wiggle that women perfected at an early age. 'One of us has a real job.'
'So have I.'
'How many cars you sold recently?'
Tony bristled. 'As it goes…' He pulled the roll of notes from his pocket, undid the elastic band, and let the cash flutter onto the linoleum floor.
'What's all this?' She knelt down and he could see her stocking-tops. He didn't bother to help as she gathered up the five-pound notes. She was laughing as she did so, until she realised how much there was. The laughter died and the smile faded soon after. 'What's this from, Tony? It's a-'
He waited for her to make a joke on their surname. None came. This was no laughing matter.
'A quick turnaround yesterday,' he lied. 'Car came in, gave him a ton for it. Customer walks in half an hour later. Cash on the nose.' 'What car?'
He hesitated, sticking as close to the truth as he dared. 'Some nice old Jag.'
She stood up and handed him the sheaf of notes. He wrapped the band around it again. 'Can't have been that old. There's a hundred and fifty quid profit there.' 'Give or take.'
Her eyes flashed with amusement. 'A hundred and fifty dead. I count that stuff all day long, remember. You sure it's bona?'
'As my dick is long.'
She slapped his shoulder. 'Don't be crude.' He could see she was already thinking about what the cash could buy. A refrigerator. A decent television. A holiday.
'Sure we can squeeze a meal at the Carousel out of it.' She smoothed down her skirt and straightened her jacket. In one deft movement she tied her hair back and became every inch the severe bank cashier. 'I have to go. Love you.' 'When I give you money.' A smirk. 'Take it or leave it.'
The guilt at lying only kicked in after she had gone, while Tony made himself a fresh pot of tea. Well, it was a one-off. Just repaying a favour. There was no way on God's earth that Tony Fortune was going to get involved in any tickle for Bruce Reynolds, that was for sure.
They had ringed the two Jags in part of a disused bus garage in Camden, not far from the Met's Stolen Car Squad at Chalk Farm. Tony didn't do much apart from changing the plates and swapping the vehicle ID plates over. He also put a Webasto sunroof in the burgundy model, which would throw anyone looking for the original car, and changed the wire wheels on the metallic-blue one for regular steel disc wheels. He could sell on the wires, no problem.
Mickey Ball ventured up north to help drive the cars south from Camden to where Roy wanted them – in Battersea, within walking distance of his garage and the shop where he sold antique silverware. He and Tony took different routes. It didn't do to be going around in convoy, just in case some copper put Mk 2 and Mk 2 together and got a sniff of something.
Tony went via Westminster Bridge and made it there first, and as he bumped down the track that punctured a scruffy row of terraced houses, he spotted Roy waiting at the garages, with the doors to both open. He chose the nearest one, waited until he had cleared the rutted access alley and accelerated. He roared past the lock-up, slammed on the brakes, engaged reverse and propelled the Jag into the dark interior, stopping it with an inch to spare before the bumper engaged with the tool rack at the rear.
As Tony squeezed out of the driver's door Roy was making exaggerated waves in the air to clear the dirt the tyres had kicked up. 'Done that before, have you?' he smirked.
'Once or twice.'
'Wait till you see Mickey. He goes in like a mum trying to park her pram.' He closed the garage doors and engaged the clasp lock. 'You done any driving?'
Tony knew what kind of driving he was talking about. 'Not the way you mean. Not serious.' A couple of high-speed chases after he had been spotted in a wrong 'un was the closest he had ever come to being a wheel-man. And that was six, seven years ago.
'Stoppin' for a drink?' Roy asked.
'Best get back,' said Tony.
'Give you a lift somewhere?'
'The Tube. Cheers.'
'Just wait for Mickey.'
'Right.' He offered Roy one of the new Embassy Filters, which Marie had started buying, saying they were better for you than unfiltered.
'Nah. I don't. Stopped the booze, too.'
'Why?'
'Slows you down. For the racetrack.'
Well, Bruce had said he was serious about his racing. Tony lit his cigarette from a Colibri lighter. He smoked in silence for a while.
'Bruce wondered if you wanted to stay on.'
Tony looked down at Roy, who was a good four inches shorter than him. 'Stay on?'
'Get involved, like. In the job. It needs a sizeable firm. Room for one more on top, as they say.'
The next step was, he would have to ask what exactly the job was. That was as good as saying 'Yes, count me in.' You didn't tyre-kick with these lads. If you said you were interested, it meant you were interested. Not merely curious. Curious was bad.
He was flattered. Roy would only have asked if both Bruce and Goody had given the say-so. But he could hear two things. One was the familiar thrum of a Jaguar 3.4 as it changed down a gear, ready to turn into the lock-ups. The second was his scream as Marie twisted his testicles off and toasted them on an open fire.
'Tell Bruce thanks all the same, but I got a lot on at the moment. Wouldn't want to let you all down at the last minute.'
Roy swung back the doors of the second garage to their full extent, ready to receive the Jag that was bouncing towards them. 'Sure. Don't worry. There's always a next time, eh?' 'Yeah,' said Tony. 'Maybe next time.'
Twickenham, West London, November 1962
Bruce always supplied the music. Even if the meet was held at someone else's house, he would still turn up with a selection of his LPs. The first real gathering for this job was held in Buster's flat in St Margaret's Road, Twickenham. Bruce liked Buster, but he had a tendency to musicals: My Fair Lady and The King and I and, even worse, after a drink or two, Flanagan and Allen. Underneath the fuckin' Arches, indeed.
So once he arrived and shrugged off his coat, Bruce took charge of the Pye radiogram. June, as always, had made sandwiches and put out some sausage rolls. As far as she was concerned, this was a gathering of a betting syndicate, and she would never question that. It was best the girls knew as little as possible about what really went on at these meets. After all, the rule about grasses didn't apply to wives; they weren't expected to be able to hold up under pressure from people like Tommy Butler or the Flying Squad's Frank Williams. So it was best they kept their heads in the sand, emerging only to make the sarnies.
It was just the core members of the team present, it being prudent to keep things tight in the early stages. All jobs bled information, it was inevitable. Who was doing what – and how much it was worth – was as much the fuel of conversation in the pubs, clubs and spielers such men frequented as the usual mix of football, cricket and the horses. It was essential to make sure that the leak, the whisper that something big was on, came late in the day, when the police were left with crumbs, not the whole cake.
So today, it was just Bruce, Buster, Gordy, Charlie, Roy and Mickey. Only Mickey looked ill at ease, thought Bruce. Jittery. But he was all right, Mickey, he just got a lot of gyp from his mum about the sort of company he kept.
Most of them were chatting, apart from Charlie, who was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Bruce noticed the tightness of his shirt over his chest. Charlie's bulked out, he thought.
Bruce turned off Z Cars on the TV and selected Ahmad Jamal's But Not For Me from his stack of records. He ran a finger over the stylus and groaned.
'Buster, when did you last change your needle? You've got enough fluff for Cyril Lord on the end of this.'
'"This is luxury you can afford by Cyril Lord".' Buster sang the carpet ad as he handed out the beers. 'Dunno. You have to change them, do you?'
'See you later, love. Off to Bingo.' It was June leaving. They all shouted their goodbyes.
Bruce bent down and examined the end of the diamond- tipped stylus. It still looked good and sharp, not like some of the chisels he saw in people's homes. Probably all the muck had protected it. He plucked it clean then lowered it onto the record, listening to the familiar rhythm of the drummer's mallets as the beat began, soft yet insistent, with the accent from the hiss of the hi-hat. Beautiful.
'I am using these to show the perimeter,' said Buster, waving a plastic cow at the group to get their attention. He pointed at the fencing that he had used to create a circle on the coffee table. It was from a Britain 's farmyard animals set. 'This is my niece's birthday present, so be careful.'
He placed a barn next to one of the lengths of plastic fence. 'This is Comet House.' Next he positioned the farmhouse down the road. 'Barclays Bank. I haven't got any aeroplanes. We'll take it you know they'll be taking off and landing in the middle there. We have the armoured car.' He produced a Massey Ferguson tractor.
'Bloody hell, Buster, who's pulling this job?' murmured Charlie. 'The Archers?'
Gordy nearly choked on his Shippam's fish-paste sandwich and it was a few moments before order was restored. Bruce put the record arm back to the beginning of the Jamal album. He loved the opening number, 'Poinciana'. The dynamic always made him think of the tempo of a good tickle. Soft and tentative at first, a theme stated, then developed, becoming more sure and intricate – but not too tricksy – building to a solid crescendo with an inventive climax, then the slow release, the feel of a job well done. Villainy or sex, 'Poinciana' stood as a fine metaphor for both.
Buster had at least got a couple of Corgi diecasts to stand in as the getaway cars – neither of them Jags though – and the farmer and his various farmhands represented the security guards.
'Right, gentlemen,' Bruce said. 'Any thoughts so far?'
'I'd give the milkmaid one,' offered Charlie, pointing at the overly voluptuous figurine.
'That's enough,' said Bruce, adopting his best stentorian tones. 'OK. Listen, please. Let's run it down.'
Over the next forty-five minutes beer gave way to scotch and the air filled with smoke. After each of the principals had spoken, Bruce asked if there were any questions.
'We're still short-handed,' said Gordy. 'A couple of extra bodies wouldn't go amiss.'
'We could bring in Ronnie,' suggested Bruce. 'Ronnie Biggs.'
Foreheads were collectively furrowed as they tried to place the name. 'Who?'
'Biggsy. Good worker. Reliable.' Bruce had met him in borstal and been impressed with his loyalty and tenacity. But he didn't feel as if he could force any more of his own opinions on the group. After all, Charlie had got the tip-off, which made it his job really. 'Charlie?'
'Not this time, Bruce,' he said softly. 'I'll have some names in the frame for our next meeting.' The odd quip aside, Charlie never said much in these sessions, not unless he had a point to make, but Bruce always took account of his opinion.
'Fair enough. Anything else?' Bruce asked.
There was a collective groan as the lights were snuffed out and the music slowed and then stopped completely. 'Bloody hell, Buster.'
'Hold on.' Buster went out into the hall and fed some shillings into the meter. The record wowed up to speed again and the lights flickered on. 'Sorry about that.'
'Where were we?' asked Bruce.
'At any questions,' said Gordy.
'Yes,' said Roy, leaning forward and pointing to the perimeter fence. 'I'd like to take a look at the gate we'll be driving out of. Which way it opens, that kind of thing.'
Gordy shrugged. 'It's chained shut. Opens inwards, which is a shame. But I reckon I can get a decent pair of bolt-cutters. And make it so nobody'll notice the cut.'
'All right,' said Roy, knowing that if Gordy said he could take care of it, he would. 'We should also look for a changeover spot. The Jags'll be all over the police radio within five minutes.' He looked at Bruce. 'And somewhere to lay up the cash.'
'Got just the place,' said Charlie. 'Norbury. I'll get it sorted out.' He meant so that a group of them could hole up for a week or more if need be. Mattresses, blankets, food, booze, reading matter – books for some, magazines and comics for others – cards and board games would all be needed.
'Right,' said Bruce. 'We all got a bit extra to do. Next meet in a week's time.'
'I ain't here,' said Buster. ' Brighton. Missus.'
Bruce didn't want any details. It would be a birthday or anniversary. Buster never forgot those things. Not for him the last-minute dash to the florists or the box of Black Magic from a corner shop. 'Ten days then. At my place.'
The men stood as one, stubbing out cigarettes and picking up the empties. They might be villains, thought Buster, but they were house-trained villains. 'Hold up, one last thing,' he said, brandishing a lined exercise pad and a Bic. He had forgotten about Bruce's little suggestion. 'Before you go, I need all your hat-sizes.'
The Flying Squad detectives could smell the stink of prison on John 'Yul' Jones as he was led into the interview room at Wormwood Scrubs. Piss, cheap soap and fear hung about him. Billy thought of the ad: 'Even your best friend won't tell you about B.O.' In the Scrubs that was because everyone smelled the same: Old Nick.
Yul was younger than Billy Naughton had expected, not yet twenty-five, with a totally bald pate and a round, boyish face that suggested a happy, over-fed baby The effect was marred, however, by dark half-moons under his eyes that told of too many sleepless nights.
The barrel-chested warder pulled back the chair for him and Yul slumped down at the metal table. He was on remand, so he had on a nice blue cotton shirt and jeans. When he spoke, the voice that came out shocked Billy. It was that of a far older man, coarse and raspy. 'Gentlemen. What can I do for you?'
'Tommy Butler sent us.'
'Did he? You got a cigarette?'
Len Haslam glanced at the warder, who nodded. Billy handed over a pack of five Woodbines and a box of Swan Vestas. Yul took his time lighting the cigarette, never taking his eyes from them, wondering how he should play this.
'You should be honoured, you know,' Len said eventually.
'Why's that then?'
'Being collared by Tommy Butler. He doesn't do much thief-taking these days. Not personally. You've been nicked by royalty.'
Yul gave a smile that showed a chipped front tooth. 'I should ask for some whatsit then on my chamber pot. That fur.'
'Ermine,' offered Billy.
'Yeah. I'd like an ermine piss pot.'
'I think we might be able to do something for you. But that might be pushing it, Yul. Other cons might get jealous. They'd be wanting silk pyjamas next.'
Duke let it sink in that 'something' might be on the table. He looked around the room at the bare walls, the bricks painted a lurid, glossy green up to waist-height, then dirty cream above that. You'd do a lot to get out of this place.
'You're Buder's boys, are you?' Yul asked.
'Not exactly.'
'C Eight?' This was the section that contained the Robbery and Flying Squads, as opposed to C5, the CID. It meant Yul knew his coppers.
'Yup.'
'Sweeney?' A nod acknowledged this. 'All right then.' He seemed satisfied that he was dealing with men with some clout at least. 'So what we going to talk about?'
'Motors,' said Billy.
Yul stuck out his lower lip, as if pleased. He was on safe ground here. Nothing about his cellmates or any of the more outlandish plans to go over the wall. Outside. Talking about the outside was safer than discussing the inside. 'What kind of motors?'
'Fast. Four-door,' said Len. 'That kind.'
'Mr Butler suggested to us,' added Billy, 'that you might know where a man who wanted a particular type of Jaguar might go, were you not available to source it for him.'
Yul's jaw tightened and he looked from one policeman to another. 'I don't know what all that means.'
Duke laughed suddenly, a violent explosion of mirth that made Yul flinch. 'Don't be ridiculous. My friend here might have made it a little too convoluted, but you know what we're saying. You want a car for a job, you come to you, Yul. Everyone knows that.' He pointed a finger as the prisoner made to speak. 'Shut up. All we want to know is: with you out of the picture, where would someone go? If they were in the market for a couple of fast Jags.'
Yul considered, smoking his Woodbine for a minute. 'They'd go to the Old Kent Road or Warren Street, wouldn't they? I can't give you names.'
'No?' Len asked quietly. 'Shame. 'Cause we can't do anything without a name, can we?'
'Well, we haven't discussed that yet, have we? What you can do for me?'
Len shot forward over the desk and Billy thought he was going to strike Yul for a moment and so did the prisoner, because he scraped the chair back out of arm's reach very sharpish indeed. The warder stood by, his face implacable. He'd seen it all before.
'Look,' Len said, 'you don't have to be a cunt all your life. You can take a day off. Today, for instance. You know how this works. Two Jags, stolen to order: who is doing the stealing and who is doing the ordering?'
It might seem a ridiculous idea, that one man would know about two cars in a city of thousands of them, would have knowledge of a particular criminal in its vast underclass. Except it wasn't that vast. Not once you took out all the petty chancers. When it came down to it, the hard-core blaggers constituted a small close-knit community.
Yul shrugged. 'If I hadn't been put on remand, I could've helped you.'
'If you weren't on remand, we wouldn't be having this little chat at all, would we?'
Yul accepted this truth with a nod. 'All I can tell you is which firms it might be doing the ordering.'
'And the drivers?'
Yul shook his head. 'You know them as well as I do.' Again, there were no more than ten or twelve top-class wheel-men in the capital.
'So, what've you heard? Who might be the market for a three point four?'
Yul moved his chair back in and drummed his fingers on the table. He glanced over his shoulder. 'This'll be worth my while?'
Len Haslam looked up at the warder and, with an inclination of his head, pointed him at the door. Once the big man had left, Billy told Yul, 'Tommy Butler said we could make it worth your while. Said you had his word.'
'I see.' The prisoner started on another cigarette, his tongue worrying his teeth. 'Well, before we get into that, there is one thing you can do for me straight off.'
Len relaxed, feeling the fish wriggling on the hook. 'What's that, Yul?'
'Have a word with the M.O. Get me on the asthma list.'
'Asthma?' Billy asked.
'Wheeze something dreadful, I do. Ask Stevie James, who I share a flowery with.'
A flowery dell, Billy automatically translated, a cell. He winked at him. 'I think you need an inhaler. Is that what you are saying?'
'A Benzedrex one, yeah.'
