Bedford Prison, October 1963
Charlie found his prison visits bittersweet. It was wonderful to see Pat, to hear about the kids, but the inevitable moment of separation brought home to him just what might lie ahead: years of being apart from his family. The thought made him angry, but as he stood in the holding pen waiting for his name to be called through to the visitors' room, he tried to contain the fury building in him. There had almost been an incident in the kitchen that morning, a temptation with a pan of boiling water and a sneering screw, but Charlie had just smiled and walked away.
'Fourteen years,' the cunt had whispered in his ear. 'Fourteen on the Forty-Four.'
Special Order 44 was used to stop known associates gathering and communicating in prison, just in case they got up to their old tricks. Or new ones, such as prison breaks. The screw was suggesting he would get fourteen years and never see his old mates again. As if the latter part worried him.
'Charles Wilson, table seven.' At least, being on remand,
he had no number for them to bark out and he was wearing his own clothes. He still felt at least partially human. More so than the institutionalised screws, he thought as he glared at one of those sad bastards who slashed the peak of his hat so it came down partially over the eyes. You aren't in the Guards, mate, he thought. You are just a grown-up babysitter in a shitty gaol.
He passed through the gate and into the depressingly bare visitors' room, where he expected to see John Matthew, his brief. As he recognised who it really was sitting at the other side of the table, Charlie kept his face impassive. He was good at that. Hadn't so much as glanced at Ronnie Biggs when they crossed in the exercise yard.
He sat down and, in a ritual repeated at tables across the room, the two men leaned in close, foreheads almost touching, voices low.
'Fuck me,' said Charlie.
'I registered as Joe Gray.'
'Gordy, what are you doing here?'
'I came to tell you what's going on. I got picked up because some silly bitch thought I was Bruce. How fucking ironic is that? I was blond, then brunette, but underneath, I was a natural dickhead. Butler interviewed me, then I got released. On bail.'
'I heard.'
'Thought you might have thought it… you know, iffy.'
Charlie frowned, but said nothing.
'Butler had a pair of my shoes with yellow paint on them, from the garage at the farm. I'm on remand while tests are carried out.'
'No prints?'
'At Leatherslade? Nothing. I was worse than Bruce with the gloves.'
'What about the shoes?'
Gordy leaned in closer, until he could smell Charlie's sour breath. 'I never took them with me to the farm, Charlie. I'm sure of it. Butler's done me up like a kipper. I just wanted you to know I didn't do any kind of deal.'
'You silly cunt.' Charlie's face darkened. He made fists and the knuckles turned white. 'I know you're all right. Jesus, I'm not worried about anyone grassing. Not in our firm. That bleedin' driver of Ronnie's maybe, but not us.' Charlie thought for a minute, considering all he had just heard. His expression relaxed and his fists uncurled. 'You sure this is Butler's style? He might verbal you a bit, like he did me, but planting evidence? Not sure.'
'Doesn't matter if it's Butler or one of the others. That paint ties me to the farm, I'm cooked.'
Charlie didn't disagree.
'How you holding up?'
Charlie rubbed his forehead. 'So far, OK. They're talking about double-digits for it.'
'Come on,' said Gordy. 'It was a tickle. You only get that for murder now.'
Charlie shook his head. 'We didn't think what we was robbing, mate. We thought it was a train, didn't we?'
'It was a train.'
'Ah, but it wasn't British Rail. It was the Royal Mail.' He said it again, emphasising the first word. 'The ROYAL Mail. We nobbled the Establishment. The Establishment will want to nobble us back. Even if it does mean painting your shoes yellow.'
'Christ. What are we going to do?'
Charlie came in very close and spoke in a murmur. 'Ronnie and me passed a couple of messages back and forth. We get
fourteen years?' His eyes darted right. 'We're goin' over that fuckin' wall.'
Bruce returned to the flat in buoyant mood. It was the first time for weeks he had been out, but the smart moustache he had grown had given him confidence, as if it was a full-face mask. He had risked taking Franny into town, where he treated himself to a new haircut at Trumper's in Curzon Street, as well as a trim for the face furniture, followed by lunch at the Mirabelle, which cost a whopping fourteen pounds. Afterwards, slightly tipsy on a nice Fleurie, he had called at Coombs & Dobbie in Jermyn Street and ordered a pair of handmade shoes – under an alias, of course. They were twenty- six pounds. It would take two months to complete the order, the master cobbler reckoned. So he told them he would forward an address abroad where they could be sent when they were ready. The afternoon ended with champagne cocktails at the Ritz, reminding him of happier times when they had celebrated the acquittal of Gordy and Charlie.
One day, well over fifty pounds down. But it was worth every penny: he had become used to sending Franny out with an 'escort'. She was a young woman, and needed to get out of doors, so Bruce had arranged a series of 'chaperones'. And anyway, even a hundred quid was nothing compared to what was being leeched off him by 'friends' and 'associates' keeping him in hiding till he and Fran could skip.
So, pleased and still buzzing, he hailed a cab all the way back to the new place at Croydon. As soon as they opened the door, they knew something was wrong. An unfamiliar breeze was blowing through the flat.
'Did you leave a window open, Fran?'
'No.'
'Neither did I.'
The draught was coming from upstairs. Bruce took the steps two at a time, and found the open window in the spare bedroom. As he went to close it, he spotted the ladder that had been propped against the wall outside. He looked around the room with fresh eyes. It had been turned over, cases pushed aside, cupboards opened.
Burgled.
The bloody cheek of it. How fuckin' dare they?
'Coo-ee. Hello.'
Bruce looked out of the window, at the neighbour waving from the garden next door. 'Are you all right?' the woman called. 'I saw it happen.'
'What, love?'
'The thief. I called the police. They should be here any minute.'
