Headley, Surrey, May 1992
My legs wobbled slightly as I opened the gate at the bottom of the path and stepped towards the siege house. Nerves, I guessed. The young copper had turned back; I was on my own. No light shone from within. I wasn't sure what the form was. Did I go up and knock? Wait until the door opened?
In the end I strode up the gravel as if I was just popping round for a chat – which, in a way, I was. Apart from the fact that one of us had a gun and was probably unhinged by recent events. I walked up the three marble steps between the pillars, rang the bell and waited.
An indistinct voice answered. 'It's open.'
I pushed the door and it swung back. The Yale lock had been clicked into the withdrawn position. It was dark inside.
'Come in and close it behind you,' said the disembodied voice.
I did as I was told.
'Release the catch so it locks.' I had him now. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs in the cold, black hallway. As my eyes adjusted I could see the shape of Roy James, looking shrunken, no bigger than a child I could also make out the faint glint of metal. The gun.
I pulled the button down and heard the latch snick into place. 'Hello, Roy. Long time.'
'Yeah. A very long time.'
I rubbed my hands together. 'Christ, it's cold in here.' 'Is it?'
'Yes, it is. You got any heating?'
'The boiler's broken. There's a gasfire in the kitchen.' He gave a loud, self-pitying sniff. 'They coming to get me, Tony?'
I shivered again, not from the chill in the air this time, but from the odd dispassion in the words he spoke. They were colder than the house. 'Eventually, Roy.'
He stood. 'Fancy some tea?'
'I do, Roy. I have biscuits.'
'You go and light the fire. I'll put the kettle on. Matches are on the mantelpiece.'
It was a huge kitchen, stone-flagged, with a fireplace large enough to roast an ox in. Much of it had been boarded up, leaving a triple-element gas fire. While he fussed with the kettle I lit it, almost singeing my eyebrows.
The sole illumination was a 100-watt bulb hanging above the table with no lampshade and it made his skin look waxy and accentuated the shadows under his eyes. Once I had unloaded the biscuits onto a plate, I stood near the now- glowing fire, letting it warm my legs. He sat at the table, the pistol – a Browning automatic – in front of him.
'You remember that winter?' Roy asked. 'Sixty-two and three? That was fuckin' cold.'
It had been beyond cold into absolutely freezing, the sort of temperature that made your very bones ache. Trains shut down, there were power cuts, blizzards. The days and weeks of ice and snow and grim, low skies had been very bad for the car business, and me with a baby on the way. Roy, too, had suffered disappointments as more and more race meets were cancelled. Had he got consistent early practice in, he would have progressed to International Formula Junior more quickly, which would have meant the chance of sponsorship, which meant… well, it could have changed everything for him.
'It's all turned to shit, hasn't it, Tony? For me, anyway.' He paused. 'Fuck, I've given that speech too many times. But I was good.'
'We all knew it, Roy.'
'I hope he fuckin' dies.'
'Your father-in-law? No, you don't.'
He took a deep breath. 'No. I don't. But sometimes I think I was happier in nick.'
'Don't say that.'
'Well, you know, in one way it's a lot less aggro. Just do your time. Out here, fuck, it's a battle, isn't it? Every day a battle. I saw Buster the other week on his flower stall. Says the same. Gets him down.'
'Buster always had a black streak,' I said carefully. 'You know that. Things just look bad now. Nobody's died. It's a bit of a domestic that got out of hand, that's all. I think we should go outside, Roy.'
'Why?'
'Before they come inside.'
He suddenly looked up at me, his eyes suspicious. 'Why did you say yes?'
'To coming here?'
'No. That day I came to the showroom and asked you to drive for us on the train job. Why did you say yes?'
It had been April, winter easing its terrible, almost malevolent grip at last. Nobody who lived through those months would ever forget it. Britain was thrust back to the Middle Ages – cold enough for Frost Fairs, almost. I had said yes for the same reason they all had: the money. I had no ready cash, too many cars nobody wanted to buy – the only people doing well in the motor business were the makers of anti-freeze and snow chains – and a wife who was pregnant. A wife who suddenly wanted a bigger house and things for the baby. Nice things. Expensive things.
Roy had come asking for two more Jags and I'd said no, not with the Chalk Farm boys looking my way. So he had asked whether, if they sourced the cars from elsewhere, I would take the second wheel. For good money. Buy-you-a- nice-flat kind of cash. Yes, I'd said, even though I knew what had happened to Mickey Ball. Five years.
I told myself I wouldn't ever make that kind of mistake.
Yeah, right.
Twenty-six
London, May 1963
Billy Naughton thought the girl would pull away as he came, but she kept her mouth clamped over the end of his cock until the last spasm had passed through it. When he had finished, she stood up and crossed the dingy room to the sink where she spat loudly while the detective buttoned himself up.
They were in a grey cubicle above the Hat Trick on Berwick Street. It was one of those come-on places with a hawker at the door who promised punters no end of delights but, in the end, sent them to a grim basement in Rupert Court where they were fleeced all over again. Its real business happened in the warren of tawdry rooms above it: a bed with a mattress that didn't bear thinking about, a dresser, a sink and a sharp smell that a gallon of Dettol couldn't hide.
The girl rinsed her mouth and looked at him with a disarmingly direct gaze. Billy felt himself blush. She was barely in her twenties, skinny, with a black Helen Shapiro semi-beehive that was in need of fresh backcombing. She spoke with an accent he couldn't place, apart from it originating north of the Watford Gap. 'You been eating spicy food, have you?' she asked, smacking her lips.
Buckling his belt, he checked the front of his trousers for stains. He recalled that the team had been for a curry at some place off Regent Street the night before. When he admitted he had never had an Indian before, Len had made him order vindaloo. Bastard. 'You can tell that?'
She gave a grin that dimpled her cheeks, softening the hard lines around her mouth. 'Look, love, after two years of this I can tell whether the customers prefer fruit gums or fruit pastilles.'
Two years? He thought briefly of all the cocks she had sucked in that time and shuddered. She had offered more, but now he was glad he just went for the oral.
There was a banging on the door and he heard Duke's voice through the thin chipboard and ply. 'You finished, lover boy? Come on, wipe your dick on the curtains and let's be havin' you.'
Billy gave a shrug and reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pound note. The girl arched an eyebrow. 'Blimey, a copper who leaves a tip. Is that a pig with wings I can see?'
He threw it onto the lurid shiny bedspread, then felt he had to say something as he put on his jacket. 'Look, Paulette, wasn't it?'
She nodded. 'Well, Pauline as was. But the punters like a French name. Among other things.'
'I don't normally do that… you know.'
'Do what?' She was teasing.
'Take advantage.' It wasn't strictly true. Len Haslam had nobbled him out for a similar 'treat' to drown their sorrows at Gordon Goody slipping through their fingers. It was a 'stag do' after a lock-in at a pub in Bermondsey. There had been blue films and a couple of willing girls high on, appropriately enough, blueys.
"Course not,' she sneered as she sat on the bed. Its overworked springs gave a tired groan. He went to continue but she held up a hand to silence him. 'Look, darling, one of your lot comes round for a free gobble every week or so. Happy to oblige. GTP, eh?'
It stood for Good To Police and described anywhere that gave discounts or free samples to the Force. 'But I don't want to listen to any speeches. Some of you coppers, the fresh ones like you, get sucked off and turn into Sir Galahad. Start suggesting I'm special, tell me how they'd like to help. But you are no different from the bastards that run this place, sonny. Or the punters. At least they pay decent.' She picked up the note and tossed it back at him. He let it flutter to the floor. 'Go on, fuck off, there's probably someone with real cash downstairs waiting for a good time. Types like you ruin the business, you do.'
He opened the door. She had folded her arms across her bony chest. He stepped out into the narrow corridor, leaving the pound note where it had fallen onto the greasy carpet.
Despite the occasional visit to the working girls, Soho wasn't their patch, not really. The Flying Squad left it to Vice and West End Central, who had it carved up like a very fat, filling meat pie. But Duke had a few contacts he liked to keep sweet, ones he had known before they had gravitated like bluebottles to the shit-heap of Old Compton Street and environs. And besides, as he was fond of saying, a free quickie never did anyone any harm. A perk of the job.
In the division of spoils at the Big House they had caught
two cases, one a jewellery lift in Hatton Garden, the other a vicious Post Office raid in Islington, and spent the rest of the day flitting between the two locales, achieving very little that Billy could see, except winding up the local coppers and sinking a few pints.
They finished their shift at the Lamb and Flag, where Billy felt a cloud of gloom descend around him as he lit what would be the first of many fags. Duke sensed his mood at once. 'You think we've been wasting our fuckin' time, don't you?'
'Nooo…' Billy said, drawing out the word to breaking- point.
'Look, get over the idea that we have to be Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Whatsit,' said Duke, supping his eighth beer of the day. 'Sooner or later it'll fall in our lap, just like that tom of yours earlier.'
Billy smirked along with him, but there was no humour in it. His dick had been itching for the last couple of hours, even though he'd washed it in various scabrous Gents' sinks since the encounter. He was beginning to wonder if you could catch the clap from blowjobs.
'The thing you have to remember about villains is they are either stupid or overconfident or both. Some of them have intelligence, or rather rat-like cunning. A few have imagination, but not many. Which is why they stick to their patches. Territorial, see, like any animals. Yet we think of them as some kind of Raffles. You know, gentlemen thieves backed by a criminal mastermind. Now there's a fuckin' contradiction in terms. Criminal bleedin' masterminds. I tell you, if they were so mastermindy, you think they'd do the same thing over and over again? Do you? Does the team think, eh? I don't fuckin' think so.'
He was shouting now, and Billy looked around. The pub was almost empty, just a few woozy stragglers, and they weren't paying much attention. A buzzer went for last orders, but it didn't register with Duke. Billy knew that coppers were conditioned to ignore such sounds, like the opposite of Pavlov's dogs. At the sound of the bell, act like fuck-all has happened and it's got nothing to do with you. Which, with a flash of a warrant card, it rarely did.
'Well, does the team think?' Duke said, savouring the phrase. 'Not much, Y'Honour. Can't teach an old slag new tricks. Can you, Billy?'
A slyness had crept into Duke's voice and Billy realised he wasn't as pissed as he was pretending to be. He punched the older man on the shoulder. 'You cunt.'
Duke took that as a compliment and flashed his nicotine- stained teeth. 'You know this place used to be called the Bucket of Blood? Because of all the bare-knuckle fights outside. Back in…'
But Billy wasn't having any of that old flannel. 'Spare me the history lesson, Len. There'll be more blood on the floor if you don't tell me what you picked up.'
Duke reached into his pocket and took out a small square of paper which he unfolded and laid on the bar towel in front of them. There were two registration numbers on it. 'Bingo,' he said. 'All the three point fours, nickety-nick.'
Billy picked up the scrap and stared at it. 'What you on about?'
'Last weekend, just gone. Two Jags go missing within half a day of each other. And not any old Jags. Three point fours again. What does that tell you?'
Billy didn't need to think too hard. 'The Comet House boys?'
'Precisely. The City gents. Old fuckin' habits, see? Jaguar three point fours. The motor of choice for the discerning wheel-man everywhere.' His eyes were suddenly sober, the glassy stare replaced by something altogether more steely. 'They took the piss, didn't they? So now we take a good, long look at Roy James, Buster Edwards and especially Gordon "Big Head" Goody, and this time we catch them doing a bit more than scratching their bollocks.' He pointed at Billy's empty glass. 'Fancy another, son?'
London, May 1963
Tony's stomach was burning as he parked the Hillman in a side street lined with tall Edwardian houses, a ten-minute walk from the lock-ups at Lee where Jimmy White had stashed the two Jaguars. The idea was to move them closer to the job, which was scheduled for that night. A train. Robbing a bleeding train. It was like the Wild West, with Bruce Reynolds as Cheyenne Bodie. No, he was a good guy. Paladin, that was the bloke, a gunfighter with a dark streak in him. Have Gun, Will Travel it said on his calling card. Except Bruce said no guns. Using a shooter was like Double Your Money, he had told them, only here it was called Double Your Jolt.
Marie had sensed there was something up. She had never stopped asking questions. Where are you going? What are you doing? Why are you staying the night? Is it a woman?
No, it's not a woman. Well, she believed that. Because it was the truth. If only. No woman would churn his insides like this. His cover story – alibi, he supposed – was that he was going to buy a Ford Zodiac and a Zephyr in Southampton
and would be staying over before driving one of them back, with his new pal Jimmy White chauffeuring the second. (Who the hell is Jimmy White? she had asked.) He had already ordered them to be delivered by low-loader, so should she check in the showroom over the next few weeks, they would be there. He would probably sell them, too. Z-Cars had just swapped their Ford Consuls for the newer models, and sales had received a boost.
He walked quickly down towards the parade of shops and two pubs – the Old Tiger's Head and the New Tiger's Head – that faced off against each other and formed the heart of Lee, which for most people was little more than a crossroads on the A20 to Lewisham. He glanced at the pubs, suddenly thirsty, but kept his head down and continued across the lights.
Tony lit a cigarette as he went. He'd started smoking again, a pack a day. Marie could smell it on him and complained that he was stinking the flat out, even though he never lit up indoors. It was hormones that made her hysterical, he supposed. Everything for the good of the baby. Well, why did she think he was doing this?
And then those strange words when he had left. 'Make sure it's worth our while, Tony.'
He could see Jimmy up ahead, waiting for him, also smoking but leaning against a lamp-post, loose and relaxed. An old pro, Bruce had said. Best key-man in London. He raised a hand as he recognised Tony, who tossed his cigarette away. Before he reached him, Jimmy detached himself from his post and walked up the track that led to the lock-ups, where the Jags were stored.
Tony watched Jimmy's back as he strode down the lane between the houses and turned left towards the row of garages, disappearing from view. If Tony took one step onto the rough driveway, he was committed. He could just walk on now if he wanted. Say the Old Bill had spotted him and he'd become spooked. Say his bowels had turned to liquid. Say he had a feeling Marie needed him. Say anything.
Make sure it's worth our while.
She knew. Marie knew he was up to no good, as she used to say, and she didn't care. Just as long as the risk was worth the reward. Well, Bruce was talking fifteen, twenty each. They could live in Hampstead for that.
Jimmy's head reappeared, followed by an arm beckoning him on, a gesture ripe with impatience. They had two ringed Jags to deliver to Bruce & Co for their tickle. A train, so he had heard. But he was just a delivery boy, Tony told himself. Drop off the Jaguars and you're done. Take the fee and walk away. Tony realised he had stopped walking, his legs suddenly leaden. Jimmy waved at him again.
Tony sniffed nervously and took his first, heavy step on the road to robbery.
The observation van, a scruffy old Transit, stank of long- eaten Wimpys, greasy chips, sweat and ripe farts. It was a potent combination that always resisted even the steam hose deployed at the end of a particularly long stint.
The tatty Ford had been moved into position three days ago, when Roy James had been spotted at a disused bus garage in South London. Through the ventilation grills on the side, a policeman with binoculars could keep a log of the comings and goings at the depot.
That morning it was all comings. Bruce Reynolds – in some flash motor as always, this time one of the new Lotus Cortinas – Roy James, Buster Edwards and three men that Duke didn't recognise. No Goody or Wilson, which was disappointing. But something was definitely up. There was no way that lot was thinking of going into the public transport business. They had already brought in a Bedford van, sliding back the big main doors to allow it in, and then slamming them shut again. Duke could only imagine what was inside, but he'd wager his arse- hole it involved pickaxe handles and masks or something similar.
A couple of streets away were two Flying Squad drivers with two detectives, ready to either move in or follow, depending on what Duke decided.
'I need a piss,' said Billy Naughton.
'Go in that bucket.'
'I can get out quietly.'
'Fuck off. You'll be spotted. Who's to say they're not clocking us from the top floor now.' He moved the binoculars up to the shattered panes of the metal Crittall windows and refocused them. There was no movement, but that didn't signify anything. 'You can go out when you need a shit. Before that, use the bucket. Hold up.'
Billy moved close to Duke, but he couldn't see much through the grill. 'What is it?'
'Someone's coming out.'
The small access door cut within the larger gates opened and Bruce Reynolds stepped through into the feeble sunlight. Even so, Duke could see him squint at the unaccustomed glare. Must be dark within the old garage, Duke figured. Reynolds glanced at his watch – some fuck-off Swiss one, Duke didn't doubt – then looked right and left. He's waiting for someone, thought Duke. It's going down. He stared at the radio, the one he could use to call in reinforcements. Did they break it up now, or try and catch them red-handed?
He heard the sonorous ringing of the bucket as Billy relieved himself.
'Here, keep the bloody noise down, will you? It's like Big Ben going off.'
'Sorry. Christ, I needed that.'
Duke wrinkled his nose. 'Put the cover on it, will you?' There was another clang as Billy dropped the tea tray that acted as a lid onto the receptacle. 'Quietly!'
'Let's have a look.'
Len handed the bins over to Billy, and helped himself to some stewed tea from the Thermos, trying to ignore the smell of hot piss still wafting from the bucket, despite its lid.
So, Duke continued to muse, do we go in whenever the consignment or vehicle Reynolds is waiting for arrives, or see what develops? Jam today or tomorrow? There were times when he wished they had a bloody Whirlybird, a helicopter to track the buggers from the air.
'He's gone back in, Len,' said Billy.
'How did he look?'
'Very smart. Nice suit.'
Duke sighed. 'His face, you prick. What was his expression?'
Billy smirked to let him know he'd been pulling his plonker. 'Didn't give much away. Concerned, maybe.'
'Like he was expecting something?'
'Yeah.'
Charlie Wilson and Gordon Goody, perhaps. That would be a result. Duke picked up the radio. It was time to wake up the others. However it went down, here or at some as- yet-unknown tickle, Bruce Reynolds and his mates were going to be spending some time at a not-so-friendly nick that day.
Opportunity fuckin' Knocks, he thought, and the clapometer swings to 100 per cent.
Jimmy White waited until Tony caught up with him. He put out his hand and they shook. 'All right?'
'Yeah,' replied Tony, with a confidence he didn't feel.
'Where you parked?'
' Effingham Road.'
'Good. OK, they are in the end ones,' he said, indicating along the row of multi-coloured, up-and-over metal doors. Jimmy gave Tony a sidelong glance, something in the new boy's demeanour unsettling him. 'You sure you are all right?'
Tony shrugged. 'You know…'
Jimmy put a hand on his shoulder. 'Yeah, I know. Be all right. You're with the big boys now.'
'Don't worry about me, I'll do my bit.'
'Sure. Here. Take the green one.'Jimmy handed over a set of keys with a Jaguar leather fob, the metal disc featuring a close-up of the snarling cat. Tony took them, hoping Jimmy wouldn't see how sweaty his palms were.
'And this is for the garage. Number thirty-one. The one on the right.' He produced a second set of keys and tossed them to Tony.
They lined up in front of their respective metal doors, bent down and turned the keys in the locks, then twisted the handles. 'One, two, three,' said Jimmy, as if they were waiters about to lift their cloches in unison.
There was a rattle and rumble as the concrete counterweights slid down their runners, and the doors yawned open, to reveal the space within. And that was all there was. Space. No Jaguars. Just the empty, oil-stained cement floors where they had once stood.
Tony turned to Jimmy, open-mouthed, a baffled shock mixed with a cowardly streak of relief. White had already seen the hole in the roof where the robbers had gained initial access and discovered the cars. As a key-man, he knew how easy it was to start a Jag, almost as simple as picking and then resetting the locks in the garage doors' handles.
'They've gone,' said Tony.
Jimmy's face darkened, his lips twisting, but then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It was a coarse, frightening sound, although there might have been a hint of admiration in there as he shook his head in amazement. 'The thievin' bastards.'
New Scotland Yard, May 1963
Frank Williams, Ernie Millen's deputy, barely glanced at the reports on his desk before he looked up at Duke and Billy. He ran a hand over his thinning hair, his expression like someone sucking on a lemon. 'Fuckin' shambles,' he said quietly. 'A right fuckin' shambles.'
Len Haslam shifted his weight from leg to leg uncomfortably. 'We were sure they were at it…'
Williams's face closed like a fist. 'Of course they were bloody at it. But what were they at, Lennie boy?'
Duke shrugged. Williams reached over and took a sip of his tea. 'You are lucky Ernie or Hatherill haven't seen this, or they'd be having you back on the Big Hats. You know that, don't you?' No response was required.
Williams leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. His jacket flapped open to reveal a spreading gut – one of the hazards of the job at his level; there was deskwork and there was boozer time and little in between. Frank still believed the best way to catch villains was to mix it up with them, to spend time in the spielers and drinking clubs. He knew Ernie Millen distrusted this method of thief-taking, but he wasn't changing it now, not after all these years. He had too many valuable contacts.
'I'm not sure I shouldn't move young Billy here to the guidance of someone with more of a future in the Squad.'
Both junior officers remained mute. They jumped when Williams came forward with a crash. 'The thing is, it was Surrey.'
'What was?' asked Len.
'Whatever your lads were up to. Down Surrey way. No idea what. Not yet.'
Williams was enjoying this, thought Duke, the smug bastard. He still had a good network of snouts out there, and guarded them like an attack dog.
He let his revelation – that he was one step ahead of Duke – hang in the air while he fixed himself a cigarette. He didn't offer them around.
'But what we do know is that Charlie Wilson is running around like a bull with its bollocks in a vice.'
' Wilson?' asked Billy. 'We didn't see him.'
'No. As I said, down Surrey way, apparently,' Williams told them, with all the deliberation of a primary school teacher. 'He was at the business end – unlike you two. Now, Charlie is knocking heads together to try and find out who might have come into the possession of two nice three point four Jags, and when he finds them, he's going to fuck them in the ear then take them out on one of the Bovril boats and dump them in the North Sea.'
Bovril boats were the slurry ships that sailed from Beckton, full of London 's human waste, reduced to a thick oil-like liquid. It was released somewhere away from the English coast, in designated dumping grounds. Rumour had it that, for a consideration, some of the crews wouldn't mind taking a little extra waste – suitably weighted – and disposing of it.
'I don't get it,' said Billy.
Now, for the first time Frank Williams smiled, creasing his face into deep furrows, and Len Haslam allowed himself a little smirk.
'It means,' Duke said to his young apprentice, 'that some cheeky fuckers went and half-inched the motors our lads had nicked to do their job in Surrey.' Now he began to laugh. 'Which is why Reynolds was standing there looking like someone who'd just put his finger through the lavatory paper.'
Williams chortled at that.
'Fuck me,' said Len, 'what I wouldn't have given to see the faces on the boys who discovered someone had robbed the robbers.'
'Priceless,' Williams agreed. 'Absolutely priceless.' Then his face resumed its previous seriousness. 'But look, lads, it's Keystone Cops and Ealing bloody Comedies all round, isn't it? Meanwhile, N Division is wondering what happened to their support from the Yard. We are not the Don't Give A Flying Fuck Squad. I know you were pissed off about the airport fiasco. Who wasn't?' He picked up a pencil and pointed it at each in turn. 'Let it go. They'll pop up again. They're thieves. Stand on me, Len, we haven't heard the last of them. All right?'
'Yes, skipper,' said Duke.
'All right, then.' Williams seemed to relax a little. 'Then fuck off and catch me some real villains.'
Bruce Reynolds downed the last of his pint and said quietly, 'Leave it out, Charlie.'
Charlie Wilson ground his teeth at the thought of leaving anything out. 'We look like cunts.'
'We'll live. Two more here, love.' They were in the Angelsey Arms in Chelsea, a nice boozer with a dartboard and well- kept beer. It was true there were some sniggers when the story got out, but Bruce didn't mind. It was just one more tall story that would get taller over the years. Charlie, however, and to a lesser extent Buster and Gordy, had taken it as a personal affront. But Bruce knew the cars were fair game, as long as it was some firm he didn't know. Now if it had been mates, then he'd be angry. But he was pretty sure it wasn't. So, like a colonel after a skirmish that had gone badly, he was ready to regroup his men and plan the next part of the campaign.
Bruce paid for the fresh pints and waited till the young girl in the scandalously short skirt moved away from their section of the bar. 'It's a shame,' he said. 'It was a nice one.' It had been a train from Bournemouth, fingered by a BR porter, with money unloaded at Weybridge. Roy had been looking forward to it because the getaway route took in part of the old Brooklands circuit, spiritual home of the monied toffs known as the Bentley Boys. The idea of taking a hot Jag stuffed with money round there had tickled him.
It had been a simple plan: wait till the cash bags were unloaded, then use numbers and brute force to overwhelm the police and security guards and have it away in the 3.4s.
'Do you believe in fate, Charlie?'
Charlie shrugged. 'I know what fate's got in store for those monkeys who nicked the cars if I ever find them.'
'I'm sure.' Bruce raised his glass to a DS at the far end of the bar and indicated to the barmaid that the tosspot's drink was on him. Neutral ground, after all. 'But I mean, you know, that some things are pre-ordained. Meant to be. We should have been able to live off Heathrow for years, shouldn't we?' Charlie nodded. 'And Weybridge looked like a steal.'
Charlie pursed his lips. 'It still could be.'
'Nah. It's gone.' Bruce knew there was too much speculation out there, too many whispers about what the Jags had been for. He doubted anyone could pinpoint the exact job, but he would steer clear of Surrey for the foreseeable future. And Jaguars. 'Fate, see? Wasn't written in the stars.'
Charlie spluttered into his pint. 'What are you now? Nostra- fuckin'-damus?'
Bruce was impressed that Charlie knew who Nostradamus was, but let it pass. 'It's almost like we were waiting for the real one, the genuine article.' He indicated the dartboard with his glass. 'Game of arrows?'
Charlie collected two pouches of darts from behind the bar and moved over to the corner. Bruce rubbed the board clean and chalked 301 at the top of two columns. 'Double to start.'
Charlie weighed the Unicorn darts in his hand and fussed with the flights, licking finger and thumb and smoothing them out. Then he stepped up and threw a double top.
'Bollocks,' said Bruce. But Charlie's next two throws only added forty-one. He wrote in the opening score and took his place at the line.
'Thing is, Gordy and Brian have come with something else. Something better.'
'What's that?' Charlie wasn't keen on Brian Field, the bent solicitor. Oh, he had his uses all right, but at the other end of the business, some way down the line, when it came to briefs and bail. He didn't like the idea of him becoming active in the actual thievery.
Bruce's first effort went home into the fibre of the board with a satisfying thunk. 'Double eighteen.'
'Yeah, yeah. What's better?'
The jukebox kicked into life and Bruce frowned over at the greaser type who had fed money into the machine. Leather jacket, enough oil on his hair to run a fair-sized chippy and stiletto-thin winkle pickers. It was a style rapidly going out of fashion, replaced by something neater, smarter, of which Bruce approved. He heard the whirr of the Wurlitzer's mechanism. What had the kid selected? Looking at him, he was likely to be a Gene Vincent or Johnny Kidd and the Pirates boy.
The Beatles came from the speakers – 'Ask Me Why', the B-side of 'Please Please Me'. Bruce relaxed; he quite liked the group. They might be gobby Scousers with long hair, but they were just a bunch of working-class kids trying to make some money Mind you, they had started using Dougie Millings, his and Charlie's favourite tailor, and now you couldn't get into the shop for screaming kids or pop groups wanting to get the Beatles look. They would have to move on again.
He threw a triple twenty and stepped to one side to give himself a decent line of sight.
'So what is it?' asked Charlie once more. 'What's better?'
Bruce winked at him, and Charlie could sense his excitement. He had already left Weybridge behind. That's why he didn't give a toss about the Jags and who took them. They were history. Bruce felt it was no good letting a slight fester or harbouring a grudge if it got in the way of future business. Charlie, he knew, didn't let go of an insult quite so easily. Bruce had to refocus him.
'I don't know what, exactly.' Bruce hesitated with his last dart poised in mid-air. 'But Gordy said how much.' He let fly. 'There you go. One hundred and eighty.'
'Bruce,' snapped Charlie. 'What's the griff? How fucking much?'
The Colonel dangled the same bait that had been used to snare his interest. He was guessing until he met the inside man up at Finsbury Park with Gordy and Brian Field, but it was a nice, round juicy plum to dangle in front of Charlie. 'Big money.'
'How big?'
'How does a full million quid sound?'
'Big.' Charlie thought for a minute, imagining the noise one million pounds' worth of fivers might make. He gave a dreamy smile. 'Big like bleedin' Beethoven.'
'So forget about the Jags?'
Charlie gathered up the glasses for a refill. 'What Jags?'
'You can call me Jock. That'll do for now. Not even Brian Field or the man you were introduced to as Mark know my real name, so let's leave it like that, eh, Mr Reynolds? Yes, a tea would be lovely, thank you. One sugar.
'Now, what I am proposing concerns the Night Mail from Glasgow to Euston. You know that film? And the poem? "This is the Night Mail, crossing the border, Bringing the cheque and the postal order?" W.H. Auden. Well, gentlemen, the train doesn't always bring cheques and postal orders. It also carries good old-fashioned money, of the paper kind. If banks in Scotland have surplus cash, then it is parcelled up and sent to London in an HVP. That's a High Value Packet carriage. It's a separate section of a TPO – a Travelling Post Office – locked and secured from inside. Five or six workers are in there, sorting the mail. In the sacks is the excess cash from the banks plus there's worn notes to be destroyed, too. Untraceable notes. How much in all? Well, I'll come to that.
'The thing is, gentlemen, the Night Mail has been running for one hundred years, give or take, and nobody has ever even tried a blag. Not once and why not? 'Well, there are lots of coppers at every station along the route, you see – at Glasgow, at Euston and all six or seven stops in between. Yes, it picks up as it travels towards London, so the nearer to Euston it gets the more cash there is on board. The bags are piled on platforms, but there is always a Transport Police guard, so the stations are too risky. You have to stop the train between them. How isn't my problem. The service runs both ways, but I would go for the "up", the one bringing cash down here to the central banks.
'The other problem you have is that, although there is only a handful of staff on the HVP, there might be eighty other sorters on that train, sorting those letters for the penniless and the stinking rich, as the poet had it. Now I know you lot are a bit handy, but eighty is a big opposition. You have to think of that. I can see what you want to know. I do believe Mr Field here mentioned a sum of one million. That's a minimum. And I have to say that if that is the case, my associates and I want a hundred thousand pounds. But, choose the right day, just after a Bank Holiday when money has backed up in the system, for instance, and it could be a lot more. But if it is more, my amount increases proportionally. I know I can trust Mr Field to look after that side for me. There will also need to be something for Mark, who was instrumental in forming this plan and introducing me to Brian. So, shall we say forty for Mark? And we have some expenses of our own.
'One more thing. British Rail has ordered three new HVPs for the Glasgow service. They are steel-lined, triple-locked, like mobile safes. You would have to cut into them. Now, they are due into service later this year. So, choose a Bank Holiday – a Scottish Bank Holiday, mind. And you'd better look carefully at your Letts Desk Diary, and do it sooner rather than later, before these Wells Fargo jobs come on line.
'Well, that is the proposition. I appreciate you would like to discuss this matter further. Perhaps you'll let me know your decision within the week? Perfect. Nice meeting you, gentlemen.
Glasgow Central station, May 1963
Spring had yet to make much of a mark on Glasgow and, as he felt a creeping dampness invade his bones, Buster Edwards cursed that he had drawn the short straw of coming north. Bruce had given him detailed instructions, and after a few drinks in the station bar, he had spent the last half-hour acting like any commuter waiting for his stopping service home, pacing up and down to keep warm. The mail train had been there as he had been told to expect, platform 6. He had watched stacks of mailbags being transported onto the platform by red Post Office vans and unloaded under the beady gaze of uniformed policemen. A team of porters then conveyed them, by trolley, to the appropriate carriages. He couldn't actually see the HVP, thanks to the curve of the track obscuring the front portion of the train, but certainly some sacks – the bright crimson ones – were treated with more respect than others.
Now the doors had been slammed, the porters dispersed and the transport cozzers were standing, hands folded, eyes on their watches and their hopes on an early-evening pint. Which didn't sound too bad to Buster. He was booked on the sleeper back down south, which gave him a couple of hours to kill in the city.
The train gave a single powerful jerk, there was a synchronised clanking as couplings took up the slack, and the Night Mail moved forward, taking its haul of letters, postcards, coupons and cash to London. Cash. Bruce hadn't said how much, but those initials, HVP, caused Buster's heart to flutter and his palms to sweat. There were a lot of readies in this one, he could feel it, smell it. He knew people who had been stopping trains on the Brighton line – Roger Cordrey, Bobby Welch from the Elephant – netting a few good grand at a time. But this was different, this was clearly big money. Life- changing money. That had been promised at Weybridge, but he had never believed in that the way he did in this.
Buster Edwards rewrapped the scarf around his neck as he watched the rear lights of the Travelling Post Office disappear around the curved track of Central station.
Godspeed, my son, he thought. For tonight, anyway.
At Euston, two hours later, Roy James watched the West Coast Postal, a second Night Mail, again with an HVP as the second coach, prepare to slide out of number 3 platform and head north. Sorters had been arriving for the best part of ninety minutes, and work had already begun inside each carriage, placing letters and parcels in the appropriate pigeonholes. There were no passengers. Apart from the train crew, every man aboard was a Post Office employee.
Roy, situated at the end of platforms 1 and 2, was loaded down with the railway books he had bought at Euston's Collector's Corner and was scribbling in a notebook. His platform ticket had permitted him to walk right out adjacent to the Travelling Post Office, enabling him to examine the great brute of a slab-faced loco, the parcel carriage and, behind that, the HVP. He scribbled down the number on the engine: D326/40126.
'English Electric Class Forty,' said the voice over his shoulder.
'What?'
It was a young lad, sixteen or seventeen, but a good head taller than Roy. A good-looking boy, marred by his skin: his face was positively ablaze with spots, mini-volcanoes all, some already erupted. He was wearing a school blazer, scarf and grey flannel trousers. The boy held up his own notebook, filled with dense writing in different coloured inks. 'You should do columns. Date. Station. Platform. Engine Type. Number. Makes it easier.'
Roy smiled at him. 'Yeah, thanks. I'm new to all this. I mean, I used to do it when I was your age but I'm out of practice.'
'You'll get ribbed for it. Specially a grown-up. People will take the mickey.'
'That what your mates do?'
'Sometimes.'
'Fuck 'em.'
The lad grinned. 'Yeah. Fuck 'em.' He said it as if he was trying the obscenity for the first time. It can't be easy, thought Roy. Blighted by acne and out trainspotting, when he should be chasing girls. He pointed at the pages in the lad's book. 'What do the colours mean?'
'Steam, diesel or electric,' he replied. 'I'll show you.'
The sudden burst of enthusiasm, and the wild look in the lad's eyes at finding a fellow spotter, unnerved Roy, and he recalled Bruce's warning about not getting yourself noticed. 'No – no, thanks,' he said hastily. 'I only do diesel, me.'
'Diesel?' The kid's blotchy face twisted with scorn. 'That's really boring. A lot of them don't even have names.'
'Yeah, well,' said Roy with a shrug, shuffling away. 'Takes all sorts, eh?'
Jimmy White poured a cup of Bovril and passed it to Tony Fortune, who was behind the wheel of a Vauxhall Velox, sitting in the overflow parking area just off Mill Road. This asphalted area was higher than the main car park, affording them a better view of the activities on some of the over-lit platforms of Rugby railway station. Unfortunately, most of the activity seemed to be happening beneath the cantilevered canopies that blocked their view. Still, they weren't worried about that.
It was coming up to two o'clock in the morning, stars pin- sharp in a clear sky, and both men were sleepy. Jimmy was supposed to do this by himself, but he had felt sorry for Tony after the Jag foul-up. He had expected a decent drink and what did he get? An empty garage. And, apparently, an earful from his missus about missing paydays.
Jimmy had cleared bringing Tony along with Bruce, of course, and Bruce had said OK. They might still need a driver for the job he had in mind, and Roy had told him that Tony could handle a motor.
'Thanks,' said Tony as he took the Bovril.
Jimmy poured himself a second cup. He held it in both hands and blew across the surface. 'Love this stuff. Bloody Army marches on it. Well, the Paras do. You all right?'
Tony had only been lending half an ear. He felt more at ease with Jimmy than he did many of the others. Certainly more than Gordy and Charlie. With them, he felt that the least wrong word would land him a right hook or worse. There was always an air of crackling tension about them, as if an electrical storm could break out at any moment. 'What? Yeah. Just thinking. You don't want to buy a Hillman Husky, do you?'
Jimmy laughed. 'Nah. I like Land Rovers, me. They go on for ever.'
'Husky's got a heater.'
'You poof,' chuckled White. 'A heater? Only sissies need a heater in their car. You'll be telling me it has suspension next.'
'And you don't need an airfield to turn it round in.'
'Greengrocer's car,' sneered Jimmy. 'Not your sort, I would have thought.'
'Brother-in-law's,' Tony admitted. 'Ah.'
Marie had beseeched him – there was no other word – to take the Hillman Husky off her brother, Geoff, who was boracic. He'd done so, and paid him cash, over the odds. Now it was stuck at the back of the showroom, embarrassing him. 'I got myself right stitched up. Wife's up the duff, you see. Hard to say no to her.'
'Congratulations. First one?' Tony nodded. That explained why she had been disappointed in him, Jimmy thought. Broody women have big plans. 'This'll come in handy then.'
'What will?'
'The tickle. This train thing, whatever it is.'
Bruce had been very tight-lipped, insisting this was simply a reconnaissance mission, just to confirm certain facts. They were not to let their minds run away with them.
'I don't know if I'm in yet, do I? I mean, if they need a driver. And it's not really my thing.'
'What isn't?'
'Robbery with violence, I think they call it.'
Jimmy chortled. 'Nor me, son. This is not going to be just some smash and grab. I don't like the rough stuff either.'
Tony was surprised. Jimmy had a reputation. 'You were a Para.'
'We're not all Sergeant bloody Hurricane. We had a bit of finesse. So does Bruce. I wouldn't be here if I thought we was just the heavy mob. Hold up.'
They heard the whistle of an approaching train and squinted into darkness broken only by what appeared to be a random pattern of red and green lights. The powerful loco of the Night Mail appeared, its twin beams glaring like jaundiced eyes, and above them the duller glow of the tripartite screen. Tony knew people were sentimental about steam, but he had to admire the monstrous brutality of the diesel that shouldered its way under the station lamps and disappeared from view. It was all solid muscle and attitude, like a steel-clad bull terrier.
They wound the Vauxhall's windows down and listened. The TPO sat, obscured by the station buildings and roof, its engine thrumming at idle, for another ten minutes. Then came a coarse whistle, the low grunt of the engine taking the strain, and the money train pulled out. Next stop, Euston.
Jimmy White slapped Tony's thigh, making him jump. 'Best go out and buy that baby the biggest fuckin' cot you can find. If I know Bruce, and he's thinkin' what I think he's thinkin' – then we're in the money. Fortune by name…'
Tony smiled as if he hadn't heard that one.
Jimmy was still whistling the tune 'We're in the Money' when they pulled out of the car park and headed back to London on empty roads, each lost in their own thoughts of untold riches.
South-east England, June 1963
It seemed appropriate for Bruce to catch the train down to Brighton, rather than take the Lotus. It meant breakfast in one of the Pullman carriages, after all, and they had the place nearly to themselves, as most morning traffic was 'up' to the city. He had taken Janie Riley along, now dressed as a prosperous middle-class housewife in twin-set and pillbox hat. He would park her at the Grand or let her do some shopping while he met the Flowerpot Man. Bruce didn't like to bring in outsiders, but the more he thought about it, the more he needed particular expertise. After all, this was a moving target. He had heard – from Buster – that the Flowerpot Man could take care of that. Buster had told him about the train jobs on the South Coast Line, engineered by a pretty solid team. Small beer, Buster had said, but the principle was sound.
'Looks like summer is finally here,' said Janie, making conversation with the white-jacketed steward as he fussed around them with the tea and toast.
'About time, miss.'
Bruce glanced out of the window. London had fallen away and Janie was right, the countryside was bathed in a diffuse pale yellow and the sheep were sunbathing rather than shivering. The winter and spluttering spring had played havoc with the country. The football league was still in disarray, with dozens of postponed matches yet to be played, and race cards had been scratched for weeks on end. It had been the coldest year since 1740, so the Express said. Bruce didn't know about that, but he remembered the one of 1947 – the bomb- sites, suddenly pretty under the thick crust of snow, but even more dangerous than before. His mate Jimmy Standing had jumped into what looked like a harmless snowdrift and fallen into one of the firefighters' emergency water tanks from the Blitz and broken his leg. Bruce still remembered the sight of the red-streaked bone poking through flesh and the sound of the poor sod's whimpering.
'Bruce.' Janie brought him back to the attentions of the steward. 'Full breakfast?'
Bruce could still feel an echo of the queasiness that the wound had brought on. 'Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs,' he said. 'Hold the tomatoes and black pudding.'
'Very good, sir.'
Janie concentrated on lighting a cigarette and Bruce went back to thinking about trains. The team so far was himself, Charlie, Gordy, Buster and Roy. Good men all, but just not enough. He would add Jimmy White to that and, for sheer muscle, Tommy Wisbey. Old Tommy would make both Frank Nitti and Elliot Ness shit their pants. Bruce loved the TV series The Untouchables, and often wondered if he should give the gang a moniker like that. That, and a soundtrack by Nelson Riddle. Although he already had a tune for the job. Of late he had been playing Charles Mingus's Ah Um and the track
'Boogie Stop Shuffle'. Just the right tempo for a great heist sequence with sudden dramatic stabs from the horns and the wah-wah of plunged trumpets. He could see the tide sequence, designed by the guy who did Anatomy of a Murder or John Cassavetes's Johnny Staccato.
That train of thought took him from Waldo's, the Greenwich Village jazz club that featured in the Cassavetes TV series, to Bobby Welch. Bobby also ran a drinking club, but it was not as classy as Waldo's, being an after-hours dive popular with the better kind of toms and their punters – and Bobby himself was always short of cash, being the kind of gambler that bookies put out bunting for. Buster said he had done some very handy work with the Flowerpot Man on this very line. If Bruce brought in Bobby and Jim Hussey – a painter and decorator with a sideline in being very handy in a ruck – then he would have a formidable group of intimidators in Gordy, Bobby, Tommy and the two Jims. That was real muscle power. It was spreading the net wider than he liked by going beyond the Comet House team, but even Charles Atlas would think twice about kicking sand in those faces. The Intimidators. Was that a suitable name? It was for the heavy section of the firm, at least. Bruce chuckled to himself.