A supply of Benzedrex inhalers would make Yul a prince of the block, able to exchange hits of the amphetamine – usually boiled up as a soup – for fags or favours. At Chelsea Billy had come across plenty of lads marked for Borstal who suddenly developed bad lungs and tight airways. Never mind that the inhaler was mainly a decongestant that had little effect on asthma or that the only way to get a kick from it was to dissolve the drug-soaked strips of blotting paper inside, which meant taking in a nasty dose of menthol as well. The result was the 'minty-burp', which plagued users for days afterwards. The ragged high, they claimed, was worth the continuous taste of too-good-to-hurry-mints.
'Used to be a Teddy Boy, did we, Yul?' asked Billy. The Teds liked their inhalers and their pep pills as much as their bicycle chains and cut-throat razors.
'For a bit, yeah, when I was like, fourteen. When I still had hair I could get into a Duck's Arse.' He stroked his naked scalp, as if remembering a dear, departed friend. 'But the asthma's real, straight up.' He made a noise like a pair of bellows.
'I'll see to it,' said Len.
Yul fell silent as if gearing himself for the last sprint to the finish line. 'Urn…' he began, then thought better of it.
'Well?' asked Billy at last.
When Yul spoke, both the policemen knew why he had been so hesitant, why his voice shook slightly as he said, 'I did hear, before I got banged up, that Charlie Wilson wanted to see me about a bit of business.'
Once the firm had dispersed, Buster washed up the glasses and the saucers that had doubled as ashtrays. He liked to keep busy. It was too early to go to the club, and June wouldn't be back from Bingo for an hour at least. All that was on TV was Compact and This Is Your bleedin' Life.
It was at times like this Buster felt vulnerable to a strange melancholy. It blew through him like an east wind, cutting into his very heart, almost making him physically shiver. He wasn't sure what caused it, but for the time it had him in its grip, there were no jokes that could crack a smile, no drink that could cheer him. A half-bottle of Bell 's wouldn't even take the edge off it; if anything, it made it worse. So he had to keep active, prevent the black mood from forming.
The washing-up done, Buster turned on the radio section of the Pye and as he waited for the valves to warm, he took all the hat-sizes and placed them in an envelope to deliver to Frank Rossman at his breaker's yard in New Cross. He must remember to take a brolly along, just in case. Frank, who was half-gypsy and worked in a vest in all weathers, probably didn't have an umbrella anything like the ones the City gents favoured.
The radiogram burst into life. The Northern Dance Orchestra and Bernard Herrmann came on, so he switched to Whack-O! with Jimmy Edwards, hoping for a lift in his spirits.
'Sir, sir. I am being punished for something I didn't do.'
'That's outrageous, young Carter. What didn't you do?'
1My homework, sir.'
'You cheeky blighter. You know what you need, young man?'
What the young man needed, Buster knew, was six of the best and sure enough there soon came the sound of a cane swishing through the air and making contact with buttocks, followed by a yelp of pain. Buster wasn't sure why it was amusing. It wasn't when it had happened to him at school, which it did with tedious regularity.
The thought of the beatings reminded him of something. Buster went back to the kitchen and from under the sink fetched his new toy. It was a length of pipe-spring, used by plumbers to bend copper pipes without crimping them. He'd spotted it in a builders' merchants. He'd filled it with lead shot and then bound it with thick tape. In its new role, as a 'persuader', it would work a treat. He mimed beating it around one of the guards' heads. Charlie had a cosh he had bought from a Guardia Civil in Madrid, but Buster reckoned the flexiness of his pipe made it even more effective. Plus if the Old Bill found it on you, you could always claim you were doing City & Guilds plumbing at night school and had made a few modifications. Much harder to explain why you had a Spanish police baton down your trouser leg.
He gave it a few more strokes and then smiled when he heard the key in the door. June was back. He'd done it. He'd kept that angry black dog at bay. He'd be all right now.
The pub was on the South Circular Road, not far from St Dunstan's, the posh boys' school that seemed out of place in working-class Catford. 'A rose on a turd,' is how Len put it, then changed his mind as he looked around at streets still bomb-marked from the war. 'Or on a bloody great cowpat.'
Billy parked the Vauxhall outside while Len counted out fifty pounds in a mixture of one- and five-pound notes. Then he put an extra fiver on top. 'This is from the information fund. Use the five to pay for any drinks. Give him a score to keep him sweet near the start, then the thirty at the end. With the promise of more to come.'
'And the change from a fiver?'
'What change?'
Len raised an eyebrow towards his black widow's peak. 'There won't be any change. God's sake. Nobody ever bothers putting anything back into the information fund. It's one-way traffic. OK, off you go. He'll be by himself, reading the Sporting Life. Just ready for pluckin'.'
Billy hesitated. 'Aren't you coming?'
'The hell I am,' Duke drawled, before switching back to his normal, non-Wayne voice. 'You can't run a snitch mob- handed. It's a one-to-one relationship.'
'But-'
Len gripped his arm, tight. 'If you're going to mention the new bloody guidelines, I'll beat you to death with this gear- stick. Now get in there. Public Bar. Pick you up in an hour.'
'What will you do?'
Len growled. 'Pick you up in an hour.'
Billy opened the door and got out of the car. The DS winked at him, restarted the engine and left him standing on the South Circular. He looked over at the pub – or 'tavern' as it styled itself – and took a deep breath. Time to meet their new snout.
His legs wobbled slightly as he crossed the two lanes of sluggish traffic. Just like when he went up on stage on school prize day to collect his reward. Why was he so nervous? This was what he had wanted from day one at Hendon. And it was hardly his first snitch. But it was his first as a Squad man. So, bizarrely, he felt like that young man shaking hands with the headmaster as the man handed over the award for most original English essay. It had been The Boy's Book of Modern Marvels, full of cutaways like the ones that appeared in the Eagle comic. Billy still had it, was still fascinated by the detail exposed when you stripped the skin off a Lancaster Bomber or a Hawker Hunter or a nuclear power station.
Inside the pub, he clocked the nark immediately. Young, spotty, cocky from the way he flexed his shoulders, as if trying to get the chip on it to shift. He was indeed reading the Sporting Life, but then so were half the other customers. The walls of the tavern were covered in sporting pictures: a few boxers, the odd golfer, but the rest was heavy on the gee- gees, with portraits of Scobie Breasley and Lester Piggott dominating.
There was, he had noted, a Jack Swift bookmakers next door. A year ago, no doubt, bets would have been taken in this very bar. Now, with close to fifty new betting shops opening each week across the country, the tradition of the pub bookie and his runners would probably die out.
Billy bought himself a pint of Guinness, moved to the snout's table and sat down. He held out his hand. 'Billy Naughton.'
The young man didn't move to take it. 'Yeah?'
His sort hated the police even when they were going to deal with them. Billy was used to it. He had lost half of his schoolmates when he told them about Hendon. They all had older brothers or sisters who had had run-ins with the law, usually during the dance-hall fights that had flashed across Britain in an epidemic from the late 1940s onwards. None of them had any respect for coppers. Their heroes were Niven Craig – The Velvet Kid – and later his brother Christopher, who famously told Derek Bentley to 'Let him have it'. For months his former chums had hummed the theme from the radio series The Adventures of PC 49 at him. He was only grateful that he had left school before that irritating whistling from Dixon of Dock Green became popular. 'Mr Haslam sent me.'
'Did he now?' Several pair of eyes had glanced over, so the nark took Billy's hand and gave it a perfunctory shake.
Billy looked the youngster up and down. He had a scarf wrapped round his throat, but it couldn't quite hide the yellowing of old bruising. Duke had said that the lad had a grudge. He had turned him up after Yul had admitted that Charlie Wilson had expressed some interest in acquiring stolen Jags. 'Said you was interested in a bit of work. Digging.'
'Might be.'
'Can I get you a drink?'
The kid pointed at his glass, which was still a third full. 'Double Diamond.'
'Coming right up.'
'And a Teacher's,' the lad added quickly.
Another one with a sudden attack of nerves, Billy thought. No doubt his throat was drying and his palms sweating as he realised what he was about to do. The enormity of it. The finality. Billy didn't blame him. No matter what he had done to him, it took some balls to grass up Charlie Wilson.
'All right, Derek,' Billy said, as if granting a condemned man his last wishes. 'Whatever you want.'
Red Lion pub, Derby Gate, November 1962
'There's something going down at the airport!' Billy Naughton wanted to yell as he walked into the Red Lion. 'And we're fuckin' on to it!'
The Lion was the Squad's designated pub, an act of apartheid that was respected by lesser coppers, who tended to use the Gate or the King Edward. It was also acknowledged by Squad chief Ernest Millen, who might come in to celebrate a good collar with a half, but generally left the Lion as somewhere for his team to let off a bit of steam.
Billy began to push through to the bar, where it looked as if a session was beginning. A fug of blue smoke hovered over the three-deep crowd. Someone was singing 'Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend' in a terrible falsetto. There was a television, tuned to a Brian London fight, but nobody seemed to be watching. The rough-edged but brave heavyweight had lost his crown as British boxing's favourite son to the more polished Henry Cooper. London, though, was staking his resurrection on a forthcoming bout with Ingemar Johansson. By the look of it the contest on the television was a warm-up for that, because London was hammering an opponent who seemed unable to come back at him, despite London 's famously lax defence. Cannon fodder, Billy decided, and looked away.
'How's it going, son?' someone asked.
Billy turned. It was DI Jack Slipper, a tall, erect, military- looking man who had come through a similar path to Billy – Hendon then the suburbs, then CID – a decade earlier. He was known as a diligent detective who, belying his clipped, stuffy appearance, was prepared to bend rules and take the odd risk. Although, like Butler, not strictly part of the Squad, he had been given a floating role by the Yard's chief, Commander George Hatherill, which was why he was tolerated in the Red Lion. 'Fine, Skip.'
Slipper's moustache twitched, like some insect's antenna. 'Have you got something on the boil?'
How could he know that? 'I might have.'
Slipper nudged him and Billy caught a clove-heavy whiff of Bay Rum cologne. 'Now, now. I bumped into Duke. He said you'd been busy. Wouldn't tell me what. Said it's your shout.'
Nothing got past Slipper. What they had gleaned from Derek Anderson meant putting a team together to watch the airport. It was a big number, tying up a lot of manpower, and calling on many elements of C Division. Soon it would be Billy's baby no more, but orchestrated by Commander Hatherill and Tommy Butler with someone, perhaps even Jack Slipper, in charge on the ground. He might as well enjoy the feeling of power while he could. 'Once I write it up.'
'Please y'self, son. What you having?' Slipper asked. Well past the six-foot mark, the DI towered over the crush at the bar and could easily attract the barmaid's attention. He fetched
Billy a pint of bitter and they moved to the side of the melee, up against the panelled wall, beneath the old Punch cartoon of Churchill clinging to Big Ben, swatting Messerschmitts from the sky, like King Kong on the Empire State.
Billy raised his dimpled glass. 'Thanks, Skip.'
'How's Duke?'
'Yeah,' Billy said. 'Magic.'
'Be careful, son. Good copper is Duke,' Slipper said, 'but not perfect.'
Billy supped his pint. 'Who is, Skip? Apart from you?'
Slipper grinned. 'Tommy Butler.'
'Oh yeah.'
'Although even he…' Slipper stopped, as if talking out of turn. Then he lowered his voice. 'The word is Tommy might be moving into Millen's seat. He's a different animal. He'd rather a verbal than a fingerprint. Old-fashioned, methodical police- work, that's what he likes. Nothing involving a microscope or men with little brushes. Not sure he even trusts something as modern as photographs.' They both laughed. Buder was certainly an odd one. Still lived with his mum. But he could catch a thief, that was for sure. 'So what is it you've got?'
Billy decided he could afford to give Slipper a taster. 'It's just a snout with a score to settle.'
Slipper downed his whisky. 'Promising. I like it when thieves fall out. Right – got to get back. I'm on SPECRIMS.' This meant he had to return to the Yard and check the Serious Crime reports on the internal police communication system before he could call it a night. If he found anything important enough he might well return to clear the pubs with an all-hands-to-the-pumps order. 'You come and see me tomorrow, eh? We'll tidy up whatever you've got before we pass it along to your Guv'nor.'
CID helping a green Flying Squad boy write his report? Unheard of. But he would be a fool to turn it down. 'Right, Skip, thanks. I will.'
Another singer started up with 'I Wanna Be Loved By You'. The drinkers at the bar joined in the boo-boo-be-doo chorus.
Billy looked up at Jack, puzzled.
'Haven't you heard, son?' the older man said. 'Roy Foster is starting the Marilyn Monroe Memorial Drinking Club.'
At Ronnie Scott's Club in the basement of 39 Gerrard Street, Stan Tracey and the band were mining a piece by Thelonious Monk, excavating the quirky chord sequences with a dogged invention that had Scott himself – the co-owner – nodding from his place at the bar. The club being the size it was – it had been a bolthole for gypsy cabbies to have coffee and cigarettes between fares – this meant Ronnie was virtually on the stage with the players.
Although Zoot Sims, Dexter Gordon and a talented but cantankerous sax-player called Lucky Thompson had all graced the tiny venue in the past few months, there were no big names on the bill that night, just homegrown talent. This meant the club was relatively quiet, which suited Bruce, who had called the meet, just fine.
He sat at the rear, at one of only two rough tables, alternating watching the band with admiring the woman sitting on a stool next to Ronnie in her black, sleeveless and mostly backless dress, smoking a cigarette as if it were an erotic act. Actually, the way Janie Riley smoked a Sobranie was an erotic act. She could get a slot at Raymond's Revue Bar, just by lighting up and blowing smoke, any night of the week.
Charlie Wilson came and sat down next to Bruce and ordered a beer. He listened to the band for a few moments with his face screwed into concentration. 'When does the tune start?'
'About one a.m. usually,' said Bruce. The club was only licensed until eleven – for the first few months of its life the strongest drinks on offer were coffee or a lemon tea – but musicians often gathered after-hours, especially tyros looking for impromptu tuition and false-fingering tips from Ronnie.
'I had to join to get in,' Charlie complained. 'Never had to join a club in me life.'
'It's in a good cause.' Bruce had often spoken to the guv'nor, as they called Ronnie, and knew how precarious it was running a jazz club. Ronnie claimed he and his partner got together on Sunday afternoon every week and decided whether they could afford to reopen on Monday or if they should just hand back the keys. Their hunger for cash meant that getting past Pete King on the door without shelling out for membership was a feat in itself, even for a hard man like Charlie. 'Besides, there's one thing you never get in here.'
Charlie cocked an ear to the spiky runs coming from the stage. 'Melody?' he offered.
Bruce had to smile. 'Old Bill.'
Charlie grunted. It was true that most of the clip joints, strip clubs and drinking dens in Soho were subject to random visits by coppers, either looking for information or a few quid. Some of the West End Central boys were regulars at the Flamingo, Murray 's Cabaret and the Kismet. So were various politicians, judges, hacks, and even members of the clergy, the hypocritical bastards. But the kind of real jazz played at Ronnie's kept most of them away.
'Where've you been?' Bruce asked.
There was no reply. Charlie had clocked Janie Riley and was craning his neck. Bruce was well aware that Charlie was a fervent family man, doting on Pat and his daughters, but once in Soho he would take a run at anything that didn't have a dick between its legs.
'Oi. Get your eyes off her. Where've you been?'
'Geisha Club.'
That was round the corner in Old Compton Street, a mix of a cabaret and a hostess bar that, like Murray 's, turned a blind eye to how the girls earned a little extra on the side. Charlie, of course, never paid for any of the 'specials'.
'Anything happening?'
'New act called Ding Dong Belle,' said Charlie, taking a slug of his drink. 'Covered in these little bells. She lets you ring them as they come off. Ends up with just three. You can guess where.' He was looking at Janie Riley again, his eyes glistening with lust. 'She's really nice. Classy. Looks like Audrey Hepburn – only after a good feed-up.'
Roy was the last of the three to enter the club, just as Stan Tracey gave his final two-fisted flurry of Monk. Ronnie grabbed the microphone and waited for the applause to fade. 'That was Stan Tracey, the thinking man's Winifred Atwell, with Tony Crombie on drums and Mr Jeff Clyne on bass. There will be a short break now while we give the piano the kiss of life. We'll be back in fifteen minutes when we will be auditioning a young saxophone-player called Ronnie Scott. Please treat him kindly as he only got his horn out of hock today. If any of you blokes want something to eat after the show I can recommend a Chinese place called Yung Poon Tang along the street. If you want food, try our sandwiches. After all, a million flies can't be wrong.' He flashed a lopsided grin at the baffled audience and walked off.
Ronnie nodded to Bruce as he strolled by and climbed the rickety stairs. Ronnie liked to gamble, which meant he knew some of the same Soho faces as Bruce. 'There's a lot in common between jazz and what you do,' the guv'nor often said. 'Insecurity, never knowing where the next payday is coming from and the hours are bleedin' awful.'