You interfering old cow. He bit his tongue. 'Thank you. Very kind of you. I don't think anything has been taken.'
'He was only in there five minutes. You must have disturbed him.'
Just then he heard the doorbell ring.
Shit.
Franny was behind him, wide-eyed with fear. He watched as she took a grip on herself. 'Get into bed, Bruce.'
Unused to taking orders from her, he hesitated. 'What?'
'Get your kit off and get into bed. Leave this to me.'
By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, Franny had undone her blouse and ruffled her hair. She yanked the front door open to reveal two uniformed Constables.
'Sorry to disturb you, miss.' The one who had spoken caught sight of her wedding ring and corrected himself. 'Madam. We had a report of a burglary at this address.'
'Yes, Officer. I mean, no. Someone did come in, but well, we made a bit of a racket and I think he got frightened. Nothing has been taken.'
'Do you mind if we take a look?' asked the older of the two coppers.
'Well…' She glanced nervously up the stairs, but snapped her head back when she realised her mistake.
'When you say "we",' asked the other one before she could formulate a decent excuse, 'who exactly do you mean?'
'Your husband?'
Right bloody Tweedledee and Tweedledumb, Franny thought. 'Not exactly.' She took a deep breath. 'Come in, Officers. We have the top two floors.'
They removed their helmets and entered, their boots thumping as they climbed the stairs.
'Second bedroom. Down the corridor at the end.'
Only one of them went into the spare room. The other hovered outside as she came up. He pointed down the corridor. 'What's in there, madam?'
'The master bedroom.'
'Mind if I take a look?'
He was in before she could object and she heard his exclamation of surprise at the sight of a naked man in bed at five in the afternoon.
'Blimey,' said Bruce. 'Is sex with a woman against the law now?'
The policeman laughed. 'Not yet, sir. And you are?'
'He's not my husband,' said Franny, blushing a deep red. 'We were in here when we heard a noise. Thought nothing of it, so we carried on.'
Bruce nodded to confirm her story. 'That's right. Then we heard a crash, I got up, but whoever it was had scarpered.'
The policeman looked puzzled. 'And you came back to bed?'
It was Bruce's turn to look baffled. 'We hadn't finished.'
'Right.' The officer put his helmet down. 'And your husband?'
'Works on the ferries. To the continent.'
'I'll take a name if I may, sir,' the copper said, with all the disapproval he could manage.
'Cassavetes,' Bruce said, blurting out the first name that came into his head. 'John Cassavetes.'
'Cassa-what? Can you spell that?'
Bruce did so.
'Address?'
'Forty-eight Margrove Close, Purley.'
The younger policeman poked his head into the room. Bruce sank further into the bed, feeling very vulnerable in only his underpants. 'You sure nothing was taken?'
'No, Officer,' said Franny. 'It's only junk in there.'
'Very well,' said the copper, closing his book. 'We may send someone round to dust for fingerprints, just in case.'
'Good idea,' said Bruce. 'You can catch a lot of villains with prints, so I hear. Those that make a career out of it, I mean.'
The copper just frowned at him. 'And your name, madam?'
'Frances Craddock.'
'But her friends call her Fanny. Obviously,' said Bruce. 'Do you mind if I get dressed?'
'Of course, sir. You might be hearing from us. We will need your prints too.' 'Oh?'
'Just to eliminate you from any at the scene.'
'Only too happy to oblige,' said Bruce.
When she had shown them out, Franny rushed back upstairs
and leaped onto the bed next to Bruce. The pair of them burst out laughing.
'Fanny Craddock?' he asked.
'John Cassavetes??'
'I almost said Stirling Moss.'
'You pushed your luck there. What if he had been a film fan?' She watched as Bruce's smile gradually faded. 'What is it?'
He jumped out of the covers, knelt down and pulled out the attache case from under the bed. He opened it and looked inside. The money was untouched. It was only what Franny called pin money, about three grand, but still, its loss would have hurt. 'I haven't been out for weeks,' he said bitterly. 'The one time I do, someone turns the place over. Too much of a coincidence, you ask me.' The money was a magnet. Some idiot obviously thought he slept with a hundred and fifty grand under the mattress.
'Does this mean we've got to move again?'
He nodded. 'It does. Especially as they'll be back for dabs, Mrs Craddock.'
'Not for a while, Mr Cassavetes.'
'No, indeed.'
Franny yanked the partially unbuttoned blouse over her head and Bruce slid back under the covers. 'Brilliant bit of acting,' he said, reaching round to undo her bra as she struggled with her skirt's zip. 'I'll tell you what, Mrs Craddock.'
'What's that?'
'Now you're cooking with gas.'
Denmark Hill, South-east London, 22 November 1963
Frank Williams wasn't sure why Buster had chosen Sidney Dart as his go-between on this one. Sidney was as slippery as an eel in a bucket of snot. An electric eel, at that, because he could always give you a sly shock. He was six-foot two and was so wide he appeared to be made of two men compressed into one. They met at the Royal, a pub on Denmark Hill, neutral ground for both of them. After pleasantries and beer, Sidney got down to it.
'How much would Buster have to deliver? If he was to get consideration for it?'
'All of it,' said Frank as he took the first third of the beer down in one large gulp.
Sidney found something to work at in his ear. 'There isn't all of it left.'
'Can you stop that, it's disgusting.' Sidney extracted his finger and examined the end of it, as if expecting to find a gold nugget stuck to the nail. 'I know he'll have expenses,
but there's got to be over a hundred left. Unless you are charging him by the hour.'
'I'm just the go-between, Mr Williams. A friend. What Buster is worried about is someone – not you – stitching him up for something he had no part of.'
'Nobody is doing any fitting-up.'