'Bruce?' Janie finished her cigarette with a deep inhalation and let the smoke stream from the side of her mouth. 'I have something to ask you.'
Bruce leaned back as the breakfast arrived and was placed before him. 'What's that, luv?'
Janie fixed him with a very direct stare, in case he should drift off again. She stubbed out the cigarette in the Brighton Belle ashtray and switched on a blinder of a smile. 'I wondered if you would talk to a friend of mine. As a favour.'
Bruce didn't like the sound of that. Favours could lead to all sorts of trouble. 'What kind of friend?'
The Queen and Artichoke was close to Victoria Park in Bethnal Green. A grubby little boozer, known to its regulars as the Q &A. it had an unusual mix of clientele, comprising East End locals and students from the hostels on Victoria Road which were part of the Sir John Cass Foundation. The two groups had co-existed well enough in a kind of uneasy truce until recently, when the students had become more selfconsciously bohemian, or 'beatnicky' as Frank, the Q &As guv'nor, preferred to call them.
Sunday lunchtime though was for the fellas only, with arty types told to drink elsewhere. There was sometimes a stripper, but always cockles and crisps on the bar and Marion, the guv'nor's missus, pulling pints. Marion Castle was a Diana Dors type, an ex-beauty queen (albeit from Butlin's in Clacton), who kept the boys' attention with her Jayne Mansfield-like stretch tops.
Charlie Wilson arrived a little after one, and the Q &A was already soupy with cigarette smoke. He pushed his way to the bar and helped himself to snacks. Marion fetched him a mild and bitter and as he paid her he said, 'Frank in?'
Marion took a long, hard look at him and he knew she was weighing up whether he was Old Bill. The turned-up corner of her scarlet lips suggested she was reaching that conclusion.
'Charlie Wilson,' he answered. 'Friend of Andy Turner.'
Marion 's face relaxed. She pulled one more pint and went out back. Frank appeared when Charlie was halfway through his drink. He was a squat, red-faced little fucker who only came up to Marion 's shoulders. Both cheeks sported a flower of broken capillaries and one eye was AWOL, darting all over the shop. He could only assume he provided for Marion in departments other than looks.
His wife nodded over to indicate Charlie, and Frank positioned himself behind the pumps. 'Charlie, is it?'
'Yeah.' They shook hands. 'Andy said I could have a word.'
'Did he?'
'Said you could get me a motor.'
Frank blew his florid cheeks out. This wasn't the time or the place. 'It's fuckin' Sunday, mate. Day of rest.'
Charlie took a sup of his pint. 'No rest for the wicked.'
'Yeah, well, there is for this one.' Frank turned to go. Charlie looked at the clock. It was quarter past. He reached over and grabbed the landlord's shirtsleeve. There was a tearing sound from the shoulder and the man swore.
'Don't go, Frank,' Charlie beseeched him. 'You'll miss the show.'
The landlord glanced over at the stage, but the girl was still sitting at the table next to it, talking to her minder.
'Not that one.'
Charlie was aware of the character next to him taking an interest in what was occurring, but ignored him. The landlord pulled away. 'What the fuck is your game?'
'That your Jaguar in the street?'
Frank's brow furrowed like a ploughed field. 'Yeah-'
The Q &A's frame shook as the timer detonated the gelignite, which had been placed inside condoms, in a cut-open Duckhams tin filled with petrol. Every face turned jaundiced as a wall of yellow flame engulfed the Jaguar parked outside and the frosted window cracked with the sound of a whip snapping. There was a second blast as the petrol tank ignited and now all those nearest the street stampeded away as the inferno pumped heat through glass and brick into the pub.
Marion screamed, a noise that threatened to take out the rest of the windows.
Frank looked open-mouthed at Charlie. Then he pointed a loaded finger at him. 'You are dead, mate. You don't know who you are messin' with.'
As Frank leaned forward, his face like a bulldog with a boot up its arse, Charlie punched him. Then, just to be certain, he smacked the bloke next to him who had taken far too great an interest in his bit of business. The man staggered back, giving Charlie a bit of space to contemplate his predicament.
There was a dull thud that shook the floorboards under his feet and a long whooshing sound outside as the interior of the car began to burn. The pub's customers were recovering from their shock now, and he felt all eyes turn towards him. Most of them were nothing, no threat, but there were a couple of lads who might cause him trouble. Of course, even they wouldn't be sure what they might be getting into.
The Queen and Artichoke was within the Twins' sphere of influence. It would be a madman who didn't take that into account before mixing things up. Charlie was lots of things, but he wasn't insane. He wouldn't have fried the car or hit Frank unless he had taken tea with Reggie at Vallance Road. Frank, apparently, hadn't been telling the Kray brothers about all his activities. They knew nothing about his sideline in nicked motors, on which they had been due a little something. So it was fine by them if Charlie taught him a lesson on their behalf. They would sweep by and mop
As Charlie stepped away from the bar, Marion finally ran out of puff and, as her piercing racket subsided, he sensed the mood of the crowd change. Bewilderment turned to anger, not least because their Sunday session had been so comprehensively disrupted. The stripper certainly didn't look in the mood to disrobe any more. The crowd shuffled a step closer. 'Oi!'
Gordon Goody pushed himself to his full height at the rear of the pub, knocking one of the tables over as he rose up like Reptilicus. He waited until he had everyone's full attention then, from beneath his trademark full-length coat, he pulled a baseball bat and stepped towards the group, brandishing it in his right fist. The crowd couldn't have parted faster if he'd been Charlton Heston.
'Time to go,' Gordy said, pointing with his free hand towards the rear as he poked one of the customers in the chest with the bat. Gordy had been in place for thirty minutes before Charlie's arrival, and had already ascertained that the rear exit he had cased the day before was clear. This way they could make good their escape without being toasted by a burning Jag.
Charlie pushed through to Gordy's side and the two slowly backed out towards the pub's yard and the Rover waiting in the alley with Roy behind the wheel. Charlie wanted Roy driving, just in case there was any pursuit, but it looked like the lad had earned himself an easy drink.
The flames out in the street were angrier now, turning the interior of the Q &A a deep crimson. Frank had staggered to his feet, but he remained behind the bar, holding his shattered nose. Another pane of glass cracked, causing the customers to start, as if a pistol had gone off. Charlie knew then they didn't have the bottle to come at them.
'Fuck me,' said Gordy as they bundled out, a roar of ineffectual outrage at their heels. 'I hope that was worth it.'
Charlie laughed as he yanked open the wooden gate that accessed the rear alley. 'Well, those cunts won't be nickin' Jags off us again, will they?'
'Morning, sir. It's Detective Constable Rennie here, from the Stolen Car Squad. Yes. I have some good news for you. We have recovered your Jaguar. Yes, I know. We were surprised as well. Don't get to make too many of these calls, to be honest. No, it appears to be relatively unharmed. Perhaps a slight scratch on one wing, but that will T-Cut out. Not today, I am afraid. We just want to check it for fingerprints and fibres, but that will only take a day or two. You should have it back by the weekend. Where did we find it? Well, there's the strange thing. It was left outside a police station in Romford, with the keys in the ignition. No, I can't imagine why. Maybe some villain had a sudden attack of conscience, saw the error of his ways. Stranger things have happened. Although not many. You are very welcome, sir, nice to have a result. Good day.'
Bruce Reynolds didn't have time for distractions and favours. He had a fucking great train robbery to plan. His brain was revving like one of Roy 's racing engines, a jumble of possibilities, all centred on the TPO that left Glasgow every night.
But, after some horizontal persuasion in the Grand at Brighton, he had promised Janie he would take the meeting, answer a few stupid questions. The guy had suggested a meet in the Colony Rooms, but although he had drunk there – George Melly had taken him a couple of times – Bruce had never felt particularly comfortable there. Rude bastards, he thought, and not half as clever as they clearly thought they were. Being called 'cunty' a lot was not his idea of entertainment.
Bruce had originally chosen the New Crown Club at the Elephant and Castle, which was home turf, but knew just how intimidating that crowd could be, so he had switched to the
Star, a flower-decked pub tucked down a mews in Belgravia. It covered all bases from lords to layabouts. Roy popped in now and then for a soda water because it had been Mike Hawthorn's boozer and it still pulled a crowd of racing drivers and their acolytes. It was also home to a hardcore of very genuine criminals.
It was Friday lunchtime, with that fuck-it one-more-pint- and-a-fag end of the working week feel. Although very few of the patrons of the Star actually had a conventional working week, apart from the odd copper who wandered in. They caused no problem. You saw it on Zoo Quest, when herds of antelope allowed lions to stroll among them without getting too spooked. The animals sensed when the predator was on the hunt, otherwise they ignored them. So it was with the police who liked to think that getting pissed in places like the Star was all part of vital detective work.
Bruce had given a rough description of himself – tall, glasses, a copy of the Daily Express, light-blue shirt and navy-blue suit. There was a horseshoe-shaped bar on the right as you entered the pub, the rougher clientele nearest the door, toffs at the far side. To the left, through an arch, were the seats, and Bruce had taken himself through this and to the far corner, past the fireplace, against the wooden wainscot. That nook, beneath the portraits of Regency jockeys and Punch cartoons, was as close to a 'snug' as the Star got.
Bruce ignored his newspaper and played with a beer mat while he waited. He had called together the entire crew – his boys and those with a Brighton connection – for a meeting in four days, and they were going to expect a plan. He was the Colonel, after all. Not quite Jack Hawkins – the meeting would be at Roy 's place, rather than the Cafe Royal – but he was expected to lay it all out.
Timing, he was certain, was the key, not just the application of mindless brute force – although that, or the implied threat of it, would play its part. A timetable was needed, a realistic one that should be adhered to, no matter what. It helped that everything, right down to the schedule of the trains, was just as this 'Jock' character had said.
Except maybe he wasn't a Jock.
Gordy claimed he could hear Belfast in there. Was he an Ulsterman? No matter, the man clearly knew what he was talking about. Did he know too much too well, though? Was this a set-up by the cops? A bit of fishing with a very, very juicy worm? After all, he was sure the Squad had a hard-on for them now.
But no, it felt right, like the genuine article. It was all too elaborate for the Old Bill, anyway; he doubted they had the nous to set up such an operation, just to pull in a team of blaggers. And anyway, a million quid was worth circling the hook for. It was a little tinge of paranoia making him think the cosspots were behind it. But he shouldn't disregard the feeling. It kept you sharp, kept you out of some stinking flowery for ten years.
'Mr Allen, is it?'
Bruce looked up at the tall, slightly cadaverous-looking man who had addressed him. Just those few well-rounded words marked him out as posh, a man who would be right at home with the Lucky Lucans and Maxwell-Smiths who gathered under the Star's Smiths clock each evening. His suit was of a good pedigree, too, although it looked as if he had slept in it. It was his face that was remarkable – as if all the blood had been drained from it: deathly white, with thin bloodless lips and remarkably pale eyes. He was close to albino.
'Colin Thirkell.' He held out a hand and Bruce took it.
Thirkell looked around as if he approved. 'I don't much care for pubs. They are like banks – never open when you need them. But I enjoy this one. Used to drink here… oh, must be ten years ago. With poor Tommy Carstairs.'
Bruce laughed. Poor Tommy Carstairs was doing a long one for murder. 'You aren't an ordinary journalist, are you?'
'No. And you, I hope, are no ordinary crook. Now, that lovely Godfrey Smith, my editor, was foolish enough to advance me some expenses. Would you care for a drink?'
Bruce examined his half-full glass of mild and bitter and said, 'A scotch would be very nice.'
'Very well.'
Bruce watched him walk away. Something in his manner suggested he batted and bowled, or at the very least fielded for the other side when they were a man short. Posh and a poof. Not that he minded either. Without posh there would be no Madame Prunier or Connaught Grill. As for poofs, well, they were on the wrong side of the law, too, poor buggers. He smiled at his choice of phrase. Where did Janie find this bloke? He knew she was a woman of many parts, but had never had her down for a literary type. A writer, she had said. Needs someone… what was the word she used? Erudite? 'Most of your mates can grunt and scratch their balls,' she said, 'and that's about it. And rarely both things at the same time.' Had a waspish streak, that Janie.
Thirkell came back with a scotch and a gin and tonic for himself. Bruce was impressed with how he had handled himself up there. It was a cliquey crowd; the writer, though, had an ease about him that suggested he was perfectly at home in any company.
'There.' He slid in opposite Bruce and raised his glass. 'Did Jane tell you what this was for?'
'You are writing an article.'
'For the Sunday Times, yes. About what you might call the underworld. Well, I'm sure you wouldn't, but my editor does. It is to be a plain man's guide to crime and criminals. No names, no direct quotes. Just a few thoughts. You see, I was lamenting to Jane – Janie as you call her – that my own contacts tend towards the pugilistic sort of criminal. Gangsters, should we say. I needed some light with that shade.'
Bruce looked at the table in front of them, empty but for the drinks. 'You take notes?'
'No, Mr Allen-'
'Bruce.' He had used Franny's maiden name just to be on the safe side. He had checked with Janie about what she had called him to the writer. 'My friend Bruce,' she had said. No surname. So it did no harm to invent one. And there were lots of Braces around.
'It's all very impressionistic, if you know what I mean, Bruce. And, as I say, no names, no sly references that might establish who you are. You might be referred to as "an informant" or "a professional".'
'Fair enough. Fire away.'
Thirkell took a large mouthful of his G &T and leaned forward, elbows on the table. When the questions started, the man's voice took on a brittle tone. Sparring was over, this was somehow combative, needling even. 'Do you consider yourself a criminal?'
'Yes. Very much so.'
'And would you say that is a result of your upbringing?'
Bruce shook his head. 'Not in my case. My parents were straight. And I never said, "When I grow up I want to be a train driver, a fireman or a robber." It just happened. I was in the Army for a while, found it didn't suit me. Had a job,
didn't like it. Met some blokes who showed me a different path, you might say. But that's me. I can't deny that certain conditions do breed criminals.'
'Such as?'
'Take a look around,' Bruce said, pointing through the archway to a group consisting of Little Caesar, Lance Kirby, Dickie M and Honest John Perry, together one of the Star's pair of dog-doping syndicates. 'Those four grew up within three streets of each other. Not here, not Belgravia. Those are Deptford boys, born and bred. And that's why they are at it.'
'So you mean specific areas of London create the environment? Like the Elephant?'
'Parts of every city. Liverpool, Manchester, Glasgow. Wherever there are poor people, I suppose, who aren't happy to stay where they've been put. The only way out has always been the military, sport – football or boxing, probably – and crime.'
'Or pop music. Look at Tommy Steele, Bermondsey lad made good.'
Bruce nodded. 'True. So now the kids are stealing guitars and amplifiers.'
'And do you consider yourself a particular type of criminal?'
He gave a shrug. 'A thief. That's what I am.'
'And would you ever go straight? I mean, are you a criminal for life?'
Bruce considered this. If you got a decent chunk of one million quid, pumped the cash into a business, had you gone straight? Or would the old Bruce Reynolds always be there, ear to the ground, his heart going all jittery when he heard of a nice tickle? 'You might drop out of the life for a while, but the instinct is still there. I'm pretty sure it's a case of once a villain…'
'And how much would you say you earn? On average?'
'I don't know,' he replied honestly. The money rarely hung around long enough to be counted. 'Straight up. If you are looking for an average, you have to take off any time inside, don't you? Unproductive years, we might say. I am guessing about the same as a bank clerk.'
'A bank clerk?' Thirkell's expression was disbelieving.
'Well, a bank manager then,' Bruce said with a smile. 'In a West End branch. Look around you. Every one of these blokes has been up for the big score at some time or another. Some of them been grafting at it for forty or fifty years. Still here though, aren't they, rather than Surrey or Spain? So, you make a living. If not an honest one.'
'I see. But you don't pay tax, do you?'
'No, but we put the money back into circulation pretty damn quick. You buy a motor, drinks, nice clothes.' He recalled how fast a few thousand could dwindle to nothing. 'Nobody can accuse us of hoarding.'
'Is there any form of criminality you wouldn't indulge in?'
'Poncing,' Bruce said quickly. 'I don't know why, I think that's pretty low. I don't like anything that is parasitic, you see. Blowing a peter or a wages snatch, a good clean job, that's what I enjoy. I always say, "Never steal from anyone who might go hungry". Well, I think Cary Grant said it first.'
Thirkell pursed his lips, thinking, before he framed the next question. 'And the police? What do you think of them?'
'I don't think about them. They have a job to do. I mean, you could argue that without us they would have no job, couldn't you? They need us more than we need them. To be frank with you, I don't mind them, I even get on with some
of them. We're like pilots in the Battle of Britain, the RAF and the Luftwaffe. They had to shoot each other down, but there was a kind of respect there. I tell you, I'd rather have a drink with a copper than a member of the public. At least they understand us and we understand them. Ordinary people, well, they are like another species, aren't they?'
'And the violence that comes as part of your profession. How do you defend that?'
Bruce finished his pint, pushed the glass away and pulled the scotch towards him. He found his temper was rising. 'I don't have to defend it. I don't like it, but it has to be there sometimes. But I don't have to justify it. The thing is, it's never against outsiders, not if you can help it. Those kids that shoot or cosh members of the public? Scum. I don't like threatening shopkeepers or club owners or toms for money, although I admit I mix with those that do.' He pointed at the bar, just to make his point. 'But when you confront a bloke who has a bag of wages, it's part of the game and he has the choice. Give it up or take a whack. He knows that. Nine times out of ten he gives it up and we're all happy.'
'But you don't think it's wrong that you don't work for a living?'
Bruce had to laugh at that. 'Don't work? What you on about? You think being a thief is an easy choice?' He was tempted to explain what he had been doing for the past few weeks, but held his tongue. 'There is a lot of effort goes into the job, a lot of risks, a lot of tension. And everyone thinks it's all about big scores – diamonds, wages snatches, banks. It pisses me off. Yeah, you try those sometimes, but you aren't above breaking open the odd cigarette machine or fronting some hooky Milk Tray. We work, all right. You know, Colin, thieving might even be a bit harder than writing for a living.'
That got him a wry grin from Thirkell. 'And what about guns?'
'Guns? Guns are for maniac kids. Scared kids who have seen too many movies. The thing is, you go up to someone with an iron bar or a cosh, then the other fella knows there's a good chance he'll get a tap if he doesn't do as he's told. With a gun, it's different; the psychology is different.'
There was a glint of excitement in Thirkell's eyes, as if he was close to the motherlode now. 'Go on.'
Bruce took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. Some of the chaps thought his insistence on no firearms was a weakness. He rarely explained himself to them, just told them it was part of the Colonel's ground rules. Now he had to lay out his philosophy, and do it logically. 'It isn't just because you get longer sentences with a shooter, although that might be part of it for some people. I suppose I do take that into account. For me, though, it runs deeper than that. I pull a gun on you now, a few things will go through your mind. One, is it real? Iwo, am I man enough to pull the trigger? Three, if I do, will I hit you? So you start thinking the odds might be in your favour. So you do something stupid. And next thing we know, bang, you are dead. Now we are both fucked.'
'So there are no circumstances under which you would use a gun?'
Bruce thought about that HVP carriage, the sorters who would look up as they burst through the doors, the reaction if he were to pull a pistol or a pair of nostrils, otherwise known as a sawn-off shotgun. And he thought about one of them deciding Bruce didn't look like he had the bottle to use it. He spoke firmly. 'No. Never.'
Len Haslam was on his fourth pint, talking to a jobbing actor and stuntman called Beefy Bob Atkinson, who had just landed a role on Z Cars as a DS. Beefy Bob did have knowledge of the law, but it dated back ten years, when he was involved in chiselling the back off obsolete safes. Up till now his roles had involved wearing a stocking over his head or leaping from a burning car as it went over a cliff. This was his big break.
For a small fee and a bellyful of bitter, Len was meant to be briefing him on how to behave as a Detective Sergeant in the CID, to help him get 'the method', as Beefy Bob said. But Duke's eye kept wandering over towards where Bruce Reynolds was sitting. The thief's jaw was going thirteen to the dozen and the bloke opposite was listening intently, nodding now and then. Duke was well aware of what he had promised Frank Williams, but he was certain that Reynolds was at it. And at something pretty big, judging by the intensity of the pitch he was making and the hand gestures going on. But who was the bloke Reynolds was talking to? Not a face from the Elephant, Peckham or Camberwell, that was certain.
He told Beefy Bob to get him another drink and he would tell him how they really interrogated suspects, then headed for the Gents. As he crossed the room he rummaged in his pocket for coins for the phone box out there. He would call Billy Naughton and get him down to put a tail on the unknown man. Duke had promised to leave Reynolds and the others alone. That did not include new faces on the block that were clearly up to no good.
As he walked out of the Star pub and towards Hyde Park Corner, where he would catch a cab into Soho, Bruce Reynolds mused on what a very strange man Thirkell was. The conversation had begun as a straightforward interview, but after a while Bruce got the idea he was being auditioned. It was only towards the end of the session that he got an inkling of what the bloke really wanted. He wanted to steal part of the Elgin Marbles from the British Museum, as a show of outrage at the original looting from the Parthenon.
The writer had wanted him to put up a firm to rob something, not for money, but for a principle. He said he could pay expenses, not much else. But it would be righting a great wrong.
Bruce chuckled to himself. He could just imagine selling that one to the chaps. Had Janie said he might do it? Maybe she had. Perhaps it was time to move her a few paces back. Her putting his name in the frame for a bit of altruism, that just wasn't on. At the end of the day, Bruce Reynolds had just one favourite charity. Himself. Anyone who thought otherwise had lost another kind of marbles altogether.
From Motoring News, June 1963
JAMES TRIUMPHS AT AINTREE
Driving a Brabham BT 6, rookie Roy James won the twenty-lap TJ Hughes Trophy at Aintree last Sunday, at a new record average speed for FJ of 89.4mph. James, whose car seems to have taken on a new lease of life – and pace – since its last outing, was followed home by Dennis Hulme in a second Brabham and Peter Proctor (Cooper). After an exciting race in which the lead changed hands no fewer than five times, there was less than six seconds between the final trio at the flag.
Further back in the field a fierce battle was waged between Jo Schlesser (Ford/France Brabham) and Bill Moss (Gemini), the two cars circulating nose to tail for much of the race, until Moss left his braking a little too late on the 90-degree Cottage Corner and lost some 15 seconds in the process.
The three-mile Aintree circuit was hailed as the 'Goodwood of the North' when it opened in 1954, but recently some drivers have complained (see Letters, page four) that the course, with its taxing bends such as Becher's, Anchor and Village, is too hard on man and machine. However, Stirling Moss won the British GP here in 1955, driving for Mercedes, and has always enjoyed and defended the track layout and Roy James, too, had no gripes, telling a cheering crowd that Liverpool has 'one of the best and most challenging circuits for single-seat racing in Europe'. Runner-up Hulme added to the young man's achievements by proclaiming James 'one of the most promising drivers of the 1963 season in any formula'. James, Hulme and the other Formula Juniors will be in action again at Oulton Park next weekend.
Headley, Surrey, May 1992
I looked out through the heavy drapes in the living room at the western sky, hoping for a sliver of light, but there was none. Dawn was still a no-show. I replaced the curtains and walked back across the scuffed parquet and into the kitchen, where Roy was sat at the table. He looked up, his face troubled.
'Find it OK?'
I had been to the lavatory and taken a little tour while I was at it. 'Yeah. This is a nice house, Roy.'
'It's too big for me. Needs money to fix it up. Someone richer than me anyway. One of today's drivers – they're all loaded. I should've been a contender for that, you know,' he said morosely.
'Could've,' I corrected the quote before I could stop myself. 'Could've been a contender.'
'Should've, could've. It's all the same. After the win at Aintree, I should have dropped all the grifting, forgot about the train. Just concentrated on the car.'
'Hindsight,' was all I could think to offer by way of consolation. 'Wonderful thing, Roy.'
'So's foresight, Tony.' Roy looked down at the pistol in his hands. I wondered whether to make a lunge for it, but not for long. It wasn't only in movies that guns went off in tussles.
'We should go outside, Roy.'
'Not yet.' He looked up at me, tears in his eyes. 'They'll take the kids now, won't they?'
I didn't know what to say. Of course they would. Shooting and pistol-whipping rarely went down well in court. 'For a while, I dare say. Best thing to do is plead a temporary moment of madness.'
'It's all been a bleedin' temporary moment of madness.' He sniffed loudly. 'You know I split my life into BT and AT. Before the Train and After the Train. Like BC and AD. And just like Jesus, we got fuckin' crucified.'
'What about another cup of tea?' I asked, trying to shift the mood. 'Then we'll go out together.'
'Fair enough.'
There was a banging on the door, fist on wood, and Roy raised the gun, hands shaking slightly.
'Steady on,' I said. 'The Gun Squad tend not to knock.'
I crossed the gloomy hall, undid the latch and opened the door a crack. What I saw caused my chest to constrict, more in shock than anything else. For a second I had trouble speaking.
'Put the kettle on. It's bleedin' freezing out here.'
I stepped back. It was getting on for thirty years since I had last seen him in the flesh. Back then, he was in his element, dressed in SAS uniform, a swagger in his step and victory in his eyes. Now, he was gaunter and greyer, a little stooped perhaps, but the coat was cashmere and the spectacles Chanel. 'Hello, Bruce,' I managed to stammer.
'Hello, Tony,' replied Bruce Reynolds as he hurried inside. 'Drop of scotch would be nice, too.'
'Kitchen,' I muttered, pointing down the hallway. 'Past the stairs.'
As we entered the room, Roy struggled to his feet, looking every bit as nonplussed as I felt. I could see the new arrival staring at the gun in Roy 's hand. I wondered then if Bruce remembered that thirty years ago he had blamed me for the whole fucking fiasco.
Fulham, West London, June 1963
'Sir, sir, Mr Reynolds, sir. I have a question, sir.' Buster Edwards was bouncing up and down like Jimmy bloody Clitheroe, the eternal schoolboy.
Bruce turned away from the blackboard that was the source of the ribbing, to face the group of men, their faces shrouded in smoke from half-a-dozen cigarettes. 'Piss off, Buster.'
Bruce was tired. He had been living this for two weeks now, and he had become short-tempered. The previous night he had consumed a whole bottle of Veuve Cliquot and a third of Glenfiddich, and ended up chasing Franny around the house threatening her with a toilet brush.
It had taken a lot of making up that morning.
He tapped the board to get their attention and then found himself smiling. 'Although you fuckers do look like the Bash Street Kids,' he said. He pointed his chalk at Buster. 'Which makes you Plug, you ugly bastard.'
Buster pulled a hideous face.
'OK, just some quick formalities. This is Roger, the
Flowerpot Man. ' Roger Cordrey nodded, although most had been introduced to him informally as the party had gathered at Roy 's flat. 'He's worked with Buster.' This was the equivalent of references; 'worked with' meant he was a stand-up bloke. In truth, Roger didn't look like one of them. Small, self-effacing but with sly, shifty eyes, he reminded Bruce of a vicar with a guilty secret – embezzlement, perhaps – in an Ealing comedy.
'Tommy Wisbey, I think most of you know.' Tommy was a bookmaker who hired himself out as a frightener. 'Bonehead', they sometimes called him, because he was as daunting as the bloke who played that character on kids' TV. He wasn't anything like as daft, though.
'Jimmy White, same, and next to him that's Tony Fortune. Let's hope that's a lucky name, eh? Roy says he's almost as good a driver as him. Which, as you know, is like a blessing from the Pope. By the way, Charlie, you quite finished?'
Charlie looked puzzled. As usual he had said very little, just gazed at the ceiling while he waited for the proceedings to begin. 'With what?'
'That new hobby you have.' Bruce allowed a theatrical pause to build. 'You know the one. Setting fire to cars in Bethnal Green.'
There were some sniggers, just like naughty schoolkids. Bruce should have been annoyed, but he had to be careful. He was the man at the front with the chalk. There had to be a leader in these situations but he mustn't overstep the mark. A lot of these chaps were in the game because they despised any form of authority. Even from a fellow villain.
Charlie's eyes narrowed. 'I think I might have got that out of my system, yes, Bruce.'
There was a steely undertow to the words, but Bruce ignored it. 'Good. Because from now on, we keep a low profile. Not get our names plastered over every pub and club. Nobody should be at it. I mean all of you. Whatever you are working on, ditch it. It'll be peanuts compared to this. Understood?'
A few nods.
'Still, now Charlie has laid down a few ground rules for them, I don't think we need worry about any other firm treading on our toes, eh?'
That seemed to placate Charlie, who took it as a compliment. Bruce didn't really object to Charlie's refusal to let the pricks who took the Jags go unpunished. After all, it was going to be hard to keep the train job quiet, but the thought of what Charlie might do to anyone who flapped his lips would help keep a lid on things.
'Now. Glasgow.' He tapped the top of the board, on which was a primitive outline of the British Isles with a few key places chalked in. Now he pointed further south. 'And Euston. Our Man in the North seems to have steered us straight on this. Every evening at five past six, give or take ten minutes, the up Travelling Post Office leaves Glasgow, stopping at Carstairs, Carlisle, Preston, Crewe, Tamworth and Rugby. By the time it leaves Rugby it is fully loaded – next stop Euston. The train consists of twelve or thirteen coaches. The second coach is always the High Value Packet carriage. It's that we want. It will contain between seventy and two hundred bags, depending on how fortunate we are. You've all heard the figures, but we take those with a pinch of salt. We've all been there, eh?'
There were grunts as several of them remembered the disappointing haul from the Heathrow job.
'What we have to do is stop the train somewhere between Rugby and North London. That's where Roger comes in.
The crucial thing is, where do we stop it? So this week's little task, gentlemen, is for some of us to scout the line from Watford northwards, looking for places where we have easy road access.'
'And a signal gantry,' said Roger.
'Roger will tell us what to look for in a moment. He and I will take one section, Gordy and Jimmy another, Roy and Tony a third. All right?' He pointed at Buster once more. 'The HVP and the rest of the Mail Train must be shunted somewhere during the day. I want to look inside it, see what we are up against. Buster, Jim Hussey, Tommy, I want you to look at all the shunting yards and sidings. Roger has a list. We also have to decide how big this firm will need to be. There are about eighty people on that train, but only five in the HVP. If we can isolate that HVP, we are quids in. On the other hand, moving a hundred mailbags at double- quick time is going to need a lot of hands. I am open to suggestions for extra bodies, but, you know, keep it in the family, eh lads? Roger and Jimmy have some ideas.'
'Tiny Dave Thompson,' said Jimmy White. 'Another ex- Para.'
There were a few murmurs of agreement. Tiny Dave had kept his head when the arrests were happening after the London Airport job. Harry and Ian, the other two musclemen, had lost their bottle and left town.
Bruce said: 'Good idea. But I'll make the approaches – agreed? This has to be tighter than a duck's arsehole. That's me done for now. We meet again at the end of the week. Clapham Common, five-a-side. Bring your boots, your Dextrosol and your liniment. Any questions?'
Gordy asked: 'When are we aiming for, Bruce?'
'Our man tells us the most cash is carried after a Bank
Holiday. The one that stands out is August the fifth. It's a Scottish one, before you ask. Now, we don't do it on August the fifth, 'cause the money is still in the banks. So we are looking at the night of Tuesday the sixth, morning of Wednesday, August the seventh. A little over two and a half months away.'
Someone whistled. All they had so far was a vague idea of what they were going to do and when. Not how. And when it came to robbing trains, the how was the big ask. Ten weeks was no time at all when it came to planning that kind of job.
'So we best get to it.' Bruce stepped aside. 'Roger will now read from the Big Chief I-Spy's Book of Train Signals'
Roger Cordrey, florist by profession, train robber by inclination, stood up. Next to some of the muscle gathered in the room, he looked just like a flower-seller. But he had specialist knowledge, which was always respected in the business, and most of the men carried on puffing their cigarettes and listening intently as he prepared to give them a chat about the difference between dwarf and home signals.
' Britain has seventy-three TPOs, Travelling Post Offices,' he began, just to show they weren't the first firm to have noticed all this money moving around the country on rails. 'They have been running since 1830…'
Buster Edwards, suddenly transported back to school, began to roll up pieces of Rizla cigarette paper to flick at Gordon Goody's ears. Whatever the division of labour, Buster was fairly sure he wouldn't be part of any technical team. Not while he still had his spring-loaded cosh.
DC Billy Naughton arrived back at the section house tired and dishevelled. He had spent too many hours chasing after the man Duke was convinced was a criminal mastermind only to discover he was a bloody scribbler. Colin Thirkell. Waste of time.
Well, not entirely. On the bright side, he had been bunged a fiver by some guilty poof who had thought that he was going to run him in for gross indecency. The man had leaned over the porcelain dividing wall of the urinals to take a good look at his tackle. The Liberace had a neck like a bloody flamingo. Billy, outraged at this invasion of his privates, had slapped the man around a bit, then flashed his warrant card, and the terrified queer had reached for his wallet. Billy guessed it wasn't the first time he had bought his way out of scandal.
Maybe he shouldn't have settled for a fiver. The man was well-dressed – a City type or solicitor, perhaps. Probably married. Just like the plot of that Dirk Bogarde film, a man with VICTIM written right across his forehead. Billy had little against queers, other than the usual disgust at what they got up to, but the need to carry out their perversions in public toilets – what was that all about? Maybe if they had to hand enough fivers over to policemen they would start thinking twice. Which made 'fining' them a public service, didn't it?
In the tiny, overheated box room that he called home, Billy yanked off his tie and stripped off clothes that stank of booze and fags and threw them into the corner. Remembering what was in his pockets, he retrieved his trousers and fished out the fiver the pillow-chewer had bunged him. In only his underpants and socks now, he fetched the dented Oxo tin from the suitcase under the bed and opened it up, intending to simply stuff the fresh cash inside. Now, though, the assorted ten bob-, pound- and five-pound notes sprang out onto the swirly nylon carpet.
So much, he thought. How did it get to be so much in such a short time?
He stood up and turned on the Dynatron transistor radio that sat next to the bed. It was still tuned to Radio Luxembourg, trotting out the inevitable plug for Horace Batchelor's failsafe Infra-Draw Pools method. Once the drone was over ('That's Keynsham: kay, ee, why…') on came Rockin' To Dreamland with Keith Fordyce, who announced he was playing the best new music from Britain and America, starting with the surf sound of the Beach Boys.
Billy upended the Oxo tin on the bed and began to sort the notes into piles according to denomination. He nodded his head to 'Surfin' Safari' as he did so, the harmonies interrupted periodically by the atmospheric whistling that was one of Radio Luxembourg 's specialities.
He didn't notice the song end, or the next irritating advertisement break for the stupid pools system. He was busy looking at three hundred and thirty-three pounds and ten shillings. And that was just crumbs, picked up here and there. He had more than three hundred pounds, yet he was still living in a station house, listening to music on a cheap transistor and eating meals in a police canteen.
Billy carefully repacked the cash, thinking about a better hiding-place, before deciding he should put it in the Post Office or a building society. It was, perhaps, time for Billy Naughton to move up in the world. And if the drinks, backhanders and tips weren't entirely legal, then so what? It wasn't as if he didn't put the hours in – and did anyone ever mention the word 'overtime'? Was there ever talk of time-and-a-half or double time? No. A fifteen-hour day got you twelve and sixpence subsistence pay. Subsistence if you ate at the Wimpy every day, that was.
The Dynatron's signal drifted to interference, white noise interspersed with the snap and crackle of ghostly voices captured from the radiosphere. It reminded Billy of an electronic seance when that happened, like he was eavesdropping on ancient wireless broadcasts. He half-expected an ethereal voice to emerge from the static: We are receiving reports that something has happened to the Titanic…'
Billy reached up and switched the radio off, then placed the box back into the suitcase and pushed it deep under the bed. He resolved to ask Duke where the best place to keep his money was. It shouldn't be under the Dunlopillo mattress. Not in a room with no lock on the door, as was still the rule in London station houses. It should be somewhere secure and legit, somewhere it could grow. After all, it wasn't as if he had done anything wrong, was it?
'This is it, then?' Bruce asked Roger, as they sat on a locked toolbox in the shadow of the concrete hut and watched a passenger service rattle by on one of the four lines. It had been easy to hop over the fence and walk down the embankment to the little depot, with its hut and toolshed. Both men wore donkey jackets over blue boiler suits, and they looked like any team of gangers taking a break, watching trains go by in bright sunshine.
Roger Cordrey had the OS map spread out on his lap, while Bruce fussed with a flask of tea. They had been driving up and down their designated section of the line for several days now, but kept coming back to this spot. They had looked at the viaducts discovered by some of the other scouts, but one was far too high – a heavily laden bag tossed over could kill someone on the road below – and the other had no stop signals nearby.
'I reckon it is,' said Roger. He indicated towards Linslade, on his right, beyond the small bridge that crossed the line, giving access to Rowden Farm. 'Dwarf single down there, which will be switched to amber.' Then to his left. 'Home signal there has to be on red.'
Bruce hesitated while a goods train groaned past them at not much more than walking speed, drowning out the conversation. When it was clear he asked: 'All of which you take care of?'
Roger grinned. He had done it on the Brighton line enough times, although they had never taken a decent haul, and some of the attempts had been fiascoes. But the false stop light part of the plan, that always worked a treat. 'Leave it to me. Never fails.' He took the tea. 'Cheers.'
'But how can you be in two places at once?'
'How do you mean?'
'Doing two signals? Shouldn't we have someone on the dwarf, another on the home gantry?'
Roger pursed his lips. Bruce knew what he was thinking. Tricks of the trade. Roger was valuable, would more than earn his whack, by interfering with the signals. If he spilled the beans on how to do that, if anyone with a couple of crocodile clips could switch the lights, then he became redundant.
'Look, I don't give a fuck how it's done, Roger. I'm not going to make a career out of nobbling the Royal Mail. I just want to make sure you aren't stretched too thin. I could put a man up there with you.' He had someone in mind – Ralph. A distant relative, not a hardened crim, but a good worker and, most of all, dependable.
'We'll see,' said Roger. He changed the subject and pointed across the tracks to the low buildings that constituted the inhabited part of Rowden Farm. 'That's a bit close.'
'It'll be three in the morning. I know farmers are early risers, but that'd be ridiculous.'
'Still, should cut the phone line to it.'
That made sense. Even if they did spot something, the owners wouldn't be able to raise the alarm. 'Good idea. Drink up. Mustn't hang about too long.'
Bruce's new Lotus Cortina – its side flash as green as Roy 's envy when the driver saw it – was parked off the main road next to a farm entrance on the B488, which cut through quiet pasture and rolling woodland. He had pulled off onto such turnings many times in recent days and inevitably had left tyre- marks. He would have to get the boots on the car changed. The police used tyre-tracks like fingerprints now – both as evidence and a convenient way to place you at the scene. In fact, it was best if he retired the Lotus, just in case anyone had clocked it over the past week or even taken the licence-plate. He had read there was a DB5 due in September. It might be nice to go back to an Aston. The last one had cost him a fortune in garage bills, but that might not be an issue this time around.
'Of course, you are still half a mile short,' said Roger. He gestured at the track behind them that led up to the elevated crossing. 'No way you can get the bags up this embankment and over to the main road. Not without giving everyone a hernia. It will have to be bridge 127.'
He pointed down the line to Bridego Bridge, which was, according to the plate on its side, BR's crossing number 127. It was a relatively low span over a narrow country lane, with easy access up the embankment at the side of the arch to the track itself. There was even a parking area for fishermen who visited the small pond next to it. But it was, as Roger had said, a good half-mile away. Trotting up the track like pack mules was also out of the question.
'So once the train is stopped, we have to move it up to the bridge?' asked Bruce.
'Well, you don't have to move the whole train, do you? Just the HVP.'
Bruce sipped his tea. 'So we uncouple the business end and shunt it the half-mile.'
'That's right.' At Crossing 127 they would be dropping the bags down a slope to the roadway, not carrying them uphill to one, the only option where they were now. 'To where we can unload the bags straight down into the vehicles.'
They sat and thought about this for a minute. 'Roger?'
'Yes?'
'Can you drive a train?'
'No. I can stop them, that's usually enough.'
'So we need a driver then. Although they do tend to come complete with one, don't they? Trains, I mean.'
Roger screwed his face up. 'In my experience they are stroppy bastards, these BR types. If the fucker at the controls says you can go and fuck yourself – well, you're fucked, aren't you?'
That was true. Drive the train or we'll beat your brains out. Go on, then. The whole thing could come down around their ears because of one bolshie driver. 'OK, best have a think.' Bruce stood up and threw the dregs of his tea towards the track. 'What's this place called again?'
'Sears Crossing.'
'Sears Crossing,' he repeated. 'Right. Sears Crossing is where we catch our train.'
New Scotland Yard, June 1963
Len Haslam took one glance at Billy Naughton, sitting rigid at his desk in the Squad room, and knew something was wrong. 'Fuck me, lad, you look like someone who drank seven pints and three scotches last night.'
'Don't exaggerate. Five pints. Two scotches.' He did feel rough around the edges, his stomach burning from all the alcohol – celebrating the nicking of the Islington Post Office gang – and no food. But that wasn't why he felt queasy.
Duke, fresh-faced apart from a razor nick on his upper lip, grinned. 'Right. Must have been me who did the seven and three then – and I feel fine. So what's up with you, Junior? Need to see Dr Kildare?'
Dr Kildare was the half-bottle of scotch that Duke kept handy in case a hair of the dog was needed.
'Leave it out. Got to see the TM.'
TM stood for Top Man: Commander George Hatherill, overall head of Scotland Yard's C Division, the business end, and a classic Old Sweat, who had been everywhere, seen everything.
'He asked for you?'
Billy said he had.
'Could be a good thing,' Haslam told him. 'You never know.'
Billy doubted it. He hadn't made much of an impression over the past few months, could hardly claim to have established himself as a thief-taker.
'By the way, I forgot to ask you last night. Did you turn up anything on that bloke who was with Bruce Reynolds?' Len clicked his fingers in front of Billy's eyes. 'Come on, boy, snap out of it.'
'He's a writer,' said Billy distantly.
'A what?'
'A writer,' he repeated.
'What kind of fuckin' writer? A sign writer?'
'Journalist. Author. Colin Thirkell.' Billy fetched one of the paperback novels he had bought at Foyles from his drawer and tossed it onto the desk.