Roy got himself a Heineken from the bar and sat down as the drums of Art Blakey snapped out from the PA. 'All right, gents?' He gestured back up the stairs. 'I had to join to get in.'
'Apparendy it's all in a good cause,' said Charlie, pointing at Ronnie's back. 'They're saving up to buy the owner a joke book.'
Roy looked around at the dingy basement. 'I was talking to Dave Hill at the Steering Wheel Club up Shepherds Market. Dave bloody Hill, eh.' He was clearly disappointed to be pulled away from a chat with a Ferrari driver to a subterranean dive in Soho playing jittery bebop.
'Steve there?' Bruce said casually. They had seen McQueen take a credible third, behind Christabel Carlisle, in a Mini at Brands Hatch. No doubt the American was annoyed to be beaten by a woman, albeit one that Roy considered a great driver regardless of sex. The actor had spun out in the next race, although he had shown great control not flipping the tiny car. Unfortunately, despite Roy pulling a few strings, he hadn't managed to engineer a meeting between Bruce and the actor. The thief had hidden his disappointment, although not well.
'Nah, he's gone back over to Germany. He's filming some prisoner-of-war movie.'
'How'd it go with the gates?' Bruce asked, getting down to business.
'Gordy has bought the biggest pair of bolt-cutters I have ever seen. Honest. He could slice through Tower Bridge with them. He's going to cut the chain the night before. By the look of it, nobody ever goes near it, so it should be all right.'
Bruce didn't like that. In his experience 'should be all right' often came back to bite you on the arse. 'I'll have a word with him.'
'How is it with you two?' Roy asked, looking from one to the other.
'All in hand,' said Bruce. 'Harry, Ian and Tiny Dave are coming along as muscle.' Dave's nickname was ironic; he was an ex-weighlifter who looked as if he had accidentally left a set of barbells in the sleeves of his jacket. 'They'll be on a drink.' Which meant the heavies would get a fixed fee, not a share.
'Good.' Roy drank his beer, wondering why Bruce had called the meet. There didn't seem much to discuss. Especially as there was no Gordy or Buster. He felt a little trickle of fear and ran back over the last few weeks. Had he done anything wrong? Upset somebody? 'Is everything all right, Bruce?'
Bruce moved his head from side to side and sucked air through his teeth. He then rubbed one side of his mouth, as if he was suffering from a bad attack of nerves, something he was usually immune to. Charlie took a swig from his bottle and shot Roy a quizzical glance. With relief, Roy realised that Charlie Wilson had no idea what was coming either.
'I got a favour to ask, Roy.' He turned to Charlie. 'And as the tickle was your find, I thought you ought to hear it.'
Charlie nodded to show he appreciated the respect.
'What is it?' asked Roy
'Bit late in the day, I know, but I want to bring someone new in. Not part of any of our firms.'
Roy began to peel the label off the Heineken. 'Well, that's down to you, Bruce, isn't it?'
'Thing is, I'd like them to ride with you. In the Jag.'
Roy tore another strip from the gummed label and rolled it into a ball. Someone to keep an eye on him, perhaps? Had they lost faith in him – or in Mickey Ball? 'Who is it?'
Bruce looked up and snapped his fingers to get her attention above Wayne Shorter's tenor sax. Janie Riley slid off her stool and walked over towards the three men, a mischievous smile plastered over her pretty face.
Headley, Surrey, May 1992
The police had brought in one of those long white squared- off caravans to use as an incident room and parked it up at the gates to the driveway that led to Roy's house. It was an impressive pile, 1930s by the look of it, the front door boastfully porticoed, the green tiles of the roof glowing verdigris in the moonlight. I couldn't help wondering who, or what, had paid for it. This was the stockbroker belt, but Roy was no stockbroker or rock star, the other cashed-up profession that had moved into the area.
Neither of the two coppers in the front of the Panda car had spoken during the trip, which was fine by me. I needed time to get my brain into some kind of gear.
I stepped out and examined the road. It was the kind lined with high walls and hedges, and the driveways came with solid wooden gates to deter prying eyes; this was an area where an Englishman's home was his castle, and the residents wished they still came with moats. And boiling oil.
Bill Naughton was waiting for me outside the caravan, older, stouter, greyer, a cigarette in his mouth, rubbing his hands against the chill of the small hours. As I stepped out, I wished I'd brought more than a thin jacket. It was heading for 3 a.m. Wasn't that meant to be the hour when your metabolism was at its lowest, the perfect time for Gestapo raids and interrogations?
'Tony, thanks for coming. Cup of tea?'
'Why not?' We went inside the caravan. There were three uniforms and two detectives already in there, plus one bloke in black fatigues with body armour and a soft cap on his head. He also had a pistol on his belt. That would be PT 17.
'This is Tony Fortune – he's come to help us out. Get him a brew will you, Dave?' He turned to the Milk Fray Man. 'Give us five minutes, eh, John?' When John had gone, he explained to Tony, 'They've got their own van down the street. For the moment, they're staying in it. We want to keep it that way.' He indicated one of the plainclothes. 'This is Detective Inspector Reed. It's his situation.'
'Can we speak to him?' I asked. 'Have you got the GPO in?'
'BT, Tony, BT,' said Naughton. 'Got to move with the times. Jesus, hasn't been GPO since…' He furrowed his brow, trying to remember when the Post Office lost the phones, but gave up. 'Anyway, yes, we have a line to him.'
'Want to tell me what happened?'
DI Reed took my tea from the Constable and passed it to me. The Inspector looked tired. Perhaps we all did in that stark over-white light.
' Roy had the two kids for a long weekend-' Reed began.
'Hold on. You said on the phone about a wife. When did Roy get married?'
'A while back,' Reed said. 'You didn't hear?'
'No.'
Billy turned to Reed. 'Tony here runs a BMW franchise near Blackheath. Doesn't mix with the old crowd much.'
'Well,' continued Reed. 'Married, yes. Much younger girl.'
That was no surprise. They all liked their girls young. Franny was barely sixteen when Bruce proposed. Most of the hostesses they tapped in Soho had just turned eighteen. But Roy had never really been part of that back then. For him, the racing was the thing; he didn't seem attracted to the girls in the clubs. Not queer, just not interested.
'It didn't last. His wife was picking the daughters up last night. With her father. Once they had the kids in the car they announced that they would be taking them to Spain for the summer, so Roy wouldn't see them for six weeks or more. Thing is, he loves those girls. He tried to get the kids back in the house, as a bargaining tool. The wife and father-in- law went to stop him. That's when it all went off. At least, the gun did.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'He's still in the excitable phase of the proceedings. Hyper. Bring him down, Tony. Talk about the old days. Make him see some sense, eh?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'We weren't that close.'
Billy gave a small grunt of disbelief.
'OK, for a few months maybe.'
'Look, PT Seventeen is itching to kick the door down and go in with the flashbangs like it's the bleedin' Iranian Embassy,' Bill said. He pointed at Reed. 'We've both done hostage and siege courses. DI Reed here went to bloody Quantico. You know – FBI. But we both agree, a friend trumps any pro negotiator in a domestic. That's all this is for the moment, a domestic.'
He let me ponder on the 'for the moment'. If Roy started shooting at an armed Met policeman, the chances were he wouldn't be coming out of that house vertical.
'I'll get him on the line, shall I?' Billy said.
I nodded.
Bill Naughton lifted up the receiver and pressed one button on the keypad. After a long minute, he said: ' Roy? Bill Naughton again. Got someone here who wants to speak with you.'
He handed the receiver across and picked up a second handset so he could listen in. ' Roy? Tony Fortune.'
I thought it was static on the line, but it was Roy laughing. 'Fuck me. Talk about scraping the barrel.'
'Thanks.'
'No offence, mate. I meant about dragging you out of bed. How you doing?'
Better than you, I thought. 'Can't complain. Except when some plod turns up in the middle of the night. I thought they'd come for me at last, I really did.'
Roy gave a more considered, rueful laugh. 'Well, they never stopped coming for me, Tony, that's the truth.'
The voice was full of self-pity, not a quality I associated with Roy. You didn't get to be his kind of driver – a genuine, exciting, God-given talent – by wallowing in what-might- have-beens. I guessed he'd had a few knocks over the past decade or so. I wondered how he must feel when he saw Nigel Mansell or John Watson or Graham Hill's son – what was his name? – Damon. What went through his mind when he saw those British drivers take on the world or when he saw Jackie Stewart, the elder statesmen of the sport, pontificating on TV? It should’ve been me, no doubt.
'This is not good, though – is it, Roy?'
'Not good at all, Tony.'
'Why don't I come in?'
'In here?' I felt a hand on my bicep, squeezing it. A signal to back off.
'Yeah. We can talk properly then.' The grip tightened and I shrugged it away by twisting my body. 'Without this lot earwiggin'.'
'That would be good.'
'Tony-' hissed Billy.
'I'll be right over. Anything you need?'
'Packet of Rich Tea?'
'See what I can do.'
I put the phone down. I felt everyone in the room glaring at me. 'You've just given him a hostage,' said Billy.
'What, me? Leave it out, Billy. You got any biscuits?'
'I can't let you go,' said Reed. But I had spotted some milk chocolate digestives. I scooped them up and put them in my pocket, then turned my collar up for the short walk across the street to Roy 's house.
'Call yourself coppers?' I asked the room. 'You don't see it, do you?'
'See what?'
'What's wrong with him.'
Billy scratched his head and sniffed. 'Oh aye. I know what's up with Roy James. We're all agreed on that. Off you go. Dave, walk him to the gate, will you?'
The young uniform followed me down the steps and across the cordoned-off section of the road, our footsteps unnaturally loud. I caught sight of a few neighbours, standing back in the gloom, curiosity strong enough for them to leave their fortresses.
The air felt like treacle; I found every step an increasing effort until, finally, I ground to a halt.
The only sound seemed to be my breath, coming harsh.
'You OK?'
Sort of, I thought. Only sort of.
'What's wrong with him then, mate?' the copper asked softly. 'The bloke in there.'
But I didn't answer. I took another step forward. Then another. Keen to get there now, speeding up. It was obvious what was wrong with him. Roy James, once a celebrity thief, was now just a lonely, mixed-up, middle-aged man.
Heathrow Airport, November 1962
As he stood smoking a cigarette in the shade of a stores hangar, the smoke mixing with his breath in the cold morning air, Billy Naughton reflected that, although he had never really thought about it, it made perfect sense that the bulbs in airport landing lights sometimes needed changing. And it seemed silly to shut down a whole airport just so you could screw in a new Osram.
They worked in four-man teams, in constant touch with the tower. If a bulb failed, the tower radioed the appropriate team – there were three, covering different parts of the airport – and the quartet that made up the specified Illumination Replacement Unit moved into action in their Austin Champ jeep.
It was, to the uninitiated at least, hair-raising stuff. They drove into position at one side of the runway or taxiway and waited while the tower relayed details of aircraft movements. When there was deemed to be sufficient space between landings or take-offs, the Champ drove onto the flight path.
The driver stayed in radio contact. One man, the gang- master, located the faulty light and undid the restraining clips. A second then removed the housing, and the 'bulb man' – that was Billy's assigned role – twisted out the dud and put in the new one.
The very first time, he had fumbled, unable to get the old bulb out at first, and then having trouble with the replacement and the heavy-duty bayonet mechanism. Meanwhile, a Dan-Air Ambassador was on its final approach, its lights glaring down on them.
'Abort!' the gangmaster had shouted and they had sprinted for the Austin and spun out of the way as the old prop plane- the same sort that had crashed at Munich, killing Manchester United's Busby Babes – roared in for touchdown. He had been glad of the wads of Handy Andy tissues shoved in his ears then.
Since that first morning, almost a week ago, he had acquired some dexterity at the operation and a proper pair of foam earplugs. Mind you, he had had time to practise. The police ambush team had worked for two mornings, waiting for the robbery to take place. They were scattered across the airport, disguised as everything from baggage loaders to aircraft fitters. All were in radio contact because, although Derek Anderson knew the vague details of the plan – early Tuesday or Wednesday morning, within a week or two using a six- or eight-man firm, and promised to be the legendary Big One- the score that set them up for life – he couldn't be sure of the exact day. He was no longer in the inner circle, he was merely picking up crumbs from the periphery. It was a dangerous place to be. But then, should the raid be foiled, he was in line for a substantial payment from the intended victim. Not that they knew who that was either. Hence the
dispersal of the Squad. But they had enough manpower to be all over any crime scene at the entire complex within minutes and, as an extra precaution, three high-speed pursuit vehicles were located just outside the perimeter fence. And this time they were equipped with stripped-out 3.8 Jaguars. Just the kind of thing the villains liked. Only better.
Sometimes, Naughton felt his stomach dissolve when he thought about Operation Icarus, as they had christened the airside stakeout. It was all on him, this deployment of the Squad's finest. Billy and the snout. As Frank Williams had said, if he got this one right, then he could start thinking about DS. Detective Sergeant Naughton, Flying Squad.
He liked the sound of that. And if it went tits up?
Don't even think about it.
A British Caledonian jet came in to land, the reverse thrust screaming as it touched down, its following plume of grit, rubber and jet fuel obscuring the pale, ineffectual sun still climbing clear of the control tower. Almost seven o'clock. Soon, something told him. If it was going to happen, it would be soon. And he felt it in his bones that this day, this Tuesday morning, was when it would all go off.
'Hey, Billy.'
It was Frank Jordan, the amiable gangmaster in charge of his Illumination Replacement Unit. 'We got two out at Holding Four. You want to do this one?'
Billy stubbed out the cigarette then rubbed his chilled hands together. The pale sun had been swallowed by a tin- coloured ceiling of cloud and the temperature had dropped once more. He checked his police radio was still live, and then went off to join his IRU. If need be, there was a real IRU member on standby in the canteen, but Billy preferred to be out here in the open and looking like he belonged at the airport, just in case the raiders had an inside man or two scoping the staff. And he might as well do something useful while he was waiting for this Big One to go down.
Bruce Reynolds glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. It was seven-twenty in the morning. Charlie had just phoned to tell them the severed chain on the gate was still in place, Gordy's tampering apparently undetected. Bruce had heard the excitement in his voice, a fizz like a fresh Alka-Seltzer in it. Good. That was how he liked Charlie.
Buster was still polishing his Oxfords, trying to get that City gent style. Bruce's black Berlutis – perhaps a little continental in style for a worker in the Square Mile, but Bruce doubted anyone would be looking at his footwear – already had a fine sheen on them. He selected his bowler and tried it on, admiring himself in the mirror that hung above the mantelpiece in Buster's place. He had on a navy pinstriped suit, a white shirt and, for the tie, the blue, maroon and thin white stripes of the 1st Queen's Dragoon Guards. He turned left, then right, checking the reflection. Not bad.
'What do you reckon?'
He heard Buster burst out laughing. Gordon Goody had changed in Buster's bedroom – he had wisely shunted his wife to the mother-in-law – and was sporting a ridiculous handlebar moustache. Bruce smirked at him. But, on second glance, it was so outlandish it didn't seem at all fake. 'Got this at the theatrical shop on St Martin 's,' he said. 'Here, take your pick.'
From his jacket pocket he unloaded half a dozen packets with face furniture of a variety of hues and sizes. Bruce sorted through them, trying to find an example that struck the right note. He took one out of the cellophane and held it on his top lip. 'Bit Terry-Thomas,' said Buster.
He tried another, but it was too bushy and eccentric for a man with a military background. The Guards tie suggested something more clipped. He found one that, although a little dark in shade, was the perfect shape. 'Alec Guinness,' he said. 'What do you think?'
'That's the one, Colonel,' said Buster, saluting.
There was the parp of a horn outside and Gordy pulled the net curtains aside. In the street was a lorry with the legend Co-operative Removals Ltd stencilled on the side. 'It's Mickey. In the van.' The Jags had been left at the changeover point in Hounslow the previous night, safely tucked away in a garage. Roy had stayed in a B &B nearby and would rendezvous with Harry, Tiny Dave and Ian, the muscle later.
'Tell him to go round the back,' said Buster.
Gordy indicated that Mickey should drive around to the rear access alley. It wouldn't do for three City gents to be seen climbing into a workers' van. Someone might notice. Or worse, remember.
Bruce ripped the backing from the adhesive strip on the phony 'tache and positioned it on his top lip. It was the perfect finishing touch. Colonel Reynolds, at your service. He grabbed his brolly, surprised yet again by the weight of it, and looked at his watch once more. Seven thirty-five.
He scooped up the gloves he would not remove again until this was over, one way or another. 'Right, let's go.'
'This is Icarus One-Seven. Over.'
That was Len, thought Billy Naughton. 'Icarus One-Five receiving you. Over.'
'Anything happening there? Over.'
Billy looked down the runway at the unnaturally bright strips of light. 'You'd be surprised how often those bloody bulbs fail.'
'That's not what I meant, Billy. Over.'
Billy could hear the impatience in Duke's voice. 'I know. What do you want me to do? Rob something myself? Over.'