Stanley didn't look convinced. 'That's not what Gordon Goody is saying.'
'Oh, right. Gordon Goody wasn't there, is that what you are trying to tell me? That we have the wrong man?'
Sidney took a slug of his beer and said nothing.
'Spare me the bleating about him. Gordy is overdue and you all know it. Now, what is Buster worried about?'
'The driver.'
'Jack Mills? Buster coshed the driver?'
'No, but he knows who did. Says you haven't got him yet.'
'And he'd give us this man?'
Sidney ripped open the bag of crisps he had bought. 'Oh no. He's no snitch – you know that, Mr Williams. He just doesn't want to have it put on him.'
Which suggested he did have something to do with it, but Frank knew they could sort this out later. 'Get me all the money, at least a hundred and twenty grand, and I give him my word he will be prosecuted according to the evidence.'
Sidney chewed through a handful of crisps. 'He won't take it. He'll flee the country, as you lot like to put it.'
'Christ, they stink.' Frank waved away the blast of cheese and onion that washed over his face. 'Let him be the judge of that, eh? Offer it to him. Buster knows I like him. And I'm not the only one on his tail. Tell him this is a gypsy's whisper from me. Buder is thinking about him. Thinking a lot.'
'OK. I will.' Sidney slapped his palms together to get rid
of the crumbs. Normally, at this point, he would slip away. There was something else on his grubby mind.
'You after a few extra bob, Sidney?'
'Well, I've got something.'
Yes, the morals of a fucking sewer rat, Frank thought. 'What is it?'
'Roy James.'
Stay calm, Frank. 'The Weasel?'
'So you lot keep calling him. It was Ferret for a while. Ferret up a drainpipe, you know? But Weasel – never heard him called that.'
'But we are talking about Roy James, the racing driver?'
'Yes.'
'What have you got?'
'He was holed up with a bookie, but he got into a bit of bother.'
'What kind of bother?'
'Wife wanted a bit of comfort while Hubbie was at the dogs. Roy didn't fancy this particular bitch, she caused a fuss, he had to scarper.'
'To?'
' St John's Wood.'
'Address?'
Sidney looked down at his glass. 'That's all I know.'
' Saint John's Wood? That's the best you can do? What are we meant to do, house-to-house searches?'
'Narrows it down.'
'I'll narrow you down one of these days, Sidney.' Frank shook his head in mock disgust. 'For cryin' out loud.'
'Not worth anything, then?'
'Piss off, no. Get Buster in and the cash and you'll get a finder's fee.'
Sidney looked crestfallen and after a few moments Frank took out his wallet. Under the table he counted out three fives and passed them across.
'I'm going to put that down on my tax return as a charitable donation, right next to Battersea Dogs' Home. Now trot along and speak to Buster. Tell him it's a one-off offer. It's that or he'd better book a place in the sun a long way away.'
Sidney palmed the cash and stood. 'Yes, Mr Williams.'
Frank gave a thin smile and watched him go. Roy James. St John's Wood. Not bad for fifteen quid. Then he shuddered. As he always did after dealing with the likes of Sidney, Frank Williams felt as if he needed a long, hot bath.
'Inconclusive? What does that mean?' Len was virtually shouting into Billy Naughton's face, spraying spittle around the Public Bar of the Phoenix pub. Jack Slipper looked on, impassive.
'It means that they can't say for sure-'
'I know what it means, Billy. I'm not illiterate. But let me get this straight.' He banged his forehead, as if trying to hammer information in. 'The paint on Gordon Goody's shoes puts him at the crime scene. At Leatherslade Farm.'
'Along with some of the khaki from the Land Rover,' added Slipper.
Len looked at Slipper, as if he had forgotten he was even in the room. 'Yes, Skip. But yellow paint on Tony Fortune's shoes is "incon-fucking-clusive". Yet it's exactly the same paint.'
'We don't know that,' said Slipper softly.
Oh yes we do, thought Billy. At least, Len thinks we do.
'Bit of a bloody coincidence, guv,' Len said, 'him having yellow paint on the shoes at all. But not from the farm.'
'Tony Fortune deals in cars. He paints them sometimes. Some people even like yellow cars,' said Billy.
Len glared at him, as if he suspected some treachery on his part. Billy began to sweat under the gaze, and hid behind his drink.
'Ah lads, I was hoping to find you here.' It was Frank Williams, rubbing his hands together. 'Who's buying?'
'My shout,' said Slipper. 'What'll it be?'
'Just a Teacher's,' he replied. 'A double.'
The longsuffering landlord raised his eyebrows in mild protest – it was well past closing time – but he replenished everyone's drinks and they chinked glasses. 'What is it, Frank? You look like you've got feather underpants on.'
'I hear a whisper that you've been asked to concentrate on Buster Edwards. True?'
'Tommy did suggest we might switch to Buster, having drawn a blank on James.' It had been many weeks since the near-miss at Goodwood; there hadn't been a sniff of the driver since. Tommy Butler, newly appointed to the top Squad slot, had decided to shake things up. 'Is that a problem, Frank?'
'See, I have a contact with Buster. A friend of a friend. We've opened lines of communication.'
Slipper looked unfazed. Frank always had the best contacts at gutter level.
'I'd like a free hand to see how that runs. Without Tommy knowing too much.'
'How do we explain that, guv?' asked Len. 'When he's asked us to find him?'
'Because you have a fresh lead on Roy James to concentrate on.'
'But we-' Len began.
'Shush,' snapped Slipper, knowing how Williams operated. 'What have you got for us, Frank?'
'He's in St John's Wood. Before you say anything, I know how big it is. But, last time I looked, it was smaller than London, which is all you have at the moment. And at least you know he hasn't skipped completely. Is that something you can work with?'