Duke picked it up and read the title.'Black and Blues. What's this?'
'About the clashes between the coloureds and the police. In Notting Hill.'
'Is he a coon-lover then, this Thirkell?'
Billy shrugged. 'I haven't read it. He's queer though.'
'How do you know? Is it because he takes men's dicks up the arse? Is that the clue?' Len leered at him, making Billy feel even more nauseous.
'Drinks at the Moorhen off Tottenham Court Road.'
'Ah. Queers and nig-nogs.' Duke scanned the rear of the novel. It was a twin-strand story about Dexter, a Jamaican seaman who ends up as a pimp, and Stirrup, a Detective
Inspector on the Vice Squad. 'Coon-lover,' he confirmed. 'As well as an arse-bandit. What time are you seeing the TM?'
'Eleven.'
'Well, don't get trapped by one of his bloody stories. If he mentions the Penn murder case, fake an epileptic fit. The big kind.' Duke handed the book back. 'Filth. But it means he might have just been trawling the gutter for background to one of his stories.'
'What shall we do about him then?'
Len Haslam thought for a moment. They had a lot on their plate. Millen was pressuring them to find Michael Morris, who had escaped from Lewes Prison swearing to kill the woman who had sent him a Dear John letter. There had been a dozen sightings over the past three weeks and it was known he had bought a Luger in Brighton. Some queer nig-nog lover in Notting Hill who liked to hang around with thieving toerags like Bruce Reynolds wasn't much of a priority.
Just then, the operator called out Duke's name, telling him he had a call. 'Pass his name along to the Vice,' he advised Billy. 'He gets caught cottaging, tell them to let us know. Otherwise, we'll save him for later.'
George Hatherill's nickname of Top Man wasn't just a respectful courtesy tide. Billy stood before the man's desk in an office crammed with commemorative photographs and awards, going back to before the war. Hatherill was well past the age when he could have retired, but there was always one last little job for him. Right now, with the senior management laid low by a series of unforeseen deaths – three heart-attacks and a cancer that had spread with terrifying speed – and long- term illnesses, it was to supervise a reorganisation of the Yard.
But everyone knew he was really sniffing around for the Last Big Case, the one that would seal his career.
Hatherill was portly and avuncular, smoked like the proverbial chimney, enjoyed a good glass of wine – thanks to his pre-war travels on the continent on police business, which also gave him his eight languages – and was always well turned- out. Today he had on a dark three-piece suit, with a white saw-toothed handkerchief in the top pocket, a finely pinstriped shirt, Windsor-knotted tie and, although Billy couldn't see them, doubdess mirror-finished shoes.
Billy was aware of the man's career and its scope. Hatherill had met Hitler and Himmler when he was investigating forgery of British fivers in Germany before the war. Which was ironic considering that during the war Hitler and Himmler went into the same forgery business. He had even been allowed to tour Gestapo headquarters and got a good sense of Nazi justice. He had also been responsible for the capture of Peter Griffiths, the so-called Beast of Blackburn. The latter had raped a three-year-old girl whom he had abducted from her hospital cot. It was said Hatherill stood virtually every officer in the Met a drink the day Griffiths had hanged.
In recent years he had gathered a reputation for long- windedness, for recapitulating highlights of his career, as if rehearsing for the memoirs he claimed to be writing. Some said he was only sticking around for the Last Big Case so he had a closing chapter for the book that wasn't entitled My Twilight Years Behind a Desk.
'I have been speaking to Mr Millen and a few of your colleagues,' said Hatherill, tapping Billy's file. 'They mostly have good things to say about you.'
Billy noted the 'mostly' and wondered what the caveats might be. 'Thank you, sir.'
'Of course, it is not easy fitting into the Flying Squad. They have their own way of doing things.' He arched an eyebrow. He was referring to the informal way of recruiting. The Flying Squad liked to 'bring on their own', which helped foster the camaraderie and elitism for which it was known. It also meant that when officers were transferred out, they sometimes had trouble adjusting to a different regime. 'But it appears you have made a good job of it.'
'Yes, sir.'
'But I think you need a wider experience. You did ten weeks' Detective School?' 'I did.'
'Then how long in plainclothes before coming across?'
'Six months, give or take. But I was an Aide to CID as well. In and out of uniform.'
'Mainly in,' said Hatherill, showing he had read the file. 'Not enough, m'boy, not enough. Well, pack your bags. Mr Millen has released you to me. We are going on a trip.'
'Trip?'
' Cornwall – Newquay. You know it?'
'No, guv.'
'Actually a little place called Perranporth. Look it up.'
He thought about Len's reaction. It would be something along the lines of 'teacher's pet'. 'Sir, how long will we be gone? I mean, I have ongoing cases-'
'I know what you have. It's a pretty light caseload though, now Islington is sorted. DS Haslam can handle it on his own. And we'll be away as long as it takes.'
Hatherill lit up a cigarette from a burnished walnut box with what could be a German eagle on it, picked out in silver. Almost as an after-thought he offered Billy one of the Senior Service. After a moment's hesitation, he took one. Hatherill lit both with an enormous desk lighter. 'Take a seat. Look, Billy, I'm long enough in the tooth to know that breadth of your experience will matter as much as its intensity. The Squad can't teach you everything. There is one investigation I recall that demonstrates that perfectly. Did you ever hear of the Penn murder case?'
Billy's heart sank. He remembered Duke's advice about feigning an epileptic fit if the guv'nor starting blahing. 'Rings a bell, sir.'
'Well, look it up, look it up. This one in Perranporth could be as interesting.'
Billy realised he had been spared a long walk down Memory Lane and brightened. 'What is it, sir? In Cornwall?'
'A headless corpse.'
Now the old windbag had his interest. The Last Big Case.
Bruce Reynolds had had enough. So had Franny. He hadn't told his wife exactly what he was up to, but she knew from the comings and goings, the phone calls, the drinking and the short temper that something big was on the cards and that Bruce was feeling the pressure.
So, on the night before the football match at Clapham Common, Bruce agreed to drive Franny down to Redhill to visit Charmian and Ronnie Biggs. The two girls could make dinner and have a good chinwag, while Ronnie and Bruce went to the local. It would do him good to talk about something other than trains. They parked their son Nick with Mary, a friend, and motored down in a TR4, borrowed from the garage that was reshodding and servicing the Lotus. Bruce took with him a copy of Afro Blue Impressions by John Coltrane, which he had picked up in Dobell's on Charing Cross Road. He presented it as a gift to Ronnie, the only one of his friends who would really appreciate it.
'I think you'll like it. Bit out there in places, if you know what I mean. It's got this mad twenty-one-minute version of "My Favourite Things",' Bruce explained as the two men left the house. 'Don't play it while Charmian's in the room. Drives Franny mental. She says he's just forgotten the tune, that's why it's so bleedin' long.'
The two men walked down to the Red Lion, which Ronnie said was his new favourite boozer. Bruce knew the beefy, avuncular Ronnie was a so-so thief but excellent company, and he was obviously popular: Biggsy was greeted by name by almost everyone in the place.
Having equipped themselves with mild and bitters, the two men found a table, away from the jukebox that was pumping out 'Foot Tapper' by the Shadows. A couple of burly would- be Hank Marvins at the bar were doing the Shadows' walk, swinging imaginary guitars.
'Look at those plonkers,' said Ronnie, speaking loudly so the men could hear. 'More Lee Marvin than Hank. I hope they lay bricks better than they mime guitar.' He laughed when that earned him synchronised V-signs. Satisfied, Ronnie turned to his old friend. 'You all right, Bruce? Look tired.'
'I've been busy.'
Ronnie cracked a smile. 'When were you never?'
'What about you?'
'Usual. Bit of painting here and there. How's that racing driver pal of yours, Roy?'
'Doing well.'
'No more sponsorship? Doesn't he need a nice Duckhams sign painted on his car?'
This train job goes off, Roy won't need to go cap in hand to Duckhams, Bruce thought. 'Not yet. But the cash will come once he gets his name in the paper a bit more. They'd be daft not to invest in him. He's going places.'
Ronnie sniffed, as if suddenly a little nervous. 'Talking of investing, I was wondering, Bruce – you know, if you were interested in helping me set something up.'
Bruce waited. The sentence was ambiguous. It could mean lots of things.
'I mean something on the straight and narrow.'
'Not motors, I hope?'
Ronnie's last three-year stretch had been for a bungled car theft. It had been a harsh sentence, Bruce thought. Cars were so easy to steal, he wondered why everyone didn't do it. You could make a key that worked out of tinfoil for older models; newer ones had the serial number written on the dashboard or on the collar of the ignition lock. And when you went to get a key made, nobody ever asked you if you actually owned the car you wanted it for. Which, of course, made it tragic that Ronnie was caught for something that should have been child's play. He just wasn't a born thief.
'No. Painting and decorating. I've been doing this bungalow in Eastbourne. Seems to me, those seaside places need painting more than any other, what with the wind and the salt. Lots of demand for painters, but most of the blokes do a terrible job. Slapdash. No stripping back to bare wood, no filling. It's criminal.'
They both laughed.
'Ronnie Biggs, the decorator you can trust?' Bruce asked.
'Well, as long as you don't leave too much lying around.'
'What do you need?'
'I reckon one or two grand. Enough to cover a van, leaflets, adverts in local papers and all that.'
Bruce drank while he thought. Part of the plan he had spent the week putting together involved lorries, which would need disguising, with new plates and new colour schemes. 'A few hundred is the best I could manage right now, mate. Had some expenses. We might have a painting job for you, though.'
'We? You mean you and Fran?'
'Nooooo.' He let the word draw out. 'Me and some of the chaps.'
Ronnie shook his head vigorously. 'Look, Bruce, if it's anything not quite on the level, best count me out. Charmian said she'd have my bollocks on the mantelpiece next time.'
'Fair enough. But I might be in a position to help you out in a couple of months.'
'A couple of months? That long? Must be a big one, eh?'
'Just being careful. You know how it is. I don't think Franny wants to see me across a metal table again.'
He could see curiosity in Ronnie's eyes, the conflict of a man who wants to know more but is scared to ask. It would be like describing a gourmet feast to a starving man, so Bruce just said, 'Another?'
When he returned with the refills, Bruce asked: 'You OK for the moment though?'
'Scrabbling a bit. Working for this old geezer. Hasn't got a lot of money. House is in a right state. He pays me half in cash and half in bloody kind at the yards. Actually, you should bring your Nick down. Both the boys could have a go. The two Nicks.'
Like Bruce, Ronnie had called his son after Nick Adams, the Hemingway character. A love of Papa was something else, along with the jazz, which they shared. Hemingway, Miles, Brubeck, Orwell, Jamal, Fitzgerald, Mingus, Cheever, Dexter, Capote – it was their common language.
'Have a go at what?' Bruce asked.
'Driving the train.'
Bruce slopped a mouthful of beer onto his slacks. 'Shit.' He took out his handkerchief and blotted the mark on his thigh. 'What train?'
'That Stan Peters I was talking about – the bloke whose bungalow I'm doing up. Well, he's getting on a bit so he only- does some of the shunting once or twice a week now. But he takes Nick along on the footplate sometimes. Lets him do the horn, everything.'
Bruce couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. 'Footplate?'
Ronnie was puzzled and slightly alarmed at how Bruce's demeanour had suddenly changed. His body had become taut, as if he'd received an electric shock, his eyes were bulging and a pulse was throbbing visibly in his temple.
'So this… Stan,' Bruce asked, leaning forward, the pressure in his chest meaning he could only take shallow breaths. 'He's what, exactly?'
'I told you. A train driver.'
Cornwall, June 1963
The headless corpse had been transported to Truro and examined there by the local Home Office pathologist. In fact, as Billy Naughton discovered, it wasn't just headless, there was precious little of the rest of it left on the slab of the overlit mortuary. The internal organs had mostly disappeared as well as one arm, and the remaining limbs looked like sections of a barrage balloon, all bloated and blue.
It was so far from being the body of a young woman that Billy found he was almost able to distance himself from it as having once been human. He could look upon the remains dispassionately, as if it really were just flotsam, albeit of organic origin. Only the rich chemical brew that infused the room's atmosphere made him feel nauseous.
Norman Carter, the pathologist, was wearing a double- breasted suit with a hospital gown thrown carelessly over it, as if he had rushed in from lunch.
'Well, of course, if we had got it when it was first spotted, we might have had more luck,' said Carter, who had travelled from Bristol for a second time to go over his findings and was clearly none too pleased with having to venture so far from home again. 'As it is, the saltwater immersion has ruined the fingerprints. There is, of course, no face.'
'What do you mean, if you had got it when it was first spotted?' asked Hatherill. They had only arrived the night before and were billeted in a pub near the beach where the body had been washed up. He had read through the preliminary reports on the finding, but none had mentioned a delay in contacting the authorities.
'You don't know the background?' asked Carter, looking over his half-moon spectacles.
Hatherill ignored the slight sneer in Carter's voice. 'I thought we had better see our victim first, and get your reaction. I've read the report of PC Trellick who found her.'
'The bobby might have found her, but she was seen on that beach a good week before – when she still had two arms and, I'll wager, all her internal organs.'
'Bloody hell,' said Billy. 'So why wasn't she brought here then?'
'Good question, lad. She lay on that beach for eight days.'
'Where is the head?' asked Billy.
The pathologist shrugged. 'Missing in action. As I said in my notes, there appear to be saw-marks on the cervical vertebrae that remain.'
'Saw-marks?' Hatherill asked. 'You sure?'
'Well, there are striations. You want to take a look?'
Hatherill stepped forward and Carter swung a magnifying lens over the stump of the neck. Billy held back, not wanting to see the gore in any greater detail. Hatherill made grunting noises.
'Sir, isn't it an offence not to report a dead body?'
Carter looked up at him with pity in his eyes. 'Have you been to Cornwall before, son?'
'No.'
He gave a wan smile. 'You'll learn.'
Hatherill clapped his hands together. 'Right. Can you try and get us some dabs?'
'Off this?'
Hatherill gave a flattering smile. 'Well, you pathologists have your methods, I know.'
Carter thought for a few moments, stroking his chin as he did so. 'I could dissolve away some of the tissue on the fingertips, see if I can get an impression of the underlying ridges then – if you don't mind me removing the hands and taking them back to Bristol.'
'I don't, and I think she is past caring. Don't you, Detective?'
'Sir,' Billy agreed.
'And palm prints?' Hatherill asked.
Carter tossed one of the hands back and forth, like a flipper. 'They might be easier to obtain, yes.'
The Old Man turned to Billy. 'People forget palm prints. They're just as distinctive though, as any fingerprints. So, DC Naughton, any thoughts?'
Billy felt himself blush as the two older men stared at him. I wish I were back in London, he thought. Even turning over queers in public toilets is better than this. But that wouldn't do as an answer.
'That the head was sawn off to prevent identification.'
'Then why not the hands?'
'Because… well, if the woman had no criminal record, the murdered would know we wouldn't have anything on file.'
Hatherill shook his head. 'But once we have a list of missing women in the area we could dust those houses. The murderer, if there were one, wouldn't know how long the corpse would be immersed, would he? If it is a he.'
Billy tried to think of something pertinent to say, but nothing came.
'Let's get the list of everyone who might have seen the body during the week it was there. Dog-walkers, beachcombers, fishermen, holidaymakers. We'll interview them all, reinterview if they have already been done.' Hatherill took out his cigarette case and placed a Senior Service in his mouth. He was enjoying himself. 'Then I want you to phone the Met in London.'
Billy assumed he meant Scotland Yard. 'We need more men?'
'Not the Metropolitan Police, the Meteorological Office. We are at the seaside, remember. I want a weather forecast.'
It had been raining persistently for two days until that morning and the sky was still a flat pewter colour, threatening more of the same. Clapham Common was greasy underfoot, the grass beaten into submission and dotted with muddy patches the size of small ponds. Bruce Reynolds was concerned. He knew how competitive some of these men could be. He imagined Charlie going for Jimmy, or Buster taking on Gordy and it all ending in grief.
'I want you to think about what you are doing.' Bruce tapped his temple forcefully with his right index finger. 'Think why we are here. We don't need any broken legs now, do we?' he warned them as they gathered on the edge of the pitch. 'It's not Yugoslavia versus Russia. And I don't want any Mujics. Got it?'
Tito's lads and Khrushchev's boys had faced up to each other in Group One of the previous year's World Cup in
Chile. It had been a scrappy match in all senses of the word, with on-pitch fighting and a broken leg sustained by Dubinski thanks to a heavy-footed tackle. The photo of the Russian's agony flashed around the world; Mujic was sent home in disgrace.
Bruce looked at the group of men gathered for a kick- about. Some, like Roy, had gone to town with their kit. He looked like a pocket-sized Roy of the Rovers. Buster, on the other hand, in his long black gym shorts and vest, looked more like Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track. Most were somewhere in between.
'Right, let's get the important bit over first. Gordy, pick your men. I'll have Roy and Tony.'
'Oh no, you don't,' said Gordy. 'Two fast wingers, I bet. You can have one of them.'
In the end, it was Bruce, Roy, Buster, Jimmy White and Charlie to take on Gordy, Tony, Ralph – a friend of Bruce's who would help with the signals if need be – Tommy and Roger. Brian Field, the solicitor, opted to stay on the sidelines. 'I'll peel the oranges at half-time,' he said with his cheeky grin.
'You can buy the pints at fall-time,' said Buster, pointing towards the Plough.
'Before we get started,' said Bruce, looking at Roger. 'I may have solved the problem of moving the train.' He suddenly had their complete attention, and felt like Alf Ramsey giving a pep talk. 'Ronnie Biggs knows a driver.'
'Will he let us at him?' Roy asked.
'No. It's his shout. I said I'd bring Ronnie in.'
Buster gave a loud sniff. 'None of us have worked with him. Not really.'
'I told you. He's reliable.' said Bruce, with feeling. He'd seen Ronnie beaten by screws till his testicles were like purple rugby balls, and he hadn't given an inch. 'He's keen.' The truth was, once Ronnie had realised the scale of the job, all his concerns about upsetting Charmian went out of the window. She wouldn't be miffed when she saw a heap of fivers on the bed. When he and Franny had left, Biggsy had given him a clear message. No Ronnie, No Stan the Engine Driver.
'He can be very useful,' Bruce went on. 'Ronnie's a big strong lad. Once we get the train to that bridge, we are going to need to get the bags down to the lorries.'
'Lorries?' asked Roy, dismay in his voice.
'I'll come to that,' said Bruce. 'And besides, Tony has worked with him before, haven't you?'
All eyes turned on Tony, but Tony examined Bruce's face. He had never even met Ronnie Biggs, let alone worked with him. 'Yeah. He's all right.'
'I can drive the bleedin' train,' said Roy, with a hint of petulance.
'What? You bought a Hornby Dublo?'
Roy glared at Buster. He had bought a train set, but hadn't told anyone about it yet. Besides, it was a Triang. 'No, I haven't got a bloody Hornby, but I've got the Railwayman's Handbook. Looks easy enough. I drive a racing car – how hard can a train be?'
Bruce flicked from face to face, gauging the mood.
'It would be nicer to keep it tight,' said Gordy. 'And not bring in too many outsiders.'
Bruce knew that wasn't going to be an option. On paper he had worked out they needed eighteen people to do this; sixteen at a stretch. They were still short. 'Well, we'll see if you can,' Bruce said to Roy.
'How do you mean?' asked the wheel-man.
'We'll go and find a train to drive. You lot have been doing the yards. You must know ways in.'
Several of them nodded. 'Security's piss poor,' added Gordy. 'Pair of overalls, you can walk right in and out, no questions asked.'
'And we've found the mail train,' said Buster with a grin, unable to keep the news to himself. 'Up near Wembley, in the sidings. As your man said, the HVP is not connected to the rest of the train by a door or corridor. It's self- contained.'
'Good. But I'll need to take a look for myself,' said Bruce. All they had to do then was figure out how to unhook it from the body of the train. But, as Roy would say, how hard could that be? Stan would know. If they brought Stan and Ronnie in, that is. 'And then we can let Roy play choo-choos.'
'Fuck that. Are we going to play football or what? It's going to rain soon.' It was Charlie who, as usual, had been listening without saying much. 'I paid two guineas for these.' He pointed down at his shiny new Puma Pele Signature boots.
Bruce picked up the ball. 'You're right. That's enough villainy for now. Twenty minutes, then half-time, another chat about the transportation we'll need, and change ends. OK? Right – my lads over here. I want to give you a proper talk without those dirty bastards overhearing.'
When Tony Fortune walked up the stairs to the flat, he was fully expecting a bollocking. Although he had changed after football – 4-2 to Gordy's team – his face was still mud-streaked and he smelled of sweat and beer. There had been two pints in the Plough and then most of them had adjourned to Bobby Welch's place in Camberwell for an after-hours session. Charlie, Bruce and Buster were still there. Tony, his head swimming with alcohol on an empty stomach, had headed back, no doubt to a ruined, cremated lunch.
'Marie,' he shouted as he came in, his nostrils twitching. Lamb. And it wasn't burned.
'In here, luv.'
His wife was in the lounge, watching television. 'Sooty?' he asked as he walked in, dumping his kit, just in time to see Harry Corbett get a squirt of water in his eye.
'Just waiting for Oliver Twist to come on.' She struggled to her feet, her belly weighing on her now.
'Sit down. Sorry I'm late.'
'Knew you would be. Didn't put dinner on till late. Be ready about six.'
'Lovely.'
'Shall I run you a bath?'
Even in his slightly befuddled state, Tony sensed something was up. A campaign was under way. 'What is it?'
'What's what?'
'Whatever it is that you have to tell me.'
She smiled at him, showing too much gum. 'Oh nothing, Tony. It'll wait. I'll run you a nice hot bath. There's a pale ale in the kitchen, if you fancy.'
He didn't really want the beer, but he dutifully sat in a soapy bath cradling it, going over what had happened that day. Although things had developed in fits and starts, some kind of shape was taking place to the tickle. Jimmy White was quartermaster, to source any gear needed for what Bruce was calling 'the mission'. Roy was, perhaps, to drive the train. Brian was to explore the possibility of establishing a base near the spot where the train was to be stopped, but not too near. Charlie and Gordy were to come up with ways to move more than a dozen men around without attracting attention. Roger was to go back and check the timings of the TPO mail trains and that the signals would present no unforeseen problems. And Bruce? Bruce was going to pull it all together.
'More hot water?'
His wife came in and turned on the Ascot, which ignited like one of the Americans' space rockets, spitting steam before a thin stream of scalding water came out.
She sat on the edge of the bath as it roared away. 'I have been thinking, Tony.'
Here we go.
'I've been thinking we should move. I know we were joking about the doctor saying we need a bigger place, for the baby. But it's true. A garden would be nice, wouldn't it?'
Well, he couldn't say he hadn't seen that one coming. She had been talking about a nursery for the boy or girl, been collecting colour cards from Woolworths. 'Y'know, when business picks up…' he began.
'Thing is, my sister Alice has heard about this place for sale.'
'For sale?' He sat up, sending water slopping over the rolltop, and switched off the Ascot. 'I can't afford to buy anywhere.'
'You could get a mortgage.'
'Not once they have seen the books. It's been a bad six months.'
Her voice hardened. 'Oh, I'll tell the baby that, shall I? "Sorry we are living in a shit-hole with a gas heater that might kill us all one day and one bedroom with a nasty patch of damp in the corner. Been a bad six months, see".' Her long- lost Irish accent always surfaced when she was angry. He saw her touch the bump and grimace slightly.
Tony blew out his cheeks and slumped back, sliding down until the water was up to his chin.
'I'm trying. Trying to make it right.'
She leaned forward, so her face was level with his. 'I know you are. I'm not daft. I know you have something in the works, something I am not to know about. Since when did you play football? On a Sunday? And go drinking with the lads?'
'It's all right. I'll knock it on the head. There're dozens of blokes who would kill for a sniff of this.'
She swirled her hand in the water. 'Don't be too hasty.'
'What?'
'I said, don't be too hasty. About knocking it on the head.'
'What about all that "I don't want my baby growing up with his father in pokey" stuff.'
'Well I don't, it's true. But maybe he won't. Maybe it's something worth taking a chance on.' She flicked some suds at his face. 'Is it?'
Tony suspected a trap. She was waiting for an admission of guilt, and then she would bring the house down around his ears. He kept quiet.
'Come on, I'm your wife. Shouldn't this be a joint decision?'
All he offered was a shrug.
'Look, this place, it's nothing too grand. Off the Holloway Road, not far from Alice. But she'll be able to help with the baby, and the landlord is willing to rent it for six months till we have enough of a deposit saved…'
'You've seen it?' he asked.
'Yes. You know those nice roads, on the left as you go down towards the cinema?'
He did. They were expensive, for that area at least. Neat
Victorian terraces with, as she said, gardens, albeit small ones. 'So who's keeping secrets now?'
'I was just waiting for the right time to bring it up, Tony. Just like you were waiting for the right time to tell me.' Her hands plunged into the water and he felt her grip his testicles and give a light squeeze. 'It's something big, isn't it?'
She was smiling, but even so, he slapped her arm away. 'Yes. Yes, it is.'
'Good.' She stood up and brushed the suds from herself. 'Dinner's almost ready. You can tell me all about it over a nice Sunday lunch.'
Fuck a very large duck, thought Tony. Wonders would never cease. 'Tell the wives nothing,' Bruce had advised. Easy for you to say, Tony thought. You don't have one like Marie.
Cornwall, June 1963
The boy who had been first to spot the woman's torso was eleven years old, but looked younger. He had a head that was too large for his skin-and-bone body, saucer eyes and a scalp almost shaved clean but for a ridge of hair running along the apex of his skull, like a wayward privet hedge. Or someone from The Last of the Mohicans who had been left out in the rain, thought Billy.
He lived with his parents in a low granite-and-slate cottage on the edge of the village. The interview took place in the kitchen, where a blackened range heated a pot of what, from the smell, was fish stew and a kettle, boiling for tea. The sinewy parents sat either side of the boy, reassuring him he had done nothing wrong.
'Bull's-eye?' offered Hatherill. From his suit pocket he produced a crumpled bag of the boiled sweets and offered one to young Harry Bone.
'Go on, son,' said Harry Senior.
The boy reached out a grubby hand and took one. Hatherill offered them around the table and, when there were no takers, popped one into his own mouth. There was silence, apart from the sucking of the bull's-eyes and the building urgency of the kettle.
'So, Harry,' slurped Hatherill, 'do you remember when you first saw the body?'
'Didn't know it was no body,' the lad said truculently.
Harry Senior flicked the boy's shaved head with a bony finger. 'Sir.'
'It's all right. He can call me George. That OK, Harry? Good. Now, I appreciate it could have looked like any old bit of driftwood or flotsam. But when did you first see it?'
'Would have been a Saturday,' he said. 'I know 'cause I had helped Dad at the garage in the morning and then walked down to the beach. Saw it then.'
'Which Saturday would this have been, Harry?'
'It would have been the fifth,' said Mrs Bone as she got up to make the tea.
'So about two and a half weeks ago.'
'Suppose. Yeah.'
'And what did you think when you saw it?'
An exaggerated shrug. 'Nothing.'
Hatherill worked on his bull's-eye some more. 'Well, not nothing. You never think nothing. But did you think: "That's nothing important" or "Oh look, there's what looks like a body, but it can't be"?'
'Dunno.'
'You have to understand,' said the dad, in his thick accent, 'that we get lots washed up here on the Cornish coast. Used to it, y'see. Not worth making a fuss over.'
Even a dead body? thought Billy.
'Tell you what. How about we have a nice cup of tea, we grown-ups, and then you take me down to the beach and show me what you saw and when.' He looked at the parents. 'How would that be?'
Twenty minutes later the trio – Billy, Harry and George – were traipsing across the sand of the bay, with the boy four paces ahead. Gulls wheeled overhead, screeching as if complaining about being denied their human flesh to feed on. The tide was coming in, the sea docile, the sun trying to break through. It was a beautiful long stretch of beach, framed by black rocks, moulded into fascinating shapes. Nice holiday spot, thought Billy. Or, at least, he would have thought so if he didn't keep seeing that ruined torso, flopping about on the foreshore, being poked and pulled by the waves.
'You are wondering how you can ignore a body, aren't you?' the TM asked Billy.
'It crossed my mind.'
'Think of what this place was. Treacherous coast. Lots of shipwrecks. Not all of them natural. Wreckers, you know? Luring ships onto rocks…'
'I thought that was all, you know, stories.'
Hatherill simply raised an eyebrow. 'Put it this way. There is nothing remarkable about a body washing up on the beach hereabouts.'
Billy pointed at the boy. 'Not even for a nipper like him?'
'Especially not for a nipper like him.' He raised his voice. 'Where was it, Harry?'
'Over here.'
They swerved to their right, and Harry took them to the sea's edge, close to a cluster of three jagged, seaweed-encrusted rocks. The boy indicated a spot in front of them. Billy looked around. It was possible the outcrops had hidden the corpse from most people's view.
'And what was the tide doing?' asked Hatherill, lighting a cigarette. He looked slightly comical in his tweed suit and shiny black brogues, peering through his thick glasses at the lad, the sea edging closer to his feet with each lap of the waves.
'Tide were in. The thing was just here. It had seagulls on it. I didn't know it were a body right then, honest. Thought it was a seal.' Then the lad burst into tears.
Hatherill stepped forward and shot an arm round him, pulling him close. With his cigarette, he indicated that Billy should walk back up the beach and leave the two of them alone.
As Billy began the trudge back towards the low cliffs, he wondered what the hell he was doing out here. Why had Hatherill insisted on dragging him to Cornwall if he was going to exclude him? He had anticipated being Robin to the Top Man's Batman, Tonto to his Lone Ranger, but he was being treated more like Jimmy Olsen – the annoying kid – to his Superman. Or Boo-Boo to his Yogi Bear.
He reached a rock arch, expertly carved by the Cornish storms from the cliff-face, and sat at its base. He watched the two distant figures patrolling the shoreline, deep in conversation, devouring more bull's-eyes as they spoke, and pondered on what was going on back in London while they were messing about in the sticks.
'I fuckin' hate the countryside. It stinks. Phoar – cop a load of that. Worse than one of your farts, Gordy.'
'Shut up, Buster,' said Bruce. 'Wind your window up if you don't like fresh air.'
'Fresh? What's fresh about a cow's arse?'
They were heading west, past a string of dairy farms just outside Aylesbury, in the Jag they had borrowed off Brian Field. A 3.8. Roy wouldn't have approved, but Bruce was enjoying it. He clocked the milometer. More than twenty miles from Bridego Bridge so far.
'How much is this place?' asked Buster.
'Five thousand, five hundred pounds.'
Buster whistled.
'It's a whole farm, you cunt,' said Gordy.
'We got five grand left in the pot?' It was a good question, because the 'seed' money from the airport job was almost gone.
'I spoke to Brian. He'd do it through his boss, all above board. Make sure we only have to put ten per cent down for now. We can raise the rest, no problem. Go to the Frenchman if we have to, eh, Buster?'
Frenchie the Banker had put some money up for the airport, in return for a hefty percentage. 'If we have to.'
They had crossed over the A418, and were travelling on the B4011. The destination wasn't actually on the OS map, but Bruce had marked the spot with a Biro'd 'X', like a treasure map. 'The turning is at Oakley, on the Bicester Road.'
'Yeah, I remember,' said Bruce. He had already seen the farm, even met the owners, and knew exactly where it was. He wanted a second opinion about the place and location, that was all.
'And you've seen what is at Bicester?' Gordy asked.
'No.'
'The Army.'
'The Army,' repeated Bruce thoughtfully.
'And what do the Army do?' Gordy asked.
'Manoeuvres,' said Bruce.
'Sometimes at night,' added Buster, catching on.
'Brilliant.' Bruce's brain kicked into overdrive, as they all knew it would. 'That's bloody brilliant.'
They drove on in silence, each digesting what this new strategy might involve. In his mind, Bruce was already creating his uniform. Maybe he would get to be a real Colonel after all. A Major at least. Who was going to suspect the Army? Who was going to stand up to them? It was the perfect front.
'It's along here somewhere,' said Gordy eventually. 'Turning on the right.'
Bruce found the track leading to the farm, and bounced the Jag up the muddy lane, the cows to the right watching its progress with their blank stares.
'It's got a main house, ugly but big enough for the number of blokes we'll need, mains water, a generator for electricity, and plenty of outhouses, including sheds and a garage the size of an aircraft hanger. Means we can get everything under cover, in case of choppers.' Helicopters were a new threat; the police didn't have any of their own, but the RAF was only too willing to lend a hand.
'Twenty-seven miles,' said Gordy, looking at the clock. 'About a thirty- or forty-minute drive from the bridge. If you don't have a Jag.'
"Bout right, I reckon,' said Bruce, 'for somewhere to lie low till the worst of the scream blows over.'
'It's a bit of a shit-hole. What's it called again?' asked Buster, as the Jag took a right through an open gate and the first of the smallholding's down-at-heel buildings came into view.
'Leatherslade Farm,' replied Bruce.
They took the boy back home from the beach as the afternoon turned cold once more, with grey-tinged clouds lining up on the horizon and a shrill wind whipping low across the sand. Hatherill told the parents that he was a bright lad who had been most helpful. They offered the Commander and Billy a glass of wine. Hatherill readily accepted this unexpected bonus; Billy, suspecting any wine would have been made in the kitchen sink, opted for a small scotch instead.
After they said their goodbyes, they walked back to the digs at the pub. 'Not a bad drop of claret, that,' said Hatherill appreciatively, smacking his lips. 'I fancy another. Join me? Then we'll have dinner.'
They settled into the corner of the inn, Hatherill with his large glass of red, Billy with a pint of mild. After he had taken a sip of wine and slurped it around his mouth unattractively, Hatherill gave a sigh of contentment then said, 'I'm just going up to my room to fetch something.'
Billy sat back, looking at the pictures on the walls. Seascapes mostly, some terrible oils, plus old pictures of lifeboat crews. A few of the locals glanced his way now and then, one or two of them muttering afterwards. The Inn of the Seventh Happiness it wasn't, he thought. He'd have as warm a welcome if he was carrying the plague.
He moved to the bar and ordered a packet of crisps – a transaction carried out mostly in grunts on the part of the barman. The crisps still came with a little twist of blue paper for the salt, a touch that was disappearing rapidly in London. He was shaking the bag to distribute the salt evenly when Hatherill reappeared and placed a large padded envelope on the table. The TM then ignored it as he went back to his wine.
He slurped some more before he spoke again. 'Why did you want to become a copper, Billy?'
The younger man had to smile. 'If I had a penny…'
Hatherill laughed with him. 'Me too. But you have to examine it, don't you? Why am I doing this? Is it because I read PC49 or watched Dixon of Dock Green? I suppose some of the kids watching Z Cars might be pulled in by that, eh? A whole generation of Barlows and Fancy Smiths. But that's not it with you, is it?'
'No.'
'It's to make a difference, isn't it? In a way an insurance clerk or a bank manager never can. We can influence society. We can find out who that poor dead girl is and we can affect people's lives. For good or bad.'
Billy wondered if the wine had gone to the Top Man's head. 'What did you get from the lad?'
'Not much. I got more from the parents.'
'The parents? They hardly said two words.'
Hatherill winked. 'Ah, but what they didn't say was important. And what they did.'
Billy racked his brains, but could think of nothing but polite chit-chat. 'Would you like a cup of tea? How about a nice glass of wine? A scotch then, how would that be?'
The pub's dog, a rough old collie, raised itself from the carpet, padded over and looked at Billy, its rheumy eyes on the crisps. He made to give it one but the dog bared its teeth. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you, he thought.
'The girl's head wasn't sawn off, Billy,' Hatherill said quietly. 'The pathologist is wrong.' He took more wine. 'The thing is, if she had been on the beach for a week, washed back and forward, those marks could have been caused by the sand. I've seen it before. Body washed ashore at Margate that had come all the way round from Lowestoft. Woman in a dinghy, caught in a storm. Bones sticking out of limbs when she was washed up, and what looked like wool covering her. She was left there for a few days because they thought it was a sheep. But it was kapok. The stuffing of her lifejacket looked like sheep's wool. But in those few days, the ends of the bones were abraded by the sand. Same here.' 'So…'
'So there was a big storm a few days before she was first spotted by the boy. He said so. Here and in the Channel. I want you to check all the shipping companies, see if they have any missing passengers.'
'Missing passengers?'
'Woman overboard.'
'You think she came off a ship?'
Hatherill sipped his wine once more and looked at it admiringly, swirling it in the glass. 'This really is very, very good. You don't expect such good wine in Cornwall.' He glanced around the dark, scruffy room, which smelled mostly of shag tobacco and stale beer. 'Especially in a pub like this. Must compliment the landlord. Yes, I think she came off a ship. Either in the Atlantic or the Channel. The head could easily have been swiped off by a propeller, especially if she went over the stern. My only question is, was the bobby who found her in on it or not?'
Billy had lost the thread. 'You mean PC Trellick? In on what?'
'You know there are two kinds of bent policemen? Some bend the rules so they can get the villain. We call that bent for the job. There are others who are obviously in it only to feather their own nest. Bent for themselves.'
'You are wondering which Trellick is?'
Hatherill held the last inch of wine in his glass to the light, checking for sediment. 'No. He's a third type, I think, one we don't get so much in London. Bent for his family. That's a different kind of pressure. No, I'm not wondering about him.' He grabbed the padded envelope and slid the contents out onto the table. 'I'm wondering about you.''
Billy stared down at the red and silver object before him. There was a screaming in his ears, a hundred jumbled questions melded into a cacophony, and a rising feeling of panic clutched at his chest. There was no mistaking what it was. It was a common enough item, but he recognised each dent on the lid. It was the Oxo tin from under his bed, the one containing his three hundred and thirty-three pounds, ten shillings.
London, June 1963
Roy had cut a hole in the chainlink fence two weeks ago and it still hadn't been repaired. Careless. He pulled back the wire and stepped aside to let Bruce climb through. It was gone midnight and, although a few blue-ish lights shone in the shunting yard, there was no sign of another soul.
Nevertheless, Roy kept his voice down as he ducked through after Bruce.
'Thing is, lying low at this farm, aren't we sitting ducks? We could be down the Ml and back in London in, I dunno, thirty minutes. Forty tops.'
'And if they put up road-blocks?' said Bruce, bored with the argument. 'And I told you, imagine it on Police Five. Did anyone see a convoy of high-speed cars entering London? Yes, they bloody well did.'
They slithered down an embankment onto gravel and paused, ears pricked, listening for any sign that they had drawn attention to themselves. An owl hooted, so clear and cliched, Roy thought it must be fake and said so.
'What, you think we've stumbled into an Apache raiding party?' Bruce hissed.
They straightened their overalls and strode towards the dark, angular shapes of the parked rolling stock, as if they had every right to be there. Bruce had a torch with him, but he kept it off. It would do to blind anyone if they were confronted.
'Look, Roy,' he whispered as they walked. 'I know you don't think a tickle is complete without a fast motor, but this one is different. I still want you in charge of the transport, goes without saying. Happy if you bring Tony in. But no Jags or Daimlers, OK?' 'OK'
'Fuck's sake, you might even get to drive a train. That should keep you happy. Where is it?'
'Follow me.'
They moved between dark, silent coaches and wagons, crossing over the tracks, Roy looking to left and right, hoping to find the engine he had picked out on his last venture into the yards.
'They've moved it,' he said.
Bruce sighed. 'It's a train, lad. That's what they do. Move.'
'Let's try over here.'
The coaches, trucks and tankers gave Bruce the creeps. They were slumbering behemoths, mechanical dinosaurs parked into dormitories and he felt as if the creatures could wake at any moment. Lights would come on, vacuum pumps throb, steam lines hiss, and one of them would demand to know what they were doing. Could be his gran had read him The Little Engine That Could one too many times as a kid, he reckoned.
'What about that one?' asked Bruce, pointing to a square block of metal on wheels.
'No. That's an O-Eight. I want an O-Three.'
As their eyes adjusted to the half-light and deep shadows, Roy tugged at his sleeve. 'Seen it.'
'That thing?' It was a squat little shunter, sitting alone on an empty section of track. 'It's a bloody great monster that pulls the mail. Not something you wind up.'
'They're like cars. If you can drive a Mini, you can drive a Roller.'
Bruce wasn't convinced, but followed Roy to the engine. He flashed the torch to locate the footholds and they both clambered up the side. Roy unzipped his leather jacket and produced a thick, well-thumbed book. On its cover were the words NOT FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC.
'What's that?'
'The manual.'
'You nicked it?'
'Drivers leave them lying around all the time. They just get another one. Shine the torch on the controls, will you?'
Bruce did as he was told and Roy thumbed through the book.
'Thing is, Bruce, if I am to drive the train, which I am happy to do, what do we do with the other driver? The real one.'
Bruce didn't understand the question. 'We'll take care of him.'
'That's what I'm worried about. I don't… you know. I never like the heavy stuff.'
Bruce stifled a laugh. It was hard to imagine the diminutive driver ever getting tucked into anything physical that didn't involve nuts and bolts. That had been enough. 'Me neither, Roy. That's why we have double acts like Wisbey and Welch. Look, you see those ugly fuckers climbing into your cab, you'll likely shit yourself. There'll be no problem, I'm sure. But you stay out of the way until they need you. OK?'
'OK' Roy located the page he wanted. 'Here we are. There'll be a key.'
'A key?'
'Like a car. But they always leave them lying around.' He began to run a hand over the metal shelves and surfaces. 'Here we are.' He fetched a bunch of keys from the top of the black metal control box, placed one in the ignition slot, then a second, until he had the right one and it turned freely. He pressed the starter button. The diesel coughed twice and rumbled into life.
Bruce felt the vibration through his feet. 'That it?'
'No, we got to wait for the air pressure to hit about sixty pounds.' Roy tapped a dial. 'Or none of the controls work. Release the handbrake, will you?'
Bruce looked around the cab. 'Where?'
'Behind you.'
Bruce turned to find a metal disc with projecting handles on its perimeter that looked like a shrunken steering-wheel from an old sailing ship. Stamped on the wall above it was an arrow with Off in one direction, On in the other. He heaved it towards Off.
'Right, we're at pressure. Track ahead clear?'
Bruce swung his head out of the open-sided cab. There seemed to be a decent length of shiny clear rail, but then darkness shrouded the far end, masking whatever lay farther on. 'For a few hundred yards.'