'I think I will if this goes on much longer. That little toe- rag better hadn't be leading you up the proverbial garden path.'
'Say Over.'
'Fuckin' Over.'
Leading me? he thought. He was your snout. I get dropped in the shit, you're just one flush behind. 'He's kosher,' is what Billy actually said, as convincingly as he could. 'Over.'
'I'm only winding you up. Over.' There was a silence across the airwaves, filled by the hiss of static, then: 'What time is it, Billy? My watch must have stopped. Over.'
'Just gone eight. Over.'
'That's what it says. Watch hasn't stopped. Time's just slowed down to a crawl. Teabreak? Over.'
'I reckon must be due. Canteen B? Over.'
'Canteen B it is. Let's hope the other side are havin' a cuppa too, eh? Over.'
'Cheers.' Bruce took the cup of tea that Janie Riley poured from the flask. He was careful not to get his moustache wet as he sipped. Last thing he needed was to find it floating in the mug, like a drowned hairy caterpillar.
It was a few minutes past eight and they were in the large, empty warehouse in which they had stored the Jags overnight, and where they would be dumped after the job. In one corner, Roy kicked into life the little BSA motorbike he had brought along, checking it started first time. Mickey was in the back of the van, changing into his chauffeur's uniform, joshing with Harry, Piny Dave and Ian, the three most unlikely City bankers he had ever seen. Dave's jacket, in particular, was stretched as tight as tarpaulin over his barrel chest. Once he was satisfied with the motorbike, Roy killed it, washed his hands and went to join them.
'You all remember the address of the rendezvous in case we get split up?' Bruce asked everyone.
Gordy repeated it back, parrot fashion.
'Nobody's been stupid enough to write it down anywhere – like on the back of their hand? Good.'
Janie came over with a Nice biscuit. 'No thanks, love,' said Bruce. 'Don't want to get crumbs in the 'tash.'
'Thanks for letting me come along for the ride, Bruce.'
'Think nothing of it.'
Anyone who had been in Ronnie Scott's the night she was accepted by Roy wouldn't have recognised her. Gone was the Louise Brooks vampish look, replaced by a smart grey Jaeger suit. Her face was devoid of all make-up, apart from a delicate black line around the eyes and a pale lipstick. She still looked impressive though, albeit more in a Grace Kelly Ice Queen fashion. If Grace Kelly had been a brunette.
Bruce saw Gordy look over and wink. Like all of them, Bruce strayed now and then. It was, depending on how you looked at it, one of the risks or the perks of their chosen profession. You found yourself in the Flamingo or the Gargoyle or Esmeralda's with a pretty – and willing – girl on your arm, what were you meant to do? The same as the MPs, lords, ladies, actors and barristers, photographers and pop stars who frequented those places did. Live a little.
Janie was around thirty, a little older than he liked them, but he just enjoyed the pleasure she derived from hanging around with his sort. She wasn't alone. There were plenty of people, including many showbiz stars such as Stanley Baker and Diana Dors, who hankered after the occasional stroll on the left side of the street. Mostly you found the hangers-on in Esmeralda's Barn, the Kray twins' club in Wilton Place, perhaps the Black Gardenia in Soho 's Dean Street or the nearby Establishment in Greek Street.
Bruce and Charlie generally avoided the limelight of such places, but they had picked up a few fans of their own – the criminal equivalent of Sinatra's bobbysoxers, he supposed, or Tommy Steele's hand-jivers. Sometimes these girls provided nothing more than a few drinks, sometimes an alibi, occasionally a lift out of town, no questions asked. They were, thought Bruce, a bit like Dracula's willing helpers in those Christopher Lee movies, drawn to the thrill of the night.
Janie claimed her motivation was simple: Bruce & Co made a change from Mr Riley who, she said, was a dull civil servant whose idea of excitement was having sex with the 60-watt left on.
Bruce touched her hair absentmindedly, letting some of the strands fall through his fingers.
'You know, you are a very gentle man for a thief.'
Bruce thought she was being sarcastic, but her face was a picture of innocence.
He nodded over to indicate the man with the incongruous handlebar moustache who was fencing the air with his umbrella. 'Well, when you have friends like Gordy and Charlie, you don't need to come the hard man.'
'Oh, I'm sure you can come the hard man when you want to.'
Bruce smirked at the innuendo. 'Right. But Janie, we get caught, this is no laughing matter, you know. It'll mean doing time. Even if you are just a passenger.'
'I'll say you forced me.'
Bruce laughed. 'I never forced a woman in my life.'
'Never had to, I'll bet.'
Bruce wagged an admonishing finger at her. 'Behave yourself.'
Janie pouted at him. 'Why should I?'
He consulted his watch again. This was work; the saucy banter could wait. 'Because we've got a job to do.'
Roy emerged fully uniformed, grey double-breasted jacket and trousers, with a matching peaked cap. He saluted smartly and Bruce threw him a thumbs-up.
'Gentlemen,' Bruce said. 'Start your engines.' He looked at his watch for the tenth time in less than a minute.
8.20 a.m.
Heathrow Airport, November 1962
At 9.35 a.m. precisely, Buster Edwards walked into the Gents on the third floor of Comet House, swinging his briefcase. He had been in there so many times, he thought, it was beginning to feel like a home from home. Or a khazi from khazi. Behind him was Charlie, umbrella over his arm, looking, if you stared too hard, a shade too beefy to be a convincing City gent. Both men were relaxed and calm. The jitters, if any came, always hit before kick-off. Once everything was underway, every fibre was concentrated on playing your part, not letting your mates down and, above all, not screwing up the score. There was no place for nerves.
Buster nodded to the lavatory attendant in cubicle two. The old boy, happy to see a familiar face, returned the gesture and carried on sprinkling Vim into one of the lavatory bowls.
Charlie put down his umbrella, removed his gloves and took up position at the urinal, slowly undoing his fly buttons. Buster decided to stand next to the window and wash his hands, once he had put down his nice new briefcase. He began to whistle a Frank Ifield tune. From his position he could see the turning from the bank perfectly.
'Beautiful morning,' came the voice from the cubicle.
'Marvellous,' said Buster, in his plummiest accent. 'Makes one glad to be alive.'
Charlie craned his neck and looked out of the window. Beautiful? It was a grey November day, the sky sullen and featureless. Ah well, just making conversation, he supposed.
The attendant came out. 'Follow the football, do you, sir?'
Charlie realised he was talking to him. 'No,' he said, not wanting to be drawn. 'I'm a rugby man.'
The attendant sniffed. 'Right.' He moved to the next cubicle with his brush and powders.
Buster turned to Charlie and gave the slightest inclination of the head, just to let him know all outside was as it should be. He could see his watch now he had rolled up his shirtsleeves. It was 9.37 a.m. Things should be moving at the bank.
Inside Barclays Bank (Bath Road Branch) the second hand of the enormous Wessex wall clock swept round and the minute hand jerked to show 9.38 p.m. Cecil Cochrane, the Manager, waited an extra minute before he gave the signal for the vault to be opened. His deputy and his assistant then inserted their keys while he himself dialled the combination lock.
Behind him came the security guards with their trolley, ready to collect the strongboxes sitting within. The BOAC wages had been sorted and packaged up the night before. Once they were loaded and left the premises they were no longer Cochrane's concern.
The door opened and Cochrane pulled it back. He gave a last glance at the wall clock before entering the vault: 9.40 p.m.
Just to the side of the runway, Billy Naughton lit another cigarette, his fingers cold and sore from a shift of changing bulbs. It had been a novelty at first – exciting, even. Now though, the noise, the frantic rushing, the broken fingernails as he struggled to free a stubborn housing, had all taken the shine off it. His back was also giving him gyp from all the crouching and bending over. One muscle was going into spasm every now and then, dancing to its own internal rhythm. And he was a young man. Some of the gangers were in their fifties. How did they manage it in all weathers?
Winter was already beginning in earnest, the metal housings cold and painful to the touch first thing in the morning. He didn't want to do too many more days of this. He found himself willing the thieves to show themselves, to make their play. Come on, fellas, he thought. Get a bloody move on.
It was close to quarter to ten when Roy, looking splendid in his grey chauffeur's uniform, swung the Mk 2 off the M4 and towards the airport access road. Behind him, Janie and Tiny Dave Thompson balanced on folding stools, placed where the back seats should have been. 'Telstar' by the Tornados was twanging out of the Jag's radio. Tiny Dave – whose gym- pumped frame filled most of the back window – was tapping his armrest in time to the instrumental. Janie was smoking a cigarette, slightly nervy. She looked every inch the smart businesswoman, right down to a briefcase, but the fag was somehow wrong.
As they approached the main entrance, she wound down the window and tossed the stub out. Good girl, thought Roy. Don't do anything that makes you seem ill-at-ease, like smoking too aggressively.
Janie leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Thanks for agreeing to this.'
'That's OK, Janie,' Roy said. 'What's an extra passenger?'
'Always wanted to see Bruce and you lads work up-close.'
Roy chuckled. Those on the receiving end wouldn't share that sentiment, he thought. He checked his mirror. Mickey Ball was right on his tail. He could make out the silhouette of Ian in the rear of the following car, his bowler hat in place.
'Dave?'
'Yup?'
'Hat on.'
Dave slotted the bowler onto his head. Roy looked away before he started giggling. For some reason he couldn't stop thinking of Bernard Breslaw.
He checked the Smiths clock on the dash. Almost ten minutes to ten. Right on time.
At Barclays Bank, the security guards loaded the four steel boxes into the rear of their armoured security Bedford van. They were observed by two policemen, parked a few yards away in a Wolseley 6/110 area car. The driver's fingers were thrumming on the wheel. His colleague suppressed a yawn.
Cochrane, the Manager, stood on the pavement, looking to right and left, feeling himself to be more alert than the two coppers, who seemed bored silly. They wouldn't be quite so sanguine if an ammonia gang suddenly heaved up.
The door to the Bedford slammed shut. 'All done,' said the security supervisor.
'Sign it off, please,' said Cochrane, indicating for his deputy to step forward with the paperwork.
A signature was scribbled.
'And add the time, please,' said Cochrane, looking at his wrist. 'I have nine fifty-two.'
Charlie was still at the urinal and he had been there long enough for the attendant to take notice. Charlie realised he must think he had problems with his plumbing. He and Buster exchanged glances and swapped places, Charlie moving to the sink to wash his hands, Buster to empty his bladder.
The attendant, finished in the cubicles, came out to make conversation when the door opened. Bruce stepped in, followed by Harry.
'The thing about Carstairs', said Bruce, 'is he just doesn't understand figures. Show him an accounts book and he goes cross-eyed.'
Harry grunted.
'I think you would do a much better job in the wages department.'
'Tea-break,' announced the attendant as the new arrivals manoeuvred around him. One of them was large enough to make the place seem overcrowded. 'See you later, gents.'
Bruce checked his false moustache in the mirror. It was still there, despite the sweat trickling down from under the brim of his heavy, modified bowler. As soon as the attendant had gone, Bruce turned to Charlie and the window. 'Well?'
'Where's Gordy?'
'Tying his shoelaces down the hall. See anything?'
There was a pause before Charlie said, 'The van has just come into view. Followed by the police car.'
'Right,' said Bruce. 'Places, everyone.'
Billy Naughton's radio crackled and he pressed the button to receive it, giving his call sign.
'Anything that end?' It was Len. 'Over.' 'No. Over.'
'Well, keep sharp. Something tells me today's the day. Over.' Billy laughted. 'You said that yesterday. Over.' 'And I won thirty bob on the horses. I was right about something happening.' 'Over.'
'Yes, yes, over. Hold up.' Len went off-air for a moment. 'Apparently, there's a suspicious car over at your end. Registration Bravo, Mike, Alpha seven two three. Can you check it out, Billy?' 'On my way. Over.'
The passes that Gordy had sourced worked a treat. As soon as Roy had flashed his to the uniform at the gate, the barrier arced skywards. He had hardly slowed. The guard threw Janie a salute and she raised an imperious hand. Christ, they think we're royalty, thought Roy. He watched as Mickey came through behind him and together they turned onto the perimeter road. Roy put his hand out of the window, waving it up and down to tell Mickey to slow down to 15mph. It had just gone ten o'clock. They didn't want to get there too early.
A Comet 4B roared in overhead, trailing a dirty brown cloud of burned fuel. Noisy bugger, thought Roy.
As Buster and Charlie waited for the lift to arrive, Buster began to whistle 'Colonel Bogey'. Meanwhile, Bruce, Gordy and Harry took the stairs down to the ground floor, the stairwell echoing with the sound of metal Blakeys on bare concrete. 'Stop that,' said Charlie. 'I hated that film.' 'Fair enough. Got any requests?' 'Yes.'
'What?'
Charlie winked at him. 'Don't whistle.'
Buster felt the pouch of the briefcase that held the cosh. A little spark of anticipation shot through him and he let the adrenaline flow, enjoying the thump of his heart.
A bell pinged and the doors slid back. Both men stepped smartly into the empty lift. Charlie looked at his watch and jammed his umbrella against one of the doors. 'Two minutes, yet. Don't want to be too early.'
Buster eased the cosh from his case and put his right hand behind his back to keep it out of sight. Anyone entered and made a fuss about a jammed lift, he'd take care of them.
Outside Comet House, the Bedford security van had pulled to a stop in front of the revolving door and the hinged glass double doors beside it. The police Wolseley slotted into place behind the armoured vehicle, allowing enough room for the guards to gain access to the rear of the Bedford. The supervisor came round from the front seat, banged on the door and the two guards inside opened up. The trolley was manhandled out and the four boxes quickly placed on it. The door was slammed shut again.
In the police car, one of the officers was surreptitiously reading the sports pages of the Herald, spread out on his knee. 'You know what? I wouldn't mind doing some breaststroke with that Anita Lonsbrough.'
The driver shook his head, more in pity than disgust. 'You wouldn't mind doing some breaststroke with Dorothy in the canteen.'
'Leave it out. I do have some standards.'
'Yeah. Low ones.'
The lead Jaguar, driven by Roy, rolled to a smooth halt in the parking bay ten yards behind the police Wolseley. Roy feigned disinterest, but from the corner of his eye he watched as the two security guards started to push the trolley towards Comet House and the basement vault. A third man appeared to be riding shotgun. But without the shotgun, just a baton dangling at his belt.
'Seats,' Roy said quietly.
Janie exited the rear and moved quickly to the passenger seat next to Roy. Tiny Dave quickly collapsed the two folding seats and remained crouching, his powerful thigh muscles able to take the strain for as long as need be.
Roy again looked in his mirror. He could tell that Ian, the other heavy in the back of Mickey's Jag, was also dismanding his stool. Excellent. Ten past ten and all was well.
Still crouching, Tiny Dave reached into his inside pocket. From it he extracted a new quarter-inch chisel and removed the red plastic cover protecting the tip. He gripped the handle like a knife, careful not to catch anything with the unused, factory-sharp business end.
At eleven minutes past ten, the two guards plus the supervisor entered the foyer.
'Morning!' the supervisor shouted to the male receptionist. One of the guards pressed the lift button. Nothing happened. The supervisor stepped in and stabbed it repeatedly. 'Come on, come on,' he grumbled. 'Is this lift OK?' he yelled at the receptionist.
The lad shrugged. 'As far as I know. Could be someone holding it while they load stuff in. It happens.'
The supervisor muttered a curse under his breath.
Somewhere in the shaft above them a distant bell pinged and an arrow above the metal doors illuminated, showing that the lift was on its way down.
'About bloody time.'
'Bacon butty after this,' said one guard.
'Starvin',' agreed the other.
The supervisor tapped his foot impatiently.
Billy Naughton approached the suspicious car at a crouch. There was a driver in the front, he could see the silhouette, but no passengers. He moved towards the rear so he could check the registration on the plate. It was the right car. A Morris Oxford.
Another aircraft came in low over his head, the screech of jet engines swirling around him, and his walkie-talkie squawked. He ignored it. What was this one up to? he wondered as he sprinted round and yanked the driver's door open.
Gordy, Bruce and Harry had reached the bottom of the stairs some minutes ago and watched the trio of security men waiting for the lift to arrive.
'Now?' asked Harry.
'Not yet,' said Bruce. The word had barely left his lips when the doors to the elevator began to separate and a louder bell sounded. 'Now!'
Gordy was out first, his long legs closing the distance between stairwell and reception desk in a few lengthy strides. He looked at the duty receptionist, a young man with bad spots, and decided he would give them no trouble. At the same time, a second internal voice told him it was always best to play it safe. Kid might be a black belt in karate, after all. Behind him he could hear Bruce and Harry crossing to the guards, the metal tips on Harry's shoes ringing on the parquet.
A puzzled look on his face, as if he wasn't certain what was occurring, the receptionist automatically reached for the internal telephone. Gordy whipped off his hat and brought it down on the kid's hand. It made a dull clang as metal hit bone. The lad, his expression transformed into a mask of shock and pain, buckled at the knee and he went down, disappearing from view.