Slipper didn't take long to make up his mind. 'I believe it is, Frank. Good luck with Buster.'
'And the tip didn't come from me, right? Anonymous bird phoned it into the Yard.' They all laughed. There had been plenty of those calls.
'That's fine by me.'
Frank Williams downed his drink and left with a spring in his step.
'What's his game?' asked Len after he had left the pub.
'I thought he'd be pissed off about Tommy Butler,' Billy suggested. The recent reorganisation put Butler as the new head of the Squad, with Millen kicked upstairs and Frank Williams stalled at deputy.
Slipper shook his head. 'No. Frank will never get head of Flying Squad. He knows that. Too many toes trodden on over the years.' He didn't offer any further explanation, just turned to them and said, 'So? Any thoughts on St John's Wood?'
The trio frowned into their glasses for a few minutes. Billy spoke first. 'You remember when we were at Bobby Pelham's – Roy 's mechanic?'
'Yup,' said Len. 'What about it?'
'All those copies of Motoring News and Autosports I nearly broke my neck on? There were stacks of them.'
'Go on,' prompted Jack Slipper, leaning his long skinny frame forward, eager to hear the next line.
'Well, Roy is still likely to want to know what's going on in racing, especially as he can't go to any meetings.'
'That's true,' Len agreed. 'So what do we do?'
Jack Slipper spoke for Billy, showing his gap-toothed smile. 'We go around all the newsagents in the area. See if anyone has put in an order for either Motoring News or Autosport recently.'
Len reached over and pinched Billy's cheek between forefinger and thumb. 'You little beauty,' he said. 'If you were a woman I'd let you suck my cock as a reward for that.'
Before Billy could come up with a smart answer to the remark, Len went over to the jukebox and put on the Chiffons' 'He's So Fine' and began to dance around the empty pub.
'Well done, son,' said Slipper. 'Proper police thinking. You all right? You look tired.'
'So do you.'
Slipper had come out in some ugly boils over the past weeks, scattered across his neck. Some jokers claimed each one represented a train robber still free, but it was the stress and the long days and nights taking their toll. 'Used to it. So's the missus. You don't get much chance of a love-life in the Squad if you don't have one before you begin.'
Billy smiled. He had given up free samples from the Soho girls – he would have anyway, even if the train robbery weren't all-consuming – and there had been a few tentative starts with WPCs, but all those had fizzled out, again because of the train. It was the same with his stable girl, scuppered by the distance involved. The newspapers were telling them that promiscuous sex was bursting out all over, what with Kinsey, Lady Chatterley, saucy pop music and the Pill, but not for him, it seemed. At least, not while some of the robbers were free. 'That's me and Cliff Richard, then. Bachelor Boys together.'
'And Tommy Buder,' Slipper reminded him. Detectives with families, like Jack Slipper, sometimes resented Butler 's work-all-hours mentality, arguing that because he wasn't married, he didn't understand how difficult it was to keep family life going, particularly with kids, unless you had some time off. 'This business with the yellow paint, Billy. That's all above board, is it?'
'Yes, sir,' he said formally. 'Gordy's right for this one.'
The big man stood up, towering over Billy on his stool. Foam from his beer was stuck to his thin moustache. 'That wasn't what I asked.'
Billy almost crossed his fingers when he replied. Hatherill's example had made him hesitate in fitting up Tony Fortune, but that didn't mean he was going to drop Len in it. 'It's GOFC.' It stood for Good Old-Fashioned Coppering, one of Slipper's favourite phrases.
Slipper wiped the beer froth from his mouth and showed his gappy grin once more. 'In which case, we won't be seeing Gordon Goody for a long, long time.' He pointed to an angry lump on his neck. 'That'll be another of these buggers gone.' And then he swayed off towards the Gents, whistling the tune that had just finished on the jukebox.
'Oi'll give it foive,' Len said, as he came over and draped an arm around Billy, imitating the Brummie tones of Janice Nicholls from Thank Your Lucky Stars. Billy wondered if he'd ever get to see that, or any other TV programme, again.
Then Len came close to his ear, his hot beery breath filling it. 'You screwed me up with Tony Fortune, didn't you? Didn't you? I know you did. I don't know how and I don't know why.' He stood up. 'Well, no hard feelings, Billy.' Len slapped his cheek lightly with the ends of his fingers, in rhythm with
his words. 'Because I am going to make sure that fucker goes down for this, one way or another.'
Tony Fortune stood at the window of his showroom, his left foot tapping out a jittery rhythm, although he had no idea what it was. Some kind of modern jazz, he assumed. Nothing else was quite so jagged. Stravinsky, perhaps.
He normally watched the pavement for punters, the window-shoppers and tyre-kickers who might be enticed in to buy a nice, low-mileage run-around or prestige saloon. Men and women who might be open to flattery ('You'd look great behind the wheel') or bluster ('I had a bloke in here at lunchtime who was interested. He's coming back at four').
Today, he was watching the winter sky darkening and the strange clouds being jostled across it by the unimaginable winds of the upper atmosphere. They had been drawn out into peculiar shapes by the stratospheric forces, one a Zeppelin, its neighbour a graceful dolphin, another a praying mantis, poised to strike.
He was seeing signs and portents everywhere, he realised. Why had that copper given him the yellow paint? Why on earth had he believed his story and applied a substitute – Ford Signal Yellow – to his own shoes? Mischievousness, he supposed. It also stopped them planting anything else, because they had thought they had him with the Hush Puppies.
One thing was for sure, he was right about Paddy. There had been a break-in at the showroom the previous night, the back door jimmied. Nothing was taken except Paddy's precious transistor radio. True, it was the most portable thing in the place and it might have been kids looking for something to sell. But his heart told him it was Paddy, a farewell visit. So, if the coppers were to be believed, the old fella had skimmed
five grand for himself before dumping the loot in the phone box. Good on him.