'All I'll need to show you.' Roy gave a big grin, as if he really was a boy who got to become an engine driver.
Bruce shivered, the heat drained from him by the cold metal surrounding them. 'Get on with it, Stephenson.' Roy looked blank at the reference. 'Stephenson's Rocket? Oh, just fire her up.'
Roy began to fuss with the controls. 'The throttle's not working. Odd.' Then he remembered. 'There's a dead man's pedal somewhere. Here!'
He stomped down on a metal plate and the diesel gave a jerk forward. Roy hooted with pleasure. 'Easy, see?'
They crept down the track, gathering speed on the incline.
'OK, you can stop now.'
The dumpy shunter carried on accelerating, the power unit thumping with urgency. It was moving at faster than walking pace now.
'Roy. You can stop the train now.'
Roy began to look at his book, flicking through the pages with a rising sense of panic. 'This should be the fucking brake.' He waggled a lever back and forward. He remembered there were two brakes, one for the engine and one for the actual wheels, but nothing he pulled or pushed made much difference.
'Step off the dead man's thing.'
'I have,' shouted Roy. They were rolling down a slope, he realised. Gravity was in control now. He squinted ahead into the night, to see if he could spot any obstacle on the track. 'Bruce, put that handbrake on. Bruce?'
He turned. Bruce was nowhere to be seen.
'Oh, Jesus.'
Roy grabbed his manual, stepped out onto the side of the loco, feeling the wind tugging at his hair as the speed increased. Then he closed his eyes and launched himself off.
He hit the gravel awkwardly, felt his ankle go, and rolled down an incline. Behind him the rails were humming as the engine rolled on.
'Come on.' Bruce appeared out of the night, grabbed Roy under the arms and pulled him to his feet. 'You all right?'
Roy put weight on his left ankle. There was a twinge, but it would hold.
'The runaway train came down the track and she blew…' Bruce sang softly.
'Shut up,' Roy snapped, limping away.
As they moved back towards the fence there came the sudden screech of metal on metal, a loud bang, then more tortured groans, followed by silence. Roy could smell burning. A flicker of white flame flared, searing his retina, then died.
They increased their pace, Roy ignoring the pain in his leg. As they reached the fence, he turned to Bruce. 'You know what?'
'What?' Bruce asked.
There was a loud bang behind them as something detonated, and both ducked through the fence. There was smoke in the air, thick and oily. 'I think we'd better give Biggsy a call about that train driver. It's not as easy as it looks.'
'Her name was Eliza Dunwoody. Liz Dunwoody to her friends of which there were very few, by all accounts. She was from Birmingham.'
'Birmingham?' Police Constable Simon Trellick repeated, as if the thought baffled him.
They were in a borrowed office at the police station at Newquay. Hatherill was seated behind the desk, Trellick was standing in front of him, while Billy was positioned near the door, out of the Constable's field of vision. It was a technique designed to disorientate. Whenever Hatherill asked a question of Billy, Trellick wanted to turn but, at attention, could not.
'People do come from Birmingham, you know, Constable. Quite a number, so I hear. Just because she came from a landlocked city doesn't mean she never went near the sea. What else do we know, DC Naughton?'
'That she was on board the Empress of Canada, out of Liverpool to Montreal. At Montreal, she was considered too "distressed" to enter the country and was returned on the ship. At Liverpool, it was discovered that her cabin was empty. However, there was a suspicion that she had simply wandered off the ship, down the gangplank and into the city.'
'Now we know different,' said Hatherill. 'It was a bad return crossing, by all accounts. Plenty of storms. A distracted person might easily have been swept over.'
'Or a disturbed one might have jumped,' added Billy.
'Indeed.'
The Police Constable's shoulders relaxed a little. 'Well, I'm glad that is cleared up. The family will claim the body, I suppose.'
Hatherill nodded. 'With some reluctance, I might add. Seems she was not the best-loved member of the Dunwoodys. There is some bickering over who will pay for the burial.'
Billy watched the PC's head shake back and forth in disbelief. 'Charming.'
'Well, yes, absolutely. Charming.' Hatherill lit one of his cigarettes. He didn't offer them around. He waited until he blew his first, satisfying cloud of blue smoke before continuing. 'Some might say it was charming that her body was left on the beach to be tossed around like a piece of driftwood. To be defaced by the seagulls and crabs, like carrion. Some might say that was very charming indeed.'
Billy could see that the copper's neck had coloured above his white shirt. 'Sir, you have to understand people around here…'
Hatherill banged the desk with his free hand. A photo frame fell onto the floor and its glass cracked, but he ignored it.
'You don't have to understand "people round here" to smell greed when it gets into your nostrils. Yes, greed. Not compassion or otherwise, but greed. How else do you explain the fact that the Bones family serve a claret that wouldn't disgrace White's or Simpson's?' He paused, as if he really expected an answer. 'Well?'
Trellick shuffled. 'I don't know, sir. Relatives-'
'The same relatives who supplied the pub with the identical claret? If we were to search your mother's house, would we find a bottle or two? Well – would we?'
'I don't know.'
'I think you do. I think you know that the storms dislodged cases and cases of the stuff, destined for the warehouses of Bristol. And they ended up here – on the same beach as that poor woman. And if you reported the body, then the beach would have been sealed off and any further bonanza confiscated by the authorities. It was like, what's that film?'
' Whisky Galore,'' Billy offered, having been primed to do so.
Hatherill smoked on for a while, his face set into a mask of annoyance and disappointment. Trellick's neck was glowing crimson and glistening with sweat now. Billy almost felt sorry for the young PC.
1 Whisky Galore,' Hatherill finally repeated. 'Although in the film, I don't believe there is a body to get in the way. So in Claret Galore, the body becomes invisible. A kind of collective blindness grips the whole village. "Body? What body?" Then, once the locals are certain that all the cases that are coming their way have been washed ashore, the scales fall from their eyes. "Oh look, it's not a shop-window dummy, after all. Or a seal. It's a person. Somebody's daughter. Perhaps somebody's wife." Marvellous. "Let's call the authorities." Is that what happened, son?' He didn't wait for a reply. 'I think it was.'
'Sir…'
'No, don't say anything. You'll just dig yourself in deeper. I suspect you are not a bad local copper. I think that in five years' time, if some landlord leans on you to turn a blind eye, you'll tell him to fuck off. Even if he is your uncle. Oh, aye. A tight-knit community all right. Too tight-knit. I tell you what I am going to do. I'm going to write my report about the woman, and I will not mention my suspicions about the wine.'
'Thank you, sir.' The young officer's voice shook with relief.
'At the same time, you are going to put in for a transfer. You are going to say you need wider experience and I am going to agree. Bristol, perhaps. See what big city coppering is about. How does that sound?'
The reply was flat. 'Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.'
'I think you could show a bit more enthusiasm, son. After all,' Hatherill stared at Billy, to emphasise that his words weren't only aimed at Trellick, 'I'm giving you a second chance.'
The Night Mail screamed by, its distinctive maroon livery a blur, the porthole-like lower lights above the bogeys one continuous streak of silver. The horn sounded its double-note warning and dopplered into the night. Five feet from the train, the slipstream tugging at his clothes and distorting his face, Bruce Reynolds checked his watch, the hour he had spent crouched in the damp chill of the dead hours of the early morning forgotten.
'Two minutes late,' he said, once silence had descended, broken only by the groan and click of the steel tracks.
'Terrible,' said Charlie, looking down the line at the intense green lights and, beyond them, the fuzzy glow of Cheddington station. 'What's the average?'
Bruce had sent someone up to Sears Crossing every night for the nine previous nights, making him sit in the bushes, waiting for the Up train to roar by. 'Never more than fifteen minutes either side of three-ten.'
'It's high, isn't it? Off the ground.'
'We'll need ladders, short ones. I'll get some measurements.'
Charlie pointed to the spidery gantry that straddled the tracks. 'And that's the light Roger will fix?'
'Yes.'
There was a beat. The overhead lines hummed with unheard conversations. 'You happy with the crew we have?'
'The new faces? Well, Bobby's all right.' They knew Bobby Welch as a man who dabbled in crime, although not usually anything on this scale. He was, as Bruce liked to say, small beer, but he wouldn't have anything too challenging to accomplish. 'Tiny Dave did well enough at the airport. Jim Hussey is solid enough. What about you?'
'Beggars can't be choosers.'
'Yeah, well,' said Bruce, zipping up his jacket and turning away from the tracks. 'Maybe we won't be beggars after this.'
Charlie gave a low, rueful laugh. 'I think we said that before Heathrow.'
'Yeah. Well, maybe this is our second bite at the cherry, eh?' But his words were drowned out by another fast-moving train, punching through the night.
'What?'
'Nothing. We move it along to the next stage.'
'What's that?' asked Charlie.
'Getting the grub in.'
Battersea, South-west London, June 1963
'I do not know why I am doing this, Tony. I pay people to do this for me.'
Janie Riley sat in the passenger seat of the Hillman Husky, arms folded, her lower lip jutting out in a display of serious petulance. She had her hair backcombed and it had been dyed blonde. She looked like the singer out of the Springfields. Yet the voice coming out of her mouth was one he hadn't heard before. It was posh, refined, with all the vowels and consonants present and correct.
Tony turned off the engine. 'I don't know why I'm doing it either. As Bruce said, horses for courses.'
'Well, why can't he use that cheap whore Mary Manson?'
Mary Manson was not a cheap whore. She had, however, begun to nudge out Janie as Bruce's 'companion', turning up in the pubs and clubs where Janie once held sway. Janie wasn't sure what she had done to rock the boat. Was it her fault that Colin had rubbed Bruce up the wrong way with some hare-brained scheme about old Greek marble?
'Janie, I don't like shopping any more than you do. But everyone has a job to do. Today, yours is to help us out here.'
'Like some fishwife.'
'Don't you mean housewife?'
She glared at him. 'Fuck off.' It was, he thought, strangely attractive to be sworn at in a cut-glass accent.
She climbed out of the car, slamming the door with hinge- threatening violence, and clattered off towards the cash and carry in high heels.
Tony pulled out the handwritten shopping list and the wad of cash Bruce had given him. He guessed it was best if he didn't mention that Mary Manson had drawn up the items to be bought. Fifteen or sixteen men staying for a week in a farmhouse were going to need food and essential supplies. He locked the Husky and scanned the list as he went. Twenty- four tins of luncheon meat, four packets of Oxo, four bottles of Bovril, Campbell's soups, various flavours, corned beef, Shippam's paste, ketchup – lots of ketchup – Fairy washing- up liquid – he could imagine the fuss over who would do the bloody dishes – Maxwell House coffee, catering size, Kellogg's cornflakes, Weetabix, Ready Brek, Typhoo tea, lots of sugar, crackers (Ritz and Jacobs both specified), baked beans, tinned peas and potatoes, jam, sardines, Lifebuoy soap. The list went on, covering, it seemed, everything except booze, which Bobby Welch, the club owner, was taking care of. It looked as if Bruce was planning to feed and clean an army. Well, in a way, that was what it was. An army of villains.
Who would have thought that robbery, with or without violence, would be fuelled by two dozen cans of Spam?
He finished reading and looked back at the squat little van. It was the first time he had found a use for the Husky – none of his customers had expressed any interest in such a humdrum machine, and he was thinking of offloading it – but already he wondered if it was going to be big enough for the supplies.
Tony reached the entrance where Janie was leaning on a shopping trolley. The cash and carry was like a vast cathedral of consumerism. Instead of pews, there were rows of goods on pallets, piled high, most of them Brobdingnagian- sized 'extra-value' packets or smaller items in multiples of a dozen or a gross. You could shop for surviving a nuclear strike here, Tony thought. Maybe people did just that. Those bloody Civil Defence ads on TV would make anyone panic.
Janie snapped her fingers. 'Let me see that, will you?'
'Do you speak to all your staff like that?'
'Just the handsome, insolent ones.'
He passed it over. She glanced down it as she wheeled the trolley, stopping in the first section. Then she gave a little whoop of satisfaction. She had noticed an omission. When she spoke, the Janie of the Soho bars, voice rasped by cigarette smoke, had returned.
'And what are you going to do? Wipe your arses with the Sporting Life? Here, give us a hand.' She reached up to pull down one of the twelve-packs of Bronco lavatory paper. 'You'll need a lot of this, all the shit you blokes talk.'
'Hold on,' Tony said, remembering something.
'What is it now?' Janie had reverted to the posh bitch.
'Gloves.' He held out a pair.
'Gloves? Oh, lord. Why on earth?'
'Bruce's orders.'
'Did he say they had to be brown gloves? Did he supply any black ones?'
He was losing patience now. 'Janie, it's not fuckin' Hardy Amies. It's a cash and carry. I don't know what it is with you and Bruce and Mary and, frankly, I don't care. Just put the fucking things on.'
She smiled. 'My, you really are quite attractive when you flush like that. Do you go that colour when you fuck?'
He put his hands up. 'Married. Baby on the way. Wife has carving knife and knows how to use it. What's more, I might be stupid, but I'm not stupid enough to get between you and Bruce. Clear?'
'You flatter yourself, mister.' Then she smiled. 'Is your wife all belly and big blue-veined tits?' She squeaked in a pantomime imitation of a woman's voice. "'Oh Tony, don't spunk on the baby's head. Let's wait till the christening'.'
'Put the gloves on, Janie.'
With a display of huffing, puffing and tutting, she thrust her hands into the oversized gloves. They loaded a couple of packs of the toilet paper into the trolley. Then she consulted the list again.
'No salt? Tony, be a dear and get that drum of Saxo over there. And you could do with some fruit. A nice tinned fruit salad. Del Monte, perhaps.' She was being sarcastic now, he could tell, ridiculing them. 'And condensed milk. Carnation. Bruce has a sweet tooth, you know. And candles. In case the power goes. Who in blazes wrote this?' Tony kept mum, allowing himself a tiny shrug. 'I'm going to have to go through this carefully. You push, darling, I'll follow. Then maybe we can have a little celebration later, when we're done? Just the two of us.'
'No.' Tony had no desire for any part of his body to be used;is an instrument of revenge against Bruce. 'Isn't going to happen.'
Janie scowled and muttered something obscene. Tony grabbed the handle of the trolley. It was going to be a long, long day.
Commander George Hatherill fell asleep soon after they settled into their seats on the train to Paddington, and seemed determined to snooze all the way to London. Billy Naughton was left to gaze out of the window at an astonishingly verdant landscape. The cold winter had given way to a wet spring and now a damp summer. 1963: The Year of Crappy Weather. Farmers and holidaymakers grumbled, but fields and hedgerows seemed to glow a deep, happy green.
Billy tried to digest all that had gone on while he had been in Cornwall. Hatherill had refused to answer questions about how he obtained the Oxo tin, whether Billy had been personally targeted, or if it was a general sweep. He simply said that the 'old way of doing things' was going to come to an end. He didn't want young coppers like Billy caught up in it.
The TM had admitted that his own record was not without blemishes. Apparently, he had been wrong about the Free French in London: he had reported that they had interrogated one of their own men, suspected of being a spy, who subsequently hanged himself. He now believed that the French had had a torture chamber in St James's and had behaved like Nazis. 'But it was war. And they were our allies. What good would the scandal have done? I wanted to believe them, so I didn't follow my instincts. I have regretted that ever since. They murdered some of their own. I am sure of it now.'
He also lamented some of his persecutions of the queers. 'You don't appreciate how angry Burgess and Maclean made us. Those, those… buggers. So we overstepped the mark sometimes, I think. Putting out agents provocateurs, fishing for homos. Not a decent use of police resources, in retrospect. They can't all be Commie spies, can they? The queers, I mean.'
But misjudgements in his own life, he went on, like the
Duke Street torture chamber, meant he always gave coppers such as Trellick a second chance. Never a third, mind. But a good second.
Then he had settled down and fallen asleep, apparently content. Cornwall hadn't given him his Last Big Case, but it had given him the quiet satisfaction of solving a mystery and perhaps that of saving a young policeman's career, too.
Billy had assumed he would be severed from Duke, and said so, but Hatherill had said no. He had to confront temptation and deal with it. Running away was no answer. And Len's turn would come, the day when he had his hand in the wrong till.
Billy took himself off to the dining car for breakfast, treating himself to ham, egg and chips. He felt strangely calm, quietly elated almost. It was as if he, as well as the Cornish PC, had been given a fresh start. From now on, he would be a good copper. From now on, he would do the right thing.
As arranged, Tony dropped off the supplies with Jimmy White, who was acting as quartermaster, storing all the gear they needed in lock-ups across London. They would be taken up, along with some of the team, by lorry once the purchase of the farm was complete. Afterwards, Tony had given Janie a lift to Waterloo, where she would catch a train home, and he carried on north, glad to see the back of her.
When he got to the Holloway Road house, his brother- in-law Geoff was in the kitchen, a mug of tea in his fat hand. He was a big lad, with short ginger-ish hair, a round face and full lips. Tony often wondered if Geoff and his wife were actually biologically related. Because if someone was shuffling the genes, they were playing with a marked deck.
Tony wasn't best pleased to see Geoff. He had to have something to eat then go and meet Jimmy and Roy over in West London They had uncoupling practice. Bruce wanted three people who could unhook the HVP from the rest of the train, just in case. As three who had professed a desire not to wield the coshes, they had nominated themselves.
'All right?' he nodded brusquely.
'Do you want some, love?' asked Marie, rising to her feet with a soft, involuntary groan. 'It's fresh in the pot.'
'Stay there, I'll do it.'
She slumped back down.
'I were just saying, Tony. She's looking well, my sister, isn't she?' said Geoff.
Tony nodded. In fact, she had progressed from being 'blooming' as they said, to the puffy, sweaty when-will-it-be-over stage. Moving was an effort, and her squashed lungs weren't allowing her enough air. And she snored at night. 'Yeah.'
'Tony, I hope you don't mind, but I mentioned that thing to Geoff.'
'What thing to Geoff?' he asked as he checked the contents of the teapot and fetched a mug from the cupboard.
'That thing we talked about the other night.'
He turned and glared at her. Pregnant or not, she was out of order. 'You had no fuckin' right-'
Geoff half-rose from his chair. 'Hold on, mate.'
'Fuck off, Geoff. Stay out of it.'
'I didn't say much, luv. Just that… well, there was this thing.'
Tony put his hand around his forehead and squeezed his temples. 'Jesus.'
Geoff bleated his next words. 'I just haven't got much on, Tony. I said that to Marie, and she said you might have something you could put my way.'
'I don't. I don't have anything.' He looked at his wife, daring her to challenge him. 'It's not mine. Christ, I'm only there as a bloody tent-peg. Sorry, mate, no can do.'
'Tony…' Marie began.
'No can do,' he repeated forcefully, wagging a finger at each of them in turn. 'And if either of you mention this to anyone…' He thought of Charlie Wilson, and what he did to the Jag thieves. They got off lightly compared to anyone who threw a spanner in this works, especially at this stage. 'Look, it's not nursery stuff, all right? Big boys. Some nasty bastards. As I said, I would if I could, Geoff. If it goes off, I'll be able to bung you something, get you on your feet.'
'Yeah.' The big man stood, managing a smile that was a half-grimace. 'No harm done.'
Tony watched him grab his jacket, slip it on and leave, those three final words bouncing round the inside of his head like sub-atomic particles in a cloud chamber, as if there was nothing in there to impede their passage. No harm done.
Bruce clapped his hands to get the meeting started. 'First off, apologies for absence,' he announced. 'Brian Field can't be here. And Stan, the train driver, he isn't here because we didn't ask him. I would like to welcome Bobby again – thanks for the use of this room, Bobby, and we can all get a drink downstairs later – and Jim and Tommy. Some of you won't know Tiny Dave Thompson yet. He was at the airport with us. 'Nuff said.'
Bruce cleared his throat. 'Now the purpose of this meeting is logistics. To make sure we have everything we need to carry this job out and to do it in some comfort.' Roger gave a feeble cheer. 'Tony, here, has been the housewives' choice and done some shopping. He has the canned gear, the tea, the sugar and so on. Bobby has said he'll bring some beers and spirits from the club. And he'll only charge us wholesale. Always have a publican on any job, I say. Nearer the time we'll need perishables. For those of you who don't know, that means things that go off. Like Buster's insides when he's had six pints.' Someone groaned at the thought.
'Jimmy – we don't know how much cutlery and so on is at the farm yet. We need eighteen sets, just to be on the safe side. And light bulbs. You got some ideas about mattresses? And we'll need sleeping bags. Maybe Jimmy and Tommy can help on that score? Lovely. Charlie, being well-connected on The Fruit, can get us some fruit and veg from the market, can't you? I am partial to Cox's Orange Pippins m'self, but whatever. Thing is, we don't know how long the scream will last. Could be a day, could be a week. But if we keep our heads down, that'll be fine.' Bruce looked from face to face to be certain they understood. 'Roger and I have both got Hitachi shortwaves, so we'll keep an ear for what the bastards are up to.'
Bruce consulted his list. 'We need uniforms for the Army disguise – Gordy, Charlie and Roy are on that. Red berets if you can. Parachute Regiment. Who Dares Wins – remember that. Buster is sourcing walkie-talkies so we can communicate up and down the track. Whitey is going to buy one Land Rover and I have found an ex-Army Austin truck for three hundred quid in Edgware. We need another Land Rover. Tony, you got one lying around? Well, can you get me one? Doesn't have to be bought, you can put new plates on it. Ronnie, if you could take charge of making them look like kosher Army trucks. Which doesn't mean like the Israeli army. Like the real thing, serial numbers, badges and all. Stan still OK?' he asked Ronnie. 'Good. I'll meet him later this week. He knows he's on a drink for this, not a whack? Keep reminding him, will you? Roy, you will let Jimmy know anything you need for cutting wires and uncoupling coaches.' Roy said he would. 'And get two of everything. You drop one in the dark, I don't want the whole thing to go tits up because of a pair of missing pliers, understand?
'Big Bad Bobby Welch here has requested handcuffs, which is a good idea. Might have to restrain the driver or the sorters. Gordy, can you get some? Six pairs. Say it's for magic tricks. Or fancy dress. Bobby also requested a shooter to scare the driver. Not a good idea. I said it before, I'll say it again: no shooters, real or otherwise. Is that clear?' Bruce paused, just to ensure the point was taken. 'Roger, you have all you need for the light change? Again, double it. Back-up everything. We don't want to be there watching the Six-Five Special rolling down that line through a green light, do we? And gloves. I want everyone to bring two pairs. And you wear them at all times. There must be no prints anywhere. Brian is going to arrange cleaners to sanitise the whole place after we have gone. If the coppers do locate the farm, they won't find so much as a skid-mark on a toilet bowl.'
Bruce took a long breath, and consulted his list again. 'OK, now we come to alibis. You will need alibis, too, for the time we are away. And not "I was alone watching Michael Miles on the box for a week". A good one with lots of witnesses, preferably a vicar or a nun. Similarly, you will need some idea of what you are going to do when you get back to London and where to put your money. At the very least you are going to have a good few grand. I don't have to tell you that there are plenty of snot-rags out there who will offer to take it off your hands. Be very, very careful. Wives and girlfriends will sniff out you're flush the moment you walk through the door. They like a spending spree, and women have very different ideas to us. To them, a diamond ring from Bond Street isn't a spending spree. That's just what they deserve.' Buster gave a rueful chuckle. 'Talking of money, Charlie, what about the horsebox? Charlie is bringing up a horsebox because it won't look suspicious and you can transport a lot of bags in it. Buster, you can always sit in it and neigh, just for authenticity.'
Bruce gave a wry grin and put his list down, saying, 'Now we need to talk about where we'll each be on the tracks and what our job will be. Any questions so far?' He looked around the room. 'Good, because I have my blackboard here to go over what will happen on the night. All right, all right, settle down. Fuck me, I feel like Mr Chips sometimes. Oh, one thing I forgot. As I said, we might be holed up for some time. So I’ve got us a Monopoly set.'
'A fuckin' Monopoly set?' Jim Hussey turned to Tommy Wisbey, who was sitting in the back seat. Roger was driving them back towards Brighton, where they were to pick up the last of the cash from their previous train jobs that was being 'minded' by one of the operators on the West Pier. It was time, as Bruce said, to concentrate on the Big One. For the moment, the South Coast Gang was being wound up.
It was the early hours, little traffic. Roger was sober, careful as they hit the A23 south of Croydon; he didn't want to be walking any white lines for a policeman. The car stank of the other two men's beer and fags.
'Who Dares Wins?' added Wisbey.
'Oh, you can't have a shooter because it might go off and hurt somebody,' lisped Hussey in a high-pitched feminine voice.
'Hey, lads,' said Roger meekly. 'Have some respect. It's Bruce's tickle. He calls the shots.'
'Or not havin' the shots.' The other two giggled like very overgrown schoolboys. 'He treats us like we got muscle between our ears sometimes.'
'Yeah, well sometimes you have,' said Roger, suddenly angry. 'Look, he wants you for what you are good at. Puttin' the shits up people. Now if you want to join the cooking and dishwashing rota-'
'Fuck off. Can't we get some bird in for that?'
'And a bit of the other while she's at it.'
Roger shook his head. They were nice enough boys, but something on this scale was beyond their experience. Hussey was a car thief who readily used his fists whenever he deemed the occasion demanded it. Which, when he was in his late teens, had been surprisingly often. Now he had calmed down, and tried his hand at pickpocketing. If caught, though, he was still liable to try and punch his way out of trouble.
Tommy Wisbey was a bookmaker and thief who intimidated by his size and rarely needed to thump anyone. If he did, Roger was under no illusion that those ham-hocks of arms – he looked like Popeye when he stripped down – would cause some damage.
'Just do what Bruce wants and you'll get your whack. Equal shares, he said, once the expenses are deducted. How fair is that?' Bruce could easily have upped his own stake, or insisted that the originating gang – the Heathrow boys, essentially – deserved a higher cut. But Roger knew Bruce thought an unequal division of the spoils led to resentment, which might cause someone to grass when his perceived 'tiny' whack ran out. There would, after all, be a hefty reward on offer.
'You know he said we might need a few more bodies?' asked Wisbey. 'Not for the washing-up, but at the train. What about Freddie Foreman? Or Frankie Fraser?'
Hussey shook his head. 'You'd have to keep those two on leashes.'
'Nah, they're all right. Good boys,' insisted Wisbey.
Roger knew the names. They were a couple of enforcers for the likes of the Richardsons and the Krays. They had reputations for violence that left Bobby Welch, Tommy and Jimmy looking as threatening as Rag, Tag and Bobtail. Bruce wouldn't like that. There was something else Bruce wouldn't like. 'Fraser is red-hot, isn't he?'
'I suppose,' said Wisbey.
'He was on Police Five,' said Hussey. 'Wanted for doing some bloke.'
'So don't approach anyone till you've cleared it with Bruce or Charlie or Gordy. They only want people they know, remember?'
The other two grunted. The euphoria caused by alcohol fading, they lapsed into silence, their arms folded. Jim's head began to nod as he fell into a fitful snooze.
After fifteen minutes, Tommy Wisbey spoke.
'There's one thing I'm really pissed off about, Roger.'
'What's that?' asked Roger, annoyed that they should be so ungrateful. Plenty would take their places.
'Meself, I prefer Cluedo.'
Bridego Bridge, July 1963
'Here we go. Now!'
Roy let the clutch in and Tony felt the front of the brand new Mini Cooper S judder as the power hit the front wheels. Next to them came the deeper roar of an Austin Healey 3000 Mk. II roadster, with Bruce behind the wheel.
The two cars shot out of the car park next to the fishing pond and turned right, Bridego Bridge receding rapidly in the Mini's mirror. Unlike the Healey, which filled it.
'He's got more power than us,' shouted Roy as he worked the Mini's gearbox.
The Austin pulled out behind them. Tony could see it in his wing mirror, Bruce behind the wheel, Gordy somehow folded into the passenger seat. It was a race and the last one to Leatherslade would buy lunch at the Red Lion pub in Brill. Bruce had taken the Austin Healey on 'a test drive', as he was considering buying one when he got his hands on the cash. This probably wasn't the kind of test drive the garage had in mind.
'Read the map,' Roy instructed. 'Check the sharpness of the bends, and whether they are right- or left-handers.'
The Mini was shifting, the little tuned-up engine doing its best to roar, although as the Healey drew close they could hear the deeper note of its larger lump.
'Right at the end,' said Tony. 'T-junction.'
Tony's mouth went dry as he watched the turning approach. Roy appeared not to know where the brake was. At the last moment, he stamped on the middle pedal once, changed down, then went back on the gas. Tony hoped nothing was coming. Roy leaned on the Healey slightly and flung the little Mini to the right.
'Disc brakes,' Roy grinned. 'Fuckin' brilliant. Much better than the standard Mini.'
The Healey fell back as it took the bend in a more refined manner. Then Tony watched it grow larger in the mirror once more as Bruce got the power back down.
'Sharp right at Ledburn. You have to go into the village. Watch-'
Roy jerked the Mini out and zipped by a dawdling Triumph Herald, then tucked back in.
'Did I say right?' Tony corrected. 'I meant left.'
'Keep it together, Tone. There're only two choices, after all,' Roy laughed. 'Right or left?'
'Left. My side,' he clarified.
A pair of decent-looking pubs went by in a blur and Roy took the turning. Tony caught sight of startled residents, stepping back from the kerb as the two cars powered recklessly through their hamlet.
'Long straight section to a crossroads.'
'How long?'
'Half a mile.'
'Not enough for him to have us.'
Tony looked up from the map. It was beautiful rolling countryside, the roads lined with hedgerows, guarded with stands of extravagant horse chestnuts.
'How far? This it?'
'No. Be signposted Wing.'
'Hang on.'
A throbbing filled the Mini's cabin. 'Christ, he's right behind us.'
At a particularly splendid horse chestnut, Roy put the Cooper S into a power slide, the snub rear-end poking out, almost touching the Healey's gleaming chrome bumper. Bruce backed off, giving Roy enough space to complete the turn, catch the drift and get the full bhp of the 1071cc engine onto the asphalt.
Tony, his heart thumping away, checked the OS map once more. 'Through Wing, left towards Cublington.'
Another couple of pubs, more outraged country folk and a left turn. The ominous black Healey was behind them again.
'Crap,' said Tony. 'You should have gone left there at the fork.'
He turned and watched the roadster take the correct route and disappear from view.
'No problem.' Roy braked, and Tony shot out an arm to steady himself on the windscreen as the front end of the Cooper dipped viciously. The driver found reverse first time and the gearbox whined as he took the Cooper back and resumed the chase.
'I though the left was the main drag-'
'Doesn't matter now,' Roy said evenly. 'Next?'
'Cublington. Some sharp bends.'
'Good.'
There was no sign of the roadster until they took a narrow bridge – Tony with his eyes closed in case there was anything coming the other way on the other side – and landed with a spine-jarring crack.
'What the fuck was that?' he asked.
'Suspension bottoming,' said Roy. 'Needs better shocks.'
They watched the handsome rear of the Healey diminish in size as it pulled away. Roy darted the Mini forward, sweeping into the bend. Tony felt the body roll and, he swore, two wheels lift.
'Long left curve,' said Tony, 'then a bloody sharp right.'
'Brilliant. He can't do the bends. He'll have us on the straight, but that thing doesn't handle.' He flashed a knowing smile. 'Not for Bruce anyway.'
Tony knew he was a good driver, a very competent roadman. But Roy was something else. His gear changes were sharp, precise. The rev counter never made wild swings, the engine note remained constant, and the speedo stayed well over to the right. He was what they called a 'natural', the kind of driver who had a feel for both the car and the road.
'That right-hander's coming up.'
'Hold on, 'cause I'm not slowing.'
They emerged almost on top of the Healey. Roy let out a whoop. 'He missed a gear, I'll bet.'
With the precision of a slot-car, the Mini pulled out and zipped past the Austin. Tony looked up and caught a glimpse of Bruce's mouth working overtime. He didn't have to be a lipreader to guess what words were coming out. The next section, between Oving and Pitchcott, was twisty enough to thwart Bruce and the Austin Healey. It would come burbling behind, threatening to shoulder the Cooper aside, but Roy brilliantly used the bends and curves to his advantage.
'Railway bridge. Not our railway line, though. Long hill down to Chearsley. It's straight.'
Roy nodded and pushed the engine to the red line. The Healey fought back again, edging closer. 'He's got us. Shit.'
Tony looked over his shoulder. Gordy was jumping up and down in his seat, willing Bruce on. The bigger sports car reeled them in until, like a stately liner, it glided past. Gordy flashed a V-sign.
'Nice,' said Tony.
'Don't panic. Just enjoy the scenery on this stretch. We'll come back at them.'
Tony had to admit that the Chilterns did look lovely, streaked with sunlight, interrupted by the shadows of low cloud. On a nearby hillside to his left, Tony saw a strange observatory, a domed housing for a large telescope, but didn't feel he could distract Roy from his focus on the road.
'He's pulling away. Any bends?'
'Sharp right to Chearsley, coming up. Really sharp.'
'How sharp?'
'Ninety degrees. Then through Chilton, on the B4011 and we're there.'
Roy didn't reply, just grunted as they recovered ground on the right-hander, driving through the narrow lanes as if they were tied to the Healey's rear bumper. Nice big houses, thought Roy. Gardens, horses, conservatories, but such was their speed he had little time to process much more than flash images. Roy suddenly dived into a gap between the Austin and a brick wall that didn't seem to be there. Tony's eyes flicked shut again. When he opened them they were through and in front, into the final twisting lanes that would take them to Leatherslade Farm.
'Fuckin' Land Rovers and lorries my arse,' Roy said. 'You can't beat a quick motor.'
They turned right up the unmarked track that led to Leatherslade, Roy finally allowing the Mini to breathe, dropping to second as he manoeuvred between the ruts and potholes.
'What time?' he asked.
'Eighteen minutes,' said Tony.
They pulled over in front of the house and Bruce drove alongside. He climbed out and leaned on the hardtop of the Healey. 'You were lucky there're so many bends,' he said to Roy. 'It'd eat that little toy otherwise.'
'Tell you what, after you've bought lunch, let's swap cars and do it in reverse. See how you get on then.'
Bruce considered this as he watched Gordy unfold himself from the passenger side. 'What, and ruin my excuse?'
'You change your mind about the Jags?' Roy asked.
Bruce frowned. To him, the race had been a bit of a laugh, not to prove a point.
'No, Roy. I told you, the money will weigh over a ton. We need a lorry. We stick with the plan.'
Gordy looked a little pale after being thrown around by Bruce. 'Yeah. Fuck that. We stick with the lorry and Land Rovers.'
Roy did his best to hide his disappointment, and indicated his acceptance. He just hoped Bruce didn't live to regret it.
Headley, Surrey, May 1992
Bruce took off his overcoat and sat down at the kitchen table while I put the kettle on. Roy, apparently dazed by his old boss's arrival, stared at him, open-mouthed.
'Nice whistle,' he finally said.
'Thanks.' Bruce looked down at the jacket. 'Mark Powell. He said I should sue Michael Caine for stealing my look.'
There was something in that. Bruce had looked a little like Harry Palmer-period Caine in his youth, and the two had run across each other in the early days at the Establishment, when the actor was out and about with Terry Stamp. But I wasn't worried about where Bruce got his suits made or whether his style had been purloined for The Ipcress File. 'What are you doing here, Bruce?' I asked.
'Naughton called me.'
I didn't mention that Bill Naughton had said Bruce was too busy to help out. He was entitled to change his mind.
'Good of you to come, mate,' said Roy.
'Well, I didn't want to leave you hangin' in the wind, did I?
I don't think we've got very long, judging by the activity out there. The heavy mob has heaved up close to the gate. With machine guns.' Bruce nodded towards the pistol, still held slackly in Roy's hand. 'That'll be as much use as a fuckin' icecream dildo.'
From his jacket pocket, Bruce produced cigarette papers and tobacco and began building a fag. He looked up at me.
'How you been, Tony?'
'Can't complain,' I said, rinsing out the teapot. 'You?'
'I do OK.'
'What you driving now?' It was Roy.
'Don't ask,' shuddered Bruce. 'Ashamed to say. You know those fuckers sold my Austin Healey? The Mark Two Three Thousand? Lovely motor. Christ, I'd like that again. In order to claw back some of the proceeds, they said. Fetched double what it should've.'
'The power of celebrity,' I said as I poured the boiling water into the pot.
'Notoriety,' he corrected.
'Should've used fast cars,' said Roy.
'Leave it out, Roy,' Bruce said, not without kindness. 'Water under Bridego Bridge.' He shot me a glance that was loaded with meaning. 'We should have done lots of things. Can't change the past. Not unless you're bleedin' Doctor Who.'
After I had made the tea, I fetched the bottle of Johnnie Walker and placed it on the table, along with some glasses from the drainer. To my surprise, Bruce pulled out a block of dope, unwrapped the foil and scorched one corner with a lighter.
'Don't look so shocked. I picked up the habit at Maidstone. A good prison. You ever do Maidstone, Roy? Towards the end of my stretch, I had a year in the library there and a year as a gym orderly when I used to run ten miles a day, play badminton and then swim. Fucking marvellous life. No women, apart from those in Razzle and Club International. At least you didn't get any aggro from those girls. And Gordy, bless him, would send the odd beauty in for a quick fondle, just to let me know I was still alive down below. I got into smoking dope there.' He chuckled. 'Montecristo Number Twos being hard to come by. Stuff was a fuckin' revelation. Two happy years.'
I thought he was joking. And my expression must have given that away, since he went on, 'Straight up. When I came out I felt like doing something so I could go right back in for a joint with my pals. Now that is what you call institutionalised, eh?'
'Tell me about it,' muttered Roy. 'I was saying the same thing to Tony earlier. It's easier inside, somehow.'
Bruce gave a grin then lit the roll-up, taking a lungful and holding his breath while he passed the joint to Roy. The little man took a hefty toke.
Very clever, Bruce, I thought. He wasn't going to talk him down, he was going to dope him out.
The sweet aroma filled the air and I poured myself a finger of scotch, shaking my head when the joint was offered to me.
'Governor in Maidstone used to come in and say: "Bit smoky in here, isn't it, lads?'" Bruce told us, 'but while it was just dope, he was happy enough. The first two weeks after coming home, I'm walking on air. Life is sweet. I'm famous, I have friends, family. Then it hits me – bang! Like a train.' He winked. 'Or a cosh. That's it. Washed-up. Depression, it's a terrible thing. Eh, Roy?'
The driver simply nodded thoughtfully.
Bruce took the spliff back and sucked on it a while longer, indicating I should pour the tea. As I did so, he let out a long thin stream of smoke from pursed lips. 'Well, I'd like to say the gang's all here, but it's not, is it? But while we are gathered together in this cosy place, Tony, maybe you can answer me a question.' His eyes shone brightly and his mouth was drawn tight.
'What's that, Bruce?' I asked, my hand shaking slightly as I lifted the teapot.
'Why the fuck you grassed us up.'
6 August 1963
As arranged, the men came to the farm in dribs and drabs, their arrival staggered so as not to arouse suspicion from any nosy neighbours. Brian Field met several of them at the railway station during the course of the day, ferrying them backwards and forwards.
Tony drove up with Roy the morning after they had practised yet another decoupling in the shunting yards. Roy had mastered both types: the flexible screw kind, which required turning a tensioner before you could unhook them, and the buckeye – the commonest kind on HVPs – which had a simple release chain that you tugged to break the connection.
'The important thing,' he impressed on Tony, 'is that when you take off the vacuum pipe for the brakes, you have to reattach it to a dummy on the HVP. Otherwise the vacuum won't build because it'll leak out the open end.'
Confident now that he knew all there was to know about coach connections, nevertheless Roy was on edge, Tony could tell. They were driving north in a drab-coloured Land Rover, stolen from near Leicester Square by Bruce and Tony and painted by Ronnie Biggs, who had also sketched out the Army numbers he would fill in at the farm. If nothing else he was a good signwriter, that Ronnie Biggs.
'You all right, Roy?' Tony asked.
'Yeah, just thinking. Got a couple of Goodwoods coming up.'
'That all you thinkin' about?'
'It seems to me, Bruce isn't listening. I mean, I know it's his job and all, but…'
'But?'
'I think the farm is a mistake. I think we should have a decoy lorry we leave hallway to London. And there's too many of us. Fuck, it's like a real bleeding army, isn't it? You know, Bruce, Charlie, Buster, Gordy – even though he's a flash bastard sometimes – I know they are up to it.'
Tony thought this must just be the nerves talking. He had them as well, although Marie's change of heart had steadied them somewhat. Now there was no subterfuge at home, he found he was able to relax more. 'Is that all that's up?'
Roy smiled. 'I got offers of sponsorship. Esso and Shell, both bidding me up.'
'Great,' said Tony, with genuine enthusiasm. 'So you are thinking you don't need this?'
Roy shook his head. 'No, not at all. Hundred per cent, me.'
There was an undercurrent of irritation there. 'Timing's crap though, eh?'
'You said it.'
'Look on the bright side, Roy.'
'What's that?'
'It comes off, you can always put "Sponsored by Royal Mail" down the side.'
Roy laughed at the thought, then glanced at the fuel gauge. 'I'd better get some squirt.'
They pulled into a garage on the A40 and Roy got out to fill up the tank. It was then Tony noticed the kid.
'Fuck.'
He stepped out of the Land Rover and walked over to the boy. He was around ten, school blazer, short pants. 'Hi there,' Tony said, looking round for his parents. There was a Vauxhall Cresta at another pump, the attendant filling her up. No driver. 'Collect car numbers, do you?'
The boy nodded sheepishly. He turned around the notebook, which was filled with places, time and dates and licence numbers.
'Like trainspotting, is it?'
Another nod.
Tony glanced over at Roy, who was paying off the lanky lad who had pumped the three star. Roy shot him a quizzical look. Both of their Land Rovers had the same number-plates – the legit one from the vehicle that had been purchased as well as this nicked one – so if cops checked the reg against the make, it wouldn't throw up an anomaly. If, however, by some coincidence someone clocked the registration of the other, being driven by Jimmy, and the police realised they had two vehicles in one place on the day with the same number, then alarm bells could ring. It was all 'what if and 'possibly', but Tony had to think what Bruce would say. And didn't they get caught by number-plates in that movie The League of fucking Gentlemen Bruce was always banging on about?
'Can I see?' Tony asked, taking a step closer.
Reluctantly, the lad handed over the red exercise book.
'Just Land Rovers, is it?'