Not a black belt after all, thought Gordy.
The driver of the car shrank into his seat as the door was pulled open and a wild-eyed figure lunged in at him.
'Who the fuck are you?' yelled Billy as he grabbed at a lapel and pulled the lad close to him.
'Who the fuck are you?' retorted the young man, raising his hands to cover his face.
'Flying Squad.'
'What? I ain't done anything. Honest.'
It sounded as if he was about to cry. Either he was a very convincing actor, or he really wasn't up to no good. Billy relaxed his grip. 'What are you doing here?'
The lad fumbled in his pocket and produced his airside pass. 'I work over there. Just showing the car to a mate. He might buy it.'
'Here? At the airport?'
'Perimeter road, it's a good place to try a motor out. Straight up.'
'Shit,' said Billy, letting him go and stepping back. His walkie-talkie crackled once more. This time he answered it.
Unaware as yet of the commotion at the reception desk, the guards stepped aside as the lift doors opened, intending to let the smart gentlemen within pass out.
The supervisor felt a thump on the side of his head and stumbled. He'd been fetched a tremendous blow with an umbrella from Harry.
One of the guards, realising a snatch was in progress, whipped out a baton and smacked it down hard on Bruce's head. Bruce staggered a little, but recovered. The guard, puzzled, raised the baton again. As he did so, Buster swung his cosh and caught the guard in the jaw. There was a sickly cracking sound. He did it again and the man crumpled into a heap. Buster leaned over for a coup de grace when he felt Gordy's hand on his arm. Gordy indicated three prone men, all with blood on their faces, each groaning and out of the game. Charlie, Gordy and Harry were all panting from the short, sharp skirmish. Bruce was pulling the laden trolley clear of the fallen men. The first part of the snatch was over.
'What the bloody hell's going on in there?' shouted the police driver, trying to make sense of the melee through the distortion of the glass windows.
His partner looked up reluctantly from the newspaper and his tawdry fantasies. 'Jesus Christ, someone's havin' it.'
He scrambled to leave the car, extracting his truncheon as he did so, while the driver reached for the radio handset to call it in.
As the copper left the car, Tiny Dave and Ian bent down and stabbed the rear tyres of the police car with the chisels. The Dunlops exploded in a rush of fetid air.
When the policeman turned to investigate this new occurrence, Tiny Dave swung at him repeatedly with his phony umbrella. Under the rain of blows, the copper fell back; two more sharp raps on the head and he was on the deck. Ian, meanwhile, had jerked the driver out of the car and felled him with a blow from the steel bowler.
Tiny Dave gave Roy and Mickey the thumbs-up.
The two Jags swung around the police cars and reversed up to the entrance in a cloud of exhaust smoke, slotting neatly either side of the Bedford armoured car.
The apron outside Comet House was quickly full of men, some of them carrying strongboxes.
'Get the doors!' yelled Bruce.
The rear doors of the Jaguars were yanked open.
They had rehearsed this dozens of times, but Bruce knew amnesia could strike even the most well-prepared team. So he carried on with the instructions. 'Put the boxes where the back seats were.'
The strongboxes, two per Jaguar, were slotted in to form new rear seats.
'Blankets.'
A cover was thrown over the boxes.
'Get in. Move it.'
Three men clambered in and sat on top of each of them. The doors were pulled shut.
Mickey was first away, tyres squealing and smoking, heading west away from Comet House towards the exit gate.
Please God, let them not have replaced the chain, thought Roy as he accelerated after him.
The young receptionist, sure that the robbers had fled, reached over and pressed the alarm button with his undamaged but unsteady hand. A siren screeched around the hallway; he knew a similar sound would be torturing the ears of those down in the strongroom and at the local police station. Then he slumped back down and cupped his good hand over his nose as his palms filled with the blood streaming out of his nostrils. Fear had burst the vessels in his nose.
The felled driver of the police car, his vision still blurred from the blow, managed to crawl back inside the Wolseley and grab his handset. He pressed the transmit button. When he spoke, his voice was thick, the words slurred. It was as if brain and jaw muscles were no longer in sync. But he was certain he could make himself understood. 'Hello, control. Hello, control. This is Romeo Romeo Alpha. Robbery in progress…'
Mickey slithered the Jag to a halt next to the exit gate in the perimeter fence. Gordy, primed for action, was out of the car while it was still rolling. He ran to the gate, lifted the chain and pulled at the phony link.
Nothing happened. The chain held.
Roy heard his anguished shout of 'Fuck!' even over the idling engine. As he braked to a full stop, he wondered how long it would take before Gordy abandoned the trick linkage and fetched the cutters. Time was ticking away.
But Gordy held his ground, tugging at another link, then a third and finally, on the fourth, it pulled apart. He turned, a grin slapped across his face, like he was a turn on Sunday Night at the London Palladium.
'Fuck's sake,' yelled Roy to nobody in particular. 'Get a move on.'
He checked the mirrors. All was still quiet behind them, although he had no doubt the alarm had been raised. They were still in the stunned phase of the blag, when the victims couldn't quite believe what had befallen them, but that wouldn't last much longer.
Gordy pulled open the left-hand gate fully and pushed the right one partly back, giving just enough room for the cars. Mickey took the Jag through, pausing only for Gordy, who had reconnected the phony chain-link, to throw himself into the rear. Roy ducktailed out into the Bath Road traffic after them. He floored the accelerator, feeling the wheels spin. Careful, he reminded himself. Wheelspin was a sign of nerves, of too much right foot, not enough finesse.
The little Austin A40 came from nowhere, reversing with speed and precision, powering at him like a tiny green rocket, ready to cut off his escape.
Roy used the little drift he had got into with the wheelspin and allowed the back to come round, blipping the throttle and going onto opposite lock. He could see the face of the other driver, flat cap, a mask of hate beneath it. Some do-gooder hero, no doubt, out for a headline.
The cars made contact, the Mk 2's rear panel smacking into the A40, but side on, lessening the impact. Both cars rocked to a halt, engines still burbling. Roy hoped the wheel arches had held. He didn't want torn metal to shred a tyre on the A4.
In the rear, Bruce raised his brolly like a rifle at the Good Samaritan. The man ducked. Roy gave the Jag a tentative press of the throttle and snapped the light embrace of the Austin. With one last wiggle as the power went down, the Jag, its pride only slightly crumpled, leaped away from the encounter and weaved its way through the traffic, heading for Hounslow.
As Roy dropped the car's speed to blend in with the regular folk, a whoop of joy and relief came from the rear. Janie lurched across at him. Roy felt the wetness of her mouth on his cheek and allowed himself a little smile of victory. Done it.
10.45 a.m. Billy gave his call sign and waited for a reply. There was just a stream of profanity, spat out over the airwaves. 'Say again?'
It was Duke on the radio, his voice full of anger and fear in equal measure. 'Fuckin' hell, Billy, there's been a wages snatch.'
Billy's mind couldn't quite grasp what was being said, distracted by the failure of protocol. 'Over?'
'Fuck "over", you silly cunt. A wages snatch at Comet House. At the airport.'
Billy felt a surge of acid into his windpipe and his bowels loosened. 'I don't-'
' London Central Airport. At Heathrow.' Billy stared up at the sign that said Gatwick Airport: Authorised Personnel Only. 'Don't you get it, Billy?' The voice was almost a falsetto now. 'You've been sold a pup. We're at the wrong bloody airport. O-fuckin'-ver.'
From the Daily Sketch, 28 November 1962
In a daring raid yesterday, members of a gang wearing bowler hats, false moustaches and carrying briefcases to make it appear they were businessmen carried out a cosh raid on wages clerks at Comet House, London Airport, and stole in excess of £50,000. The money had been transported from a nearby Barclays Bank and was destined for the BOAC pay-roll.
The robbers fled the scene in two high-powered Jaguar saloon cars, later found abandoned. Detective-Inspector Hugh Jarvis who will be leading the investigation said yesterday that they were looking for a criminal gang of: 'At least six men and one woman. We are appealing to any witnesses who saw the cars being driven to the airport or anyone who saw suspicious activity there in recent weeks. This a well-organised gang, and the raid took careful planning, but I would remind the public these are dangerous men.'
Police believe that very few criminals in the capital have the audacity and skill to carry out such a raid. 'It is only a matter of time before we learn their names,' a Scotland Yard spokesman said, although he did not dismiss the conjecture that there might have been 'foreign elements' involved completely. 'Crime is an international business now,' he added.
All airports and ports are being watched. DI Jarvis said anyone with information should not approach the men, but call Whitehall 1212. A reward is expected to be offered.
London, December 1962
The highlight of the week following the airport job was its appearance on Shaw Taylor's Police 5, which Roy watched in his flat above the Battersea garage. The police had discovered the Jags eventually, abandoned in Hounslow. They had also found the BSA motorbike, because the little bastard machine had failed to start for Roy. He had been forced to leave the area by bus, while Tiny Dave had driven the Co-operative furniture van to Norbury with the cashboxes and Mickey and Buster in the rear. The others had taken Tubes, trains and taxis.
Still, finding the cars had yielded nothing, because everything had been very well wiped down. Roy had used T-Cut abrasive cream on the doors and handles of the Jags to take off the top layer of paint, turpentine and thinner elsewhere. Those handling brollies and hats had been careful to wear gloves. So there were no latent dabs there. If there had been, they wouldn't all have been sitting in their respective homes or hangouts, watching Police 5.
'And did anyone see these two cars? Very smart Jaguars. Both stolen a few weeks before their use as getaway vehicles. They must have been stored somewhere.' Shaw Taylor adjusted his trademark thick-framed black glasses as he stared at the camera. 'Perhaps in that lock-up down the road? That disused factory? Were there any strange comings and goings in the middle of the night? If so, call the number I shall give you at the end of the show.'
Shaw Taylor moved to the rear of the Jaguar, hands in his sheepskin jacket, breath clouding the air in front of his face. Must have filmed this early in the morning, thought Roy. Taylor fished out one of the steel umbrellas and the metal bowlers from the boot. 'And look at this.'' He clashed them together. 'Solid metal, painted to look like the real thing and used to inflict – he shuddered – 'horrible injuries on innocent men. Make no mistake, these are not Robin Hoods or William Tells, fighting the Sheriff of Nottingham or Landburgher Gessler. These are vicious greedy crooks who have stolen the wages of hard-working men and women.'
Yeah, yeah, thought Roy as he turned off the TV and watched the image implode to a white dot. Not that many wages. When they had opened the cashboxes it was found that each contained around £15,000, rather than the £150,000 they had hoped for. Once the expenses were covered, Tiny Dave, Ian and Harry bunged a few grand, The Frenchman – one of the underworld's financiers who had laid out a few grand to help with set-up expenses – reimbursed and given his whack, there was only a pittance left each. And Bruce had insisted on 'taxing' that, creaming off enough to create a fund for the next job. The next 'Big One'.
It was a crying shame. It had been slick, daring and fast, and nobody got hurt. Well, a few headaches, but not much more. Certainly not the 'horrible injuries' Taylor had mentioned. No thanks to Buster though, who complained he never got to use his homemade cosh in real anger.
Still, with the sale of his kart and his share he had enough, just, for that Brabham. Let Bruce and Charlie spunk their share away on bespoke suits and tarts, Buster on that Sunbeam Alpine he claimed he'd always fancied and Gordy on… nobody was sure what Gordy spent his money on. Bigger and better hair-crimpers and driers, maybe. Or a new salon. Perhaps he wanted to be the new Mr Teasy Weasy demonstrating modern hairstyles to Cliff Michelmore on telly.
Roy picked up the current issue of Autosport, which had a Mark X Jaguar on the cover. He flicked through the technical articles on gas flow and came upon a beautiful cutaway drawing of the F1 Brabham, the one in which Jack Brabham himself, no less, had come fourth in the US Grand Prix, the first ever GP driver to score points in a car of his own design. It was built by Brabham and fellow Aussie Ron Tauranac at their workshops in Byfleet. This was the goal: Coventry- Climax powered, sitting on fat 13-inch front and 15-inch rears, twin Lukey Muffler exhausts, 174bhp at 8,300rpm. But that was walking before he could run. Karts to F1 in a single bound was unheard of. He'd have to prove himself in Formula Junior first.
The phone rang and he tossed the magazine aside. He knew who it would be. One of the lads to wind him up about Shaw Taylor. Roy 'Vicious Crook' James they would call him from now on. Made a change from Le Furet, the nickname his crimes in France had earned him. Les Flics had announced that the thief was able to scale drainpipes as if he had run up inside them, like Le Furet. Funny, it sounded better in French. 'The Ferret' didn't have quite the same ring.
He picked up the receiver. 'Yeah?'
' Roy?' It was Bruce.
'Yup. I saw it-'
Bruce cut him dead. 'They've picked up Mickey Ball.'
It was at that moment the doorbell rang.
Tony Fortune watched the two policemen enter the Warren Street showroom and start appraising his stock. The younger one clearly didn't know much, but the older guy, he went straight to an MGA that had the wrong grill on it. This was one of the Chalk Farmies, Tony thought, an MVE – Motor Vehicle Examiner – from the Stolen Car Squad. They were good, as he knew to his cost. Sharp enough to know when mileage and condition didn't match.
Paddy emerged from the workshop at the rear, an oily rag in his hands. He moved phlegm around his throat at the sight of the coppers, as if he was going to hawk over them but merely glared at the pair instead as they circled the MGA like carrion, and went back to cleaning spark plugs.
'I couldn't match the right year to that one,' Tony said to the MVE, explaining why the style of grill – it had too many vertical bars – didn't quite sit right with the body. 'Well I could, but you know how much they want for a new one?'
The younger man flashed his warrant card. 'Mr Fortune?' When Tony nodded, he carried on. 'Detective Constable Naughton. Flying Squad.'
Maybe, said a voice inside Billy's head, but for how much longer? After Gatwick, he had been savaged by Ernie Millen and Frank Williams, the heads of Flying Squad. It reminded him of the way you saw the lions at London Zoo tucking into a leg of lamb – with him playing the role of the dead sheep. Then the piss-taking had started, about him being in the wrong place at the right time. Every time he gave a destination or address someone would tell him to make sure that wasn't Oxford Street, Aberdeen. Ha-fucking-ha. Unless he got a result on the City gents, his days at the Squad were numbered and his copybook permanently covered in blue- black Quink.
'This is Constable Rowe, of the Stolen Car Squad.'
'How can I help you gentlemen?' Tony asked. Rowe was examining the sticker on the MGA. It was up for £375, not a bad price. 'It's not an insurance write-off,' Tony assured him. 'Legitimate repair. Just you know what some people are like. Once they scratch their pride and joy…'
'It's not about that,' said Billy Naughton. 'It's about Mark Two Jags.'
Tony sighed. 'I'm right out, I'm afraid. Can't help you. Lot of demand for them, but we don't see many of them at this end of the market.'
'That's not what we heard.' What they had heard were names: Ball and James, drivers. And the cars? Word was they definitely came from Warren Street. Six grand reward from BOAC, it jogged a lot of memories.
For the next five minutes the two coppers walked around the showroom. Tony knew the game. They would find something pony and use it as leverage to prise him open. Except there was not a hooky or pony item in the showroom, apart from the odd wind-back on the mileage, and nothing there was too greedy. After the Mk 2s he had made sure of that, just in case a day like this came around. He had been over it dozens of times; there was zero to connect him to the stolen vehicles, no physical evidence. Only if someone grassed would they be able to pin him to them.
'Can we see the log books for all these vehicles?'
'Of course,' said Tony. 'All except the Goggomobil.' 'This was a German microcar, once fashionable but made redundant by the better-performing and more spacious Mini. 'That's in the post.'
He went out the back and fetched the stack of documents from the safe and watched while they painstakingly matched car to book. He made himself a tea while they did so.
'What do they want?' Paddy asked.
'Routine.'
Paddy shot him a look that conveyed his disbelief. 'You been doing something behind my back?'
'No.'
Paddy pointed his wire brush at him. 'You know I did some time once. Never again, Tony. It's not fun.'
Tony poured his PG Tips and a second cup for Paddy. 'Don't worry, nobody is doing any time.'
Back in the showroom, Rowe was still lifting bonnets to crosscheck numbers with documents.
Tony sipped the tea. 'Doing this to everyone on the street, are you,' he asked, 'or did my number just come up?'
They didn't answer, just carried on with their whispered deliberations.
The phone rang. It was his wife Marie, sounding jittery and almost teary, so he didn't mention the police. She immediately sensed something was wrong from the stiffness of his replies and quickly signed off. More grief when he got home.
As he came out of the office, Billy handed the fat pile of log books back. 'That all seems to be in order.'
'Good. Is this about that airport job?'
Billy pursed his lips and looked baffled. 'Can't say, sir. But what would make you think that?'
'Shaw Taylor. He's interested in Mark Twos as well, as I recall.'