But he had lost a good friend when the old man bolted. And now he had lost Marie, too. When he told her what had happened, she had raged and cursed. Failed car salesman, failed getaway driver, failed robber and now failed husband, apparently. Oh, and failed to give Geoff a part in the tickle, which caused all his problems to begin with. So, failed brother-in-law.
She had taken little, barely formed Alfie off to her mother's, embracing once more the family she had vehemently disowned.
He felt a stab of ice into his heart. He had hardly got to know Alfie, only got used to that strange, warm, milky smell, and he had been snatched away. Well, she would get over it. Women went a bit strange after giving birth, so he had heard. He would go and find them and hold his son again. The alternative was too grim to contemplate.
The next twisted cloud scudded into view. A hooded monk. Ah well, he thought, he could always retreat to a monastery and take a vow of silence. He had precious few people left he could talk to anyway. No wife, no son to coo over, no mechanic to confide in, no dodgy friends who weren't running scared.
In the meantime, there was a lock and clasp to fix on the back door. He tore himself away from the window and turned to go out back to repair the damage.
The entrance to the showroom clanged open and he stopped in his tracks. It was John, the newsagent opposite. 'You had the radio on, Tony?'
'No.'
'They've shot Kennedy. In Dallas.'
'Fuckin' hell. Is he dead?'
'Not sure.'
Ah well, he thought, at least that's one they can't pin on me.
Scotland Yard, December 1963
'We're pretty sure he's at fourteen, Ryder's Terrace,' announced Billy to Jack Slipper. He placed an A-Z on the desk. ' St John's Wood. Would you believe it, the very last newsagent we try. It's a mews, virtually a cul-de-sac, with only an alley leading off from the rear. We can block it off at both ends easily enough.'
Slipper took a look at the map, peering at the dense lines and tiny writing. Billy waited for a commendation, but nothing came. He was used to that with Butler, whose idea of praise was two grunts instead of one, but Slipper normally indulged his detectives.
'OK, Billy. You and Len get some Ordnance Survey maps of the area. Then get down there and poke around.'
'There's only those two exits, guv. A couple of cars each end'll bottle him up.'
Slipper shook his head. 'You've read his docket?'
'Of course.'
'He used to be a first-floor man, didn't he?'
Billy knew what was coming.
'Then if we come knocking at the front door, what is he likely to do?'
'Out through a skylight?'
'If there is one. We should find out. Go and look it over, on the QT, let me know what you find. Take Patricia Waring with you.'
'Why?' Waring was one of the small number of WPCs that the Squad called upon when a woman was the best, or only, option. She had posed as barmaids, toms, landladies and even a fruit-picker living in a caravan in Kent. For the Train Squad she had shared a Derry & Toms changing room with Charmian Biggs to monitor her spending behaviour. They got on so well they had moved on to cocktails at the Roof Garden. Billy had no problem with Waring; she just seemed an unnecessary encumbrance.
'Because a couple sniffing around an area for a house to buy or rent is a lot less suspicious than a lone bloke who looks like he's casing the joint. Think of her as Arm Meat,' he said, using the slang for West End escort girls who didn't go the whole way with clients. Or, at least, claimed not to. 'Spend a day or two on it, come back, and we'll make sure we get the bastard.'
Billy turned to leave, but he sensed Slipper wasn't done and paused. Slipper looked up at him and spoke slowly and softly.
'I just got off the blower with Butler. The DPP has been leaned on from on high. We don't wait until we've got James, Reynolds, Edwards and White, we go with who and what we have. Which means pulling everything together, pronto. All hands to the pumps on evidence prep, which means we let Reynolds and the others slide for now.' Billy could tell this
didn't please him. They had almost caught Jimmy White after his missus went on a spending spree in Reigate. They tracked him to a caravan where they found £30,000 hidden in the walls, and White's fingerprints. But no Jimmy. 'Trial will be early next year at Aylesbury. I'm going to claim the call came after I sent you after our laddie in St John's Wood. So, Billy, come January, make sure Roy James is in the dock as well, won't you?'
The estate agents on Blenheim Terrace was a holdover from the 1940s, with a heavily wooded front and thick frosted glass designed to keep natural light out of the place. What little managed to enter simply highlighted the volume of dust floating in the air, thrown up whenever a document was inadvertently disturbed. At the rear, under spluttering fluorescent lights, two elderly men were writing in ledgers, and they sent their apprentice forward to deal with the inconvenient interlopers.
The young clerk listened to Billy and WPC Waring as they explained they were looking to move into the area and how much they could afford. Apparently two thousand pounds was not enough to get them anything other than a garage in need of decoration, so they upped it to three and were rewarded with a thin folder of possibilities, mostly one-bedroom flats. One of them, however, was a tiny cottage in Ryder's Terrace. They took the single sheet description and left the gloom of the office before they developed rickets.
Holding the paper before them, they walked around the corner into the mews. WPC Waring slid her arm through Billy's as if snuggling for warmth. It was a cold, bright day, the sky blue and diamond-hard, the sun low enough to hurt the eyes.
'Relax,' she said, as she felt him stiffen when she pulled
him closer. 'Newly engaged couple looking for a house for marital bliss. What could be more natural?'
'What's GCH?' he asked.
'Gas Central Heating.'
'Right. T and G?'
'Don't know.'
He glanced down at her. Under an A-line topcoat she was wearing a grey woollen dress, sleeveless, with a cream chiffon blouse underneath. She had on knee-high boots, white tights or stockings, and a small beret on the back of her hair. It was certainly a change from the unflattering uniform and clunky shoes she was forced to wear most days. 'What made you join the Force, Patricia?'