'Army.' It was a whisper.
'Army vehicles. Got any tank transporters?'
The kid pointed enthusiastically to an earlier entry.
'They're the best, aren't they? Sad to say, you've got the wrong one here, mate. Ex-Army, you see. Just bought it. Haven't had time to respray it. Just took the badges off. Sorry. I'll rip-'
He went to tear the page out when he heard a gruff voice behind him.
'Jeffrey. Are you bothering this man?'
It was the father, forty-ish, ex-military himself by the look of him and the dazzling polish on his brogues.
Tony turned. 'No, not at all, we was just talking car numbers. Telling him it was ex-Army.'
'Sorry. Boy's obsessed. War films, soldiers, model kits.'
'I was the same. Anything with John Wayne or William Bendix.'
The man sniffed at the mention of Hollywood 's war. 'Yes, well. Look at the travesty of The Longest Day. Did you see that? We were hardly in it, according to the Yanks. You hear what one of the producers said on the radio? "There'll always be an England… just as long as America is around to save its backside". Bloody cheek.'
'Well, nice chatting to you.' Tony, sensing a sore point about to be scratched until it bled, offered the book back. The sulky boy snatched it.
'Jeffrey, manners.'
Roy was back in the car and sounded the horn to help extricate Tony. 'Right, got to go.'
As he turned, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. The lad was scratching out the Land Rover's reg, even as the dad turned him away back towards the Vauxhall.
Now he had to hope the father erased the incident from his mind as well.
When they arrived at the tatty farm, Bruce, Buster, Jimmy White, Ronnie Biggs and Stan, the train driver, were all there in the house. Stan, who had been kept tucked away till now, was in his fifties, thin and cadaverous-looking, and was mostly occupied in using his nicotine-stained fingers to make roll- ups. The others were unpacking the supplies and laying out the uniforms and balaclavas. Roy and Tony set about emptying their Land Rover so Biggsy could make the final adjustments to the paint job.
'Gloves!' Bruce kept reminding them. 'At all times. Even when you eat or wipe your hairy arses, OK?'
While they were unloading, a Jaguar appeared on the track, driving up towards the house. Tony relaxed when he saw Brian behind the wheel. As it swept to a halt, flicking gravel everywhere, Roger Cordrey, Ralph, his new assistant, and Jim Hussey climbed out. The latter looked even bigger than he remembered.
'Morning,' said Roger nervously, hefting a series of empty suitcases out of the boot. Clearly, he was expecting plenty of loot. 'Lovely day for it.'
Lovely might be going too far, but at least it wasn't raining and the sun beamed out from behind the clouds once in a while. What a summer. Still, he would be able to afford to take Marie and the baby somewhere warm after that night. He hefted the last crate from the rear of the Land Rover and said, 'OK, Ronnie, all yours.'
'Do me a favour,' said Biggsy from the side of his mouth. 'Keep Stan company, will you? Feels a bit left out with this lot.'
'I'll get Roy to talk trains with him. I swear he likes them more than racing cars now.'
'Good one.'
'Oi, everyone!' It was Buster at the door. 'Bruce wants the vehicles away and everyone inside, curtains drawn. And tea's up for those that want it.'
Tony looked at his watch. It was early afternoon. At least twelve hours before they would pull out and head for Bridego Bridge and Sears Crossing. Time enough for a few rounds of Monopoly.
'There's someone coming!' shouted Buster from the kitchen.
Bruce leaped to his feet. 'Who is it?'
'Not one of ours. Someone walking up the drive. Jacket, gumboots. I think it's a farmer.'
'Everyone shut up!' said Bruce. 'Tony, you come with me.'
The pair of them stepped outside, blinking into the afternoon sunshine after the gloom inside. The man walking towards them was dressed in rough cords and an old waxed jacket, with a flat cap on his head. He certainly looked like everybody's idea of a Farmer Giles. 'Afternoon,' he said brightly.
'Afternoon,' said Bruce. Tony could see he was looking around for anything suspicious that they might have left out in the open. But the Army truck and Land Rovers were well hidden. Only the number of tyre tracks gave all the activity away.
'Wyatt's the name. Thought I saw some movement over here. You the new owners?'
'No,' said Bruce. Then he dried up.
Sensing the hesitation, Tony jumped in. 'We're the decorators.
They've just asked us to come over and spruce the place up. Lick of paint inside.'
The man grunted. 'Well, it could do with it. Who is the owner then?'
'A Mr Field,' said Bruce. 'Leonard Field. From Aylesbury.' This was true; Brian had put the farm in the name of another Field – but not a relative – who would be paid a drink as a front man.
'Thing is, I rent the field over yonder – for my sheep. And I was wondering if Mr Field would allow me to continue.'
'Can't say,' said Bruce.
'But unless you hear otherwise,' Tony said, 'you just carry on as before. We'll mention it to him.'
'That's very kind.' He hesitated, as if expecting to be asked in for a cup of tea.
Bruce, however, just glanced over his shoulder, saying, 'Well, best get back to it.'
'Yes. Right. Thank you.'
They watched the man walk back down towards the farm's gate. He turned once and raised a hand and they returned the gesture.
'Fuck,' said Bruce.
'Be all right,' said Tony, echoing the words of Geoff, his brother-in-law. 'No harm done.'
'He's seen my face.'
'You know what people are like. He'll have forgotten it by the morning.'
'Yeah.' But Bruce didn't sound convinced.
They turned and headed back in. 'Still,' suggested Tony, 'we can always go round to his place and kill them all, just to be on the safe side.'
Bruce's eye darted to him, thinking he was serious. Tony cracked a grin. The sight of Bruce laughing as they stepped into the half-light of the house reassured the others that all was well.
By early evening most of the team had gathered together. Charlie Wilson and Bobby Welch had swelled the numbers at around three in the afternoon. Tiny Dave Thompson, the London Airport man, had come by Morris Oxford. He would supply extra clenched fists just in case anything went wrong with the sorters.
Tony knew there had been some heated arguments amongst the principals over the final numbers. Extra bodies diluted the whacks. Charlie was also worried about security, that if outsiders were brought in, word would leak out about something big going down. It only needed a rumour for the Heavy Mob at the Yard to start sniffing around the usual suspects. Which certainly included Charlie and Gordy after the airport job.
But as Bruce had insisted, with only limited time on the track, the more hands, the greater the number of sacks they could load, therefore the larger the pot to be divided between them. Everyone knew that Bruce, Charlie, Gordy and Buster would take a slightly larger cut to compensate for their longer prep and expenses. Roy too, perhaps – that was down to Bruce. The rest would be divided equally, once the 'drink' for Stan and a few others had been deducted, including a whack to Brian and one for the mysterious 'fixer' in Glasgow. That meant, with Tiny Dave a late addition, thirteen into whatever the dividend was. So, eighteen slices of the pie in all. It was one of the biggest firms Tony had ever heard of and, as he looked around the room, he felt fresh admiration for Bruce, Charlie and Gordy. Not many men could pull all this together and keep it quiet.
As the hours passed and the atmosphere in the darkened rooms grew oppressive, the firm split into smaller groups. Jim Hussey, Jimmy White and Ronnie played cards. Stan sat quietly in the corner, rolling one fag after another, sometimes smoking a pipe for light relief. Roger Cordrey lay on a mattress and dozed.
Most of the rest played Monopoly, although Bruce took up his role as the commander, moving among his troops, keeping morale up. Buster organised the kitchen, announcing it was Fray Bentos pies for tea, along with a rabbit stew, using an animal Jimmy White had sideswiped on the road. The former Para was adept at living off the land. But one rabbit didn't go far among so many big chaps.
'Where's Gordy?' asked Roy.
'Ireland,' replied Bruce.
'Ireland?' asked a jittery Ralph, alarmed at the news of being a man down. 'Shouldn't he be here?'
'He will be. Brian is picking him up from the airport and driving him here. It's his alibi – that he was in Ireland.'
Bruce knew that Gordy was a little nervous, although he would never tell the others. After narrowly missing going down for the airport job, he felt exposed. No matter what the evidence, the Squad might lay the train at his door. Hence the alibi and his preference for arriving after dark. Gordy was taking no chances.
'Missus thinks I'm chopping wood in Wiltshire,' chipped in Ronnie. 'Lumberjackin', like.'
'She's gonna think choppin' down trees pays bloody well,' offered Buster. 'Will someone give me a hand in here? It's like feedin' the bleedin' five thousand. Anyone got any loaves and fishes?'
'Anyone fed the cat yet?' asked Roy.
There were a few howls of derision. The farm had come with a rather bedraggled tom, prone to pissing in corners and on beds. It wasn't universally popular, but Roy seemed attached to it.
'I'd best do it then.' Roy got up and went into the kitchen area, looking for something suitable for the cat. A bleary Roger levered himself up from his mattress and followed. He began breaking open the packs of cutlery that Jimmy had provided. The first beers were cracked, although Bruce told everyone to take it easy. He didn't want anyone drunk on duty or busting for a piss at the wrong time. On the other hand, he knew some of them needed a little drink to steady their nerves. He himself would abstain, apart from a little nip of brandy from his silver Mappin & Webb hip flask, a present from Roy. The fact that Roy hadn't paid for it didn't detract from its value as a gift: it was an important memento of Le Furet's days as a Third-Floor Man. He would, however, smoke a cigar just before; a good Havana always calmed him down.
'After dinner, we'll check the uniforms and go over it one last time,' Bruce announced. 'Just to be sure we all know what we are doing.'
'I could rob that train in my sleep,' Tommy Wisbey said.
'I already have. And spent the bleedin' money,'Jim Hussey replied.
'Not on that shirt, did ya? Fuck me, it looks like the test card.'
Jim looked down at his black-and-white patterned top. Then he pointed at Tommy's slacks and cardigan ensemble. 'Hark at Beau Brummell there.'
'What about you, Bruce?' Bob Welch asked. 'What will you do with your whack?'
Bruce scratched his ear. He knew what he wanted: a trip to America. That Austin Healey. Something nice for Franny. But after that, some land in the country. Bit of shooting, perhaps. Holland & Holland guns, tweeds – he'd always wanted a jacket with the leather elbow pads and 'action' pleats in the back – breeks, garters, shooting brakes, the lot. But all he said was, 'Mustn't count our chickens, Bobby.'
'I am going to buy Bond Street,' Tony announced, reaching for the relevant card and sorting out his £320 purchase price.
There was a pause before Jimmy White said, 'Bugger me, Tony. I don't think there's going to be that much on the train.'
'OK, you gannets, grub's up,' announced Buster. 'You grab a plate, a knife and fork and we'll serve you. And first one to make a crack about dinner ladies gets a fork in the eye. Clear?'
Bruce looked at his watch. 'And gentlemen, the Travelling Post Office Up train to Euston will have just left Glasgow.'
A ragged cheer of relief went up. At least it had begun now, the countdown to what should be a mighty tickle. In six hours, the convoy of thieves and heavies would be ready to roll.
There was another collective sigh of relief when Gordon Goody and Brian Field arrived, completing the firm. Gordy, who wore posh silk gloves, incongruous on a man of his bulk, had brought two bottles of Bushmills from his Irish jaunt. Brian, although nobody noticed at first, brought a long face.
The group was all sitting around the long kitchen table, having tea or instant coffee, a low cloud of cigarette smoke coalescing above their heads. The conversation was bright and breezy, sometimes bordering on the hysterical, heavy with tongue-in-cheek insults. The only sour note of the evening had been when Bobby Welch had discovered that nobody had thought to bring brown sauce. 'You can't have ketchup with a Fray Bentos steak and kidney,' he had said. 'It's a fuckin' crime.' He failed to see the funny side of this outburst.
'We saved you some food, boys,' said Buster to the new arrivals as they walked in. 'Although I had to stab Jim to stop him scoffing it.'
Charlie, though, had noticed the two men's glum demeanour. 'What is it, Gordy? You called Glasgow?'
The big man nodded. 'Train left OK, but with hardly any bags. Our man estimates it can't be more than a hundred grand.'
There was a low groan. The entire firm had been building themselves up over the past hours to seeing serious cash, and the deflating of the atmosphere was palpable and rapid. Ronnie ripped his gloves off and threw them down on the table. Roger looked as if he might cry. Charlie gazed at Bruce, deep in thought, and said, 'Hold on, boys. It's not over yet.'
He knew that some of the crew weren't convinced they could pull this off, and some had not warmed to Bruce's methods and leadership. Charlie wasn't one of them. Bruce dressed things up in a load of old wank sometimes – the movies, the clothes, the bloody jazz music – but beneath it all was rock-solid planning. Pockets of urgent conversation had broken out. 'Just listen up, will you?' rumbled Charlie, in the kind of voice that made people pay attention. The murmuring stopped abruptly. 'Bruce? What do you think?'
'Is it worth it for a reduced take?' Bruce looked around the room and did the mental arithmetic. To a firm of this calibre that kind of money was hardly worth getting out of bed for, what with the amount of cash already laid down. None of these lads were doing this to be left with seven or eight grand. It would be the airport all over again – big risks, meagre takings. 'No, I think it is worth waiting at least two more nights, maybe three.' He saw some faces pulled. 'Come on, we've come this far. Fuck me, even D-Day was postponed once, you cunts.'
That got some laughs and the tension eased.
'There's something else,' said Gordy. 'They've put the three new HVP coaches on.'
'Shit,' hissed Bruce to himself. 'That's earlier than expected. Couldn't the bastards making them have gone on strike or something?'
'Can't we get into them, then?' asked Tiny Dave Thompson, who hadn't heard that there was a new, more heavily armoured type of coach due into service
Bruce waved a hand. 'Yeah, yeah, but it adds twenty minutes or more. That's a lot. And there is the chance there will be more sorters in there, because the new ones connect to the rest of the train by a corridor. Bollocks.'
Brian spoke up, his voice even and calm. 'Bruce. Our man in Glasgow says he can take one HVP out, and that we should do the same to the one down here. There's only three been delivered. But it has to look like a fault, not sabotage, he says. Otherwise little alarm bells might ring.'
'Why the fuck didn't your bloke know these were coming on line?' asked Roger.
'I dunno,' said Gordy. 'Said he'd had to take a few days off. Personal problems.'
'Well, now we got personal problems of our own,' grumbled Jim Hussey.
'Be quiet, Jim, you great nancy,' said Roy to the big man, stinging him into silence. Bruce hid a grin. David and Goliath. The diminutive driver turned to Gordy. 'Did he say how? How to put the coach out of action?'
Gordy shook his head. 'No. Just said he had a couple of blokes he could bung a drink up there to make sure the new ones weren't available for a few days.'
'The brakes.' The two words were followed by a rattling cough.
All eyes turned to the new voice. It was Stan, spitting stray strands of tobacco from his lower lip as he placed a fresh roll- up between them.
'What about them?' asked Bruce.
'You need to fuck with the brakes. There's always teething troubles with these new models. So it won't seem suspicious if both go out of action. Always happens. You block one of the pipes with what looks like debris. Not the main one, but the feeders to the wheels. Iron filings work, and carborundum paste. Just looks like someone connected the pipes without cleaning them properly and the rubbish built up.'
'How do you know that?' asked Jim.
'Used to teach it during the war. At Beaulieu. To the saboteurs being parachuted in to France.' Everyone looked at the skeletal old man with a fresh set of eyes. 'You know where they lay up the coaches between runs, don't you?'
'Wembley,' confirmed Roy. 'I could go and do it in the afternoon. They sit there for three hours or more then. Be back here by the evening.'
'No,' said Bruce firmly. 'Not you. You need to be here to uncouple the coach.'
'Jimmy can do that,' objected Roy, pointing to Jim White, who nodded his agreement.
'Which is why he stays, too. Back-up on everything.'
'And Tony knows how.'
'Apart from that,' Charlie Wilson, who had been brooding on the change of plans, spoke up, 'did he say why there are
so few bags? Have we been rumbled? Someone talked out of turn?' He scanned the room accusingly.
'No, Charlie, calm down. He says the banks obviously haven't collected all the cash yet,' said Brian. 'Tomorrow might be better, or the next day. But not tonight.'
Bruce reached a decision. 'Tony?'
'Yeah?'
'You think you could mess with the brakes? You've been doing this uncoupling lark with Roy.'
'Sure I can. If Stan and Roy give us a few clues.'
'Piece of cake,' said Stan.
'Take Tiny Dave with you. Just in case there's trouble.'
Tiny Dave shrugged. It was all the same to him. Better a day off the farm than sitting cooped up for another twenty- four hours solid with a load of sweaty blaggers.
'OK,' said Bruce with fresh enthusiasm. 'So it's still on. Full steam ahead. Or full diesel in our case. We might get to be rich bastards, after all.' He picked up one of the bottles of Bushmills and unscrewed the top. 'But I suppose there's no harm in a little drink now. Get the uniforms off, I don't want you sleepin' in them, and grab a glass. And keep the bleedin' gloves on. Ronnie, that means you.'
'Oi, and boys,' said Bobby to Tony and Tiny Dave, 'if you are going back in town, pick us up a bottle or two of HP sauce, will you?'
'And some Kit-e-Kat.' It was Roy.
Bruce ignored him and concentrated on Tony and Tiny Dave. 'Apart from all that, keep your noses clean. You go in, bugger up the HVP coach, get back here. OK? Good. That's settled, then. Gordy, there's inflatable mattresses pumped up upstairs. Grab yourself a corner. We might as well get some sleep.'
Bruce waited until everyone else was busy, then signalled to Gordy and Brian to follow him outside. He stood looking up at the stars and a blurred, hazy moon, his mind racing. When he was aware they were behind him, he said, 'How much, Brian?'
'For what?'
'This drink. To take out the HVPs.'
'Ten.'
Bruce spun on his heel. 'Ten grand?'
'Per carriage. They've got a spare up there, remember.'
Bruce was speechless. The Glasgow link was already being well remunerated. He examined Brian's face, masked though most of it was by shadows, for signs of deviousness or naked avarice. He wouldn't be the first thief to pad his expenses.
Brian could read Bruce's expression. 'That's what they said, Bruce. They said if they were caught they'd be sacked. Had to be enough to make losing their job worthwhile.'
'How much do BR pay these days then?' Bruce snapped. 'Maybe we should just get a job on the rails.'
Brian spread his hands out, palms up. 'They'll have money to lay out too. Watchmen to be paid off for turning a blind eye.'
'So it begins,' said Gordy. 'The shape of things to come.'
Gordy was right. Once they got a sniff of a big payday, the jackals all appeared. The price of everything went through the roof. Especially Blind Eyes. It would be even worse when they had the actual cash in their hands. 'We haven't got much choice, have we? Tell them to go ahead.'
Brian showed a nervous flicker of teeth in the moonlight. 'I already have.'
'Hello, is that the police? Yes, my name is Charmian Biggs. Look, I'm sorry to bother you, but I don't quite know what else to do.
I'm at my wit's end. Sorry, I'm a bit tearful. Just a second. I'll have to blow my nose. This is a call concerning my husband, Ronnie Biggs. Ronald Biggs, yes. The thing is, he has gone off chopping wood in Wiltshire for some firm. No, it's just an odd job; he normally does painting and decorating. This is just a few days' casual work – well paid, he said. But I've just heard that his brother has died. So we are really keen to get hold of him, as you can imagine. No, Ronnie didn't even know he was ill, otherwise he wouldn't have gone. He is – was – very close to his brother. So I wondered, is there any way you can check on any woodcutting firms in Wiltshire? I'm sure that's where he said it was. Thank you, that's very kind. No, I'm sure you'll find him, and when you do I'm certain he'll be very grateful.'
London, 6 August 1963
'Charlie Delta Three to Foxtrot Delta Control. Have contact with silver Jaguar from the all-car message regarding a smash and grab. Proceeding along Langton Terrace. Over.' 'Roger that, Charlie Delta Three.'
'Control, I have with me DC William Naughton and DS Leonard Haslam. We are now turning into Keating Close. It's them, all right; he's seen us and he's put his foot down. Turning left into Baker Rise.'
'Charlie Delta Three, you're now car-to-car. All cars in Number One division switch to Channel Five. Repeat, Channel Five.'
'Control, this is DC Naughton. George, our driver, has his hands…Jesus!… his hands full at the moment. I shall transmit the details.'
'Very well, Charlie Delta Three.'
'The car vehicle identification on the Jaguar is bravo yankee romeo five zero two alpha. He's taking a hard right into Yates Street. He's really throwing it around now.
Ugh – sorry, dropped the handset. He's going mad… so are we.'
'Anyone able to lend assistance to Charlie Delta Three, now pursuing suspect Jaguar from all-car message one-one- nine-six towards Kilburn against the traffic?'
'This is Tango Bravo Two, am heading down Abercorn Place to try and intercept.'
'He's kerbed it. Lost a hubcap. He's back on track. Trying to lose us on these corners. Just into Foster Place. Repeat, Foster Place. Fifty yards behind now. There's a bloody wood- entop standing in the road trying to wave him down. They'll have him. Jump, you idiot! Bloody hell. Hello, Control? Unknown PC managed to get a truncheon into their screen. Repeat, Jaguar now has no windscreen. They've punched it out. You should find that silly bugger and give him a commendation.'
'Roger that, Charlie Delta Three.'
'Into the tunnel at Finlay Street, touching seventy now. Going to lose radio cont- Hang on, one of the bastards has jumped out.'
'Please observe on-air protocol, Charlie Delta Three.'
'Charlie Delta Three to Control. One of the bastards exited the vehicle at the eastern end of the Finlay Street Tunnel. Suggest you send unit to search the area. He's probably hurt himself after coming out at that speed. Oh Lord, there's a school crossing. Lollipop man. Get out the way, you old fool! Jesus, he's going to hit him. Watch out, George… Watch out for the kids.'
'Charlie Delta Three? This is Control. Come in, Charlie Delta Three.'
'Clear though school, Control. Charlie Delta Three left onto Stanley Lane, by the gasworks. He's on the wrong side
of the road! He's swerving back over. That was close. No, he's clipped a lorry. All over the shop now. Steam. No, smoke. Smoke. He's got a puncture! He's slowing!'
'Control again. Reminder that suspects may be armed and dangerous, Charlie Delta Three.'
'Roger that. We are pulling over outside Marlowe House. They're getting out!'
'This is Tango Bravo Two. I have suspect Jaguar in sight, ready to assist Charlie Delta Three. Have DS Edward Boyle, an authorised firearms officer, on board.'
'Right. Charlie Delta Tango leaving vehicle to continue pursuit on foot. Fuckin' move it!'
'Charlie Delta Three. Please observe on-air protocol. Over.'
London, 7 August 1963
The sabotaging of the Mk. 2 HVP armoured carriages presented little difficulty. Tiny Dave and Tony both wore overalls and carried toolkits, and nobody questioned their right to be moving among the coaches in the middle of the day. In fact, it would have been a brave man who questioned Tiny about anything, given his size and the scowl on his face, which suggested he had been sent to perform some horrible task and was not happy about it. Tony had slid under the gleaming HVP while Tiny Dave kept a lookout.
With new, clean fittings still uncontaminated by dirt and grit, it was a simple matter to undo the nuts, free the pipes and stuff a mixture of Swarfega and iron filings into each pipe. Stan assured them it would play havoc with the vacuum, and the Post Office would switch to an older coach. Engineers would then take a day or so to come from BR or the GPO to see what was up with their new babies.
Still, by the time he climbed from under the carriage and headed back to the Morris Oxford with Tiny Dave, Tony's
face was streaked with grease and his hair felt like wire wool. He needed a shower.
As they drove away, he let out a sigh. 'Dave, do you mind if we swing by my place? We got plenty of time.' 'Where's that then?'
He gave him the address and Dave frowned. ' Holloway Road? Bit out of the way.'
'Nothing happens at the farm for another eight hours. Come on, Dave. The wife's about to drop one.'
'Yeah?' Dave looked sideways at him, to see if he was having him on. 'What's this job then? A christening present?' 'Something like that.' 'All right.'
'And I've got some brown sauce. The missus developed a bit of a thing for it for a few weeks. Bought loads of bottles. Now she can't even stand the smell of it.'
'My Jackie was the same with the boy. Marmite it was with her. Makes her gag now.'
They slid into the traffic, heading for his new house. It was a warm day, London finally bathed in full August sunshine, and Tony wound his window down. 'What will you do after this, Dave?' 'Bangkok.'
'Bangkok?' Tony asked, not sure where it was. 'I was in the Army in Malaya for a bit. Shootin' Commies. Went to Bangkok. Man, what a place.' 'You'll take Jackie?'
Dave looked at him as if he had just let one rip. 'Fuck off. Few months in Bangkok, on me tod, then I'll move to Hong Kong and send for her and the kids.' 'You kill any?' 'What?'
'Commies.'
'Fuck, yes. Shed-loads. That's one thing I don't understand about Bruce. Why we can't have guns. He's a funny fucker.'
'I don't think the GPO will agree after tonight.'
Reminded of what was at stake, Dave lapsed into silence, his meaty hands on the wheel, the car threading through London towards Tony's new place.
It was close to five by the time they arrived at the house. Tony slid out of the car, closed the door and put his head through the open window. 'Want to come in? Cup of tea?'
'Don't want to break up a nice domestic scene,' he said. 'I'll have a fag.'
'Won't be long. Get out of these overalls, grab the sauce, kiss the missus and be out.'
'Take your time.' Dave pointed down the road to the corner shop on Holloway Road. 'I'll get a paper.'
Tony took the five steps up to his house in one jump, wondering how it was going to be carrying a pram up and down. Maybe they should have gone for something without a raised porch. Like he'd had much say in it.
He put his key in the lock, stepped in and at once smelled strangers. Cigarette smoke, whisky and something stale wafted down the hallway.
'Marie?'
'Tony? That you?' The voice from the lounge was querulous.
Tony walked in. Marie was on the settee. Two men were sat in the armchairs. On the coffee table in between them were teacups and biscuits. He recognised the man on the left. It was the detective who had come with the Stolen Car Squad to the garage.
Marie pushed herself up to her feet, the strain making her face flush. 'Oh, Tony.'
'What is it?' he demanded of the two policemen.
But it was Marie who answered. 'It's Geoff. The silly bugger went and did a smash and grab.'
'Geoff?' Tony asked, not sure he was hearing correctly. 'Your brother?'
There was a strange noise and for a moment Tony thought a tap had been left running. Then Marie groaned with a mixture of shock and embarrassment as the carpet beneath her feet darkened. Her waters had broken.
Assistant GPO Inspector Thomas Kett walked along the platform at Glasgow station, watching the final preparations for the TPO's departure. It was his job to make sure the sorting ran smoothly during the journey, that each of the sixty-seven sorters in the ten regular coaches knew what had to be done. Each coach had its own supervisor, the majority old hands, so he had no concerns. The mail would get through to London and the south-east, as it did almost every night of the year, barring snowstorms and Christmas.
He reached the HVP, where British Transport Police and the GPO Inspectors were overseeing the loading of the last of the bright-red High Value mailbags containing cash. 'How many, Frank?' he asked.
Frank Dewhurst, Postman (Higher Grade) and in charge of the HVP carriage, consulted his clipboard. 'Ninety-two here. Another twenty or thirty to be picked up on the way down south. Bloody cage is going to be bursting. When do we get the new buggers back?'
The new coaches were fitted with much larger secure lock- able areas, so the HVPs weren't crammed in like passengers on a rush-hour Tube. 'I dunno, few days at least, so they reckon.'
Thomas grumbled. The older HVP was draughty and noisy, as well as scuffed and threadbare after years of continuous service. Some of the pigeonholes were disintegrating, too, so if you weren't careful you ended the shift with a handful of splinters. The new ones had high-density plastic sorting trays. They had been given a teaser of what a modern coach could be like – decent kitchen, comfy seats – and a couple had run with a different crew the previous night and now they were told they were withdrawn. 'Who's with you in there?' Thomas asked.
'Just Les.'
Leslie Penn, a good lad, but still learning the ropes. 'What, just the two of you? To do all the sorting?'
'We'll pick up Joe Ware and Johnny O'Connor down the way.'
'Where?'
' Tamworth.'
'Bloody hell, Tom, that's almost the end of the line.'
Frank Dewhurst made a show of pushing up his sleeves, secretly pleased at having something to do other than walking up and down between the other coaches during the journey. He reached for the grab rail and hauled himself aboard the HVP. It smelled of old wood, leather, glue, string and brown paper. It was a kind of homely mix, Frank thought. 'If you don't mind, I'll lend a hand. Put the kettle on, Les.'
Frank looked at his watch and leaned back out the door, shouting up the platform to the driver climbing into the cab of the beefy English Electric diesel loco. 'Let's get this bloody thing moving. There's our mail to deliver!'
The driver, Jack Mills, a veteran of these night runs, smiled, let go with his left hand and flashed a not unfriendly V-sign. There was always banter between BR and the GPO. 'Hold
your horses. It might be your train, mate,' he yelled, 'but it's my effin' engine that has to pull it.'
'I counted ninety-two sacks into the HVP, although that is likely to be added to. Second carnage as always. And one of the older types. How much? I don't like to speculate. Over one million, clear. Maybe one and a half. Will that do you? I thought so. Right, that's me out of here. I'll tell Brian where he can leave my whack and Mark's as well. Plus drinks for the lads up here. The ones who fixed the coaches. No, I'll stay away from Glasgow. Mark will collect his down there. I'm coming south, too. Just in case Glasgow gets too hot for me. They are bound to know someone tipped you the wink. Right, there she goes, out of the station. A minute early, too. Over to you boys. And by the way, good luck. It's your train, now.'
Leatherslade Farm, near Oakley, Bucks, 7 August 1963
Bruce couldn't make sense of what he was hearing. While he thought, he scratched the skin beneath his gloves. It had been an oppressively warm day in the farmhouse. With the curtains drawn and no open windows, the temperature had climbed. It was early evening and most of the men had stripped down to vests or singlets. Gloves were still on, but they were becoming increasingly irritating. Still, Bruce didn't relent, bawling at anyone who so much as took them off to get some air to hot, sweaty palms.
Slowly, Bruce repeated what he had been told. 'So Tony went in for a cup of tea. You went back to his house? For a fuckin' cup of tea?'
The disapproval hit Tiny Dave like a slap across the face. Bruce made it clear he thought they should have driven straight back. 'And to get the sauce for Bobby.'
'Oh well, yes, the sauce. What's more important than brown
sauce? So you stop outside and then Tony comes with two coppers?'
'And his missus. Holding her belly.'
'They got into squad cars?'
'Yup. But I reckon they was going to the hospital.'
'The Flying Squad do a lot of things,' said Charlie quietly, 'but they don't deliver babies. That's a different 999.'
'Could be they were after Tony for something else. This, maybe,' offered Roger.
'Not likely,' said Bruce, sensing a flash of the jitters from the signalman. 'Or we'd all be in it.'
'Tony's solid,' said Roy. 'You know that.'
'He'd better be,' muttered Gordy, expertly shuffling a deck of cards, despite his gloves.
'Forget Tony for a minute, can we?' Roy said. 'What about the train, Bruce?'
'Oh, yeah.' Bruce had neglected to tell them about his call to Glasgow. He had arrived back at the same time as Tiny Dave, discovering they were a man down. 'It's left on time. Close to a hundred HVP sacks. One point five million.'
Ralph, normally the quiet one, gave a low, appreciative whistle and laughed. 'Fuck me.'
'But what about this business with Tony?' asked Roger, refusing to be swept along by the ripples of avarice spreading throughout the room. 'Should we wait for another night? Or forget it altogether?' The initial euphoria the signalman had shown for the enterprise had dissipated. He was nervous and sweaty now, complaining about missing his wife, outraged that he was expected to lie low at the farm with the others. Charlie had been designated to make sure he didn't fold on them. He only had to give Roger one of his looks and the whingeing died on his lips.
Bruce glanced around the room, at faces made yellow by cheap, low-watt bulbs and a half-dozen candles. He knew that some were thinking that, even now, police cars could be moving into position around the farm. 'We'll take a vote. All in favour of going ahead, raise their hands.' He waited until each man had made their decision. Charlie glared at Roger until the latter half-raised his arm.
'Right, then. It's unanimous. We go tonight.'
'The thing is, Tony,' drawled Len Haslam, 'it was your van waiting for the transfer.'
Tony was sitting in the interview room at Paddington Green, opposite Duke Haslam and Billy Naughton. He was both relieved and annoyed. Relieved because this was nothing to do with the farm or Bruce and the lads. Furious because his piece-of-shit brother-in-law had dragged him into this mess. Now he would miss out on his whack. The robbery would go ahead without him.
'What van?'
'Your Hillman Husky. There it was, parked up, just waiting for the loot to arrive. Classic switcher-oo. Oh, and Geoff had the keys in his pocket.'
'I told you, I bought the Husky off Geoff. He begged me to. Then while I was away…'
'Away where, Tony?' Billy Naughton asked.
'Southampton. Buying cars. Looking under them, examining engines. That's why I'm so dirty. You can check-'
'We will,' said Len Haslam.
Tony wasn't worried about that. As Bruce had suggested, he had set up a good alibi, well rehearsed, with his old pals in Falmer. He would have to kick it into play as soon as he got out.
'But about the Hillman Husky,' prompted Billy.
'It's mine, yes. But as I am sure my wife will have told you, Geoff came and borrowed it back. Or at least, I assume that is what he did.'
'And the Jag used in the robbery? Nice one, brand new.'
Tony shrugged. 'Not down to me. Look, have a heart, gents. My wife is about to give birth.'
'And you want to be there with the big cigar.'
'Yeah. Is that a crime now?'
The two policemen said nothing.
'I know you'd like to haul me in while you're at it, but I had nothing to do with it. Smash and grab? Is that my game? I might clock the odd motor now and then, but really. Talk about barking up the wrong tree. Now, can I get cleaned up and go and see my wife?'
'Go on, fuck off,' sighed Haslam. 'But don't go off on any more expeditions, all right? Stay close to home, son.'
'I'm about to become a father. Where else would I be?'
'In the Scrubs if we find out you're lying,' said Billy. He looked up at the ceiling, as if a thought had just occurred to him. 'You know anything about a big job going off, Tony?'
'Yeah.'
'What's that?'
'My wife squeezing a kid out. Biggest job of all.'
Len managed a thin smile. 'Nothing about a Bank Holiday tickle? That was the whisper.'
Tony scratched his ear as nonchalantly as he could. 'Nobody's whispered to me.'
'Right. Piss off then.'
After he had gone, the two men lit cigarettes. 'What do you think?' Len asked.
'The Bank Holiday is a bit thin.'
Billy shrugged. It was a small nugget, but a nugget just the same, picked up in a pub. 'That's all I heard. Heavies wanted for a Bank Holiday job.'
'I hope you didn't dip into the fund for that. Still, Bank Holiday isn't till the end of the month.' Len took out his pocket diary and flicked through it. 'Twenty-sixth.'
'It's likely to be a bank vault, eh, Len? They might be after sledgehammer men. Which is why they need muscle.'
Haslam nodded, impressed by the boy's thinking despite himself. 'A three-day weekend. Gives them an extra day to break through walls and what have you. A bank, yeah.'
'But we've got time on our side. Whatever it is should leak between now and then, Len.'
'True.' He inclined his head to indicate the departed suspect. 'You fancy Fortune for the jeweller's?'
'Not really. His brother-in-law confirms he had nothing to do with it.'
'Yeah, right,' he said. 'Probably as thick as Pinky and Perky, those two.'
'I don't get that impression.'
Duke Haslam dropped his cigarette into the tin mug in front of him. It hissed as it hit the half-inch of cold tea in the bottom. 'You don't get that impression?' he repeated. 'Mr Hatherill teach you impressions, did he? Go on, do Max Bygraves.'
Billy's time spent with the Commander was a sore point. Len felt his protege had been purloined and he had sensed a sea change in the younger man after his jaunt to Devon. After the West Country, Billy had been sent on a doping stakeout at Sir Gordon Richards's stables, at the request of the trainer, who was worried about some of his thoroughbreds' performances. Billy had not only caught a jockey administering powder to a favourite, but had picked himself up a strapping stable lass too. Billy was growing up.
'I can do Henry Cooper,' said Billy with mock severity, clenching a fist and waving it.
'What – bleed a lot?' Len sneered. He had been there at Wembley when Cooper had floored Cassius Clay, only for the latter to be saved when Clay's cornerman had protested that his fighter's glove had split. The delay enabled Clay to come back at Cooper and open up a cut on his eye, which led to the fight being stopped. All England was outraged for Our 'Enery, but Len felt the best fighter had won, even if he was an arrogant black bastard.
'I'm not saying Fortune is clean,' continued Billy. 'He doesn't smell right, I'll grant you that.'
Haslam bit his tongue. 'Doesn't smell right' was a prime piece of Hatherill Ham, fresh off the bone.
'But not for this. Geoff Barrow is an idiot. Not sure you can say the same about Tony Fortune. Still.'
'Still?' echoed Haslam. 'Still what?'
Billy Naughton raised his eyebrows and smirked. 'Still, let's put a tail on young Tony, eh?'
By midnight the tension in the farmhouse was building towards unbearable. All had changed into their outfits, the drivers and Bruce dressed as soldiers, most of those who would be on the track in boilersuits and balaclavas, although Roger had opted to dress like a vagrant, in case he was surprised on the gantry, and then he could pretend to be sleeping rough.
Bruce, outwardly calm and controlled, had to admit to some nerves. He checked and rechecked that he had everything he needed, that his walkie-talkie was functioning and that he had his balaclava, that the uniform – genuine ex-Army but altered
by Franny to fit better – would pass muster. Yes, he had to admit as he looked in the full-length mirror in the bedroom, he did have something of the officer class about him.
It was hard to believe, after the months of speculation, planning and scouting, that it was about to go down. Even more incredible was the thought of the amount of money that could be his – theirs – by the end of the evening. He'd be rich. Properly rich, not just enough for a flash motor and a few good dinners. But seriously, stonkingly rich. Maybe for life. That would be good. Bugger the Aston; if there was more than one million, he'd go for a Ferrari GTO. True, they cost a fortune to run. But he intended to have a bloody fortune, didn't he?
Bruce consulted his watch again, marvelling at how the hands were crawling round. As the second hand swept past the six he cleared his throat. 'OK, lads.'
They all stopped what they were doing.
'Head 'em up, move 'em out.'
There was the clatter of mugs being put aside, the rough scrape of chairs being pushed back, the sudden burble of excitement. Cigarettes were stubbed out, board games abandoned, dregs of coffee swallowed. 'Candles, gents. Don't want to come back to see a smouldering wreck.'
Roy, in charge of transport, shouted out a reminder of who was in what vehicle. 'And keep your speed down,' he said. 'There's only one racing driver here and even he's on a go-slow.'
The men tumbled out past Roy into a lovely warm summer's evening, silvered by a big, friendly moon. The air hardly moved, wrapped round them like a light soft blanket. It was the kind of night, thought Bruce as he headed for one of the Land Rovers, where you could believe in fairies and elves.
The kind of night where something magical might happen. A miracle, even.
He felt a hand heavy on his shoulder as he opened the Land Rover's door. It was Charlie. 'Just want to say, Bruce, no matter what happens. Nice one.'
It meant a lot coming from Chas. Almost twenty years they had known each other; from bombsites to train jobs, it had been quite a journey. Bruce watched his old friend slide into what they called the 'heavy' vehicle – Charlie plus Buster, Tiny Dave, Tommy Wisbey and Gordy. Bruce climbed into the second Land Rover, into the passenger seat next to his second cousin. 'Quiet' Ralph had volunteered to take Tony's role as driver; Bruce was happy with that. As Roy had said, it wasn't a race. He switched on the VHF radio that was tuned to Buckinghamshire Constabulary.
Bruce turned around, elbow on the seat. He had Roger, Ronnie and Stan in the back, the technical team. 'Everyone all right?'
'Fine.' Roger was licking his lips as if he hadn't had a drink for months. He looked strained. Stan was rolling another fag, a slight tremor evident in his fingers. Ronnie was Ronnie, relaxed, ready for what the night would throw at him.
Roy gunned the engine of the Land Rover and pulled away first, taking his fearsome crew with him. God help anyone who got in their way, thought Bruce. The lorry that would carry the cash came out second, a tired-looking Jimmy White at the wheel, Bobby Welch next to him, Jim Hussey in the rear.
Ralph let in the clutch and they bounced towards the track that led to the B4011 and the back roads to Bridego. Bruce checked the time. Twelve-forty. In three hours he would either be a hero to these men or a dismal failure.
Nobody spoke for the first few miles, lost in their own version of what the coming twenty-four hours might hold.
'Eh,' said Stan eventually. 'I just had a thought.'
Fuck me, thought Bruce, that must be lonely in there. 'What is it, Stan?'
'It's coming from Glasgow, right, the train?'
'Yes.'
'And the money is from banks up there?'
'That's correct.'
'What if they're all Scottish notes?'
Bruce laughed. They would be a bugger to shift; even trying to get a single Scottish pound note accepted in London was hard enough. 'Tell you what, Stan.'
'What, Bruce?'
'If they are, you can keep the lot.'
'Someone on the road ahead,' said Ralph.
A figure was caught in the headlights, a solitary man on a lonely road at some godforsaken hour. His hand was stretched out, thumb pointing east.
'Hitchhiker,' said Bruce. 'Keep going.'
This was no time for Good Samaritans.
Tony Fortune lay staring at the ceiling in the flat, unable to sleep, his mind churning and restless. It flitted from images of Marie and the lovely, crumpled baby that had reduced him to tears, and the sixteen men in the farmhouse – seventeen if you counted Brian Field – waiting to pull off a ridiculously audacious crime.
And his poxy brother-in-law. Banged up for armed robbery, having tried to prove that he, too, could be a getaway driver.
He was disappointed about missing out on the payday from the train, mainly for Marie's sake. Maybe the others would
bung him a drink. He deserved at least that. Perhaps enough to pay for a nursery for the baby. And a nice pram. Marie would be home in a few days. He should get to work on doing some painting.
He leaned up onto one elbow and looked at his watch. Twelve forty-five. For a moment he imagined he could hear the grind of Army gears, smell the excitement and anxiety of the men in unfamiliar uniforms, see the gleam in Bruce Reynolds's eyes. Then he slumped back down and let his lids droop, willing sleep to come. Good luck, lads, he thought. Good luck.
Sears Crossing, 8 August 1963
Roy James's walkie-talkie crackled as he walked alongside the rails, heading for the gantry of the 'home' signal. ' Roy?'