Billy smiled. 'Oh yes.' He picked some fluff off his overcoat. 'Well, as you brought it up, and just to avoid any confusion, can you tell me where you were on the morning of the seventeenth, the day of the robbery?'
'At my sister's house in Reading. A christening. I'm the godfather. I'm pretty sure the vicar would remember.'
Billy had to admit that, as alibis went, it wasn't bad. 'I'm sure he will. Well, sorry to trouble you.' Billy turned to go then hesitated. He took out a photograph and held it at eye- level, so Tony could see it. 'Ring any bells?'
Tony looked at the picture of a young man leaning in a doorway, a cocky smile on his thin face. 'No. Who is it?'
'Name's Derek Anderson.'
'What you want him for?'
To wring his bloody neck, thought Billy Naughton, then said, 'Just some routine questions.'
Charlie Wilson counted out the five-pound notes in the snug bar of the Two Kings in Clapham. Colin, the barman, made sure the two men weren't disturbed. Charlie stopped when he got to £500. Then he put two more notes on top, and then a third, pushed them over the table, and took a gulp of his beer. 'There you go. That should keep you all right for a while. But I'd leave it for a year till you show your face in London again. So if you are short, let me know, eh?'
'Yes, Mr Wilson.'
'Charlie.'
Derek Anderson beamed at him. 'Thanks, Charlie.'
'You did well to come to me when they tapped you on the shoulder. A stupider person might have…' he hesitated, '… been tempted. But you'd never get that much from the police kitty.'
'The money's not why I did it, Charlie.'
'I know.' Charlie took another gulp of beer. Derek had been desperate to get back into the family fold, to make amends. That was why he had risked coming to Charlie with a story about the Robbery Squad trying to squeeze him. He should have been angry with the kid, because it was his initial loudmouth act about them doing a job at the airport that had drawn the Old Bill in the first place. That and his drunken, disgruntled sulks once he had been banished. But when Charlie had told Bruce the police had been sniffing about, the Colonel had come up with the brilliant idea of a diversion, a dummy job. 'Just like D-Day,' he'd said. 'Hitler thinks we are coming ashore at Calais, but no, wallop, we do the beaches at Normandy.'
So they had put out enough hints that they were going to turn over cargo at Gatwick to keep the police's eyes looking the wrong way, enabling them to do the Comet House job. Had there been a sniff of new faces or a stake-out at Heathrow, Charlie would have pulled them. When they did the job they were 90 per cent certain the tosspots had bought the dummy. It made it doubly sweet: a successful blag and red faces at the Yard. Shame the boxes weren't full. Still, the shortfall in cash wasn't down to Degsy. He'd earned his little bung.
As the young man reached for the cash, Charlie grabbed his scrawny wrist. 'And you aren't tempted by the reward?'
Derek tried his hardest to look shocked at the very thought. His hand was shaking and he could feel the pulse. It reminded Charlie of a hamster's heart hammering away when you picked it up. 'No, Charlie. Never.'
'Six grand?'
With his free hand, Derek tapped his stack of newfound wealth. 'At least I'll live to spend this.'
'That's right, my son,' Charlie agreed, releasing his grip. 'Go on, fuck off, see you in twelve months. Sure I'll have something for you then.'
Derek wrapped the money with an elastic band, folded it into his inside pocket and left. Charlie was still sitting in the snug, drinking, when Len Haslam, sporting a face like a sack of hammers, and two uniforms came in to arrest him.
London, December 1962
The steam in the sanatorium at the Savoy Baths on Jermyn Street was so thick, it was as if super-heated cumulus had fallen to earth and been manhandled into a cupboard. Through the swirling clouds, Bruce Reynolds couldn't tell whether there was anybody already in the room. He sat down on the hot, wet marble bench and waited while Buster made himself comfortable opposite. Neither spoke for a while, letting the vapour scour their lungs.
Eventually, when they were sure they were alone, Buster spoke. 'Fuck, eh?'
'Yeah. Fuck.' Bruce thought about the relatively poor haul. A few months' grace, that was all it would give him, before they would have to do it all again. 'On the bright side, it worked, didn't it?'
Buster laughed. Bloody optimist, he thought. Bruce could be a regular Pollyanna. 'Yeah, it worked.'
'Shows what can be done with a little planning. Good, tight teamwork.'
'Yeah. True enough.' Buster took three deep breaths, feeling his airways burn and almost enjoying it. 'Didn't really do it for the camaraderie, Bruce.'
'No?'
'Nice though it is. A bit more cash wouldn't have gone amiss.'
'Yeah.' Sweat began to trickle into his eyes, and Bruce leaned forward. The moisture gathered on his nose and dropped onto the floor with a loud plop. 'Any news on Roy and Mickey?'
'Identity parades,' said Bruce. 'But they only pulled them because of who they are. You know that. Anyone drives a bit handily, there are only six names on the Squad's list. Roy and Mickey are at three and four. Might have even been promoted to one and two.'
'You heard from Charlie?'
'Nah.' Bruce wasn't worried. Charlie often went to earth after a job. 'Probably taken Pat off to Jersey.'
Buster grunted. 'Been there once – never again. Full of stuck-up rich gits. Everyone seemed to be over sixty. Give me Brighton any day.'
They sucked more hot air for a minute, lost in their thoughts. 'Where do you think you'll be when you're sixty, Buster?'
Buster wiped his forehead. It was slippery with sweat. He was already looking forward to a cold shower. Bruce had a bit more stamina for this kind of thing than him. Man must have been a lobster in a former life. 'Parkhurst at this rate.'
'You miserable cunt,' Bruce said affectionately. He didn't understand the gloom that could afflict Buster. It was a mystery. Buster hated the idea of prison and he suffered deep bouts of melancholy about it, even on the outside. 'It might never happen.'
Bruce accepted pokey as part of the deal, the same way that life and death were intertwined; you couldn't have one without the certainty of the other. For him, his chosen path – the criminal way, some might call it – was a state of mind. It moved life to an intensity that was only rarely achievable in other ways. A film might do it, a few bars of Bill Evans, sex, of course, but nothing else sustained that feeling of being larger than life, beyond its quotidian dullness, like being in the midst of a great take-down. Quotidian. That wasn't a word you heard every day. He had read that in JP Donleavy. He'd had to look it up, but he liked it. The Quotidian Life. It was what they all kicked against, some harder than others. Like Dangerfield in Donleavy's novel, or Marlon Brando in The Wild One, which Bruce had seen in France, he wanted to live these few years on earth at full tilt, not succumb to an anaesthetised greyness.
'And where will you be?' asked Buster, interrupting his thoughts.
'Me? Saint Tropez. Acapulco. Watching Frank at The Sands in Vegas and flying over to see Terry Downes fight and Rod Laver play.' He leaned forward and tapped Buster's knee. 'You got to have ambition.'
'My ambition is for Gordy to hurry up so I can get out of here.' Through a gap in the steam, Bruce could see Buster's pudgy face, red and glistening, with rivulets of sweat gathering at his chin. 'You thought about that other thing – for the next tickle?'
'Tickle? More like a belly laugh, Buster.'
'Is that a yes?'
Bruce shook his head, even though he doubted Buster could see the gesture. 'I'd love to do the Bank of England,' he said, 'but come on.'
Buster had been approached by an ex-messenger at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, who had given him details of the Watch. This was the system by which a rotating roster of staff members stayed the night at the Bank of England. Every employee gave up one night a month plus four weekends and a Bank Holiday a year. Each night at 6 p.m., every bank key – a hundred in all – had to be checked in and the bank secured. A convivial supper and rooms were provided. The odd guest was allowed in, but males only. The source had told them that the men-only rule was subtly undermined by smuggled mistresses in tuxedos or even kilts.
'You got to be able to hide in a place that size,' said Buster. 'My bloke says there's a dozen hidey-holes that could avoid the Sweep.'
At 10.45 each night patrols reported to the Bank's Security Control that every corner of the Old Lady had been swept and was free of stowaways intent on mischief.
'And the Guards? Just our luck we'd get the fuckin' Gurkhas.' The various Guards regiments took it in turns to supply the military presence overnight at the bank; but the Gurkhas occasionally did a stint. Bruce could imagine being gutted by one of those little bastards with his kukri.
'Who's being negative now?' Buster asked petulantly.
And what, thought Bruce, was the jolt for trying to rob the Bank of England? Ten years? Fifteen? Christ, a hanging judge might go as high as twenty. For a man who was bird- averse, like Buster, it didn't bear thinking about. But banged up they would be, because there was no way on God's earth Prime Minister Macmillan and Co would let anyone get away with tickling the Old Lady. Only politicians got to rob the country blind.
Bruce, not wanting to encourage his friend into despondency, said: 'You're right. Set up a meet with your man. It's worth dropping a bit of cash to see if he's on the level, if he can get us plans and the like.'
'Will do.' Buster made a blowing sound, like a whale breaching. 'I've got to get out of here, Bruce.'
Buster stood, just as the door opened, allowing steam to billow out into what suddenly seemed like an icy corridor. Standing there was Mannie, one of the attendants at the baths.
'Mr Reynolds. Mr Edwards. Sorry to interrupt your steam but there're a couple of gentlemen here to see you. When you are ready, they said. And not to worry about Mr Goody, they said. They have dealt with him already.'
A couple of gentlemen? Buster looked down at Bruce. 'Fuck.'
'Yeah. Fuck.'
'It doesn't look much like a villain's drum,' said Billy as he walked into Gordon Goody's neat, clean flat. There was G-Plan furniture, a Bush TV, Axminster carpets – none of that Cyril Lord tat – a well-stocked drinks cabinet and a sideboard containing some fancy Wedgwood tableware. In the kitchen was a nice new stove and the biggest refrigerator Billy had ever seen, taller than him, but that was probably the flashiest item in the place. What kind of villain spends his ill-gotten gains on a fridge? he wondered.
'That's because his mum lives here, too,' said Len. 'WPC Waring has taken her off to tea and Bingo.'
Billy and Duke stood and watched as the mostly uniformed team went methodically through the place, unzipping cushions and carefully lifting carpets. Billy was impressed. On too many of the warrants he'd witnessed being served, the searching officers had acted like Desperate Dans. Big and oafish. These lads had finesse.
'Nothing so far, guv,' said the DC from the local nick to Duke.
'Fair enough. He's the careful sort, is Gordy. Why don't you go and get a cup of tea?'
'Tea?' the DC asked, as if he never touched the filthy stuff. 'We've only the bedrooms and the loft to do.'
'And I want them done properly. Not the sudden spurt at the end when everyone thinks it's time for a cuppa. Come back refreshed.' He pointed at Billy. 'We'll hold the fort till you get back.'
The DC pointed down to the nylon sports bag Duke had brought along. 'Off to the gym?'
'Oh aye. Judo. Couple of throws on the mat. Nothing like it at the end of the day.'
The DC looked sceptical, but he waved his uniforms out.
Duke took out a fiver. 'Get them a sandwich, too.' The DC hesitated before he took it.
After they had left, Duke crossed to the cocktail cabinet and opened it. 'Bird's eye maple, this. Pricy. Oh, looky here. Nice drop of Laphroaig. Fancy some?'
'Nah.'
'Come on.' He examined the bottle. 'It's not like he's marked it. Bent bastard isn't going to miss two snifters. Probably swag anyway.' He splashed out a generous measure into each of two cut-glass tumblers. 'Secret with this is, a drop of water.'
He returned from the kitchen beaming and handed Billy one of the glasses. 'Cheers.'
Billy just gave a tight smile. He wasn't sure he felt like toasting with the guy who had dropped him in this particular pile of shit. He sipped his drink, his eyes watering at the rich, peaty aroma released by the few drops of water.
Duke grabbed an arm, steered him over to the sofa and pushed him down. He stood over him, a lopsided grin slapped onto his face. Billy felt an urge to punch it. 'Now look, Billy boy, I know you are pissed off. Black mark and everything. But just imagine if that little shit's tip-off hadn't been moody. The power and the fuckin' glory you would have got. Would you be sharin' that with me now? Would you fuck. But listen, old Millen is sayin' to George Hatherill, "Well, he's a new boy. Happens to us all. Give him some slack." More than they would for me. "Cocky cunt," they'd have said about me; "should have seen it comin'. Should have smelled it".' He sniffed his drink to emphasise the point and the grin returned. 'But all that could be water under the bridge if we make this stick on someone. That's all they care about. Arrests have been made – that's good. But what have we got so far?'
'A couple of IDs.' 'Right.'
'And the bolt-cutters.'
'Also correct. We have a man who fits Gordon Goody's description down to a T buying a massive pair of bolt-cutters. Now, Gordy will claim they were for home dentistry. And by the time we come to court, the hardware bloke will have changed his mind.'
'What makes you say that?'
'Oh, I'd put a few bob on it. He'll get a visit from the chaps. Then he'll contract terminal amnesia. I know the type. He just wants to go back to his brown coat and his pound of nails. Not all of them will roll over, mind. But for Gordy… we need more than his word against a witness.'
'Such as?'
'Such as you going to take a peek under the bed?'
'He doesn't seem like the kind of man to put his loot under the mattress.'
'You'd be surprised. Go and have a butcher's.'
Curious, Billy went to the bedroom, got down on his hands and knees onto the soft cream carpet and peered at the space under the bed. Empty. Not so much as a dust ball. He got up and went back out, bored with Duke's games.
'There's nothing th-'
The bowler hat came flying across the room at him, spinning almost at face level. Billy reached up to pluck it from the air and felt his fingers pushed back and a stab of pain in his wrist. 'Ow. Shit.'
The hat made a dull thump as it hit the carpet.
'There will be if you slide that under.'
It was one of the steel bowlers recovered from the scene. No prints, no indication who made them. Useless. 'Why?'
'I checked,' said Duke. 'Seven and three-eighths, give or take. Have a look at the trilby in the hall. Same size.'
Billy felt his stomach shrink when he realised what the DS was suggesting. 'Duke-'
'You know and I know that Gordon Goody is right for this. All we have to do is convince a jury of that. He bought the cutters three miles from the airport and he has previous. Oh, and guess where his neighbour used to work?'
He knew – the bloke had been a janitor at Comet House, but the neighbour had insisted it was mere coincidence.
'Circumstantial.'
Billy's face darkened. 'So is your career in the Squad at this moment. The hat puts him at the scene. The hat saves your skinny arse. Because we get a result and it isn't a fuckin' fiasco. You live to fight another day.' He finished his whisky. 'Up to you, son. No, really. I can put it back in the bag here and have it returned to the shelf where it will lie gathering dust because it is of no use to us. Or we can make it count.'
Billy's mouth went dry and he was worried that, if he spoke, his voice would betray the tears he felt welling up inside. It wasn't the way he wanted to catch crooks, not what he envisioned at all. Oh, he knew it went on, the verbalising, the fit-up, but not him, he had always thought. Not Billy Naughton.
Against that, he had to stack the cloud he felt oppressing him every day, the looks and the mumbles in the Squad room. The new dread of showing his face at work at all. A work he loved. Perhaps Duke was right. It was better to live and fight another day. He left the room to find a spot under the bed where the local DS would discover the steel bowler.
Tony Fortune didn't like the atmosphere in the flat when he got home that evening. Marie had come back early from work at the bank and had made shepherd's pie. But she wouldn't catch Tony's eye as she laid the table. He opened the cupboard to fetch the sauce and found himself staring at a dozen bottles of HP.
'We'll be all right for sauce when the bomb drops then,' he said.
'They were on special offer. Just the peas to do. Want a beer?'
'All right.' He sat and flicked through the Evening News, to see if there was any more on the Heathrow job. He also wondered if Shaw Taylor's appeal had generated any leads. He hadn't had the Jags for long and had worked on them well away from Warren Street. Everyone involved had been paid handsomely, so there was nobody disgruntled. But there was the reward, that insidious cancer which might eat away at the cash-strapped. Tony determined to do a quick ring around, make sure everyone was sound.
Marie opened a brown ale for him, and then delivered the bowl of peas and the pie to the table. He sat up and stared across at her as she ladled out the food. She gave a thin smile. She looked tired, her brown hair needed a wash and she still had on one of those cheap synthetic drip-dry blouses she wore to work. Still, he felt a sudden burst of affection, possibly tinged with lust, for her. He didn't speak until he had tasted the pie and nodded his approval. 'Lovely. You all right?'
She pushed the hair away from her face. 'Yes, love. Except… well, you know I had those pains the last couple of weeks?'
Tony recalled something about stomach cramps and ulcers, but he had been too distracted by his own concerns to pay much attention. 'Of course.'
'I went to the doctor, Tony.'
He felt a stab of nervousness. His mother had died of some female cancer. Cervical, that was it. He put down his knife and fork and gave her his full attention. 'And what did he say?'
'He says we're going to need a bigger flat.'
She burst into tears, and it was a good few seconds before he made the connection. The realisation hit him like a sack of wet sand. He was going to be a father.
Cannon Row police station, December 1962
The young copper popped his head into the interview room. 'Be ready for you in about fifteen minutes, Mr Reynolds.' The lad nodded towards the empty mug on the table. 'Need a top-up?'