'My dad.'
'Really?' It was hard to imagine any father wanting to put his daughter into the rough and tumble of the all-male, unforgiving world of the Met.
'He was a DS in Brighton for twenty years. Didn't want me to go in, but it's his own fault for telling so many good stories. And yes, he was right, you do get treated either like a dyke or a whore. It's Patti, by the way.'
'What?'
'My name. Patricia in uniform, Patti at all other times, William.'
'Billy.'
She rolled her eyes. 'I know. I was teasing. Shouldn't detectives be a bit quicker on the uptake?'
They had reached Ryder's Terrace and looked along the row of houses. There were two rows of cottages. Number 14 was on their left, on the plainer side of the street, flat- fronted and painted white. The ones opposite had fancier doorways and bowed windows.
The apparently happy couple stopped outside number 18, which contained the flat for sale, and looked up at it.
'Windows need painting,' he said. 'And look at that guttering.'
'Billy.'
He turned to look at her and she pushed onto her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips. 'Try and look pleased,' she whispered. 'Someone's just come out of number fourteen.'
He gave a smile.
'You look like you've got constipation. Show me the property details.'
He was aware of someone passing behind them as he looked from page to house, reading out some of the features.
'He's gone,' Patti said.
'Was it him?' Billy asked, stepping back from her and looking down the passage that led back to Blenheim Terrace.
'Right height. Beard, though. And hat. Hard to be sure. Sorry about the kiss.'
'All in the line of duty.'
'Well, I'd wipe off the lippie before you get back, for both our sakes.'
Billy took out his handkerchief and dabbed away the pink lipstick from the corner of his mouth. 'Nice shade.'
'Pale Fire,' she said. 'Come on, let's take a look.'
They strolled past number 14. It was a two-storey house, with large windows on the first floor, protected by railings, like a small, impractical balcony. Two doorbells showed it was also split into flats, although judging by the exterior dimension they must be exceedingly compact.
'The bottom one says Mrs King,' said Patti, squinting. 'I doubt if he's gone that far to disguise himself.'
'What good eyes you have,' Billy said, unable to read the names for himself. 'Let's take a stroll around the back.'
They walked the neighbouring streets, alert for a likely escape route. Number 14 butted against the walled yards of Blenheim Terrace. Jumping into one of those would trap you. One end of the row meant a drop into the access alley directly onto the pavement. You'd break a leg or ankle. At the western end of the cottages, the terrace gave onto rough waste, its ground level higher than that of the street. The distance from the roof to earth was still daunting.
'He'd need a parachute,' said Billy, turning away.
'Hold on.'
Patti picked her way gingerly across the rubble and broken glass, careful not to snap her spike heels. She hesitated at the foot of the wall and crouched down.
'What is it?'
She stood up and retraced her steps just as carefully. Then held up a hand blackened with dark soil. 'An allotment, apparently.'
'DC Naughton. A word.'
It was George Hatherill, looking terribly drawn, his usually immaculate tie askew. Billy guessed the Train Squad weren't the only ones working all the hours God and the devil sent.
'Sir.'
'In here.' He shuffled Billy into an unused interview room. 'You've heard, I suppose? About the DPP?'
'Yes. Trial to go ahead.'
Hatherill took out a cigarette and offered Billy one. They lit up. 'Well, the PM, Home Secretary and Postmaster General all had a hand in it. I want to know whether things are watertight this end.'
'Sir?'
'You know what I mean. Has anyone been unduly enthusiastic? I don't want any nasty surprises in court.'
Billy thought about Gordon Goody and the paint. Len had certainly been 'enthusiastic', but he wasn't going to reveal that to Hatherill, just as he hadn't to Slipper. 'Not that I know of, sir.'
'Because these blokes have the cash to hire some of the best briefs in town. Speed, Finch and Salmon, among others. One of them has that bastard Miles Cokely who would get Hitler off if the money was right.'
'There's one thing worrying me, sir.'
Hatherill smoked furiously. 'What's that – Frank Williams?'
'No. We've got the robbers at the farm, right?'
'Yes. Conclusively.'
Billy didn't think so. 'Many of the prints are on items that could be moved. Monopoly, for instance.'
'I am aware of that. They'll claim they played elsewhere. We'll be prepared for it.'
'And we have nothing at all to place anyone at the robbery. Nobody at Bridego Bridge or Sears Crossing. Not a single print, fibre or hair. Everything depends on that farm and the jury believing that if you were at the farm you were part of the team.'
Hatherill dismissed that with a wave of his Senior Service. 'Well, it's commonsense.'
'Will that bastard Cokely think so? Or will he sow some seeds of doubt? You might have been at the farm, you might even have money, but does that mean you were at the train? He could go for accessory after the fact or receiving.'
'That's true,' the Commander conceded. 'But we've got Arthur James and Neil MacDermot for the prosecution. They are no pushovers. Receiving might do for some of them, but
the main blaggers I want done for conspiracy to rob the mail and armed robbery. Which brings me back to my main point. I know time is running out, but I don't want to see anyone in the dock who will embarrass us. Is that clear? If you have any doubts about how anyone is proceeding, the veracity of the evidence, dates, times, forensics, anything at all, then come straight to me. Not Slipper or Butler or Williams. Me. You understand?
Oh yes, sir. You want your Last Big Case to go off without a hitch. And you want me as you own little snout.
'Perfectly.'
'Good.' He clapped him on the shoulder and left, puffing smoke behind him like a corpulent steam engine.
Billy stubbed out his own cigarette and followed, his feet dragging a little more than when he entered the room.