'Yes, Bruce?' 'How you doing?'
'I've cut the telephone to most of the farmhouses. Had to leave one, because it would come down on some cowsheds. Make a hell of a racket.' 'OK. Trackside phone?' 'That's already out. How about you?' Bruce was ahead of them all as point man, ready to send the alert when the TPO Up train left Linslade. 'Smoking a damn fine cigar.'
That's Bruce, Roy thought. Always doing it in style. Roy heard the steel rail beside him buzz and looked over his shoulder, beyond Bridego Bridge. 'Train coming,' he said. 'What?'
'From the south. Train coming. I'm getting down.'
Roy slipped behind one of the concrete huts at the track- side. A growling 08-type diesel shunter came by, its line of empty trucks rattling and groaning.
He waited until it would have passed Bruce before resuming the conversation. 'I'm going to the gantry now. What about Roger?'
Roger would have opened the control box for the 'distant' or 'dwarf' signal, then used a battery and crocodile clips to light up the amber warning light. Ralph's job was to connect up the last clip and to cover the bulb in the green light module, so only the amber would be showing to the driver. It was so simple, no wonder Roger wanted to keep it secret.
'He's just set up Ralph at the dwarf. Should be with you toot sweet. You still there, Ralph?'
Roy heard the reply. 'Check.'
'Good.'
'I need a piss.'
'You should have gone before we left,' said Roy.
Bruce chortled. 'Bottle it, Ralph. Where are you, Roy?'
'Coming up to the gantry now,' said Roy. He could see two figures at the base of the steel framework, Roger and Buster. Buster had his spring-loaded cosh in his hand. Peering into the gloom, Roy could just make out Jimmy and Tiny Dave at the edge of the track and, on the western side, the shapes of Charlie, Gordy and Tommy pressed against the embankment. All were armed with pickaxes or crowbars, many of them stolen from the nearby BR toolsheds. They were mainly for smashing into the coach, not maiming people. Buster's cosh, however, was different, specifically designed for the train crew. He had made it clear that he thought a quick, sharp dose of pain was the best way to cower the staff on
board. 'Concentrates the mind,' he liked to say. Roy reminded himself to give Buster a wide berth.
'OK?' asked Roger, the tension making his voice tremulous. 'You coming up?'
Roy put the walkie-talkie over his shoulder and Roger did the same with his bag of tricks. They quickly ascended the ladder and stepped onto the walkway. Another train came by and the pair squeezed themselves into the metal. A horribly clammy cloud of steam and grit enveloped them briefly and was gone, as the loco puffed off towards London.
Roy spat some dirt from his mouth. 'No wonder they switched to diesels.'
It was cramped on the walkway but it afforded them a fine view up and down the track. Behind was Bridego Bridge, where the train would be unloaded. Ahead was Sears Crossing itself, actually the elevated track to nearby Rowden Farm, and beyond that the dwarf or distant signal which warned drivers to proceed with caution. Further on still was Major Bruce Reynolds, ready to leap in his Land Rover and drive back to Bridego, once he had spotted the Travelling Post Office and alerted them.
Roy shone the torch while Roger fiddled with his battery and wires. The Flowerpot Man put the clips onto the red signal's bulb, which glowed into life. He disconnected it.
'Now,' Roger said, 'for Katie's secret ingredient.' He mimed crumbling an Oxo cube before he pulled a glove from his pocket and slid it over the bulb in the green signal. He then craned his neck to ensure it masked the 'proceed' light completely.
'A glove?' Roy asked, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.
'Can't be any old glove. Nice bit of leather, this.'
'We're going to rob a train with a glove?' Roy felt as if he had just discovered that David Nixon couldn't really pull a rabbit from a hat.
'It works, Roy. What's the time?'
'Five to three.'
Roger squirmed to make himself comfortable. 'Worst part, waiting. Hate it, don't you? Must be like the start of a race. Waiting for the flag.'
He was beginning to burble. 'Shut up, Rog.'
'Yeah. Sorry.'
Roy suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for the bag of nerves sharing a walkway with him. 'How did you ever get involved in this, anyway?'
The answer was short, yet rueful. 'Ask my bookie.'
Well, he wasn't alone, there were several in the group who described themselves as 'bookmakers' but who were, in reality, more punter than bookie. If they did get the haul, Roy daren't think how much would eventually go on gee-gees or at the Sportsman or similar establishments. He spoke into the walkie-talkie. 'Bruce? We're in place. Over.'
'Good. Nothing yet. I'm going to flash my torch, three long signals. See it?'
'Yes.'
'That's the back-up in case the walkie-talkies fail, so keep your eyes open. How's Roger?'
Roger was now rubbing his hands together nervously. A twitch had appeared at the corner of his mouth. When he smiled, he looked slightly demented.
'A-One,' said Roy. Roger flashed him a thumbs-up.
'OK, over and out.'
Another train came from the south, a diesel this time, its engine thumping lazily. It passed under Bridego, its blazing
lights raking the track ahead. Roy hoped everyone was well tucked away.
Then he heard the grinding of brakes and the falling note of an engine losing power. The train was stopping.
'Shit,' he said.
Roger stirred himself. 'Signals are on green. Silly buggers shouldn't stop.'
The locomotive came to a halt beneath them. Even above the rumble of the idling engine, they could hear muffled voices from the cab. The walkie-talkie gave a squawk and Roy switched it off.
He saw movement in the darkness to his left, where some of the heavies were. He could imagine what they were thinking. We'd best take this train out, too.
There was the sound of hearty laughter at a shared joke from the cab. They wouldn't be chortling if they knew the kind of blokes who were concealed a few yards away from them, thought Roy.
Then, the sound of running water – a heavy stream, slowly weakening. One of them was taking a piss.
As soon as it had finished the diesel note changed to something more urgent; there was a jerk, a clank and the train moved off.
'I should report them for that,' said Roger with genuine exasperation.
Roy switched the walkie-talkie back on.
Silence descended once more over the silver-washed scene. The moon appeared to have grown brighter, the night warmer. Roy was sure the latter was from the burst of adrenaline when the loco had stopped. He was well aware now how easily it could all go wrong. There must be simpler ways to earn a Formula One car, he thought to himself.
'It's coming. This is it.' For a second the words seemed to make no sense. What did he say? Was that Bruce? Roy looked at the walkie-talkie in disbelief. 'Repeat, this is it, chaps,' the voice said again. 'The real thing.'
Fuck.
Roy poked Roger into action and switched on the torch. The beam wavered slightly, but he had to admire Roger's steady hand as he slipped the glove into place, positioned the battery and connected the clips. No sign of nerves or twitches this time. 'Done!' he exclaimed.
There was now a red light at Sears Crossing.
Sears Crossing, 8 August 1963
Driver Jack Mills swore when he saw the dwarf signal glowing amber. They were on the final run into Euston. No more mail to pick up or coaches to be added – his engine was pulling twelve carriages now – no more swapping of GPO personnel as shifts changed. Once the train was into Euston, then he could sign off. There would be the rigmarole of transferring the HVP sacks to the East Central District Post Office and distributing it to various banks, including the Bank of England, but that was no concern of his. He would be well into his second mug of tea, having polished off a decent breakfast, by the time the train was emptied.
Odd, Mills thought. The dwarf signal's rail magnets normally triggered an AWS, an Automatic Warning Signal, in the cab and a horn sounded when the light was at 'caution'. But neither had kicked in. He would have to report a malfunction.
'Red,' said David Whitby, his young fireman.
'I can see that, son,' he said, although Whitby was only showing his driver that he was paying attention, that he could see the main signal was on red, demanding that they halt. Mills applied more braking and the massive engine shuddered as its power was curtailed, like a great stallion pulled up too soon.
Whitby moved to the door of the loco, ready to jump down and make the call to determine how long they would be stuck at Sears Crossing.
Inside the HVP carriage, Assistant GPO Inspector Thomas Kett was only vaguely aware of the train slowing. He, Frank Dewhurst and Leslie Penn were busy sorting the last of the letters, the ones with such appalling writing that they had been set aside so that all three men could work on interpreting the scrawl. They had also picked up two junior sorters, John O'Connor and Joe Ware along the route.
'Is that Cheltenham or Chelmsford?' he asked Frank. 'There's no bloody county.'
'Chester-le-Street.'
'You sure? Les, what does that say?'
'Stopping again,' said Les absentmindedly. He glanced out of the grimy, barred windows, but that told him very little. He looked at his watch. Almost a quarter after three.
'Never mind that. What do you reckon it says?'
'Chesterfield.'
'Oh, for cryin' out loud.' They had stopped completely now. Thomas placed the troublesome letter aside for a fourth opinion. 'Put the kettle on, will you, Joe? Be in here another hour at least at this rate.'
'For fuck's sake,' said David Whitby loudly as he put the phone to his ear. The line was dead – which meant a walk to
a signal box or to another phone. And that would be down to him.
He looked back up the train at the cab, wondering if he should tell Millsy that the phone was useless before wandering off. The light was still red, but he should go and consult with his driver. He gave the phone one last go, but there was still not so much as a crackle on the line. He replaced the receiver and began the walk back to the front of the train, when he saw someone ahead. No doubt an engineer come to fix the phone.
'What's up, mate?' he asked the dark figure. He could see others behind the worker, although they appeared to be ducking under one of the coaches. 'Something wrong?'
The man stepped forward and Whitby could see he was wearing a woollen balaclava. Just his eyes and mouth were visible. He looked like a Black and White Minstrel. Why would he have that on? It was summer now. Those nights were past.
There was, however, no mistaking the purpose of the implement waved in front of his face as the man – shorter than Whitby, but a lot bulkier – grabbed his arm. It was a powerful grip.
Then he felt other hands on him, pinning his arms, and sour breath washed over his face.
'Say a word and you are fucking dead,' hissed the little man with the evil-looking cosh.
Whitby 's mouth went dry and his brain tried to make sense of the fragmented thoughts crowding into it. 'Yeah, all right mate,' he managed to say. 'I'm with you.'
'Go with him, then, and keep quiet.'
Buster watched Bobby Welch lead the cowering boy away and headed for the cab. Let's hope the driver rolls over that easily, he thought.
Thomas Kett accepted the mug of steaming tea from Les, grateful at that moment that they had halted. It would make a change to have a drink without all that rolling about. Although you got used to it – old GPO hands rarely spilled a drop – it was nice to sit down and not have to make all those compensatory muscle movements.
Just then, he heard the hiss of escaping air from the rear of the HVP and cocked an ear. The coach was connected to the rest of the train by a fat umbilical that carried the vacuum. 'What's that?'
Leslie listened as he drank his own tea. There was the faintest of metallic sounds.
'It's Chelveston.'
The other two looked at Frank who was leaning against the cage that held the red High Value sacks. He was holding up the envelope with the disputed destination.
'Chelveston?' Thomas asked. 'You sure?'
'Chelveston, Northamptonshire,' Frank said with certainty in his voice. He scribbled the county onto the envelope with a chinagraph pencil and tossed it into the appropriate bin.
Thomas listened once more but the hissing, whatever it was, had stopped. He drained his tea. 'Come on, Millsy, let's get a move on.'
The uncoupling of the buckeye link and vacuum tube complete, Roy straightened and stepped back from the train. As he did so, an unexpected roar suddenly engulfed him and the punch of compressed air threw him back against one of the coaches. The train on the other track blasted by like a roaring fireball, all wild noise and lights. Winded, he looked up at the locomotive. He could see someone hanging from
the cab's grab rails, pulling himself in. Jesus, it must nearly have snatched him off, the way the GPO trains plucked mailbags from waiting arms. The lucky bastard disappeared inside.
Roy ducked under the train and ran back to the embankment at a crouch. From the road that ran parallel to the track came the urgent, rising note of the Land Rover's engine, racing to get Bruce back to Bridego Bridge. He just hoped the Colonel had remembered to lay out the explosive charges as Roger had instructed him, to make sure no train, coming through the genuine green signal outside Lechslade, rammed into the back of their one. That would put the cat among the pigeons.
He found the young fireman huddled on the grass, shaking, Bobby standing over him. Roger was sitting next to them, rolling up his trouser leg. He uncovered a bad gash, visible in the light bleeding from the HVP coach. 'Caught it on the gantry,' he whispered.
'Be fine,' said Roy. He grabbed the fireman and hauled him to his feet. Bobby gave him a last shove. 'Where you from?' Roy asked him.
'Crewe.'
'Name?'
'Dave.'
'Stay calm, Dave, and there's a drink in it for you,' said Bobby.
'Stay calm,' repeated Roy, as he looked at Bobby, 'and do as you are told, because there are some right hard bastards here.'
Then he took the fireman's arm and led him towards the
front of the train, towards the worst of the right hard bastards.
Jack Mills thought it was David Whitby climbing up onto the footplate.
'What did they say, lad?'
He looked down onto a black, wool-clad face.
'Who the fuck are you?' He wasn't frightened by the sight, more angry at the intrusion.
He didn't catch the muffled reply, but it certainly wasn't friendly. As the man began to haul himself up, Mills could see the cosh in his hand. Now he felt a tremor of fear pass through his body.
He aimed a kick and felt the satisfaction of it landing home. Someone was pushing the man from behind, though, and he carried on coming. Mills swung at his face, turned round and flicked the exhauster off, killing the train's vacuum. Let them try and take his train now.
'Hit him!' the intruder yelled. Only then was he aware of other men, climbing from the opposite side. Too many coming in for him to take on. He kicked again at the first one, but the man was inside the cab now, and rising to his feet.
'Bloody hit him!' someone yelled again. 'What you waiting for?'
'Get off my train-'
A spark of white light exploded in front of Jack Mills's eyes. He felt something warm trickling over his left eye. There was another blow, this time to the back of his head and his legs buckled.
'Out the way, he's going down!' were the last words he heard as the rough steel of the footplate rushed towards him.
Charlie, still spooked by nearly being sucked into oblivion by a passing express, helped pull Stan up onto the footplate.
He saw he still had his pipe in his mouth, albeit unlit, and he snatched it away, jamming it in the top pocket of his boilersuit. The footplate was getting crowded now, and Buster and Tiny Dave struggled to get the comatose Jack Mills out of the way. Eventually, they dragged him into the corridor that connected the twin cabs of the loco.
'What happened to him?' asked Stan, looking down at the blood on the floor, his voice high and tremulous.
'Must have slipped,' said Charlie, not sure himself what had occurred while he had been clinging onto the grab handles for dear life.
'Hit his head on the floor,' said Buster unconvincingly.
'Come on, Stan, time to earn that drink,' said Ronnie Biggs, whispering gently into his ear.
The solid wall of men parted, and Stan took his place at the controls.
'Take your time,' said Ronnie to the visibly shaking replacement driver.
'But not too much of it.' The unmistakable form of Gordon Goody loomed over him.
Yet more people pressed into the cab.
'All aboard,' someone said.
'Shut up,' snapped Charlie.
'He means everyone is here,' said Buster grimly. 'We can go.'
Stan's hand hovered uncertainly over the dials and switches. The diesel was still running at idle, but the controls were unresponsive. He pressed on the dead-man's plate at his feet. Still nothing. He tapped one of the dials, its needle way to the left. 'I can't get a vacuum.'
Roy groaned.
'What?' Charlie asked. 'You can't get a what?'
'You said you'd driven one before,' said Gordy, his voice like pressed steel.
'I have. Well, sort of.' Ronnie thought Stan was going to cry. 'Not this big, but similar. I think they've changed something, though. I just have to get the brake vacuum before the controls respond, but it's not-'
Gordy growled, low and threatening. 'Can you drive this fucking thing or not?'
'Give me a minute.'
Charlie put a hand on Stan's shoulder. It wasn't a friendly gesture. 'We haven't got a fuckin' minute.'
Ronnie, too, was beginning to brim with anger and not a little shame. Stan was his man, his entree to the firm, his bargaining chip, his guarantee of a whack. And he was fucking up. 'Stan, come on, mate. Release the brakes and let's get out of here.'
There followed thirty seconds of tense silence, broken by the passage of another train. Charlie realised how exposed they were, crowded onto the footplate. Any passing driver or fireman might wonder why there appeared to be a fancy-dress party going on in the cab of an English Electric D class. 'Come on, Stan. We are sitting here with our dicks hanging out.'
'Still no vacuum.' The number of men behind him and the threats had shot his nerves. Every control looked unfamiliar to Stan now as the panic overwhelmed him.
Roy prayed he had connected the pipe to the dummy properly, otherwise this was all his fault. If that leaked, the vacuum could not form.
Gordy shouted over his shoulder, 'Get the other driver. Now.'
Stan began to protest, but shovel-like hands slid under his arms and he was lifted from the seat like a baby from its cot.
A cacophony of urgent voices filled the cab.
'Get him here.'
'What's wrong with him?'
'He'll be OK. You'll be OK, Pops. It's worse than it looks.'
'Someone give him a handkerchief.'
'What dopey cunt hit him?'
'He fell.'
'Yeah. Like fuck. There you go.' A crude bandage was tied around the driver's head. He was manhandled into his newly- vacant seat.
'Let's go. Now!'
'Bruce'll be having kittens.'
'I can't see.' Mills managed to get himself heard over the racket. 'I can't see.'
'Wipe his eyes.'
'No, I think I've gone blind.'
Charlie leaned in close, so that the rough balaclava touched the driver's cheek. 'Nice try, old man.'
Then Gordy spoke: 'If you don't want some more then you'll drive this fuckin' train.' He showed him the pickaxe handle he was carrying. 'Do you understand?'
Mills looked around at all the masked faces and the eyes, some pleading, many threatening, staring down at him. 'All right, I'll do it. Throw that switch there,' he said.
'Where?'
'On the bulkhead. The exhauster.'
It was Roy who found the device and depressed the lever. Immediately a whining began as a compressor kicked in. 'Be a second,' said Mills. 'We just got to get the vacuum.'
'Fuck!'
'Told you.' It was Stan, bleating. 'I told you it was the air.'
'Shut him up, Ronnie,' said Buster. 'Or I will.'
The train gave one small, tentative movement, more spasm than forward progress. Then it began to move, slowly but smoothly, the huge engine merely purring at a tenth of its power. Roy, pressed against one of the steel walls, held his breath, hoping once more he had disconnected everything correctly. He leaned out of the open door as Mills accelerated slightly and saw the gap opening up between the HVP and the rest of the GPO carriages. 'We're clear,' he said with relief.
'Where we going?' asked Mills.
'Cuba!' someone shouted.
'There'll be a white marker head. About half a mile, give or take. Keep your speed down,' said Charlie.
Gordy took Roy's place at the door, looking ahead now, although glancing back to see if there was any sign of an alarm being raised. All was quiet.
Mills wiped a hand over his face, trying to clear the mix of blood and sweat still trickling into his eyes. He stretched forward and wiped the cab windows. They were steaming up from all the hot bodies and warm breath. 'What kind of marker?'
'White sheet,' Charlie said.
'I see it,' announced Gordy. 'Get ready.'
Mills began to slow.
'Keep going. Keep going. Here.' The train pulled up sharp. 'Bit further.'
'Make your mind up,' Mills said, a flash of his old anger surfacing.
'Shut it, Pops.' Charlie poked him with the pickaxe handle and the driver shunted the loco forward a few more yards.
'Perfect!' yelled Gordy.
The cab quickly emptied of the men. The difficult technical
part had been completed successfully. Now it was time for brute strength.
The five sorters in the HVP groaned and cursed as the train stopped again with a succession of fits and starts and one final jerk. Thomas suspected Jack Mills was messing about, trying to make them spill their tea.
'I'll have his bloody guts-' he swore.
The clang of metal on metal was so loud that Thomas thought they had crashed. But there was no feeling of any impact. Then came the sound of glass breaking, and shards of it shot across the interior of the carriage.
Joe Ware dropped the bundle of letters he had been holding. His voice was high-pitched, loaded with terror. 'Someone is trying to get in.'
A tortured creaking came from one of the doors as a crowbar found a gap.
John O'Connor, the second junior sorter, strode over and began heaving the mail sacks in front of the entrance. Joe immediately came to his aid. 'They're barricading the doors!' came a muffled voice from the outside. 'Get the guns.'
John stepped back in shock and looked at Thomas Kett. 'Did he say guns?'
Thomas had heard 'get the cunts' but either way it wasn't good. He looked around for something to defend himself with. Frank had picked up one of the tin mugs and weighed it in his hand. Thomas found himself gripping the carriage broom like a short-staff.
Part of the structure splintered with a loud crack, almost like a gunshot. More glass shattered, the noise inside the carriage deafening. One of the doors popped back with a defeated screech, and hooded figures crowded in through it.
A second swung back, and more masked men piled in. There seemed to be dozens, and as they entered they emitted a collective roar, like a pride of lions closing in for the kill.
Thomas dropped the broom he had been holding. Frank stepped in front of him.
'Look here-' he began, but a pickaxe on his arm silenced him. The tin mug fell from numb fingers. Then there was a masked face in his, spittle spraying him. 'Get over there. Now. Fuckin' move it or you're dead.'
He was shoved and found himself at one end of the carriage, heaped on the floor with his colleagues. Another of the masked men came over, his voice low and full of menace. 'We don't want to hurt you. Let us get what we came for and we'll be gone. All we want is the money. Mess us about and it'll be a fuckin' nightmare. Understand?' This was backed up with a wave of an iron bar. 'Do you understand? Right. Stay there and don't move a fucking muscle.'
'This is it!' someone cried.
An axe swung through the air, there was a sharp snap, and the lock on the HV careered across the floor. Frank heard the rip of a sack being cut and pulled open, then a collective silence.
'Fucking hell.' It was a sound of relief and amazement.
'The Colonel says form a human chain. Move it!'
Colonel? Was it the Army? thought Frank. Some deserters, a rogue unit perhaps? He raised his head to get a look at them. There was indeed, a man in a military uniform.
'Frank. Don't be bloody stupid,' whispered Thomas. 'They're out of our league.'
'Shut the fuck up or we'll gag you!'
Frank let his head drop and risked putting a hand on Les,
who was shaking. Like the man said, all they wanted was the money, he reassured himself.
Bruce Reynolds peered at his watch as the men formed up into a line. There were more than a hundred bags and, as the first came down the slope towards the waiting Land Rovers and the Austin lorry, he could see that they were not lightweight sacks, either. As one dropped from the open door of the carriage into Roy's arms, the little man grunted as he took the strain – and Roy was fit. Within five minutes men were panting and wiping sweaty brows. Several pulled off their balaclavas. Bruce didn't mind. There were few people to see their faces. Gordy, Jimmy and Bobby were the ones still actually inside the HVP. They knew enough to keep their faces covered.
As Bruce checked the human chain doing the unloading, Roger dropped one bag and struggled to retrieve it. Bruce took his place in line. 'Get in the lorry, and stack them,' he said.
'Right-oh, Bruce.'
'Where's Ronnie?'
'In the Land Rover with Stan.'
Bruce, not yet aware of the full story of what had gone on in the cab, said: 'Tell Ronnie to get out and help. Stan's done his bit.'
'Like fuck,' someone said, but Bruce ignored him. Whatever happened, the train was in place, the moneybags being unloaded, and there were no casualties on his side.
He carried on with the rhythm of grabbing the sack from Buster, turning and passing it to Tiny Dave Thompson. One- two-three-four, hup, one-two-three-four. Mindless repetition. It was just like being in the real Army. Except, judging by the number of sacks that kept coming in an apparently endless
stream, he was going to walk away from this richer than he ever dreamed possible.
Guard Thomas Millner sat at the rear of the train, bored. He had read his copy of the Daily Express from cover to cover and had flicked through Tit-Bits. He had enjoyed the article on Diana Dors and UFOs. He had seen a few strange things himself during his years going up and down the line, although nothing as spectacular as Miss Dors's cleavage. Now, though, all reading matter exhausted, he was keen to get home. There had been more stopping and starting than usual on the trip. There must be trouble, too, because the dials told him the vacuum had bled out of the system.
He waited a few more minutes, then climbed down and began to walk towards the front of the carriages. It wasn't until he was halfway along that he realised something was wrong and broke into a trot. There were only ten carriages. Somehow, the engine and the front two had gone on without them. He sprinted back, suddenly aware that he would have to put explosive warning charges on the line, as they were likely to be stuck for some time and he didn't want to be tail-ended.
As he ran, banging on the carriages to alert the sorters, he tried to think how it could have happened. He had never heard of a loco breaking free from its load before, not without the driver sensing something wrong. There was only one other explanation and that was just as ridiculous: someone had stolen the front of his train.
Frank heard a voice barking orders from the doorway.
'Pack it in! Time to go!'
'There's only a few left,' one of the breathless robbers inside the carriage protested.
'Leave them! We're pulling out.'
Frank sneaked a glance at his watch. Forty minutes they had been lying there, at least. It must be almost dawn. Probably why they were pulling out.
A few more minutes passed and two new bodies joined them. Jack Mills and his fireman. Whitby looked scared but unharmed; Jack was clearly in a bad way.
'Bastards.' It was Thomas.
One of the robbers strode over purposefully and Frank braced himself for blows. 'We're going to close the doors. Don't move for at least thirty minutes.'
They heard the man leave with one last shouted instruction. 'Anyone comes out, shoot them! Got that? OK.'
There came the stutter of vehicle engines starting, the high whine of reverse gear and the deeper note of the vehicles pulling out. There was no sense of urgency; they drove slow and steady and he could hear the rise and fall of the engines as the gears changed for quite a while before silence fell.
'You OK, Jack?' asked Thomas.
'Not too bad. Bit of a headache. They gave me a cigarette.'
'Everyone else all right?'
'Shush,' hissed Joe Ware. 'There's a bloke with a gun out there.'
'Bollocks,' said Frank. 'How's he going to get away?'
'Maybe he's got a motorbike,' Leslie Penn suggested.
'Could have,' agreed Thomas.
'But would you want to play British Bulldog out there?'
'Old Tom Millner must have raised the alarm by now,' said David. 'Even he must have noticed half his train's gone.'
'I'm going outside,' said Frank.
'Just wait a few more minutes,' counselled Thomas Kett.
Frank, furious that his carriage had been violated, struggled to his feet. 'They're going to get clean away.'
'Good luck to them,' said Whitby.
'What?' Frank asked.
'I mean… you know. I hope we don't see them again.'
Jack groaned.
'I'll get him some water,' said John O'Connor.
Frank crossed to the battered, twisted door and yanked it open. The remnants of the glass fell out of the frame and cascaded around his boots. 'Hello?'
He poked his head out and pulled it back in quickly. No bullets whizzed by. Then he did it again, letting it linger a little longer. The third time, he leaned right out, scanning up and down the track. In the strengthening light, he could see figures approaching from the abandoned part of the train.
'It's OK,' he said. 'They've gone.' He jumped down, then shouted back at the men inside. 'Come and give us a hand.'
'What are you going to do?'
'I bet they've cut the phones. We'll stop a train.'
Thomas Kett appeared in the doorway. 'What then?'
'Hitch a lift to the next station and phone the police. Sixteen, seventeen minutes they have been gone. They can't have got far.'
Bruce Reynolds had the VHF radio tuned to the police as they rumbled through slumbering villages and hamlets, taking their tortuous route back to the farm. There had been nothing on the airwaves, no mention of the robbery, and as they got closer to their hideout, Bruce's sense of euphoria grew. It wasn't over yet, so he forced himself to keep a cap on it. They had to unload the lorry, get the vehicles undercover, count
the money, and divide it into whacks and drinks. Hours of work.
Good work, though. The very best kind of work.
It was the type of job that would be spoken of with admiration for years to come, growing in the telling, knocked around in seedy pubs, clubs and spielers across London. It would be like Olivier in Henry V: 'And gentlemen in England now abed, Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon St Crispin's Day.' Although no doubt someone would come up with a better name for this day than that. The Big Train Job or some such. But one thing was certain about those stories: he wouldn't be around to hear any of them. He would be long gone.
Bruce turned to the rear of the Land Rover, to where a group of tired but happy men had shed their masks and unzipped their coveralls. He grinned at them and began to whistle one of his favourite songs. Tony Bennett. Second only to Sinatra in his estimation.
It was a moment before they recognised it, and collapsed into laughter: 'The Good Life'.
Commander George Hatherill's first job of that day was to stay calm and try to make sense of the rumours and counter- rumours flying around Scotland Yard. He stayed in his office with the radio on and asked for the wilder speculations – the train was full of diamonds! – to be filtered out before they reached his desk. He had got into the Yard at seven-thirty. Three hours later he was given a copy of an exceptionally early edition of the Evening Standard that would go out that morning. The robbery had come too late for Fleet Street dailies; the Standard and the News had sensed a way to make
a killing by jumping into the breech. ROBBERY SPECIAL! it screamed.
£1,000,000! the headline thundered. BIGGEST EVER MAIL ROBBERY.
'Get Tommy Butler in here,' he instructed his secretary over the intercom.
'Sir.'
'And get me the Chief Constable of Buckinghamshire on the line.'
'Of course.'
He went back to the newspaper. The reporters had done a fine job, he thought begrudgingly. Midland, Lloyds and National & Provincial had all admitted to having money – 'many thousands' – on the train. The hacks had also contacted the Postmaster General, Reginald Bevins, who was on holiday in Liverpool – who on earth went on holiday to Liverpool? Hatherill wondered – and badgered the man into declaring a ten-thousand-pound reward. Well, it was a decent sum, enough to bring some rats out of the gutters.
There was a side-panel interview with David Whitby, twenty-six, the fireman, with another headline: 'IF YOU SHOUT I WILL KILL YOU', I WAS TOLD.
Hmmm. Perhaps he was. But someone ought to stop witnesses talking to the press before they had been properly interviewed. Otherwise the public might start believing whatever the scribblers made up in preference to the truth.
The phone rang and he was told it was Brigadier Cheney, Chief Constable of Buckinghamshire, on the line.
'Hello, John. How are you coping?'
'Us country bumpkins, you mean?'
Ouch. Sensitive. 'No, John. Just wondered if you needed any help. Takes a lot of manpower, this sort of thing.'
Cheney sighed. 'I don't think we need many more at the scene just now. There's our lads, the British Transport Police and GPO Investigation Branch. Quite a bunfight.'
Hatherill hesitated. 'You know they'll be London lads, don't you, John?'
'That's yet to be established, George.'
Oh come on, he wanted to say. How many hardcore robbers come out of Leighton Buzzard? 'Well organised, though. Suggests London.'
'I've already had Glasgow on the line, claiming it must be someone from their patch.'
'Could be, John, could be. But my waters tell me London.'
'I'm not moving things down to you.' The man sounded uncommonly tetchy. The political manoeuvrings had started already.
'Of course not. I'm not trying to take over, John.'
'I've also had the government on.'
'The government? The funny hats?'
'No, not those buggers. The PM's office.'
'The PM? Why?'
'Oh, not him personally. Some lackey. Just very keen to stress that Mac is concerned that this reflects badly on the whole Establishment. That not even our money is safe now.'
Macmillan's government had been reeling under a variety of scandals, from Profumo to continued fallout from Burgess, Maclean and Philby. There was also, Hatherill knew, anxiety about Mac's wife's own affair with Bob Boothby coming to light, perhaps through some juvenile, muck-raking magazine like Private Eye or even the scurrilous TV series That Was The Week That Was, which lampooned Mac mercilessly. And now, after all the attacks
on the political establishment, the fiscal system had been whacked with a crowbar by opportunist footpads.
'What did our young man from the PM's office suggest?'
'The slimy little sod suggested that perhaps this was too big for a provincial police force. Matter of national importance, he said.'
That explained the prickliness. Cheney had been ordered to bring in the Yard and had resented the phone call from Hatherill, thinking it was a two-pronged attack. 'They haven't been on to me, you know,' Hatherill said. 'Mine was a genuine call. There's no civil servant poking me up the arse with a sharpened brolly.'
Finally, the Brigadier laughed and Hatherill could feel the irritation leaving him. 'Pleased to hear it.'
'Who have you got on this, John?'
'Detective Superintendent Fewtrell is in charge. Good, solid copper, you'll like him. But he's on his way to London. There will be an all-party conference at the GPO this afternoon. I'm sure you would like to attend.'
'Absolutely. But, John, this happened in your backyard, not mine. We'll bring it all to you.'
'I appreciate that, George.'
There was a knock at the door and Tommy Butler put his head around it. Hatherill beckoned him in. 'Anything you need for the minute?'
'Talcs.' He meant fingerprint officers with their dusting powders.
'I'll get some over,' Hatherill said.
'Thanks. The briefing is at two p.m. – I'll send details across.'
'Thanks, John.'
Hatherill cradled the receiver and looked up. Butler was
standing, as impassive as ever, hands crossed in front of him. The Commander explained the gist of his conversation.
'He'll need more than some dusters,' Butler grunted.
'I know, Tommy, but let's give our country cousins their day in the sun. Although if this job wasn't put together from down here I'll eat my gold watch.'
'What about Glasgow?'
'Doubt it,' Hatherill said. 'If that was a Glasgow firm they'd still be mopping the blood off the rails.'
Butler thought this over and nodded. The Scottish lads prided themselves on sudden, explosive violence, often of the most vicious kind. Razors and chains and coshes filled with wet sand for starters. And lately, guns. 'They won't be able to keep a million quid quiet, will they?'
'Unlikely. Look, no matter what happens at the conference, I want you to set up a team for this. Can you do that today?'
'Me?' Toes would be trodden on: Millen, Williams. 'Not Ernie or Frank?'
'I think this is your kind of dance, Tommy.'
Butler allowed himself a small, satisfied grin.
'Let me deal with how the hierarchy will work out. Tap every snout and snitch. Now it's all over the papers, you bet there'll be people saying, "Well, I could have been in on that, they asked me but…", and who knows, one or two of them might even be telling the truth. I'm also going to prepare a press release saying that there is a newly formed London Train Robbery Squad and that Tommy Butler is to head it.'
'Why release that?' Hatherill didn't normally shout about internal reorganisations or promote individual personalities. Apart from his own.
'Let's not beat about the bush, Tommy. When they hear
Fewtrell is heading the team against them, they'll shrug. When they hear it's you who's after them, they'll shit themselves.'
Bruce had gone to bed before the count was finished. The room was crowded and airless and, coupled with the release of the tension that had gripped him for so long, his body felt like rubber. He had stayed long enough to see about half the 120 bags ripped open, to know that most of it was good gear, with non-sequential numbers, and that only a small proportion were clearly damaged notes destined for destruction. And there were relatively few Scottish ones.
He wriggled into the sleeping bag and lay down, his head swimming with fatigue for a moment, but he plunged over the edge into a dark chasm almost immediately.
Ronnie woke him in the early afternoon with a cup of tea. He looked done in, too, his hair plastered to his forehead by sweat. Ronnie had worked like a demon, mainly because he felt bad about Stan. He wanted to make sure he had properly earned his whack by the day's end.
Bruce took the tea in his hands, still encased in leather gloves. 'Thanks, mate. All done?'
'Yeah, just about. Lot of ten-bob notes nobody seems to want.'
Bruce shuffled upright, the lower half of his body still in the bag. 'Too grand for ten-bob notes, are they now? Fuckin' idiots. It's all money. I'll have them.'
He heard a burst of laughter and whooping from downstairs, and asked, 'What's that?'
'Buster's organised a Monopoly tournament.' Ronnie smirked. 'They're playing with real money.'
'Cunts,' Bruce laughed. 'They still got gloves on?'
'Few of them took them off to count. It's not easy, you
know. Don't worry, they put Elastoplasts over their fingertips.'
'I hope so. So what's left to do?'
'We have to divide it into the whacks. Decide what to ditch. You know, which notes are too damaged or too Scottish. Thought you ought to be there for that.'
Bruce took a sip of his sweet tea, feeling his teeth tingle. Too much sugar.
'Bruce?' 'What?'
'Sorry about Stan. He was down to me, and-'
Bruce waved a gloved hand at him, dismissing the words. 'I wasn't there. I don't know what went on in the cab. The train arrived at the bridge. We got the money. That's all that matters. What are they saying on the radio?'
'"Vicious cosh gang robs train of one million and gets clean away".'
Bruce balked at the description. That was wrong. They weren't thugs, they were thieves. Having to hit the driver was a pity, but perhaps he had been playing the hero. Bruce would wager he would be now, milking it for all he was worth. It wasn't as if it was his bloody money. It was theirs. 'How much is the count?'
'I thought you'd never ask. Give or take…'
Bruce could tell from the tone it was going to be a surprise. 'Go on, spit it out.'
'Two point six million.'
The size of the figure hit him like the diesel loco they had just hijacked, driving the wind from his body. A pain started in his chest, as if the ton and a half of money was pressing down on it. Two point six mil? Bruce struggled to his feet and put his glasses on. 'Well, that'll do us, I suppose.'
A thought rattled through his brain and was gone, like a passing express. He registered it and tucked it away, but not before he allowed himself a little shiver. Two point six million. It's too much money.
Headley, Surrey, May 1992
The sweet, pungent aroma of dope filled Roy 's kitchen. I wondered if the fumes were affecting my higher centres, if my hearing was hallucinating. I realised my jaw was almost touching the floor.
'What?' I asked. 'Bruce, you can't be serious. I know I let you down…'
He took another hefty toke and passed the joint back to Roy. 'I know you did, too, Tony.'
'But I didn't grass you up, mate.'
'So you say.'
I found I didn't feel frightened, despite the ominous turn events had taken. If it had been Charlie, Gordy or Buster with the gun, then I might have thought there was a chance of being shot. But I was fairly certain Roy wasn't going to blast me. And it certainly wasn't Bruce's style. If he had asked Charlie to top me – and I only had Roy 's word for that – it might have been a figure of speech.
'I wish I'd been on the track that night.'
'Do you?' asked Roy.
'I don't think there're many people would swap places with any of us,' said Bruce. 'Oh, to begin with maybe. That morning, when we got back to Leatherslade, fuck, I'll never forget that feeling when we realised how much we had.'
'The news came over the radio,' said Roy. 'At… what time was it the police first mentioned it?'
'About four-thirty, quarter to five.'
'"They've stolen a train", they said. "Got a million quid".'
Bruce laughed. 'It was Ronnie's birthday. He started singing "Happy Birthday to me…"' His face dropped. 'That was the high point, I'd say. Then look what happened to us. Roy? Promising career pissed away.'
Roy flinched, but there was no arguing with the assessment. When Roy had come out he had tried to pick up where he had left off out on the track. But a dozen or more years had gone and so had his reactions, although his nerve was still intact. But three drives, three crashes, the third breaking his leg, demonstrated what prison had robbed him of.
'And Ronnie? Fuckin' clown in Rio. The town joke. And bloody homesick, so I hear. Charlie? Shot by some pikey on a fuckin' bicycle. What's the world coming to, eh? Shot in front of his wife, too. I mean, we kept the wives out of it. There's no respect any longer.'
I felt a flash of irritation. I knew it was the drugs making him loquacious, but still. Old gangsters telling you that the world has gone to shit, about when you could leave your back door open, coppers gave you a clip round the ear and the Krays were nice to kids and old ladies. I was surprised at Bruce – such rose-tinted sentimentality wasn't his style. It must be the dope, I reckoned.
'Leave it out, Bruce, he was messin' with the bloody Colombians. They don't know the old rules, do they? They kill you, your wife, your kids. Charlie was out of his depth.'
Bruce raised his eyebrows, but I could tell he agreed. Nasty in South London was not the same as nasty in Medellin.
'Buster selling flowers.'
I laughed. 'At least he got a movie made about him.'
Bruce sighed. 'Didn't even recognise myself in that.'
I knew he had been a paid adviser on the movie, Buster, but said nothing. I thought Larry Lamb had done a half- decent job of capturing him, given the quality of the script. But it made Buster out to be like Charlie Drake the comedian, whereas I remembered him as a scary little fucker.
There was always some confusion over who coshed that driver. They claimed there was too much going on to be certain. My money, though, would be on the flower-seller and his spring-loaded cosh. Not that the movie had had the guts to show that.
And even if he didn't land the blow, I heard it said that Buster had a 'Let Him Have It' moment in the cab, yelling for someone to clout the poor bloke. It was just one of those things where the truth had become very blurred over the past thirty years. Just like the role of a snitch.
'You know, Bruce, maybe nobody grassed you up.'
'Bollocks.' It was Roy. 'Why would you say that? They was on us like a ton of bricks from day one.'
'Because of the driver,' I said. 'Because someone hit the driver.'
Bruce laughed. 'You're kidding. If we'd coshed that driver and got a hundred grand, you think there would have been that hunt? Don't get me wrong, it was fuckin' stupid. But when they found out how much money there was – two and
a half bloody million – then it was all hands to the pumps. And they leaned on every source they could.'
He sucked the last of the life from the roach and put it out in a saucer, adding, 'Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now.'
I realised he still had his suspicions about me. 'Fuck this.' I stood up, walked over and made to snatch the gun from Roy 's hand, but he was too quick for me. He placed it on the table out of my reach, with his hand spreadeagled over it.
There was a pause while they wondered what I might do, and I let them ponder for a couple of heartbeats. Then I slammed my fist on the table and headed for the door.
'Oi,' said Roy, getting to his feet and raising the pistol. 'Where d'you think you're goin'?'
'Leave it out.' Bruce pulled him back down into a chair. 'Build us another one, Roy,' he said, passing the tin over to him.
Roy did as he was told. I backed towards the hallway.
'Where are you going, Tony?' asked Bruce.
'You want to know who snitched on you? I'll get you the man who knows.'
'Who's that?'
'Billy Naughton.'
GPO Headquarters, London, 9 August 1963
DS Malcolm Fewtrell's train robbery conference took place in a stuffy, first-floor room that was too small to contain all the interested parties. Only the press was excluded; that still left the CID, the Robbery Squad, the Flying Squad, the London & Provincial Crime Squad, the Intelligence Squad, the Bucks CID, the GPO, British Rail and six banks, as well as the government in the shape of two junior ministers.
George Hatherill had positioned himself in the second row of metal-and-canvas chairs. Tommy Butler was at the back of the room, with Jack Slipper. He had to admire the elegant Fewtrell's composure. He was dressed in a three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt and a red-and-blue striped tie, and displayed no signs of nerves as he stepped up to the dais.
'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.'
Hatherill looked around. He could see plenty of gentlemen, but he couldn't spot a single lady. But then, Fewtrell had a better view of the room.