'No, thanks,' said Bruce. 'Tell you what though, wouldn't mind a paper. News or Standard. Might put a bet on later.' He tossed a shilling over.
The uniform frowned as he caught the coin. For a few seconds Bruce thought he had been rumbled. He was just about to give an it-was-worth-a-punt smile when the youngster said, I’ll see what I can do.'
'I'd appreciate it.'
The door closed and he heard the bolt slide home with a clang that echoed around the bare, stuffy room. They were fishing. No, they were trawling, pulling in every one of the chaps they could. Roy James had warned him that humiliating the Flying Squad by selling them a dummy was not a good idea, that wounded pride made the detectives dangerous and reckless, much more likely to fit up whoever they fancied for the job. But Charlie especially had thought it too good an opportunity to miss, sending the coppers down to Gatwick while the firm did Heathrow. Priceless.
As Roy had predicted, they did react in the fevered way they had whenever a policeman got shot. And in their Old- Bill-in-a-China-Shop routine they had scooped up Bruce, Charlie, Gordy, Roy and Mickey.
Bruce had no idea what they had on him and acted as if there was nothing to be had. He was merely helping police with their enquiries. He hadn't even contacted a solicitor. Best be nonchalant, as if he really was giving every assistance, as if he was certain of his own innocence.
An ID parade. But who was going to eyeball him? The lavatory attendant? Surely he had seen Buster more times than Bruce. The security guards? The receptionist? None had got a decent look at him.
The young copper came back with an Evening Standard. Bruce flicked through it after he had gone, but the City gent gang was already old news. Kennedy had declared a blockade on Cuba, because he believed nuclear missiles were there. Four hundred people had been killed by a flash flood in Barcelona. China and India were going to war over a border dispute. What was a few grand lifted at Heathrow compared with that lot?
'OK, Mr Reynolds. I'm DS Haslam.' The young copper had been replaced by a plainclothes, older, rougher, baggier about the eyes. They were Flying Squad eyes, reddened and veined from booze and smoke. 'You know the score, I'm sure.' Bruce didn't bother disputing that it wasn't his first parade. 'Would you mind putting these on?'
It was a pinstriped jacket and a bowler hat. Bruce did as he was asked, irritated that the jacket was a size too big and came down to his knuckles and the hat-band was tight. 'If you'll come this way.'
As he left, Bruce grabbed the Standard, rolled it up and slotted it into the jacket pocket. 'Let's get it over with. My mum is expecting me for tea.'
Len 'Duke' Haslam smiled. 'I hope she hasn't baked special, Mr Reynolds.'
'Oh, she will have. My mum makes the best scones.'
'Let's hope you don't let her down then,' the detective said, in a tone that hoped for just that.
There were seven others in the open yard at the rear of the station. This less than magnificent group were already in a loose line, all in dark suits and hats, ready for the few bob they would pick up as concerned citizens doing their bit. They ranged from five-eight to six-four, with Bruce somewhere in the middle, and half had moustaches. The outside air stung, needle-sharp on his face, only just above zero. Bruce shivered, hoping this wouldn't take long. 'It's freezing out here,' he said.
'Shut it.'
'Why do you always have to do these things in midwinter?' he asked.
'We're hoping your bollocks drop off.'
Haslam positioned Bruce third from the end – he felt those bookending him move away slightly – and inspected the group, like an RSM on parade. He swapped a couple around and straightened the line, making sure the gap between Bruce and the others was closed up. Then he produced four fake moustaches, and pressed them onto the cleanshaven faces. He stepped back, then adjusted Bruce's 'tache. 'That tickles, DS Haslam,' he complained. 'I hope I don't sneeze.'
Duke Haslam said nothing.
When he was satisfied with his charges, he clicked his fingers and out came another detective, younger, with the witness. Bruce kept his face impassive as he recognised him. It was the old bastard from the Austin A40, the one who had backed across the gates to try and block them in. The one Bruce had taken careful aim at with his fake umbrella.
'Take your time now, sir,' the new copper said to the witness.
You could usually smell the nerves and fear on the poor sod who had to walk the line-up. It was no small thing, to face the suspected villain head-on and place the incriminating hand on the shoulder. He had seen plenty bottle it before. Not this one.
The old man – in truth he was probably no more than fifty, flat cap, bad dentures – strode down the line, pausing before each of the potential robbers, looking him up and down and peering into the eyes. 'Can you ask this man to squint?'
'Squint, sir?'
'Yes. Screw up his eyes.'
'Number three, would you mind screwing up your eyes? Thanking you.'
A shake of the head and the witness moved on, until he came level with Bruce. Stay impassive. No smiles. No attempt to either ingratiate or intimidate. Neutral. Bored. Want to get back to your desk.
He watched as the eyes flicked down to the newspaper in his pocket. His brain would be processing that little prop. Why would a prisoner have a newly rolled-up newspaper in his jacket? Surely this was more likely to be one of the makeweights, pulled off the street, who had hastily pocketed his Standard.
Go on, you old bastard, put two and two together.
The witness moved on and Bruce saw a flash of irritation cloud Haslam's face. Bruce Reynolds didn't move a muscle, just let a slow stream of air – an extended sigh of relief – bleed from the corner of his mouth.
He would have warm scones for tea after all.
Jack Brabham's place was in Byfleet, Surrey. Although the racing cars with their Coventry-Climax engines bore Jack's name, the machines were principally designed by Ron Tauranac, and the company was officially Motor Racing Developments, MRD for short. It wasn't until the first race of one of the new cars in France that they realised a drawback with the initials, when the announcer introduced Team MRD and the crowd tittered. Team MRD. Team Merde. Team Shit. The cars were hastily rebadged as Brabhams.
Roy James discovered the workshops were shuttered and locked. Yet he could hear the sound of car builders at work inside, the clatter of tools, the hiss of hydraulic and airlines. It didn't surprise him. Formula One teams disliked casual visitors who might just be coming to see how the monocoque or the water-cooling was configured.
He found a side door, with a bell, and pressed it. A feeble ringing sounded somewhere deep within the unit.
As he waited, Roy put his case down and wondered how Mickey was doing. Mickey fucking idiot Ball. It was a few weeks since they had all been lifted. Both Roy and Mickey passed the ID parade, but Mickey had left part of his chauffeur's uniform at home. A pair of grey trousers. How stupid was it to go down for a pair of strides?
I hey earned Mickey a second ID parade and one of the harrier operators at Heathrow placed him at the scene.
On the positive side, Bruce had walked away, but Gordy was in trouble. False moustaches had been found in his flat, along with a bowler hat. Planted, of course, so Gordy said, although it was pointless saying that. He was going down the Fancy Dress Party defence route. Juries must think dressing up in silly costumes was an essential part of the villainous life. And there was an ID from the hardware-shop owner, saying it was Gordy who had bought the cutters, and another from a security guard. Charlie, too, had been fingered, in his case by the lavatory attendant.
The initial hearing was set for three weeks' time. It wasn't long to sort something out for the two lads. They wouldn't grass, that was for sure, which meant they were looking at a decent stretch.
'Yes?' The metal door swung open and a knotted face with hefty sideburns was staring at him.
'Ron in?' Roy asked.
'Busy.' From his accent, this was another Antipodean.
'Can you tell him Roy James is here?'
'What for?'
Roy suddenly put a name to the face. 'You're Denny Hulme, aren't you?'
The man relaxed a little. Belligerence softened into merely prickly. 'Yeah. That's right.'
'I saw you race at Aintree. A second. You picking up a car?'
He shook his head. 'No. I'm the Service Manager here now.'
Well, it was hardly service with a smile. 'You're not racing?'
A shrug. 'Can't afford it, mate.'
'Tell me about it,' said Roy sympathetically. 'Rich man's game.' Hulme nodded. 'Shame though. You're bloody good. Can I see Ron?'
'Really, he's under the cosh, working on the cars for South Africa.'
'Yeah, right. 'Course he is.'
The South African would be the final GP of the year and would decide whether Graham Hill or Jim Clark would be World Champion. Although Brabham weren't in contention for the top two places, with Stirling Moss out of action after a hideous crash, Bruce McLaren, who had won at Monaco, just had to be in the points to stay ahead of Surtees and take third. It would be a real boost for the Brabham-Climax team.
'Just that I want to order a car.'
'A car?'
'To race,' he added redundantly.
Hulme looked down at the case at Roy 's feet. 'You one of those rich men we were just talking about?'
'Had a bit of luck on the Spot-the-Ball competition.'
'Congratulations. What you after?'
'Formula Junior. A BT6.'
'You done much racing?'
'Karts. British team. Ron can vouch for me.' I know what I am doing, is what he really meant.
'A BT6 is five and a half thousand, including Purchase Tax. You must be good at spotting those balls.'
Roy picked up the case. It was most of what he had earned from the job. Affording the running costs for any car he bought was going to be tricky, but he would worry about that later. 'I am. Think Ron'll take cash?'
For the first time Denny Hulme smiled, and when Roy left two hours later, he had a single-seat racing car specced up, a delivery date and a chassis number: FJ-13-62. He was on his way.
London, January 1963
The council of war was held at the Trat – the Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street – on another bitterly cold day. A series of angry storms had lashed the British Isles and there had been four days of fog in London. Now the temperature was down in the basement. So the men who entered the Italian restaurant were bundled up in coats, scarves, gloves and hats and took several minutes to disrobe as Alvaro, the manager, fussed around them, ordering vino rosso before they had even sat down, and listing the day's specials.
Alvaro had selected a circular table at the rear of the room. There was Bruce, back from the South of France where he had gone immediately after the identity parade. He was in the clear now. Fifteen hundred pounds, spread around liberally, meant his name was no longer associated with the Heathrow job. Roy was present, as were Gordy, Buster and a young solicitor, Brian Field.
Gordy was only there because of Brian, who had secured him bail, which had been refused for Charlie and Mickey.
Bruce, a tanned and relaxed figure among wan winter-struck faces, ordered some antipasto for the table and said: 'Well, gentlemen, who is going fill me in? How's Charlie?'
'Quiet,' said Buster, who had visited him on remand. 'But calm.'
'What do they have on him?'
'The lavatory attendant,' said Brian. 'Good ID.'
'Is that all?' Bruce asked. 'Can we get to him?'
The solicitor shook his head. 'No.'
'Is he solid?'
'He's an old bloke. A good brief 11 make him wobble,' said Buster.
'And Brian has an idea,' said Gordy with something close to admiration. Theirs was not a normal client-counsel relationship. In fact, Bruce sometimes thought the angel-faced Brian, with his short hair, neat suits and sensible shirts, was the most bent out of all of them. He had, after all, a glamorous German wife with expensive tastes to support.
Bruce turned to look at the young man, not yet out of his twenties. He could almost pass for a teenager, albeit a particularly harmless, suburban one, apart from the flinty eyes. Bruce glimpsed a greedy venality in there.
'Well, there is a lad works at the airport – has done for two years. Never been on a plane, even though he has to watch them all day. That kid would love to catch a jet to New York or Rio.'
'Yeah? Go on.'
Brian hesitated as a large platter of ham, artichokes, olives and tomatoes was placed in the centre of the table, along with I stack of hot, crisp bread. 'So he'll say that he saw Charlie at exactly the same time as the robbery was taking place – but over with the plane-spotters.'
'Plane-spotters?' Bruce asked incredulously. 'Charlie? He can't tell a 707 from the hole in his arse.'
'I'll slip him a copy of the Observer's Book of Jet Airliners,' said Brian with a smirk. 'Come the trial, he'll be an expert.'
Buster took a sliver of translucent ham and folded it into his mouth. 'OK, fair enough, that's confusing the attendant's evidence – can't be in two places at once,' he said eventually. 'But is that enough?'
Roy waved away the offer of wine and asked for lemonade. 'What about a juror?'
Brian nodded. 'Likely we can get us one. We'll have to wait on that, obviously.'
'How much for the kid at the airport?' Bruce asked.
'Two grand should do it.'
Two grand. The money from the score was dwindling fast. 'I'll get it to you,' said Bruce. 'What about Mickey?'
What he really meant was: would he go QE? 'He's holding up,' said Roy, knowing Mickey would never take the Queen's Evidence route. 'Saw him last week.'
'And what do they have on him?'
'Two witnesses who put him in Comet House.'
'What?' He looked at Brian. 'He wasn't inside.'
'They think it's me,' said Buster. 'Same sort of height, you see.'
'Bollocks,' said Bruce.
Brian supped his wine. 'He could cop a plea. If they do him for the violence inside, he could be looking at a cockle, maybe more.'
'And Mickey can't do ten years standing,' said Roy glumly. They all appreciated that Mickey wasn't made of the same stuff as Charlie, Gordy or Bruce.
They finished the antipasto in silence. Bruce indicated that the table be cleared.
'What if he does cop a plea?'
Brian sniffed. 'A handful, maybe.' Five years. 'They have the chauffeur's trousers from his drum, so it isn't hard to convince them he wasn't inside but behind the wheel. He might even get away with a lagging. Three and out in two.'
'But he won't roll over?' asked Buster, suddenly concerned for his own skin.
'Mickey? Nah,' insisted Roy. 'He knows which side his bread is buttered on.' He also knew what would happen if he did give them Charlie or any of the others. Life inside wouldn't be safe. 'I'll have a word. See if I can get him to change his mind and do a Not Guilty.'
A small bowl of ravioli each – on the house, the waiter informed them – was set before them and more wine taken by all but Roy. Then Bruce turned to Gordy. 'What about you?'
Brian answered for him, mischievousness in his voice. Bruce was reminded yet again that the solicitor often treated all this as a game. Brian v the Bogeys. 'Now Gordon has an idea.'
Gordy quickly outlined his plan, which clearly appealed to his sense of humour. Bruce wasn't so sure.
'That's it? Bit Tommy Cooper, isn't it?'
'And a juror or two, of course,' said Brian reassuringly. 'And we can get to the bolt-cutter man, I'm certain. There's the security guard, but I'm not sure he's enough on his own. It all happened so fast.'
Bruce still wasn't sure about the wisdom of the whole setup, which had elements of farce about it. There was a time and place for clowning around, and the Central Criminal
Court wasn't it. However, the others seemed up for it. 'OK, give it a whirl. But you'll need someone on the inside at AD.' This was the police slang for Alpha Delta, Cannon Row's designation, a term that had been picked up by the other side.
'I could ask the Twins,' said Gordy.
Bruce shook his head vigorously at the thought of involving the heavy-handed Krays. 'No. Keep it tight. And you best stay out of it, too, Gordy. Me and Buster, we'll see what we can do.' He signalled to Alvaro. 'Ready for the mains now.'
Alvaro put on his most flamboyant act, waving his arms and gesticulating, as if a time bomb was about to go off. 'Si, of course, Signor Reynolds. Gilberto, cinque secundipiatti, tavola uno, presto, presto.'
He might be an old ham, thought Bruce, but Alvaro was the best host in London, excepting perhaps Mario at Tiberio, the sister restaurant in Queen Street, who had the edge when it came to the ladies. Mario made them all feel like Gina Lollobrigida.
Brian glanced at his watch and stood up. 'Not for me, chaps, sorry. Got work to do. Believe it or not, some of my clients are actually innocent.'
The young solicitor left them laughing at that one.
London, March 1963
Charlie knew enough to wear a royal-blue shirt to the Old Bailey, rather than a white one. The public areas of the Central Criminal Court might have been vacuumed, washed, polished and waxed daily, but downstairs some of the grime dated from the eighteenth century. He'd seen too many in the dock with smudged white shirts, looking like they'd just delivered a hundredweight of coal. Dark colours, they were best.
Charlie was led by one of the Brixton screws who did turns at the Bailey, past the squalid and crowded 'on bail' cells. One of the steel doors was open, a guard bellowing a name. Charlie glanced in, hoping for a glimpse of Gordy, but couldn't see beyond the swaying youth blocking the doorway. He'd worn a white shirt and tie, like a good boy. The effect was rather spoiled by a nose that had been split like a ripe tomato. Charlie shook his head. That would make a good impression on the jury. Still, the kid might be a nonce or a rapist and deserved it. The young offender glanced over his shoulder, back into the cell. He wasn't more than nineteen and his legs bowed and shook as he was pulled towards his moment in the dock. Nah, thought Charlie, he probably just looked at someone the wrong way.
As they approached the 'kennels' one of the prison officers unlocked the closest door and bowed, as if welcoming him to his hotel suite. Charlie remained impassive. Fuck them. The kennels – cells reserved for those on remand brought from prisons – were often worse than the 'on bails' – scorching in summer, cold in winter, no windows, just a series of holes drilled high in the wall for ventilation. No lavatory, of course, just a bucket. One shower on request, should your day drag on and your clothes and hair and skin grow rank as they absorbed the stench of your own, and everyone else's, sweat. But one shower for sixty or seventy meant you might not get a turn and if you did, the slimy, mould-tinged cubicle was hardly inviting.