Roy James heard the doorbell downstairs ring and froze. He wasn't expecting anyone. Nobody came round at night and he never went out. Who would come calling? The only people who knew where he was were his mum, who didn't do visits in the dead of winter, and Dennis, a friend who had the rest of his train money well hidden. Before that he had entrusted it to an 'associate' of Charlie's and the Richardsons, but that bastard had started to spend it. When he'd tried to get it back he had been forced to drop the names of some of Charlie's even heavier friends who might assist in its recovery. Using mallets and nails. He'd got the lump back, minus seven grand 'expenses and minder's fee'.
Dennis, though, wasn't a gangster, and Roy was confident he wouldn't take advantage. He was equally certain that Dennis wouldn't come round unannounced, ringing his doorbell.
Roy was aware that whoever was at the door would know
somebody was in the flat. He was playing Ray Charles loud enough to be heard outside and the lights were on in the first-floor living room and hallway
From the bedroom he heard the tinkle of breaking glass and leaped to his feet. His 'cush' was stashed in the low cupboard next to the mantelpiece. He yanked the door open, grabbed the BEA vinyl bag and ran into the hallway. There was a key in the lock of the bedroom, which he turned, buying himself a few seconds. In a well-practised move, he then climbed onto the stair banister and pushed open the fanlight.
He tossed the bag onto the roof and hauled himself through. Below him came the sound of hammering and splintering as the bedroom door was shattered.
It was bitterly cold outside and he shivered as, jacketless, he clambered onto the low-pitched roof. The stars were out, with but a sliver of a moon, but even in that light he could see the roof was sparkling with frost. It was going to be slippy, getting over the tiles.
He picked up the bag and crept forward, bent almost double, walking like Max Wall, his feet slithering and the slates splitting underfoot with a series of loud cracks, until he reached the end of the terrace. Below him, he could hear raised voices in the street. Police and neighbours, bellowing at each other.
Roy peeked over into the blackness, a void not penetrated either by the feeble starlight or the distant street-lamps. He had to visualise the landing pad he had prepared – a six-inch deep strip of soft, yielding soil amid the broken bottles and scrap metal. He dropped the bag over, wincing as it thudded to earth. It was quite some drop.
Counting to three, Roy followed it, launching himself into space, his legs slightly bent, ready to absorb the impact, cold air streaking past him, flapping his shirt. His feet sank into
the soft soil and he pitched forward, landing heavily on one shoulder and partially winding himself. He took a couple of deep breaths, waiting for the pain to subside, then sprang up. He swept to the left where he was sure the bag had fallen.
Nothing.
He moved to the right, hands scything low over the soil, until something sharp caught one of his fingers. 'Shit.' He sucked it and tasted coppery blood.
'Looking for this, Roy?'
The torch beam snapped on, illuminating a woman holding his BEA shoulder bag.
'That? That's not mine,' he said quickly, standing upright. 'Never seen it before.'
'Oh, Roy,' said Billy Naughton, his voice full of regret at such a feeble lie. 'The prints placed you at the farm – what do you think these will do?' The cylinder of light turned on him and Roy held up his arm to shield his eyes from the glare. As he did so, someone grabbed his wrist and snapped a handcuff bracelet round it.
'Four months since you gave us the slip at Goodwood,' said Duke Haslam, as he squeezed the second steel circle shut on the left wrist and gave him a poke in the kidneys for good measure. 'Hope you enjoyed it. It's the last bit of freedom you'll have for a while.'
Billy looked over at a beaming Patti Waring. He hoped she got credit for working out that the bit of urban 'gardening' on the bombsite was, in fact, a soft landing pad for a quick, daring escape, dug by the wily racing driver. She probably wouldn't, though. Both Butler and Slipper were at the front of 14 Ryder's Terrace and one or both would doubtless scoop all the kudos.
As Len Haslam led a disconsolate Roy James around to
one of the waiting Squad cars, Billy took the bag from Patti and tucked it under his arm. She deserved a drink if nothing else.
'And then there were twelve,' he said, having added up who was behind bars now.
'Best go for the round number then,' shouted Len over his shoulder. 'A nice fat baker's dozen.'
For the moment, Billy didn't appreciate what he meant. But he would soon enough.
Scotland Yard, December 1963
In the small room put aside for them, the two Bank of England officials examined the contents of Roy 's holdall while Frank Williams and a bleary-eyed but happy Billy Naughton watched. After depositing Roy James and the money at Cannon Row, he and Patti had gone out for that drink, which became seven or eight. He had avoided the Dive Bar and the Phoenix, instead using one off Charlotte Street she knew. It had been a better-than-pleasant evening, and had ended with a kiss that was the genuine article, rather than a means of distraction. Or, at least, he hoped so.
The Senior Clerk examined the piles of cash before him and said, with evident satisfaction, 'Twelve thousand, five hundred pounds exactly.'
'What are those?' asked Billy, pointing at the smallest pile.
'These have serial numbers that match the money on the train.'
'Yesss.' hissed Frank, punching the air. 'Got the weaselly
bastard. If that doesn't give Tommy a hard-on, his dick has died and gone to heaven.' He caught the expression on the bankers' faces. 'Sorry, gents.'
'And there is this. At the bottom of the bag.' The clerk's cotton-gloved hands smoothed out a piece of paper. It was a list of figures.
£22,400-£5
£15,000-£1
£18,200-£1
£14,000- £5
£10,000-?
£5,000-1 Os
FRA- £1,000
Flat – £2,000
Car – £1,000
£12,500 – Dennis
£1,500 – Brab
The Senior Clerk watched the policemen's lips moving as they performed the mental arithmetic. 'In case you are wondering,' he said, 'it comes to one hundred and nine thousand and five hundred pounds.'
'It must be his share,' said Billy. 'Although it doesn't seem enough.'