'Before we start, I would just like to remind you that this
is a briefing for concerned parties. I shall explain what we know so far at this very early stage, and then invite questions. But what is discussed in this room should go no further. The press are not necessarily our allies on this one.' Fewtrell took a sip of water. 'Do you think we could open a window? Thank you.'
He held up a newspaper. 'My local, page one. For those at the back, the headline is: "The Great Train Robbery".' There were some sniggers. 'Just in case you are not familiar with silent flicks, that was the tide of a very old film. A Western. One of the first, I believe, if not the first. So, straight away this sounds like something romantic, daring, dashing. It isn't. I am certain we all recognise this for what it is. A sordid crime, committed purely for gain. We are fortunate that only one man was injured, the driver. I am sure the gang would not have hesitated to use force on anyone else who put up too much of a fight. The driver, Jack Mills, has been seen by a doctor and is doing reasonably well. As to the estimate of the amount taken, it has now passed two million.' There were some low whistles. 'And the bad news is, we have recorded serial numbers for a tiny proportion of that.'
A significant amount of the notes had been designated as too worn to remain in circulation and been scheduled for destruction. Nobody recorded the numbers of those sacks. And the scruffy oncers and fivers would be a lot easier for the thieves to spend without attracting suspicion than crisp new notes.
'What proportion, Chief Superintendent?' someone asked.
Fewtrell looked irritated. 'Could we save the questions until the end, please? Otherwise we'll never get through. We do have a press conference to give later. But to answer that one question – less than two thousand pounds.'
There were audible gasps and Fewtrell nodded to signal his agreement. It seemed inconceivable that the gang could have got away with so much untraceable cash.
Fewtrell then went through the mechanics of how the train was stopped and the timetable of activities. He read partial statements from each of the witnesses. Then he said something that was music to Hatherill's ears.
'We will, of course, need the assistance of Scotland Yard in this matter. I find it hard to imagine that these are first- time criminals. It is likely we have come across them before, which is why the coaches and signals are still being worked on by the fingerprint boys. I don't need to tell my colleagues in the police force of the criminals' common modus operandi in these cases. The haul would have weighed between one- and-a-half and two tons. Tyre-tracks at the scene suggest at least one lorry. Such vehicles are normally dumped within a few miles and transferred to smaller, faster cars. But one of the robbers said something curious. "Don't leave for thirty minutes." Now, I think that is a psychological slip-up. Don't worry, I am not going all Herbert Lom on you. But let us say it would take them half an hour to get to their hideout and under cover. Might that not dictate what he says to the poor GPO men. "Lie down, don't move for thirty minutes, by which time we will be underground." Which means that we are looking for a changeover site at a distance of not more than thirty miles. We also have unconfirmed reports of a hitchhiker passed by an Army convoy in the early hours. Exact location not known, but to the west of where the robbery took place. At the moment, we are checking with the Army as to whether any official convoys were on the road at that time. As you can appreciate, it is a large undertaking. However, at least some of the robbers wore Army uniforms, so it is
looking as if the two may be connected.' He took a deep breath. 'Now, any questions?'
Hatherill's hand shot up. Fewtrell pointed to him and he gave his rank and name to the audience. 'Were there any clues to identities? Names used in the heat of the moment?'
'No. As I said, they were careful not to mention any names, but one of the thieves called another "Colonel", although Frank Dewhurst is fairly sure the man was a Major. Or, at least, pretending to be one. Mind you, we can be sure that these layabouts wouldn't know much about Army ranks – probably spent their whole National Service in the glasshouse.'
Hatherill thanked Fewtrell and the questions continued. Hatherill meanwhile wrote a single line on his pad.
Any criminals nicknamed the Colonel??
Leatherslade Farm, 10 August 1963
It seemed as if there was no other subject on the radio. Every news bulletin was about the 'Crime of the Century' or 'The Great Train Robbery' and each time, the amount stolen crept upwards. It was as if the GPO thought the public couldn't take the shock of the revelation of the final sum all in one go and had to be fed it incrementally.
The VHF, too, hummed with information about what the police were up to: fingerprints, helicopters, motorbike patrols. It was odd, thought Bruce. He had imagined them lying low, relaxing, till the scream blew over. But this wasn't a scream, it was the howl of a wounded animal, thrashing around, looking for revenge.
The atmosphere in the farm was tense. The money had been slacked, pending the final division of the spoils. Although the conversations still revolved around what they would do with such a windfall, the topic was kicked around in a desultory fashion. Each man knew they had to get the money somewhere
safe and then hang onto it before they could do anything as mundane as spend it.
That evening, Brian turned up to collect his own whack, the Jock's and various other 'drinks' he had laid out. The new arrival stood in the kitchen with Charlie, Bruce, Ronnie and Roy.
'I got a call from Tony Fortune,' said Brian.
'Yeah?' said Bruce. 'Where was he?'
'In a call box. He says well done. Turns out his brother-in- law pulled some stunt. They came to question Tony about the motors and his wife started to drop the kid. He couldn't get back up here.'
'I suppose he still wants a whack?' asked Charlie, who had taken a keen interest in the division of the money.
'Bollocks to that,' said Ronnie.
'He deserves something,' Roy retorted. 'As much as your bloody driver. And you'd have been more pissed off if he had come back with the Old Bill on his tail.'
Brian nodded his agreement. 'I told him he could earn the rest by acting as dustman.'
Bruce watched Charlie make a salt-beef sandwich, adding more salt from the cylinder of Saxo. The gloves were still being worn, but after all the manhandling of sacks and money, they were falling apart.
'Fair enough. Long as the coppers have lost interest in him.'
Brian Field waved his arms to indicate the farm around them. 'The police have lost interest in everything else but this. They want to know where you are holed up. We're top of the bill at the London Palladium. The star turn. Numero uno attraction now.'
Bruce's stomach contracted at that. He didn't want to be a star. Not in that sense. Not Public Enemy Number One. It was
hard to face up to, but as he had feared when he heard the total, it was possible there was just too much money. The authorities couldn't turn a blind eye to £2.6 million. It was like having a target painted on your back.
Buster entered the kitchen, frowning.
'What is it?'
'On the VHF. The order has just gone out to search all isolated buildings for Army-type vehicles.'
'Where?' asked Brian Field.
'Within a thirty-mile radius of the robbery. They have also appealed to the public to check any suspicious properties. There are roadblocks to stop and search any large vehicles.'
'Shit,' said Charlie through a mouthful of sandwich. 'There goes using the horsebox. Not unless we can get a horse to put in it.'
'No bloody room for the cash then,' said Buster. 'Use your loaf, Charlie. Have to take it out in dribs and drabs.'
'Riskier, in some ways,' said Bruce.
He scanned Brian's face for signs of alarm. The rest of the people at the farm – Stan and perhaps Ralph excepted – were pro villains. No matter what the police had on them, they'd stay calm and dumb. Bruce would make sure Ralph played it right, but Brian Field was a mere solicitor. However, there was no sign of panic in his eyes, which was good.
Ralph spoke up. 'How far are we from the train?'
'We're about twenty-seven miles away,' said Bruce. 'Give or take.'
They all understood at once. The idea of lying low for a week was shot. They would have to start pulling out. Charlie was thinking the same as Bruce. 'We'll have to have it on our toes. And any of us with form, we'd better have a fuckin' good story to tell.'
'And if we aren't at home when they come looking…' said Roy letting it tail off. Like the others, he was well aware that the London Airport robbery was similar enough in planning and execution for the Yard to make connections.
'Brian, remind me, what do you need?'
'A whack for the man in Glasgow. The cash for the HVP coach boys. The finder's fee for Mark who introduced me to Jock. We can put the last two together. Mark says he will see the railwayman all right. And my share, of course.'
A lot of money, thought Bruce, then stopped himself. There was enough to go round. Even for this Mark, who had done fuck-all apart from make the intros.
'And some drinks for the boys in the estate agent's office maybe,' Brian continued. 'Few grand. Just in case they tumble this place. We want to make sure our stories tally and that nobody can remember what you look like, Bruce.'
It occurred to Bruce that perhaps Brian wasn't padding his total. It didn't matter: he had brought in Mark and the Jock in the first place.
'Charlie will help you count it out. Won't you, Charlie?'
'With pleasure.'
'You've got cases with you?' Bruce asked. 'We're running short.'
'In the car,' said Brian.
'Start counting it out then. Charlie will show you which piles you can use. We'll leave in the morning. Staggered. We do this co-ordinated, we stick together, and we stay in contact. It's all for one and that crap. We are a unit, a good one, let's stay that way.'
'What about the farm?' asked Charlie.
'We clean it till it sparkles. Then we clean it again. Then
we get Tony to come up and do it again. And anything we can't clean, we burn.'
Charlie Wilson was just parking up his Rover outside the Ten Bells, opposite Spitalfields Market, early on Friday morning, when he heard. He had dropped off Gordy at the Tube, so he could go back to Putney, then Charlie had driven to East London to kick-start his alibi: that he had been 'on The Fruit' every morning that week from 5.30 a.m. There were a dozen porters and a couple of traders who would swear to it, no problem.
It had been dark when he had left the farm, now his eyes felt tired and gritty in the grey light of an East London dawn. The others would be scattering, too. Bruce had announced he was going off to buy a couple of Austin Healeys, Roger that he would buy a car in Oxford, and most of the others would be ferried by Brian to hole up at his place for a night or two.
Roy, sensibly in Charlie's mind, had opted to travel back to London by train rather than join Brian's party. Tiny Dave Thompson, too. It was a mistake to have too many people in one place. Too much cash to be able to explain away.
In the boot of Charlie's Rover was his share of the haul, £150,000, plus Roy and Tiny Dave's whacks and a big drink for Frenchie who had stumped up some of the investment cash when the funds ran low. It was a lot to get rid of. He felt as if he could sense the heat from the bundles of notes bleeding from the boot. What was that song? 'Too Hot to Handle'. Bloody right.
He was about to turn off the ignition when the news came on the radio. The robbery was, of course, the first item. A special unit had been put together at Scotland Yard to run
down the Great Train Robbers. It was to be headed by – he knew what was coming even before the announcer said the name – Tommy Butler.
Tommy Butler. A right attention-seeking humourless weirdo, who lived with his dear old mum and, therefore, only had the job to occupy his time. The Grey Fox. The Sad Bastard, more like. If he was bent, he was Bent for the Job, but although Charlie had heard rumours about bungs and backhanders, they needed to be taken with a large pinch of Saxo. Still, a special unit at the Yard – that sounded serious.
The bulletin continued with news about the train driver. He was out of danger and out of hospital, but still very poorly. The driver, the driver, the driver. They pushed it forward every time, just in case people should get the wrong idea about the job. Just in case someone felt like saying, 'Good on ya, son.' There it was, the shadow of – what was the old cunt's name? – Jack Mills. He would be on TV soon: bandaged head, black eye, hangdog look, blinking into press flashbulbs. Fifty- eight years old. Coshed mercilessly. What sort of men are these? Hunt them down, now.
The firm was caught between Butler and Mills and a ten- grand reward. They were fucked now. No matter what Bruce had said, this was no time for musketeering. It was every man for himself.
Scotland Yard, August 1963
There was only one show in town now for any self-respecting copper. If you weren't in it, you weren't just second division, you weren't even in the league. You were a kick-around Sunday side. The Train Squad, on the other hand, was Liverpool, Man U and Spurs combined.
An uncharacteristic gloom had settled over the Flying Squad room. They weren't used to thinking of themselves as second- best. Yet every other case paled beside THE GREAT TRAIN ROBBERY as everyone called it. Always said in CAPITALS. Len Haslam took his exclusion from the inner core particularly poorly, although Billy Naughton had half-expected Hatherill to bring him along and couldn't help feeling a little snubbed too.
But the top guys wanted this for themselves. Glory and headlines beckoned for whoever nailed these blokes, and the big boys wanted their share of it, that much was certain. As someone said, such Big Guns hadn't been wheeled out together since the Somme. Sequestered in their room, festooned with the brown cables of extra phones hanging from the ceiling, were George
Hatherill, Ernie Millen, Tommy Butler, Frank Williams, Peter Vibart, Gerald McArthur, Jack Slipper and Jim Nevill. They were sifting through what little evidence they had so far.
The rest of the Squad was on donkey work, tapping snouts and sifting records of those most likely to have a finger in the GTR pie. Billy and Len had done both those things and presented their findings. Len had put Gordon Goody at the top of his list of those worth a tug, because of the London Central Airport job, but no snitches had mentioned his name, nor any of the known blaggers they had pulled in for it. But the airport job was not the only possibility: those behind the Finsbury Park wages snatch, the Hatton Garden ram-raid or the Bishopsgate vault would have the right kind of pedigree, too. Old case files were dusted off and reexamined to see what names had cropped up in the frame back then.
But unless they could bring something concrete to the table, both Len and Billy knew they were out in the cold, shut out of the biggest investigation for years. What did you do during The Great Train Robbery, Daddy? their children would ask. 'Fuck-all,' would be the sullen reply.
Still, they had been told that the information fund was temporarily bottomless and that they should start casting cash around, like chum bait on the surface of the sea. Sooner or later, they would get a nibble.
'DC Naughton, line five!' the operator shouted.
Billy closed the file on his desk and dragged himself over to take the call. He was barely gone two minutes and when he returned Len noticed there was a fresh spring in his step and a glint in his bloodshot eyes.
'Who was that?'
'Come on.' Billy scribbled a request chit for a driver and car and passed it to the Duty Sergeant.
'What? Who was it?'
'Just some old dear reporting suspicious activity behind a Post Office. We've got to check it out, though.'
Len just about caught the fast wink that punctuated the sentence.
'You coming?'
Duke stood and stretched as if being dragged away from a session with Sophia Loren. 'Oh, OK.'
As they hit the corridor, heading for the garage, Len stopped Billy. 'Well? I know that was for the benefit of the big ears in there. Some old dear? Some old L.O.B., more like. What's really going on, Billy?'
He was right; it had been a Load of Bollocks. 'It was Marie – Tony Fortune's wife.'
'She out already?'
'No, she's still in hospital. Wants to see us. You got some money for flowers?'
'A few bob. What does she want to see us about? She's not putting the kid down for Hendon already? What's so urgent?'
Billy let rip with a 200-watt grin. 'She wants to give us the Train Robbers.'
Tony Fortune met Brian Field in a transport cafe off the A1. Brian looked bloody awful and his hands shook. At first Tony thought the stress had got to him, that he had cracked under the strain.
'You OK?' he asked as Brian's spoon rattled in the mug.
The other man gave a wry smile. 'Nothing a bacon sandwich won't cure. Me, Tommy Wisbey and Bobby Welch tied one on last night.'
He didn't mention that they had tied one on the night before, too. He did explain how the gang had split up: Bruce
and Ronnie Biggs had left in one of the Austin Healeys, Jimmy White and Ralph in the other. Charlie and Gordy had gone together, while Roger had a Wolseley he had paid £375 cash for in Oxford and had left in that. Roy and Tiny Dave had been dropped off at Thame. Brian had done the same for Stan the driver an hour later.
Then the remaining crew had been ferried to the Fields' place and there had been a two-day celebration. It was quite raucous; at one point one of the neighbours had complained. But the robbers had gone now.
'What did Bruce say?'
'I've forty-eight grand in the van outside. He says you are owed that much.'
Tony's throat went dry. 'Cheers.'
'There's the same again if you take care of the farm.'
That sounded unpromising work. 'It must be crawling with police up there.'
'They haven't got that far out yet. You'd be OK if you take the A40 and approach it from the west. I'd come with you, but there's a lot to do my end. A fuck of a lot.'
Tony thought for a moment. It might just assuage the guilt and frustration he felt at missing out on the job. And the cash would certainly help placate Marie. She had left a deposit on a Silver Cross, just like the Queen used. He could be in and out before anyone saw him. 'What do you want me to do at the farm?'
Brian signalled for his bacon sandwich. 'At this stage of the game? Don't fuck about, Tony. Torch the lot.'
'Hello, is that Aylesbury police? Yes. My name is John Marris. Like the potato, yes, but with two "rs". I'm a farm labourer, a herdsman. I live on Oakley Road, and I thought you might be interested in
what I have just seen. I was woken last night, in the early hours, by lots of comings and goings. Cars and the like. I knew they must be coming from this farm, you see. So today I just had a peek, a bit of a nosey, wondering what the new owners were up to. It looked deserted, but all the curtains were drawn, like. In the middle of the morning. Thought that was odd. Except that each one had a corner turned up. As if someone wanted to spy on anyone coming up the lane. I nearly left then, because it was a little creepy, but I went to one of the outbuildings. There was a lorry in there. A yellow one. Yes, yellow. Just been painted, though. Still wet. Then next door there was a locked garage. And round the back, a pit where things had been burned. Clothes, mostly, I think. Well, I haven't got a phone so I am calling from my employer's house. The number? OAK five seven four nine. I heard on the radio there was a reward? All right, I'll wait until someone gets back in touch. Oh, you'll want the name of the place. It's called Leatherslade Farm. Righty-o, thank you.'
Even the Verve Cliquot tasted sour to Bruce. He and Fran were holed up in a flat in Queensway. Mary Manson was looking after their son, Nick, just in case they had to move quickly. The place was in someone else's name, so he was quite happy to have champagne and smoked salmon sent over from Fortnum's. And they weren't the kind of company surprised by payment in cash.
So they drank champagne and decent claret and ate well, but Bruce found he could hardly move from the chair in front of the TV, the news bulletins came so thick and fast. On each one he expected to see a shot of the farm, those outhouses, the kitchen with its supplies, and grinning among them Fewtrell and Butler, the two coppers vying for the limelight. They were like Arthur Lucan and Kitty McShane, or Jewell
and Warris, those two – a double act you suspected hated each other away from the public gaze.
Bruce went over and over what could tie him into the robbery. The farm; the purchase had been handled by Brian Field's firm, mainly his associate Leonard Field and his boss John Wheater. They had met Bruce and Gordy. Weak link. So had the previous owners of Leatherslade. Stupid. He had also stashed his whack in a garage rented in his own name. Careless. It was time to put those things right.
Late afternoon, fifteen minutes before the 5.55 news, he grabbed his coat.
'Where you going?' Fran asked.
'Make a call.'
She didn't ask any more, simply refilled her glass and carried on watching Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School. Bruce was worried, but then that was his job. They would be all right.
He went to the call box and dialled Brian's number. He let it ring, put the receiver down and called again. He did this four times in total. No pick-up.
Bruce put the phone down for the last time, his anxiety heightened by the worms in his stomach.
A new plan was needed. Step one, move the money somewhere safe, perhaps away from London. Step two, start planning for a proper safe house. Oh, and step three, make sure the farm was sterilised.
Janie Riley had waited patiently for the phone call from Bruce. Just to let her know he was all right. That they could meet sometime. To thank her for her help. To give her a night out. Just like the old days. Smoking, drinking, jazz and sex. Four things she rarely got at home.
Nothing.
But the papers were full of his exploits, even if his name hadn't been put to them. Clearly, he had taken the cash and gone without so much as a by-your-leave. Off with Franny or Mary or even some other woman. Not a thought for Janie. Sent her to buy the grub, that's all she was good for. She should have been there to see it, to revel in the whole caper. She deserved that.
'Bastard,' she said to herself as she left the house and walked down the pathway towards the elaborate gates depicting rampant peacocks. Hideous. But her husband liked them. And it was his money. Besides, they didn't look out of place in this part of Surrey.
She turned left and walked into the village, past the green where the cricket club was setting up. A few looked over at her, in her bright floral summer dress and oversized sunglasses, and she let her hips sway a little more than usual. They'll be polishing their balls on their whites a little more vigorously than usual now, she thought.
She slipped into the red phone box outside the Post Office. Best not use the line at home, just in case. Afterwards she would go into the Cricketers and have a quick gin and tonic, even if it was only lunchtime.
She dialled the number written on a scrap of paper. She wouldn't tell them everything. She would just give them one or two. Bruce. Oh, and that smug git Tony Fortune. He had pissed her off that day when they were shopping. She could tell what he thought of her. He deserved to go down, too.
'Hello,' she said in her roughest voice. 'Is that Scotland Yard?'
The police Rover pulled Tony before he had even left London en route to the farm. He watched the light in the rearview mirror of his two-tone powder-blue Ford Capri coupe that he had taken from his showroom. The Capri was nifty, but there was no way he could outrun the Rover.
He slowed, changed down using the column gearshift, and pulled over, then studied the rearview mirror, watching the two uniforms approach.
A knuckle on the window. 'Step out of the car, sir.'
He wound the window down. 'Why, Officer? Was I committing an offence?'
The man crouched down. He had a bruiser's face, square and solid-looking with a five-o'clock shadow you could tell no razor could banish completely. 'Mr Anthony Fortune?'
Fuck, fuck, fuck. 'Yes.'
'Can you step out of the vehicle?'
Tony opened the door and did as he was told.
'Thank you, sir. Could you tell me what is in the boot, sir?'
'Jack. Spare wheel.'
'Mind if we take a look?' The policeman smiled. They were going to take a look come what may.
Tony reached in, pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them to him. 'Be my guest.'
The copper tossed them to his colleague.
'How did you know it was me?' asked Tony.
'Oh, an all-car message, sir. Quite distinctive, this vehicle. Bit of a lady's colour though, blue and white.'
'Bloody hell!' the other policeman yelled.
Tony sighed.
'Derek. Look at this.'
He followed Derek around to the rear and the three of them stared into the gaping boot and its eight cans of petrol and rags. Thank God he'd parked the cash Field had given
him with old Paddy his mechanic before picking up the Capri.
'What's this?' Derek asked, as he picked up a can and shook it.
'Petrol.'
He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. 'I can see that. You going somewhere?'
Tony sighed again. 'On a very long trip, I should imagine.'
'Hello, is that Brill police station? Who am I speaking to? Sergeant Blackman. Look, Sergeant, it's John Marris here. I called Aylesbury the other day and they never got back to me. I know they are busy, that's what I am talking about. The robbery. There is a farm here with a suspicious vehicle in it. And nobody has been around for days. I checked. Leatherslade. You know it? Yes, sold a few months ago. Never seen the owners. You'll send a man down, will you? Good. Because something funny has gone on there. Will you come yourself? Right. Constable Woolley. Tell him I'll meet him at the end of the lane in an hour. How's that?'
New Scotland Yard, 11 August 1963
George Hatherill lit a cigarette and offered them around to Len Haslam and Billy Naughton. They were looking very pleased with themselves as they took one each. He wasn't so sure they had any right to be smug, not yet.
'So what have you got on this Tony Fortune?'
'Nothing yet,' said Duke. 'We're still questioning him.'
'But you are sure he is in the frame?'
'Tangentially.'
'Tangentially? Big word for you, Len. Did Billy here teach you that?' Hatherill wagged his cigarette at Duke. 'Expand on that.'
'We have two reasons to believe he was involved. One we'll explain in a moment, another from an anonymous tip-off. A woman.'
Hatherill snorted. Anonymous tip-offs didn't count for much, as far as he was concerned. They were often more about setttling scores than the truth. There had been lots of them so far, many no doubt naming the actual villains, but with no proof offered.
'ABC, lads. ABC.' It stood for Assume nothing, Believe nobody, Check everything. 'She give you anyone else?'
'Bruce Reynolds. But we already have him down as a person of interest.'
'And you can't pull him just on some mad bint's word. Got to be better than that. And if Fortune does put his hands up for it, before you charge him in connection with the train you'll have to take him to Aylesbury.'
'We appreciate that, sir,' Billy said.
'And why aren't you taking this to Mr Butler or Mr Millen?'
Because you are the kingmaker in this, Len thought. The Big Cheese.
'Well, as Len says, apart from the tip-off, it's tangential at the moment. Thought we'd run it by you first. You might make connections we can't.'
Hatherill shook his head, well aware he was being flattered. 'I'm not sure why you are wasting my time with this, lads. We've pulled in almost every lowlife. What makes Tony Fortune so special?'
'His wife.'
'I thought you said she had just given birth? I don't recall a pregnant woman being involved at Sears Crossing.'
Len and Billy exchanged glances, confirming to each other that it was time to come clean. Knowing he had Hatherill's ear, Len let Billy do the talking.
'The wife is speaking partly in riddles and nods and winks.'
'That's women for you,' smiled Hatherill. 'Especially after they've had a baby.'
'We think Tony Fortune was offered the job but for some reason turned it down. Yes, I know half the villains in London are claiming that. We also think that the wife's brother knew about it.'
'Where is the brother?'
'Norwich.'
'The prison?'
Billy nodded vigorously. 'Sir. He was the driver on an armed robbery last week. Grafton Street?'
Hatherill waved him on with an impatient gesture of his hand. 'I know about it, yes.'
'Geoff, the brother, is up to his eyes in debt. When the train didn't come off for him, he went with the Clarence Brothers. Big mistake. Now he is looking at ten years.'
'But?'
'Marie Fortune reckons that if Geoff's charge were dropped to being an accessory – just driving, in other words – he might give us some names.'
'But Tony Fortune won't?'
They both shook their heads.
'Tony Fortune isn't stupid.'
'But this Geoff is?'
Len gave a grunt that might have been a laugh. 'He'd have to be, to drive for the Clarences. They make the Richardsons look like The Brains Trust.'
'Does Fortune know you have spoken to the wife?'
Again, they shook their heads in unison. 'He hasn't put anything together yet,' said Billy. 'He's not even sure why he was pulled. We're certain of it.'
'Good. Keep it like that. Wife might come in handy later as a bit of leverage.' Hatherill smoked on, thinking for a moment. 'I am assuming you lads would like to be attached to the Train Squad for this. Should it pan out, I mean.'
Neither of them denied it.
'In which case, I think you can leave this matter to Ernie Millen and me.'
'Sir?' Len asked incredulously. 'What do you mean?'
'Mr Millen and I will travel to Norwich. I'm sorry, but if you are right, this is too important to…' His words tailed off.
'Leave to junior officers?' Billy suggested.
'In a word, yes. You keep quiet about this. It has to be approached carefully. We also have to make sure no word of this gets out, certainly not into the prison population.' He could see disappointment in both their faces. 'In the meantime, drop everything else, report to Jack Slipper, see if he has anything needs chasing up.'
It took a moment for the last sentence to sink in. Slipper was one of the Train Squad. And if they were working for him, they were too.
'Sir.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Go on, piss off. Go and catch some train robbers, make me happy.' As they were almost out the door, he spoke again, softly. 'And boys, this better be right. I have many ambitions for what little time I have left in the Force. Going to Norwich isn't one of them.'
Ten minutes later the phone rang. It was Brigadier John Cheney, Chief Constable of Buckinghamshire, and what he told him put a big smile on Hatherill's face. He put down the receiver and then called the operator. 'Get me the Forensic Science laboratory. We've found the hideout.'
'Mrs Clark, is it?'
The fifty-year-old woman who had opened the door looked Roger Cordrey up and down and seemed relieved, probably because he wasn't Irish, black or a dog. 'You've come about the garage?'
'I have.' Sitting in the little Austin van behind him was his old pal Bill Boal, who had come along to help with the next stage of the job, stashing the money and starting a legitimate enterprise to account for it. For which they needed a garage. 'Yes. I telephoned.'
'Just that I've had some very strange people ringing. It's only around the corner. Would you like to see it?'
'Yes, please,' Roger said politely. 'But I am sure it will be fine. Just as long as it's dry.'
'Oh, very dry. My husband was a stickler for keeping it clean and dry. There are no oil stains and you could eat your dinner off that floor. Come in, I'll get you the keys and the rental agreement. Would your friend like to come in?'
Roger looked back over his shoulder. 'No, he'll be fine. We are going into business together.'
'Locally?'
'Wimborne. But we'll base ourselves in Bournemouth.'
'Well, come in, come in.'
Roger stepped inside a house crammed full of china ornaments. He kept his hands pressed to his sides in case he inadvertently sent a windmill or a doe-eyed flower-seller crashing to the floor. 'What line of work are you in?'
'Flowers.'
'Lovely. Come through to the kitchen.'
Roger walked down the hallway. The kitchen wasn't any less hazardous, as every inch of the wall seemed to have decorative plates hanging on it.
'If you'll just put your name, address and telephone number down here. And I'll need a month's refundable deposit and a month in advance. There are two keys. I'll keep one. Don't worry, I won't go in. It's just in case you lose yours.'
Roger hesitated. 'Two of us will be using the garage, so
we'll need both keys. My friend outside in the car, Bill – we share the car.'
Mrs Clark's face seemed to fold in on itself. She wasn't happy.
'It's unlikely we would both lose them, but we'll copy the serial numbers just in case. And pay for any replacement.'
She looked partially mollified. 'Very well.'
'And I can give you the deposit plus three months' rent now. In cash.'
Her face unfurled. 'Oh, well. How rude of me – would you like a cup of tea while you count the money out?'
'Yes, that would be very nice.'
'Then I'll walk you round and show you which one it is. Nice blue door, only just painted before…' She put a hand to her throat. 'Sorry, before my husband passed away.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.'
'It's why I don't need the garage, you see.'
'We'll take good care of it.'
'I'm sure you will.'
She watched while he counted out the rent in one-pound notes. She looked at the tower of cash sitting on her kitchen table, and at the impressive roll he had peeled them from. (lash. Bundles of it.
As her husband used to say after a few pints, 'If it looks like shit, smells like shit and feels like shit… it's probably shit.' She hated the crudity, but William hadn't risen to Sergeant in the police force without a good nose for a wrong 'un. And he would say this one stank to high heaven.
'Here are the keys. Why don't you walk round, take a look and we'll have the tea when you get back and sign if you are happy?'
'Very well.'
'Fourth one in. Blue door.'
As soon as he had gone, Mrs Clark went to the telephone in her hall. She didn't pick it up until she heard the engine of the van they had arrived in start up. She watched its blurred image through the glass of the front door as it pulled away and executed a U-turn.
Picking up the receiver, she was about to dial, then she hesitated. She was probably imagining things. Bucks was a long way from Bournemouth, after all. Still, 'report anything suspicious' they had said. She dialled.
'Hello, operator? Can you get me the Desk Sergeant at Poole police station?' This was her husband's old station. She would get a sympathetic hearing there. And wouldn't it raise a smile in his former canteen if William Clark's widow were responsible for capturing the Great Train Robbers?
Bruce was the first to arrive. He parked his Austin Healey in the gravel car park of the cafe, just off the North Circular Road. It was five days since the robbery, and the news was still full of bluster and exaggeration.
Roy pulled in next in his Mini Cooper, with a scowling Charlie in the seat beside him. Just Buster now and they had the quartet who would travel back to the farm. Charlie hoped Buster would bring a larger motor so they could all fit inside in comfort. He wished he'd used the big Rover.
Bruce stepped out, careful not to scuff his new elastic-sided boots. When he saw the other two he had to laugh. 'Christ, we look like a bloody Freeman's catalogue.'
Roy looked down at his new clothes, the roll-neck and cardigan combo and dark blue slacks. 'Speak for yourself. This lot cost some serious dough.'
Charlie had on a dark but well-cut suit that wasn't Burtons either.
'You lads been putting it about?' Bruce asked, only half- joking.
'Is that a Huntsman?' Charlie asked by way of reply, pointing to Bruce's suit.
' Davis. And I had it on order months ago. It's not off the fuckin' peg.'
They walked towards the cafe, one eye open for Buster. 'Speak to Field?' Charlie asked.
'No, his missus. He was out.'
'He's always out.'
'Has it been done?' Roy asked.
Bruce shrugged. 'That's why we have to go and check. I can't get hold of Tony Fortune, either. What's in the farm that might cause us grief?'
'Buster left some clothes behind,' Roy said. 'We couldn't burn them all because of the smoke.'
'And there are the mailbags in the basement,' said Charlie.
'They can't get prints off mailbags. And we always wore our gloves,' Bruce reminded them.
Both looked down at the floor. Not always, the guilty glances said.
'OK, there were a few lapses. But I scrubbed that place till my fingers bled. Remember?'
Charlie did recall. He had had a go about the scrubbing and Bruce whistling that stupid Flash 'Spring Clean' jingle.
'I said you should open a cleaning agency.'
'So it's got to be pretty clear of dabs. But when Buster gets here, we'll go there, burn the lot. After all, we own it. We can burn the fuckin' thing to the ground if we want.'
'Should've been done by now,' said Charlie. 'There's something else worrying me.'
'What's that?'
'Stan.'
'What about him?' asked Bruce.
'You know.'
Bruce knew. He could tell by Charlie's expression. He was a frightening cunt when he had it on. Charlie might have his doubts about Brian Field's robustness but he was absolutely 100 per cent sure old Stan would fold if questioned.
'No,' Bruce said.
'No what?'
'No topping people, Charlie.'
'I wasn't-'
'Yes, you was. Nobody gets killed.' Bruce used all the firmness he could muster. He couldn't back it up with violence, but he hoped he still had some authority left.
'All right, mate. Just thinkin' out loud.'
They entered the cafe, which was empty at that time of day, ordered three teas and sat at a red Formica table near the door. Roy played nervously with the tomato ketchup container.
'You fixed OK, Roy?' Bruce asked. 'Still in the flat?'
'No, thought I'd stay clear of that, just in case.' He had only gone there to dispose of his railway books and the Triang trainset. 'I'm staying with me mum,' he said. 'I can't go far. I got races.'
'Charlie?'
'At home with Pat and the kids. What else? Got nothing to hide. You?'
'Thinking of moving out a bit. Look, lads, it's only a matter of time before we get tugged. They'll take in anyone who could do this. I reckon there're only about thirty blokes, maybe fifty, tops, in the whole country who would be capable of what we did. We know who they are and therefore so
do Butler and his chummies. So they'll get to us eventually.'
The teas arrived and they spooned sugars in. All looked up as Buster burst into the cafe, his podgy face pulsing red. He looked like a traffic light, thought Bruce. Or a railway signal. Buster glanced at the girl behind the counter, took a deep breath and composed himself. 'Another tea, love.'
Then he put the folded newspaper on the table, spinning it slowly so all could read. It was the Evening Standard. There was a big splash headline.
YARD CHIEF HATHERILL ANNOUNCES…
We've found the gang's hideout!
Bruce picked up the newspaper and scanned down the article, picking out relevant phrases. Mailbags found… food stocks for many men… money wrappers in basement… attempt to burn clothes… Yard has called in Detective Superintendent Maurice Ray, the 'Bernard Quatermass'' of fingerprints. He had drunk with Maurice at the Marlborough. Nice bloke. For a copper. Then he stopped at one sentence and felt his throat constrict.
Malcolm. Fewtrell of Buckinghamshire CID described the Leatherslade farmhouse scene as 'One big clue.'
One big clue? What did that mean? He threw the rag back onto the table and Roy pulled it towards him.
'Oh Christ,' said Roy. 'Oh Jesus fuckin' Christ.'
Charlie leaned over and his face grew darker. Those steely eyes narrowed once more, leopard-like.
Bruce pulled at his earlobe, a sure sign of agitation. 'I tell you what, Charlie,' he said softly. 'Next time you see Brian Field or Tony Fortune, do me a favour.'
'What's that?'
'Have a word with them.'
Charlie nodded almost imperceptibly. 'Strong words, Bruce. Very strong words.'
Dorking, 15 August 1963
It was Jenny's thighs that did it. Colin normally gave his neighbour a lift to work and so far they hadn't had much more than a kiss, a cuddle and quick play around the stocking-tops. But the Morris Minor was in for a service and Colin had suggested he could manage to give her a lift to the factory where they worked – he on the shop floor, she in accounts – if she didn't mind riding pillion on his Triumph.
So Jenny had worn tight black slacks that had drawn a disapproving tut from Colin's wife as she had thrown her leg over the machine in the driveway. Colin felt her thighs hot against the top of his buttocks and an idea began to form in his fevered mind.
Jenny noticed the filthy look she was getting, even more intense than usual. 'I'll be changing at work, Mrs Rogers,' Jenny said with a smile as the wife glared at her from the doorway. 'Can't wear a skirt on this, can you?'
Colin didn't have a spare crash helmet for her, so he
forewent his own, but still put on the goggles. He waved to his wife, kick-started the bike, and set off.
'I'm taking a different route!' he yelled over his shoulder as they burbled to the end of the road.
'What?'
'Different route.' 'OK.'
'Stay off main roads. Avoid the A25. Safer.'
'As long as I'm not late.'
'Hold tight!'
She did so and he felt her breasts press into his shoulder- blades. She squealed when he took the first bend, her legs pinching together.
Colin felt the stirrings of an erection as he twisted the throttle. Her hair was whipping across his neck and, as she leaned closer, he could feel her breath, smell the Yardley.
A car overtook them, forcing him towards the kerb. He was a little rusty so he slowed his speed. 'All right, Jenny?'
'This is fun!'
He took a left, leaning the bike over steeply, feeling the grip of her thighs tighten. There was little traffic now so he let the speed creep up and they roller-coasted over the gentle undulations, Jenny laughing every time her stomach dropped. Ahead was a patch of woodland known locally as The Bluebells, although it was the wrong time of year for the flowers.
He backed the throttle off and changed down, letting the engine idle as they coasted to a halt.
'What's the matter, Colin?'
'Overheated.'
'What, the engine or you?' asked Jenny with a grin.
'A bit of both. Hop off.'
'I can't be late.'
He watched her slide off the seat and made a pretence of sniffing it. She slapped him, giggling. 'Oi, don't be a perve.'
He heaved the bike onto the stand and said, 'Five minutes.'
'Yes, I'd heard that about you.'
Taking her by the hand, he led her over the grass verge towards the trees. There was very little traffic on this B road, so he wasn't worried about the bike. He was more concerned about doing something about the bulge in his trousers.
He stopped at the first tree, leaned Jenny against it and kissed her. She snaked her hands around his neck to pull him close. He squirmed against her and worked a hand onto the sweet, warm flesh beneath her sweater. A horn hooted and they turned to see a Cortina, the driver shouting something unintelligible and flashing a thumbs-up.
'Not here, Colin,' she whispered.
She led him deeper into the stand of trees, where sunlight streaking through the random grid of the canopy made glowing jigsaw patterns on the forest floor.
'Here,' he suggested.
'No, just a bit further.'
'So I'm hoping.'
She slapped him again. 'We should have brought a blanket. I don't want to turn up all mucky.'
'We can use my jacket.'
The ground sloped down to a small fern-filled hollow. As they stepped into it, Jenny's foot snagged and she stumbled forward.
'Ow. What was that?'
Colin bent down and extracted a smart pigskin holdall from the undergrowth. 'Someone's bag.'
He stood and looked around. The bag was new and, judging by its condition, it hadn't spent more than a night out in the open, if that.
'Let's go,' said Jenny, suddenly spooked. 'Your engine must be cool by now.'
'Hell-o,' shouted Colin tentatively, aware his opportunity was slipping away from him. His own engine hadn't cooled at all. 'Anyone there?'
'There's another bag, look. A briefcase.'
'Don't touch it. I'll open this one,' he said.
'No.'
'Why not?'
Jenny put her arms around herself, suddenly cold. 'Doesn't seem right.'
'There might be a name and address.'
'Go on, then.'
He tugged at the zip, which was stiff from the pressure of the bag's contents. He had only got it a third back when the first bundle of notes sprang out. He lifted it up with thumb and forefinger. Then flicked it. Fivers. It was all fivers.
Jenny popped the lock on the briefcase. She gave a little gasp and held its gaping top for Colin to peer inside. That, too, was full of fivers and one-pound notes.
Colin stood, his throat dry, and took a step backwards. 'Stay here.'
Jenny's voice squeaked when she spoke. 'Don't leave me.'
'You'll be fine.'
'What if they come back?'
'Scream.' Money had replaced sex as his priority now. If this was what he thought it was, there might be a whacking great reward. 'I won't be long, promise.'
'Where you going, Colin?'
'To call the police.'
The Phoenix pub, off Sussex Gardens, had become the unofficial HQ for Jack Slipper's part of the Train Squad. It was not on Tommy Butler's radar – few pubs were – and enabled the lads to discuss the various leads without Tommy jumping in and running off with them. And then claiming the credit.
So each night, Slipper gave an off-the-record briefing to whichever members of his team were in the bar. That night, it was Len and Billy, both already feeling the strain of fifteen hours, seven days a week. Not to mention six pints in the Phoenix every night.
'It'll be nine, ten days before we get definitive results on the prints,' the guv'nor said glumly.
'So much for bloody Quatermass,' muttered Len.
'There's a lot to dust and analyse at that farm,' said Slipper sympathetically. 'Maurice Ray knows he's got to get this right. Or else.'
They were all acutely aware of the pressure on them from above, like a giant cast-iron press with a screw handle, slowly being wound to crush the life out of them. Find these men. Turn. Charge Them. Turn. Try Them. Turn. Make sure it sticks. Turn.
'Has Roger Cordrey said anything?' asked Billy.
'Not so as we've heard.' Like all the suspects would, Cordrey had finished up at Aylesbury. 'His mate Boal claims he had nothing to do with the actual tickle. Could be right. But Cordrey, you know, that gives us the possibilities of Jim Hussey and Tommy Wisbey. Both big buggers. If I wanted to scare some sorters, I'd choose to have them along.'
'What about the money in Dorking?'
'Around a hundred grand.'
'Any of the right numbers?'
Slipper drank his pint. 'No.'
'But?' asked Len, sensing there was more. 'What else, guv'nor?'
'There was a hotel receipt in the bottom of one of the bags. From Germany. Made out to a Herr and Frau Field. Brian Field.'
Len spilled his drink down his front. 'What, Brian Field – the solicitor? The one with the German wife?'
'That's the one.'
Slipper had clearly already made the next connection, but he let Len say it anyway. 'The one who put together the defence for Gordon Goody on the airport job?'
'The very same.'
'Bugger me sideways.' Len was beside himself. 'I knew it was Goody. I just fucking knew it.'
'Drink up, lads. First thing tomorrow, I want you down knockin' on his old lady's place in Putney, see if she knows where her little Gordy is.'
'What about Field?' asked Billy
'Malcolm Fewtrell is scooping him up, don't you worry.'
'So the dominoes have started tumbling.'
'Aye, lad,' said Slipper triumphantly. 'And we haven't even got the fingerprints back yet.'
The Chief Warden of Norwich Prison poked his head around the battered metal door of the visiting room. 'Gentlemen, it's nine o'clock. Visiting hours finish at nine-fifteen and I need to get home. If you will hurry it along.'
'We'll be as quick as we can,' said George Hatherill meekly. 'Thank you.'