'Mr Wilson,' said the screw with exaggerated politeness. 'We'll be calling you shortly.'
Charlie gave the man a thin smile, and imagined punching him hard, right between the eyes. He preferred it when they didn't speak to him. He did them that courtesy, why couldn't they just return it and keep their mouths shut? They all knew what this was: a rick of the life he had chosen. As such, he- thought of it now more like an athlete thought of a pulled tendon or a pilot his plane crashing. It can happen. It had happened.
The cell held only six other people, and one chair, occupied. The others sat on the filthy floor, cross-legged. He scanned the faces as they looked up at him. No sign of Mickey. He didn't recognise any of them. No friends here. Not much warmth either, with the winter that still ruled the country bleeding in through the ventilation holes.
The door closed behind him with a resounding clang and Charlie looked around at walls covered in graffiti and food slops and not a little blood. There was no way on God's earth he was going to lean against that. And the floor was covered in a film of dirt and piss. He looked at the man in the chair. Forty-ish, with the pallor of a life in pokey about him. Flabby upper arms, crude, homemade tattoos. Not in shape at all. Charlie had a hand on his own biceps. They were good and hard. He'd done push-ups and sit-ups morning and evening, hundreds of them, a way of numbing the pain of being separated from Pat. That was the only hard thing about being inside. Everything else was easy. The thought of five or ten years away from the family, though… but that wasn't the problem right now.
The man in the chair was reading a paper. Charlie scanned the second lead story. A 'freelance model' called Christine Keeler had failed to appear in court as a witness to a shooting by a 'coloured' man, John Arthur Edgecombe. Charlie knew Christine, vaguely, from the clubs. Hard-faced but softhearted. He wondered how long before the hacks really joined up the dots. Everyone knew who else hung out at Murray 's Cabaret, and that the group treated Cliveden as its country branch.
But the man in the chair wasn't reading that. He was groaning about how the West Indies had beaten England by ten wickets in Barbados. 'Can you believe those nig-nogs?'
Those nig-nogs included players like Sobers and Gibbs, the best off-spinner in the game, thought Charlie. Ignorant cunt. He took a step forward and sniffed loudly.
In the confined space, it sounded like a bull snorting. The long-termer in the chair looked up, then returned to his paper. Charlie took a step closer, folding his arms, feeling his worked muscles press against the fabric of his clothes. The man put down his Mirror once more. He opened his mouth to speak, saw the expression in Charlie's eyes and the honed shape of his torso, and thought better of it. He stood and stepped aside.
Charlie shot his trousers from the knee as he sat, then nodded his thanks as he held out his hand. The man hesitated and passed over the newspaper. Charlie snapped it open at an article claiming that the police needed an extra £25 million a year to fight the underworld. A White Paper called Crime in the Sixties was claiming that every aspect of law enforcement, from the probation service to the courts, was 'clearly inadequately funded' with the ever-present risk of 'crime going unpunished'.
Charlie laughed to himself. That's handy, he thought. Crime going unpunished. Maybe the day would work out all right, after all.
From The Times, 12 March 1963
MAN ACQUITTED ON £62,000 CHARGE
At the close of the case for the prosecution at the trial of the three men accused of being concerned in a £62,000 wages robbery at London Airport last November, Sir Anthony Hawke, the Recorder at the Central Criminal Court, directed the jury yesterday to acquit one of the accused on the grounds that there was insufficient evidence to justify proceeding further against him. A witness who placed the accused at the site was deemed 'unreliable', especially as another witness had insisted he was elsewhere at the time.
Charles Frederick Wilson, aged 30, bookmaker of Crescent Lane, S.W., was then found Not Guilty of robbing Arthur Henry Grey and Donald William Harris of boxes containing £62,599, the property of BOAC, while armed with offensive weapons. Wilson was formally discharged.
CONFESSION DENIED
Addressing the jury, the Judge said that the evidence against Wilson was of such doubtful character that it did not justify proceeding against him further.
The trial then proceeded against Michael John Ball, aged 26, credit agent of Lambrook Terrace, Fulham, S.W., and Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 32, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W. Mr Ball denied that he originally admitted his role in the robbery in a verbal confession and said that he intended to plead Not Guilty. The trial was adjourned for two weeks.
London, March 1963
As happened every weekday except holidays, at six that morning the Billingsgate bell gave its sonorous clang, echoing around Fish Hill and Pudding Lane. Within the great hall and its satellite lock-ups, the market roared into life. Prices were shouted between buyers and sellers in an impenetrable piscine argot. As deals were made, the wooden-hatted porters stacked boxes of lobsters from Whitby, eels from Holland, mackerel from Newlyn or whiting from Fleetwood on their heads. The market's chimney began to belch its plume of black smoke into the slowly lightening sky.
Bruce took in the scene from the edge of the pandemonium, outside the entrance to the market hall, his etiolated form positioned under a street-light as he waited to be noticed. He was wearing a thick Aquascutum overcoat and a Hermes scarf, but still felt the bitter early-morning chill. The place, of course, also stank. It was a fish market, after all.
Alf Flowers was busy instructing his lads when he caught sight of Bruce. Like Charlie, who had a stake in a Covent Garden firm, Alf had a history – was 'known to the police', as they said. He had been up the steps a few times, although after the last stretch he had sworn to the missus that the only fishy business he would do was at the market. Which was mostly true. Except his chosen business now was not blowing peters but trading information and contacts. For half the villains in London, Alf was like dialling Directory Enquiries. One advantage of using Alf's services was you could get a nice Dungerness crab or two while you were at it. You never got that from the GPO.
'All right, Bruce? Sparrowfart's a bit early for you, isn't it?'
Bruce stifled a yawn. 'Hello, Alf.'
'Got some lovely halibut if you're interested.'
'Fancy a drink?'
Alf knew full well this wasn't about that night's supper. 'Rum and coffee over at the Wheatsheaf?' he asked, throwing a thumb to indicate across the river towards Borough Market. The pub opened at six, serving the porters from the local vicinity. Billingsgate had its own early licensed boozers, but Alf clearly wanted to do business away from under the gaze of his co-workers. Very wise.
'Perfect.'
'See you in thirty?'
'Fine.'
Alf lowered his voice. 'Give me an idea what you after?'
'A copper.'
The fishmonger didn't seem surprised by this. It couldn't have been any old bogey though, because he knew Bruce was on nodding terms with a few of them down at the Marlborough in Chelsea. But then, Bruce was clever enough not to shit on his own doorstep. 'What kind of copper?'
'The kind who likes a flutter at Crockford's or the Pair of Shoes. Preferably one from AD.'
Alf smiled, as if certain this was unlikely to be a taxing assignment. 'I'll see you over there. Order me the FEB.'
'One Full English Breakfast coming up.'
It was Roy and Buster who made the drop. Buster chose Postman's Park, the churchyard of St Botolph's-Without- Aldersgate, famous for its monument to ordinary men and women who turned out to be heroes and heroines. The tiny space was just behind St Bart's Hospital, next to the GPO Headquarters.
There was snow in the air, small flurries presaging a full shower to come. While Roy paced back and forth in front of the park's narrow entrance, looking for suspicious activity and trying to keep warm, Buster put down the Derry & Tom's bag and read the glazed porcelain plaques in the little cloister.
He stopped before a plaque that commemorated a brave cozzer.
George Stephen FUNNELL
Police Constable
December 22nd, 1899.
In a fire at the Elephant and Castle,
Wick Road, Hackney Wick, after rescuing
2 lives, went back into the flames, saving
a barmaid at the risk of his own life.
Good man, thought Buster. He knew a few barmaids he'd like to save. Not that he would run into a burning pub for them – although doubtless this one was very grateful to
Constable Funnel. He wondered if the Elephant and Castle public house was still there.
A piercing whistle from Roy reached him and he turned around. A figure was heading towards him – a man in his thirties, with thinning blond hair, trailing clouds of cigarette smoke as if he was steam-powered. Buster waited for him to approach then turned back to the plaques.
'Look at this,' he said, reading from one of the other commemorations. '"Frederick Mills, A. Rutter, Robert Durrant and F.D. Jones who lost their lives in bravely striving to save a comrade who had fallen into the sewage pumping works. East Ham, July the eighteenth, 1895".'
The detective kept mute.
'Now that's what I call being in the shit,' Buster growled. 'Know what I mean?'
The policeman looked down at the carrier bag. 'That it?'
Buster indicated it was. He looked for Roy, but he had gone. Fetching the car, he hoped. 'You know what to do?'
'You want to go over it again?' the copper asked.
Buster suddenly felt nervous. 'No, I fuckin' don't.' He seized the man's overcoat and started pulling it open.
'Hey, hey, what the fuck-'
Buster grabbed the man's face, squeezing the cheeks together. He had little respect for coppers anyway, zero for bent ones. 'What's your game?' Buster hissed.
'Relax. Jesus, I was just winding you up. I know what to do.'
Buster let him go and the man readjusted his clothing. Buster felt a sour taste rise in his mouth as he said, 'It's all in there – the item and the money. If it goes right…'
'Look, I've got no say in that.'
'If it goes right, there's a bonus, as agreed. Now fuck off and piss it away at some spieler.'
Buster turned and strode off, hands in pockets, head down, alert for any lurking strangers. He reached the ornate gates and Roy pulled up in front of him, leaned over and opened the door of the Mini. Buster jumped in, banging his head as he did so. Roy gunned the little engine, releasing a satisfyingly deep note from the stainless-steel sports exhaust and they pulled away. Roy navigated them down to Fleet Street, past the Black Lubyanka – the Daily Express building – and onto the Strand, heading west and keeping one eye on the mirror.
He took a last-minute, tyre-squealing left turn onto Waterloo Bridge, towards the Festival Hall and the remnants of the Festival of Britain, now being reworked into some concrete monstrosity. Once on the bridge, he checked the wing mirrors. At the far end, he took the roundabout and drove back north again. Nobody followed. 'Where to?' he asked.
'The Marlborough,' Buster said, needing a drink and knowing Bruce would be there. He banged the dashboard of the diminutive machine. 'And don't spare the fuckin' ponies.'
From The Times, 26 March 1963
For his part in the £62,599 wages robbery at London Airport last November, Michael John Ball, aged 26, credit agent, of Lambrook Terrace, Fulham, S.W., was sentenced at the Criminal Crown Court yesterday to five years' imprisonment.
Ball had changed his plea from Not Guilty to Guilty of robbing Arthur Henry Gray and John Anthony Doyle of boxes containing £62,500, the property of BOAC, while armed with offensive weapons.
The jury was unable to agree on their verdict in the case of Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 32, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W., who had pleaded Not Guilty to the same charge. After the foreman had said there was no prospect of reaching a decision so far as Goody was concerned, Sir Anthony Hawke, the Recorder, discharged the jury from giving a verdict. Goody was then released on £15,000 bail pending a retrial.
Old Bailey, London, April 1963
Sir Donald Harris, the prosecution counsel, approached the witness, one of the men who had transferred the strongboxes at the airport. A fresh trial needed a fresh approach. But the security guard who had seen Goody, who had originally picked him out in an identity parade, was now wavering even more than the last time. Sir Donald wondered if he had been nobbled.
'So, is the man who coshed you the man in this court or not?'
'I think so.'
'You think so?' He let a sneer play around the word 'think'.
'I can't be sure, sir.'
'Can't be sure?' Sir Donald barked.
The security guard swallowed hard. 'No, sir.'
'Yet you were sure in an identity parade.'
'They had hats on then, sir.'
'Hats?' asked the judge. 'What kind of hats?'
The witness looked over and addressed the judge directly. ' Bowler hats, like they wore in the robbery, Your Honour.'
'I see,' came the reply.
'It so happens we have a bowler hat recovered from Mr Goody's premises,' Sir Donald said affably. 'A steel hat, no less. Is this the type of hat he was wearing?'
'I believe so.'
The heavy metal bowler was passed to the witness, then the judge, and finally displayed to the jury. 'And if you saw him in this hat, do you think your memory might suddenly improve?'
'Objection!'
Sir Donald inclined his head and rephrased. 'Excuse me, do you think it might aid in identification?'
'I am sure it would, sir.'
'Very well. If the defence has no objection, I would like to invite Mr Goody to place this bowler hat on his head.'
'No objection, m'lud.'
Gordon Goody leaned over and took the bowler by the brim, spinning it round and round, as if selecting the correct alignment.
He stared over at the witness, an accommodating smile on his face, while he raised his arms above his head. He brought the hat down to the crown and hesitated, as if pausing for effect. When he let go, the oversized bowler – at least three hat-sizes too large – fell down around his ears, swallowing them and covering his eyes. 'Hold on,' he said. 'The lights have gone out. Someone got a shilling for the meter?'
The courtroom dissolved into laughter and Sir Donald's jowly face sagged further. He could hear the verdict already: Not Guilty.
'Did you see that cocky cunt?' Len Haslam spat beer and phlegm across the bar of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub in Fleet Street.
'You win some, you lose some,' said Billy. 'You know that.'
Len shook his head. 'Not like that. Not like it's some bloody variety show and he's Max bloody Miller.' He thumped the wooden bar top. 'Someone was got at.'
Len was in such an agitated state that the majority of the other early-evening customers – mostly journalists – were giving him a wide berth. He stank of trouble.
He was taking the Not Guilty worse than most, but Billy, too, was disappointed. Not only that, they had missed a trick. Once the verdict had come in, Gordy had walked across to where the chain and lock from the airport gate were sitting and pulled at it. A phony link had given way, showing how the robbers had opened the gate so quickly. He must have rejoined it at the scene and none of the so-called experts who had examined it had spotted that. All had assumed a key had been used, and the clasp reclosed.
'We got one for it though, didn't we?'
'Mickey Ball? Yeah, right. We lose Wilson then Goody and we're left with him? Nose-pickings.'
Len downed his pint and signalled for another, the anger still twisting his features. 'Let me tell you this, Billy boy.' He tapped the rim of the empty pint pot against the young man's chest. 'One day, I'm going to have that Douglas Gordon Goody by the short and curlies, whatever it takes.'
London, March 1963
The celebrations kicked off with champagne cocktails at the Ritz. They cost a whopping eleven bob each, but Bruce insisted that they were the best in town and well worth every penny.
'A lump of sugar in the bottom of the glass, one drop of Angostura bitters-'
'Anger what?' asked Buster.
Bruce ignored him. 'A dash of brandy, not too much or you kill the champagne stone fuckin' dead, ice-cold bubbly and an orange peel. Lovely.'
Buster sipped his drink. 'Very nice.' He winked at Bruce. 'If a little poncy.'
The small group, all but one suited and booted, sat in a corner of the bar. Roy thought its green and gold decor could do with refreshing, but then he was drinking orange juice. Judging from his friends' reactions, the cocktails packed quite a kick; you wouldn't worry about the state of the wallpaper after two of them.
They were celebrating first Charlie and then Gordy getting off. The steel bowler had been replaced by the larger one that Buster had slipped the bent bogey in Postman's Park. Somehow, he had switched them in the evidence room at Cannon Row.
Roy watched as Gordy and Charlie toasted each other. Brian, taking his due for his machinations behind the scenes, was there as well as Bruce, Buster and, looking dangerously glamorous next to the Colonel, Janie Riley in a black sheath dress.
'One more and we'll have dinner at Madame Prunier's and a drink at the A and R club. Then maybe catch the Blue Flames at the Flamingo. All on the emergency fund.'
The cash from the robbery had been divvied up so each of the principals got around seven grand each, and what was left was split into two pots, the emergency fund, for things like bail, and the investment fund. A few drinks and a slap- up French meal on St James's plus a few rounds at boxer Freddie Mills' club and watching Georgie Fame would empty out the emergency fund. That left ten thousand in the investment pot. And that had to kick-start the next job.
Td like to make a toast,' said Roy. 'Gentlemen?'
The others fell silent.
'A toast to Gordy and Charlie, of course.'
There were some grunts, but nobody raised their glasses. There was more to come.
'And Brian. Nice one.'
Nodding heads all round.
'But we shouldn't forget we lost a soldier.' Roy looked at Bruce, who clearly approved of the military analogy. 'Tonight, we are a man down. Gentlemen, I give you Mickey Ball.'
'Mickey Ball,' the others said in unison, before drinking, all of them thinking of the five years he had pulled down. It was on the high side because he refused to name any accomplices.
Bruce came over and sat down next to Roy. 'You know we'll see him all right, don't you?'
'Yes, I know. Be nice to have something for him to come out to.'
'True.' Bruce thought of the empty coffers. 'Well, while he was inside, Charlie heard about something interesting that might be right up our street. Mickey will get a drink out of it. Absent friends and all that.'
'What sort of thing?'
Bruce leaned in. He hadn't been going to say anything until he learned more, but he felt he should show Roy he was thinking ahead, and of Mickey.
'A train, my son.'
'What kind of train?'
Bruce looked surprised. There was only one sort of train that would interest him. 'The money kind.'