He turned back to Geoff Barrow, sitting on his Remploy chair opposite himself and Ernie Millen. He was scratching at the chipped enamel on the table. 'They don't know who you are?' he asked nervously.
Millen shook his head. 'Told you, son. Anonymous. We were dropped off in town, we'll be picked up in town. Nobody will know who we are or what we wanted.'
'And this will help me?'
'Geoff, we'll do our best. All be on the QT though, won't it? We can't very well stand up in court and say: "Mitigating circumstances – Geoff Barrow gave us some right ripe names". Not unless you want to come out of the shower room with an extra arsehole.'
Millen looked at Hatherill with distaste. 'It won't come to that, George. Will it, Geoff?'
'I fuckin' hope not.'
'We have only ten minutes left.'
'And we won't be coming back next week,' said Hatherill. 'It's not like Beat the Clock.''
'I can't tell you where I got these names.'
'Of course.'
Geoff took a deep breath. The two detectives waited. It was like a dive off the high board. The nerve could go at any point up to the launch. After that, it was too late to turn back. 'Bruce someone. Begins with R,' Marie had actually told him the full name, but he wanted to hold some things back. They were meant to be detectives, after all. 'You know him? You going to write this down?'
Hatherill shook his head. 'Ernie has a phonographic memory.'
'Oh. Right. Well, they call this bloke the Colonel.'
'Do they indeed?' said George, with a smile. 'But spare us
the initials shit, Geoff. Full name.' He scowled. 'Now, or the deal is off.'
Geoff swallowed hard. 'Reynolds, that's it. Bruce Reynolds.'
Hatherill relaxed. Same name as the anonymous caller gave. Which meant Geoff Barrow might be on the level.
'He had a couple of old mates with him, by all accounts. From when he did time.'
'Names?'
'No, sorry.'
Well, Reynolds's known associates were already being checked. It wouldn't be hard to generate a list of likely accomplices. 'Who else?'
'A racing driver. Don't know his name. "The Weasel" is the nickname he goes by.'
'The Weasel? Nobody else?'
'Bits and pieces. Jimmy, an ex-Army bloke. No surname. A fella who has a club in South London. Edward something… or something Edward. And someone called Goodman. Or Goodrich. Antique dealer.'
Goody, thought Hatherill, but kept it to himself. Don't lead the witness. 'Half the villains in London are antique dealers, Geoff. You'll have to be more specific than that.'
Geoff went on like this, dropping hints and half-truths, until the warder banged on the door. Most of what he had told them was based on what his sister had spilled, which she had got out of Tony. The other names were from the Clarence Boys, who had big mouths.
At the last minute, he threw in a couple of extra blokes for good measure, men whom he knew had nothing to do with the robbery, but were faces he owed money to. They would have a hard time collecting from inside. Always assuming he
didn't spend too long in there and end up at the same nick. 'I don't want any of them sent here.'
'This is a geriatric prison, Geoff. Old men and first-timers.'
'That's me,' said Geoff. 'First offence.'
'More by luck than judgement,' said Hatherill, rising to his feet.
'We'll keep our part, best we can,' said Millen.
'If you can just answer this one last question?' Hatherill added. 'And think hard.'
'What's that?'
'Someone's put your brother-in-law Tony Fortune right in the frame for this. Any thoughts about that you would wish to share?'
Billy tried not to stare too hard at the boy's face. It was covered with pustules, some of them straining with the pressure beneath them, looking as if they could pop at any moment. They were sitting in the stationmaster's office at Euston, and Spotty Muldoon was the fourth train enthusiast he had interviewed.
It had seemed like a good idea. Surely the robbers would have cased their target at both ends of its journey? And on the platform there was a readily available group of witnesses. That was what they did, didn't they? Hung around stations, watching. But if the previous trio were anything to go by, they only had eyes for trains, not human beings. If someone should fall under a loco, Billy had the impression they'd be able to tell you the bogey layout of the fatal engine, but not whether the victim was male or female.
He passed the boy the bottle of Vimto he had asked for. 'Your name is Bernard…?'
'Harwood.' Billy wrote it down and then the address the lad volunteered.
'And you come here most evenings?' 'Yes. After school. Monday to Thursday. And Saturday mornings, too.'
'How long do you spend?'
'Depends. An hour on week days, perhaps four or five on the weekend.'
Christ, how boring, Billy thought.
'Now, I am going to show you some photographs of men and I want you to tell me if you have ever seen any of them down here. Understand?' 'Yes.'
Billy struck gold on the sixth of the smudges. Bernard Harwood bounced up and down in his seat, as if he needed the lavatory. He jabbed at the photograph with a shaking finger. 'Him! Him!'
Billy held it up at chest height. 'You sure?' 'Yes. Said he only collected diesels. Thought it was weird.' You should know, Billy thought uncharitably. Flipping the photo round, he found himself studying the delicate features of Roy James.
Letter sent to Train Squad, Scotland Yard
Dear Sir,
No doubt you will be surprised to hear from me. Especially after my trial at the Old Bailey for the London Airport Robbery. At the time of writing I am not living at my home address because it seems I am a suspect in the recent train robbery. Two Flying Squad officers recently visited my
home address and made a search of the premises, despite not having a warrant. To be honest, I am very worried that they will connect me with this crime.
The reason I write now is because the police always treated me very fairly during the Airport case. That cost me eight months and every penny I had, and to become a suspect in this last big robbery is more than I can stand. So my intention is to keep out of harm's way until the people concerned in the Train Robbery are found.
To some people, even writing this letter would seem like a sign of guilt, but all I am interested in now is keeping my freedom.
Yours Sincerely,
Gordon Goody
Paddy gave Tony the slip of paper with a number on it. He looked up from his desk in the office. 'Called while you were out.'
'There was no name next to the number. 'Who was it?' 'Didn't say,' the old man sniffed.
Tony took his jacket from the back of the chair. 'I'm just going out for ten minutes. Get you a sandwich?'
Paddy was frowning down at him, his lined face thrown into even deeper creases. 'That packet you gave me to look after…'
Tony looked at the floor as he shrugged on his jacket. 'Yeah?' 'It's all right, is it?'
'I told you. Just hiding it from the taxman.' 'Oh, all the profit from all those cars we've been shifting.' He looked out at the full showroom. 'I'm not stupid, Tony.'
'I know that. Which is why you'll always be able to say, hand on heart, "I thought it was tax money". Understand?'
Paddy nodded. 'I see.'
'But it won't come to that.'
Paddy spoke softly, his voice tinged with regret. 'I robbed a bank once.'
'What?'
'Well, more of a Post Office it was. In Ireland. For some of The Boys, if you know who I mean.'
'I think I do.' Although he wasn't sure whether he meant gangsters or the IRA. Perhaps they were one and the same.
'It was the only way to get my brother off the hook, y'see. So I did it, with a kid's plastic cowboy gun, handed over the money to some fella, and left the country. Never been back. But I'm too old to do much more of that, Tony.'
He put a hand on his shoulder. 'We'll sort something out, very soon.'
'I'd be grateful.'
But where? Was there a foolproof hiding-place for so much cash? 'I'll get you a sandwich.'
'Butter not marge, mind.'
'Of course.'
Tony walked quickly to Warren Street Tube. The scuffed wooden phone booth just inside the entrance was unoccupied, so he stepped inside and dialled the number.
'Tony?' It was Roy.
'Yup. How are you, Roy?'
'You know. Ducking and diving. You hear about Roger?'
'Yeah.'
'Roger – of all people. You know this bloke they lifted with him? Bill Something?'
'Boal. No.'
'Me neither. And they have Brian, too.'
'I heard.' Tony had pieced together what had happened during his own interviews with the Flying Squad. 'They tied him to the money in the woods, apparently.'
'What was that all about?'
'It was the drinks, left for someone to pick up, I reckon. What else could it be? You don't go dumping that much cash in the bloody forest otherwise, do you?'
'I suppose not,' said Roy. 'Someone's going to be pissed off, aren't they? Talking of which, I just wanted to tell you: Bruce is pretty narked about the farm. Last time we met he asked Charlie to have a word with you and Brian.'
A cold, prickly sweat broke out on Tony's forehead. 'Have a word' could mean several things, depending on Charlie's mood, but even the mildest – an up-close-in-your-face bollocking – was less than pleasant. And at the other end of the spectrum…
'Fuck.'
'All I'm sayin' is, watch your back. Bruce will have calmed down by now. To him it's a figure of speech, know what I mean? But Chas… What happened anyway?'
'I met Brian. He told me to torch it. I was on my way up and I got a tug. Nothing I could do.'
'Brian left you to do it by yourself?'
'Yeah. Said he had things to sort out.'
'What was more important than the farm?' Roy yelled. '"One big clue", the paper said.'
'I know, Roy, I know. But the Old Bill is on my case. I can't move. They know I was at the farm, God knows how. Keep banging on about it.' Jack Slipper, Len Haslam and Billy Naughton had all interviewed him before they had let him go. They knew he was good for it, but so far had no proof. If they
found some, he could wave goodbye to his new son for ten years or more. The thought made him physically ill.
'They've tied you to the farm?' Roy asked.
'Not physically, but they seem certain I was there. They can't get me for the actual tickle, but they want me for some of it at least.' There had also been the sly allusion to 'helping him out' if he were to turn the others in.
'But you kept your gloves on, right?'
'Course I did. Nobody mentioned my dabs being there. Where's Bruce now?'
'Gone to ground. So has Buster. Says he's going abroad. Gordy's off to Spain for a while.'
Tony glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a familiar, and unwelcome face. 'And Charlie?'
'With the family. Look, don't worry about him. It was probably nothing. Be lucky.'
'You too, Roy. You too.'
In the Buckinghamshire Police incident room, Len Haslam and Billy Naughton stood before one of the two enormous blackboards that had been borrowed from the local Aylesbury Adult Education Institute. On them were written the names of all those in the frame for the robbery. The writing covered both boards, more than forty names in all. A code had been devised, updated daily. After each one was a colour-coded letter. S just meant suspect; KAO was Known Associate Of; I stood for Interviewed, with the officer's initials and the date in brackets afterwards; WFQ, Wanted For Questioning; DQ was for Detained for Questioning, with a cipher for which station; and a red C meant the suspect had been charged. So far, only three names had gained the C: Brian Field, Roger Cordrey and Bill Boal.
Jim Hussey, Tommy Wisbey, Ronnie Biggs and Bobby Welch were all T status. Slipper, Williams or Hatherill had interviewed each one. All were suspects by association, either with Cordrey or with the name heading the list, Bruce Reynolds.
Gordon Gordy was up there, despite his letter proclaiming his innocence, since Len had been able to prove he hadn't been in Belfast on the night of the robbery, but had left two days earlier. Ronald 'Buster' Edwards had earned his place because of connections to Roger Cordrey.
Tony Fortune was on a different list, one reserved for those who had in some way aided and abetted the actual robbery. The Squad would get him for accessory before or after the fact, they were sure.
The young PC in charge of updating the board finished adding the last of the morning's abbreviations and turned to the two Squad detectives. His tunic was covered in a coating of multi-coloured chalk dust. He looked as if he had been baking with Technicolor flour.
'I see how these boys fit together, but what tipped the wink about this Reynolds?' he asked, tapping the name he had just written in.
'I don't know,' said Len truthfully – although he had a shrewd idea. George Hatherill and Ernie Millen were adamant he was a key player but would offer no reason. Which meant the info came from Geoff Barrow. It was their lead. 'Guv'nor's call.'
They had driven up by car that day to attend the twice- weekly catch-up session with Malcolm Fewtrell, when information was pooled and cross-checked, only because more senior officers were still pulling in every villain in London and putting them through the wringer. The idea was it
concentrated the mind when they discovered it wasn't some junior detective facing them, but the heard-it-before expressions of Hatherill or Millen or Tommy Butler, Jack Slipper or Frank Williams. It was said hotels in Brighton and Eastbourne were booming as every face with form in the capital decided it was a good time for a seaside holiday.
'What's that?' asked Billy, pointing to a bright red question- mark hovering above Bruce's name.
'Mr Big.'
'What?'
'Mr Fewtrell thinks there must be someone behind it. A planner. He says that this is too complex for your average villain. Must be a Mr Big.'
'What, like Dr No?' sneered Len. 'Maybe we should see if Sean Connery is free to lend a hand.'
'Roy James, also known as "the Weasel"?' Billy asked as he read down the board. James was WFQ. Placing him at Euston looking at trains didn't amount to a watertight case – not unless being a weirdo became a crime. 'You ever heard him called that, Len – "Weasel"?'
Len shook his head. 'And he usually drives something, faster than Land Rovers.' It was his turn to read aloud 'Gordon Goody, KAO Brian Field.' He turned to the PC 'While we're up here, any chance we can take a look at die farm?'
'I think the forensics are finished,' the young man said. I'll go and check.'
After he had left, Len turned to Billy with the kind of smile on his face that always made the junior officer uneasy.
'We've got to get back,' Billy said. 'Slipper wants us to talk to Biggs again. We can't hang around.'
Slipper had gone through the OB – the Occurrences Book
– in Redhill and discovered Charmian's call about Ronnie and the woodcutting. The wife had blown her husband's alibi wide open. So now they had to ask him where he really was on the seventh and eighth of August.
'Don't you worry, Billy,' Len said with a wink. 'One day, Slipper will thank me for this.'
The farm disappointed the London policemen. Despite themselves, the Squad had come to admire the men behind the crime, if only for their style, bottle and chutzpah. They genuinely disagreed with those who painted them as latterday Robin Hoods – where exactly was the 'give-to-the-poor' part?
– but they could accept that the whole job was a cut above the run-of-the-mill. Unlike Leatherslade Farm.
Billy walked around the outside of the house. He had seen photographs, of course, and been surprised then that it wasn't some cute, half-timbered structure, only a dull, suburban dwelling. But with its blistered paintwork and neglected windowboxes, it looked even more down-at-heel than he expected. Hardly the kind of HQ Mr Big would choose. Didn't they operate from flashy penthouse flats with armed minions dressed in black?
'Len? Shall we go inside?' he shouted.
There was no answer.
'Len?'
He found him in one of the garages, kneeling down beside the Austin lorry. In his left hand, he had a brown suede shoe.
'What are you doing?'
'Shut up! Anyone out there?'
'No, they are either inside or at the gate.'
'Gently does it.'
Using a long-bladed screwdriver, he took a dried flake of
yellow paint from the can on the floor and pressed it onto the sole of the shoe. Billy noticed he was wearing gloves.
'Len…'
Duke stood and looked at his handiwork. 'There.' He slipped the shoe into a large plastic evidence bag and then placed it in his briefcase. 'Do you want to look inside?'
He went to push by, but Billy stepped into his path. 'What are you doing?'
The other man stripped off his gloves and shoved them into his jacket pocket. 'What does it look like I am doing? I'm fucking Gordon Goody.'
'Sir? You in there, sir?'
It was the young copper from the incident room.
'Just coming,' said Len.
When they emerged from the semi-darkness into the light, they could see the PC hopping from foot to foot in excitement.
'What is it?'
'Just come over the radio. They've got the fingerprinting results.'
'And?'
'Hundreds. We've got them all – Reynolds, James, Hussey, Biggs. We should get back. There's a big round-up coming.'
As they followed some distance behind, Len held up the briefcase containing the suede shoe. 'Ah well, Billy. We might not be needing this after all.'
Goodwood Racing Circuit, 24 August 1963
Roy pulled into Goodwood's cramped, overcrowded paddock, almost slicing off a few toes. It was, as usual, a zoo, but a cracking one. Being invited to race at the Tourist Trophy meet was a big deal. There would be a cocktail party with the Duke of Richmond that evening and the next day a Driver's XI took on the Duke's players. Roy was not much of a batsman but he had a turn of speed as a bowler. But the match meant more than just rubbing elbows with a few nobs. It represented recognition, the tacit nod that you had been noticed, were a coming man, a driver to keep tabs on. Roy James was going up the ladder, to the roof.
As if it knew what rested on its shoulders, his car had performed well, lapping the tricky circuit – actually the perimeter road of a wartime RAF airfield – at close to 100mph. Only Peter Arundell in his Lotus-Ford was quicker.
As he pulled to a stop, hands reached out and patted him on the back. Bobby Pelham, Roy 's mechanic, had to push wellwishers aside to lever him out of the cockpit.
'Not bad,' Bobby said, as Roy pulled off his goggles and blinked dust from his eyes.
'Not bad?' Roy protested with a smile. 'A ton, not bad?'
'Lost your line on Woodcote,' Bobby tutted. 'Cost you.'
'Nearly lost the front end at No-name, thanks to bloody Dickie. Still, as you say, not bad.'
A tall, blazered figure pushed through the crowd. It was one of the track stewards, Major Grace – a crusty sort, very much from the right side of the tracks. However, he liked Roy and had always looked out for him at other events, no matter how rough and ready the young man's origins.
' Roy, your mother just phoned the office.'
'My mum? Is she OK?'
'She said you'd had visitors.'
'Visitors?'
'Yes. Wouldn't be more specific. Said you would understand. Insisted I give you the message.' The Major looked nonplussed, like a bawled-out schoolboy. Roy could imagine his mother taking him to task if he had even hesitated to carry out her wishes. She had a tongue like a stiletto when required.
Roy took off his helmet and handed it to Bobby. 'I know what that means. It's my uncle, from Australia. Look, Major, I've got to do some work on the engine overnight. Need to get it back to the workshop.'
'Can't you do it here?'
'I'd rather use my own tools. You know how it is.'
The Major knew full well that drivers and mechanics liked to cosset their steel and fibreglass babies on their own home turf. 'You'll miss drinks.'
'Well, it's more about the racing than drinking.'
The Major laughed. 'So some say.'
'I'll be back for the cricket.'
'That's more like it.'
As soon as the Major had left, Roy pulled Bobby Pelham aside. 'Can you take the car back to the garage?'
'OK. What's up?'
'That rubbish about "visitors". Means the Old Bill was at my mum's.'
Bobby looked shaken. 'Christ. About you-know-what?'
Bobby knew what Roy had been up to, but not the exact details of how much he had received for the job.
'Well, I doubt if it's because my Road Tax is overdue.'
Roy had been gripped by a sense of urgency. He looked at the crowd in the pits, as if he expected to see Tommy Buder to be shouldering his way through at any moment. He walked to the Jaguar he used as a towing motor and searched in the boot, producing a fat envelope from beneath the toolkit. He handed it to Bobby. 'Wages,' he said. 'That'll keep you going for a while.'
Bobby looked inside and paled. 'Is it…'
'Just don't spend it all at once.' Roy slapped Bobby on the upper arm. 'I'm going to use the Mini. I'll call you when I know what's what, OK?'
Bobby could tell from the cast of Roy's face that he didn't expect things to be OK for a long time. 'Yeah – 'course.'
Tommy Butler wanted to do Charlie Wilson himself. Of all the names that had come into the frame with the fingerprints, he knew Charlie could be the most troublesome. He might not have the bulk of Hussey, Wisbey and some of the others, or the brains of Bruce Reynolds or Gordon Goody, but he was cunning. And he had a temper.
There was only one place where he wouldn't kick up a fuss. With his family. His wife and three daughters were Charlie's
very own Kryptonite, his weakness. The news had already gone out to all police forces that Charlie, Reynolds and Jimmy White – the first three with confirmed dabs at the farm – were wanted. Butler needed to lift Charlie before the item hit the evening news bulletins and the papers.
So, it was lunchtime when four squad cars pulled up outside Charlie's home in Crescent Lane, Clapham, circling like covered wagons in a Western. Tommy made the officers wait while he strode up to the bright yellow door and rang the bell.
Pat Wilson answered, ashen-faced. She would have seen the cars through the window. 'We're just having lunch,' she said, looking over his shoulder into the street. Neighbours were already appearing to take in the show.
, 'Can't wait for pudding, I'm afraid. I'll give him a sandwich at the station.'
'It's all right, Pat,' said Charlie from the hallway, grabbing a jacket.
'Charles Wilson?' Butler asked in his most formal voice.
'Mr Butler, please.' Both his eyes and words were pleading.
The policeman could see his three daughters standing at the foot of the stairs. He understood what Charlie meant. This was no time for doing it by the book. He could caution him later.
'Cannon Row, Charlie. Just for a chat.' Although Tommy Buder knew it was likely to be Aylesbury before the day was out.
Charlie slipped his arms into his tweed jacket and kissed Pat goodbye. 'Give my brief a call,' he said. 'He'll have me back home for tea.'
'Mrs Wilson, some of my officers will be around later with a search warrant. Please don't disturb anything in the meantime. Come on, Charlie. Gently does it.'
As they walked to the cars, Butler held tightly to Charlie's upper arm. He should have cuffed him, but there was no point in winding up a man like Charlie Wilson. They tended to respond best to a little respect. 'You know what this is about, don't you, Charlie?'
'Is it the gas bill?'
'Not unless you ran up one for two point six million.'
Charlie smiled at that. 'I suspect someone has made a right balls-up.'
'One of your pals?'
'No, one of yours. You're wasting your time. I've got nothing to do with that. Never been there.'
'Then you have nothing to worry about.'
They reached the car, the door opened and a hand pushed Charlie's head down and folded him into the rear seat, where another detective waited. He produced a pair of handcuffs and snapped them over Charlie's proffered wrists. Tommy Butler leaned in. 'But I think it's you who have been wasting your time, Charlie. I don't think you'll be home for tea any time soon. About fifteen years, unless I am mistaken.'
Bruce Reynolds knew something was up as soon as Franny came back to the flat. She didn't bother to remove her coat; she simply strode up and turned the TV off. She tried to speak, but only tears came, coursing slowly down her cheeks.
Bruce stood. 'What is it? Is it Nick?'
She walked back to the hall and brought in the evening paper. Bruce felt a jolt when he saw his own face staring back at him. Yard name men wanted in connection with Great Train…
He read the rest in silence. When he reached the end he almost spat his words. 'It's a fuckin' liberty, putting the pictures in the paper. They never do that till after the trial. How can
you get a fair hearing when your face is all over the place, saying you was the bloke who done it? This is bloody Butler.'
He threw the paper down onto the floor.
That was it. It wasn't only the police who would be after him now – every last crook would be milking him for every penny. He was on the run, good and proper. Which meant the rent on any safe house would be enormous, and anyone who knew where he was would demand lots of little 'loans' for their silence. Plus there would be endless 'drinks' for their minders to do some fetching and carrying. It was sheer fucking extortion.
He walked over and gave Franny a hug, wiping away her tears. 'We knew it might come to this. Game's not over yet.'
She found a handkerchief and blew her nose. 'What do we do now, Bruce?'
'Stop using that name for a start.' It was time for new identities, a change of appearance. He glanced in the mirror, wondering what he could do. He stroked his upper lip. A moustache would help. Then he would need new clothes and passports, travel documents. Suddenly a hundred and fifty grand didn't sound like a lot. 'And think of a new one for you, too.'
'What then?'
'Start packing, love. That's what.'
'Where for?'
What did it matter where for? But he could see she was close to tears again, her lower lip quivering. Bruce said the first country that came into his head. 'Mexico.'
Roy was hammering the Mini Cooper back towards London when the news came on the radio. The last song played before it was 'Four Feather Falls' by Michael Holliday. The Bing
Crosby-like voice always triggered a loop of his 'I'm going well, I'm going Shell' jingle in Roy's brain. However, the first line of the bulletin banished the tune immediately.
'Police today arrested Londoner Charles Wilson in connection with The Great Train Robbery of two weeks ago. Scotland Yard says they are also keen to interview Bruce Reynolds and Jimmy White. They expect to be able to release further names within the next two days. Meanwhile Jack Mills, the driver…'
Roy switched the radio off. His hands were slick on the wheel, but his throat had dried. The A3 was clear ahead, reeling him back into London. And what? Butler or one of his crew, for sure.
He took his foot off the accelerator. An ERF coal lorry beeped him, and pulled out to overtake. He felt the slipstream buffet his little car, watched the black fallout from the sacks settle on his windscreen. He pulled over and rolled to a halt in a lay-by. He needed time to think. After all, he was a man on the run now. They all were.
'And where is the Weasel now?'
'The who?'
'Roy "the Weasel" James.'
'Nobody calls him the Weasel. He had some French-' Bobby Pelham stopped himself. 'Look, he's not called the Weasel, all right?'
Jack Slipper had it on good account – from George Hatherill, no less – that James's nickname was the Weasel, but he let it pass. 'Let's just stick with Roy James then, shall we? Where is he?'
As he spoke, Slipper walked around mechanic Bobby Pelham's first-floor flat in Notting Hill. The carpet was threadbare and stained; the furniture sadly mismatched and he could smell chip fat. On the wall was a poster for the Monaco Grand Prix 1932, a garish print of an Oriental woman and the centre pages from an ABC Film Review, of Ursula Andress rising from the sea. It was clearly a single man's abode. From outside, he could hear the clash and clanging of Len Haslam and Billy Naughton sorting through the yard which was full of discarded motor parts and oil cans.
Slipper stopped at the wooden mantel above the gasfire and picked up one of the trophies. It was for a second place that Roy had achieved at Thruxton.
'Shame about his career. To throw it all away like that.' He looked up at Bobby as there came the thump of something heavy being dropped below them. 'They going to find anything down there?'
'Well, if they find the Weber carb I'm missing I'd be grateful.'
'Don't be funny, Bobby,' said Slipper, rising to his full ramrod-straight height. 'It isn't a matter for levity any more. We almost had him yesterday, you know. Arrived ten, fifteen minutes after you two had left Goodwood. And he didn't say where he was going?'
'No, Mr Slipper.'
'Missing a big race today, too. You know, Roy will probably be the second most famous no-show in Goodwood's history.'
'How's that?'
'David Blakely, Easter Monday, 1955, didn't turn up for his event. He's the most well-known no-show.'
Jack Slipper could see Bobby was struggling to place the name. 'He practised on the Saturday at Goodwood and Ruth Ellis shot him on the Sunday outside the Magdala pub, Hampstead. Last woman to hang, of course. At least we won't do that to Roy.'
'Guv.' It was Len Haslam, his face streaked in grease, his white shirt spotted with sump oil. He was holding out a thick envelope. 'It was hidden in a spare tyre in the yard.'
Bobby licked his lips like a nervous reptile. The colour had gone from his face. 'Mr Slipper…' he croaked.
'Shush.' Slipper knew what was coming next. 'You going to say you never saw it before? That we planted it? But your prints will be on it, Bobby. You know we can get them off the envelope. We can even get them off mailbags, you know. Oh, yes. You bake them in the oven, so Maurice Ray told me. The material goes rock hard and you can lift the dabs off. Ingenious. You look like you want to sit down. Ah, Billy. Fetch Mr Pelham a glass of water, will you?'
Bobby slumped into an armchair. 'I wasn't in on it. I was just looking after that money.'
'I have no doubt lots of people are looking after lots of money as we speak.' The policeman looked down at the contents of the envelope. 'You know we didn't get many serial numbers from that job. But the ones we did get were all one- pound notes, Like these. Must be, what, four or five hundred here? Odds are good we'll have a number. Very good.'
It was a lie, but Bobby Pelham wasn't to know that the recorded serial numbers had been scattered at random between the ten-bob, one-pound and five-pound notes.
'These are from the job, aren't they?'
'What if I say yes?'
'Depends how you came by them.'
'Like I said, I wasn't in on it. Honest. I was just…'
'Yeah – looking after it. A cush, eh?' A cushion he meant, money for James to fall back on in an emergency. Bobby nodded his agreement, his head heavy, like a lead weight. 'If what you say is true, then it's receiving. A few months inside at most. Perhaps a caution, depending on what's on your docket.' Slipper knew the mechanic had no form.
'Nothing.'
'I can't promise anything, but if I can say you co-operated…'
Billy came back from the kitchen with a glass of water. He stumbled over a pile of Autosports and Motoring News left in the middle of the floor. 'Shit. This place could do with a tidy, Bobby.'
Bobby took the glass and gulped half of the water down. 'It's from the train robbery.'
'And it was given to you by Roy James?'
He bit his lower lip before he spoke. 'Yes.'
'And you will make a statement to that effect?' Bobby didn't answer, just stared at the floor in shame. Slipper repeated the question.
'Yes.'
Slipper turned to Billy. 'Get on to the Yard, will you? Tell them we can release Roy James's picture to the press immediately.'
The voice on the line was muffled and urgent. 'Hello? Can I speak to the Train Squad?'
'Who is this?'
'Is that the Train Squad?'
'No, this is the Scotland Yard switchboard.' The operator wrote down a word on the pad. Irish? 'I need a name from you, sir.'
'Put me through or I'll hang up. And they'll never know what they are missing.'
The slightest pause, followed by a sigh. 'Very well, hold on, sir.'
There was a delay of ninety seconds before anyone came on. The man sounded bored. 'Detective Sergeant Leonard Haslam.'
'Is that the Train Squad?'
'It is. Who am I speaking to?'
'Black Horse Court, Southwark.'
'What about it?'
'There's a phone box. If you get someone there within ten minutes, yer man might find something of interest.'
'Stay on the line, sir.' A hand went over the mouthpiece. 'Who have we got near Southwark? Phone box at Black Horse Court. Get a car there. Now!' He came back on loud and clear. 'Sir? Hello? Sir? Oh, bugger.'
In the Squad room, Len paced up and down while he waited to hear from the car sent to the phone box. Billy was in charge of noting that morning's calls – there were always at least a dozen – and Len went over the conversation with the anonymous caller while Billy logged it. They were turning into station cats, shiny-arsed coppers who never left the factory, and Len didn't like it. But so much information was coming in it had to be processed and ranked or they would drown.
'Nothing in on Goody?' he asked when they had finished.
'No, for the fifteenth time.' It was strange how each detective seemed to have adopted their own personal betes noires among the suspects. Len was on Goody's case, of course, while Jack Slipper had been keen to pin something on Ronnie Biggs. Once it transpired that Charmian had blown a wedge of cash in Bond Street and Ronnie's prints had cropped up on a bottle of ketchup and a Pyrex dish at the farm, Biggs was bang to rights. Slipper was in Aylesbury that morning, charging him. Next, Slipper said, he would concentrate on bringing in Roy James.
Millen, though, had a thing for Jimmy White, because they had history going back some years. Frank Williams wanted Buster Edwards because he knew him, had drunk with him over the years, liked him. He thought it would be a friendly gesture to be the one who collared him. Keep it in the family.
Butler had his sights set on Bruce Reynolds, whom he considered the prime mover in the whole affair. The fact that there hadn't been a sniff of him in the past few weeks made him even more of a prize.
There was another character irritating Len. One they still couldn't put at the farm. Even his brother-in-law hadn't given him up. All they had was the anonymous tip-off. 'Can we spin Fortune's drum again?' he asked.
'I'm sure.' Up to a dozen search warrants a day were being issued. The normal caution with such briefs had been thrown to the wind where the robbery was concerned. You only had to mention that the warrant was in connection with Sears Crossing to get your chit signed.
Len bent down and opened a desk drawer. He passed Billy a small plastic phial. Billy went to hold it up to the light but Len grabbed his wrist. 'Keep it down.'
'What is it?'
'Flakes of paint.'
'From what?'
'The lorry at the farm.'
Billy looked at him with uncomprehending eyes.
'Look, I've done enough. Best if I'm not near. It's your turn.'
'For what?'
Len shook his head at Billy's denseness. 'Find some shoes, trousers, whatever, to put them on. Take them to forensics.'
'Len-'
'Fortune was at that farm – you know it and I know it. Whoever the bird was who got Reynolds right also gave us Fortune. Remember?'
'But we have Reynolds's prints. That's watertight. There's none of Fortune's prints at Leatherslade.'
'Gordy never left any prints either. Careful, see?' Len hissed. 'And I reckon most of the prints were left after the robbery – when they got money-struck and sloppy. And we are sure Fortune was there before the take, not after. Put the paint in your pocket. Go on – get onto it. Right?'
'DS Haslam, Line Five!'
Len loped over and took the call and came back rubbing his hands together.
'What?' asked Billy.
'Money.'
'In the phone box?'
'Two potato sacks. They've just done a quick count.' Len clapped his hands with glee. 'We've just got about fifty thousand pounds back.'
Gordon Goody was going stir crazy. The small room above the pub on the river near Tower Bridge seemed to shrink by the day. Here he was, rich at last – and with the money well hidden – and he was like some kind of laboratory rat in a shoebox. Now and then he went down to the pub and worked behind the bar, but it was risky. He was a big man, not the kind of character you would forget in a hurry. And he could never stop himself flirting with the girls. Couldn't be helped. Skirts were shorter, tops tighter, eyelashes, for the batting of, longer.
But he couldn't risk a bird up in that room. So far he had been very, very careful. The reason that his smudge wasn't
plastered all over the front of the Daily Sketch was because they had no dabs at the farm. He had never, ever taken his gloves off. The others had been unlucky. A palm print from where his fabric glove had shrunk got Jim Hussey bang to rights. And Bruce? Mr bloody Sheen himself managed to get dusted. There was something fishy there, Gordy thought. Bruce with his prints on a ketchup bottle? Pretentious sod only ever used Lea & Perrins. Which suggested the Fewtrells and Butlers of this world would stop at nothing to bring them in. The job had proved too big to ignore, too much of a poke in the eye with a blunt cosh. Bloody Buster and his cosh and that daffy cunt Tiny Dave. If that driver had not been thumped, the hue and cry would be that much less intense. But now they were baying for them.
Gordy looked at his watch. Not yet eleven. The day was crawling by. The pub would open soon and he would hear the noise of the customers through the floor, braying and shouting. He never served at lunchtime. Different crowd, all male, even some lawyers and coppers.
He had to do something though; he would end up topping himself if he had to watch the ceiling cracks for much longer. He reached into the bedside cabinet and found his address book. Locating the number he wanted, Gordy swung his feet off the bed, grabbed a handful of change and padded downstairs to the telephone by the Gents.
While he dialled he shouted to the landlord. 'Reg?'
The ruddy-faced Reg stuck his head out from behind the bar. 'You all right?'
'Can I borrow your car for a couple of days?'
Reg looked unsure.
'There's a nifty in it.'
Reg shrugged. 'Two days.'
Two days, fifty quid. Plus a monkey for the use of the room. Reg wasn't doing too badly. Even got a free barman now and then.
'Thanks,' Gordon said. Then: 'Sue? Is that you? It's me, Gordon. Right. Look, Sue, I know it's short notice, but do you fancy a get-together? Yes, that sort of get-together. At a hotel, on me. The Grand. Sounds perfect. Tomorrow? Well, dump him. You deserve better anyway. Well, me for one. Right. Tomorrow. Book it in your name, will you? And get some champagne on ice. What are we celebrating? Me seeing you again.'
Gordy put the phone down and walked through to Reg, who had unbolted the doors to open for the day's business. There were only a couple of regulars in at that time of day and they didn't even look up from their papers. Gordy's stomach rumbled as he caught the aroma of the homemade pies that the pub dished out at lunchtime. He pulled a couple of pound notes out. 'Reg, can you send your boy to Woolworths? Get me a couple of spectacle frames with plain glass in them.'
Reg took the money. 'OK.'
'And does your missus have any hair-dye?'
Reg had a traditional landlord's build, with sizeable beer belly and a florid complexion. Marjorie was whippet-thin and exuded a blowsy glamour. 'What shade?'
'Not blonde.' He pointed at his scalp. 'Darker than tin*.
'I'll ask. If she hasn't, I'll tell her to get you sonic.'
'Thanks.'
'What is it, Gordy?' smirked Reg. 'Fancy dress, Who you going as?'
Gordy smiled back. 'Clark bleedin' Kent.'
Billy Naughton stepped into the rowing boat and the lad from the hire shed pushed them off. Tony dipped the oars and pulled them away, heading out into the centre of the Alexandra Palace boating lake. It was a blustery day, with the sun piercing the cap of white cloud only infrequently. Apart from a couple of schoolboys playing truant to smoke fags, they had no company out on the water. Which was how they both wanted it.
'You know that they kept German civilians here, during the war?' Billy asked.
'No, I didn't, Mr Naughton. Is this to be a history lesson?'
'Recent history, Tony. It was your money, wasn't it?' said Billy.
Tony carried on pulling, settling into a good smooth rhythm. He was enjoying the exertion. 'What was?'
'In the phone box.'
Tony shrugged. 'Don't know.'
'Look, we know you were at the farm. We know you probably got a drink out of it. We know that on the day after we collared Roy's mechanic, someone dumped the money. Panicked, most likely. It's gone toxic.'
Tony laughed at the expression. 'What does that mean?'
'Corrosive. Poisonous. It's like King Midas, except everything it touches turns to shit.' Tony blew out his cheeks, as if accepting this was true. 'Roger Cordrey cops it by flashing too big a roll of money. Charmian Biggs, she spends too much of it and gets herself noticed. The money left in Dorking woods – who was that for? Either way, he or they didn't make it in time, did they? Some guy with his trousers round his ankles found it. Ten-grand reward and a right earful from the wife for going off into the woods in the first place. Bobby Welch. We get a call that he is in a betting shop near London
Bridge. Now who would tell us that? Maybe the bloke he left his stash with. Take Bobby out of the game, he can do what he wants with it because Bobby is looking at a fifteen, twenty jolt. Who else? Oh yeah, another Bobby – Bobby Pelham, the mechanic. Done for receiving. And you. I think your man panicked when he heard about Pelham and dumped the cash in the phone booth. What do you reckon?'
Tony had a good view of the ugly palace itself, with the transmitter mast that beamed out the evening BBC news. He began to describe a long, lazy circle around the edge of the lake. 'I reckon I remember you when you were some wet-behind-the-ears tenderfoot. About six months ago, that was. Now here you are lecturing me like you're Tommy Butler.'
Billy ignored that, saying, 'The thing is, you lot don't have much of a choice, do you? You either give your cash to someone who isn't in the life, in which case they are likely to panic. Or you leave it with some villain who, because they are by nature thieving bastards, either takes it all or charges you an extortionate minder's fee. Right Shylocks some of them, so I hear.'
Tony stopped rowing. A duck paddled over, in search of food. It quacked plaintively then moved on. Tony fixed the copper with a hard stare. 'What is this about?'
'I'll tell you another interesting thing. The count written on the wrappers of that stash in the phone box added up to forty-seven thousand pounds. But there weren't forty-seven in notes. Only forty-two. It was five grand light. So whoever dumped it took a little sweetener and skipped. Am I right?'
Tony sighed. He was sure that wasn't the case. Or perhaps it was. Money changed everything. 'Can you blame him? It's a free-for-all.'
So someone had stiffed him, thought Billy. 'Roger, Charlie, Bobby, Ronnie, Tommy, Jim Hussey, Bill Boal-'
'What's this? Some kind of rollcall?'
'All I'm saying is, it's only a matter of time before we get the rest. Bruce, John, Buster, Roy, Jimmy White, Gordy and… you.'
Tony began rowing again, pulling deep and hard. Did they have his fingerprints? No. Otherwise he would be in Aylesbury right now, facing Butler, Williams, Fewtrell or Hatherill or at Cannon Row with Slipper or one of the other DIs.
Billy placed a small brown bag, the top rolled over several times, on the seat between them. It looked like someone's packed lunch.
'What's that? A bribe? Doesn't look enough, Mr Naughton.'
'I'm meant to be spinning your place right now. In there are some flakes of yellow paint which, in the course of my perfunctory search, will find its way onto the bottom of a pair of your shoes.'
'Yellow paint?'
'From the garage at Leatherslade.'
Tony stared down at the bag, as if it was radioactive. He nudged it with his foot. 'I don't understand.'
'I'm meant to daub that on the sole of one of your shoes. Tomorrow, under the same warrant, a forensic officer will be sent over. He will discover said paint and take the shoes away for analysis.'
'Why are you telling me this?'
Billy hesitated. He wasn't 100 per cent sure himself. But he wanted to get rid of the temptation to ape Len once and for all. 'I'll just say this. You ever see George Hatherill in a
pub, you send him over a drink.'
Gordon Goody parked the borrowed Morris Minor Traveller and checked himself in its mirror. His hair was several shades darker and he now wore tortoiseshell glasses. There was nothing he could do about his height except stoop, but he didn't look like any picture of him they might have circulated. Just because one hadn't appeared in the press didn't mean the police weren't pushing them around to stations throughout the country. Gordy's was one scalp they wanted very, very badly.
Satisfied with his new appearance, he fetched his holdall from the back seat and walked into the Grand Hotel, looking forward to seeing Sue Crosby again. She had been a hostess at Marbles, one of the better London clubs, and then won a Miss Brighton contest and had set up a small clothes shop in her hometown of Leicester. She and Gordy had not seen each other for two years, but they had the kind of relationship that could be picked up – or curtailed – without any recrimination or consequences.
Gordy approached the reception desk and beamed at the young woman behind it. 'Morning.' He couldn't keep the cheeriness from his voice.
'Afternoon, sir.' Well, it was two o'clock he supposed, so technically she was right. The girl had a black beehive with a slight flick at shoulder level and kohl-blackened eyes. She reminded Gordy of Susan Maugham, the singer of 'Bobby's Girl', and if he hadn't been here to see Sue, he might have spent some time on her.
'I believe my wife booked a room. Susan Crosby. I'm Mr Crosby.'
'Let me check, sir. Yes, here we are. Six-oh-two. You are the first to arrive, but I'm afraid it isn't ready as yet.' She pointed to the clock behind her. 'Check-in is at three, but
I'll see what I can do to hurry it along. Would you like to take a seat? Or have a drink in the bar?'
Gordy looked at the row of glistening optics he could see through the archway to his left. 'How long?'
'Twenty minutes at most, sir.'
'I'll wait in the bar.'
'Very well, sir.'
As soon as the big man was out of sight, the receptionist burst through the door into the office and began to rummage around on her desk. Peter, the Duty Manager, looked up, perplexed.
'What's wrong?'
'Call the police.'
Peter rose to his feet. 'What's happened, Brenda?'
But Brenda had found the newspaper she was looking for and tore through it. The pictures had long vacated the front page, but often put in an appearance whenever an arrest was made. There, next to a story about Great Train Robbery money being found in a phone box, were the mugshots of the three wanted thieves. The top one stared out at the camera from behind hornrimmed glasses. 'It's him.'
'Who?'
'You won't believe this.' She showed Peter the picture of the bespectacled robber and tried to keep the thrill from her voice, the excitement of having a story she would repeat ad nauseam for the next few days. 'Bruce Reynolds has just checked in!'