Frank snorted. 'It'd do me. Maybe minus some expenses or drinks. Bobby Pelham's lot isn't there, is it?' He read it one more time. 'What's a Brab?'
'Brabham,' said Billy. 'Might be a new engine or something. You can't buy a Brabham car for that.'
'And Dennis?'
Billy thought, sifting through the dozens, no, scores of
names which had been linked to the robbery. 'Can't recall a Dennis ever coming up.' 'FRAP'
'Nope. Franny? Bruce Reynolds's wife?'
'Unlikely. A Frank somebody, perhaps. I'm sure Tommy will get to the bottom of it when he questions the lad. Well, we'll bag the list and get it to Aylesbury for him. Yet another exhibit. Must be like the bloody V and A in their evidence room.'
There were already more than a thousand items that could be used as evidence, and the witness list – which included virtually anyone who had come across the accused – had passed two hundred. It was going to be a very big number indeed.
'Thank you, gentlemen,' he said. 'We'll take it from here.'
'You have to sign our count,' replied the Senior Clerk, pushing a document over to Frank.
The detective fished a pen from his jacket pocket and scrawled his name on the three sheets. 'I'm certain we'll be seeing you again.'
'Yes,' drawled the Senior Clerk, picking up his briefcase and hat. 'Just another two million or so to locate, I believe.'
'Piss off,' muttered Frank under his breath as they closed the door behind them.
'Where's Len, by the way?' he asked Williams. Duke rarely missed a chance to be at the finale of any collar, and they also had their notes for the previous evening to write up, in case they were called into the box to refute James's claim that he had never seen the BEA bag before.
Frank was busy wriggling his fingers into a set of the white gloves with which he would handle the compromising evidence. 'Len? He's got that warrant.'
It was the first Billy had heard about it. 'What warrant?'
'To turn over Tony Fortune.'
Billy swore softly. 'Home or showroom?'
'I don't know. Be in the Duty Book.'
Billy was out the door before he had finished. Frank's voice echoed down the linoleumed corridor as Billy skidded along it.
'Oi! I need a hand here. Where are you going?'
But Billy's mind was too occupied to even register the question. A baker's dozen, he had said. Len Haslam was going to take Tony Fortune down.
Buster Edwards risked going up top from the airless cabin he had been assigned on the stubby little freighter, but he took his case of money on deck with him. He positioned it between his feet and leaned on the rail. The ship was old, it stank of diesel and greasy food. His cabin was close to the engines, noisy and hot. He could have had one on the Canberra for the price he was paying for this crossing. And there would be food then. He was starving; all he had eaten while hiding in the cargo area in the shadow of the Custom House had been one cheese sandwich.
He let the chill breeze clear his airways, enjoying even the scent of the molasses factory by the Blackwall Tunnel which it carried. It reminded him of a brewery, rich and hoppy. The wind whipped at his hair and he leaned forward and looked down at the dirty old river churning beneath the hull.
The freighter steamed away from St Katharine's Docks, vibrating its way downriver, passing the first saw-toothed outline of the still-derelict warehouses of Wapping. Buster watched Tower Bridge shrink and then disappear as the ship
rounded a bend in the river. Would he ever look upon that bridge, or any other Thames crossing, again?
He had seriously considered giving himself up, but such was the frenzy about the Train, he was certain they would get double-digit sentences. He trusted Frank Williams, as much as he trusted any copper, but there was only so much the man could deliver on any promise. So, there had been no real choice. Buster could wait for them to come and get him or he could leave.
It had meant abandoning June, which pained him, but she would be all right. She had instructions to go to Williams once he was clear and tell him he had gone and to leave her alone. He was sure Frank would. None of the Squad cared much for prosecuting wives.
He had also left Bruce in London, still planning the details of his own escape and waiting for his fake documents. Buster was bound for Antwerp and then Germany.
'Mr Miller.' It was the captain, a hawk-faced Dutchman with a scraggly blond beard, standing behind him. 'You should go below. Stay out of sight. I'll call you for meals.'
'In a second. Just saying goodbye.'
'Don't be long. The crew get curious about passengers who carry their cases with them everywhere. If you understand me.'
Buster looked down at the cash between his feet. 'Thanks. Yeah.'
Mr Miller. He had to remember that he was no longer Buster Edwards, he was Jack Miller. Different name, then different face – Brian Field had friends of friends in Germany who could arrange plastic surgery. Then he would send for June and they would settle somewhere in the world, far away from Butler and Co. Mexico, Bruce had said
he fancied. Mexico sounded pretty good, Buster thought. And then a little voice in his head said, But not as good as London.
The weather was changing; the wind strengthened, moving from chilly to biting, and the sky darkened ominously, but Buster waited until they were level with Greenwich, and he admired the lines of the Cutty Sark and the beauty of Sir Christopher Wren's Naval College one last time, before he went below to his temporary prison, feeling dark clouds of his own gathering.
Tony Fortune was under a TR4, fitting a new clutch without the benefit of an aligning tool – Paddy seeming to have either hidden it or taken it – when he became aware of someone standing next to the car.
'Be with you in a mo'.'
'Take your time, Tony. No rush. We put the Closed sign up for you.'
Tony pushed himself out from beneath the chassis using the wheeled trolley underneath him. He was looking up at a grinning Len Haslam. He could hear car doors being opened and shut, out in the showroom. 'What's this?'
Len flipped open a piece of paper. 'I have here a search warrant to execute.'
Tony jumped to his feet, wiping his hands on his overalls. 'For what, exactly?'
'We have reason to believe that proceeds from the Sears Crossing Train Robbery-'
Tony grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the last of the grease from his fingers as he walked to the front of his premises. Three uniformed police officers were examining each car in turn.
'They won't find anything.'
Len folded his arms, the smirk still on his face. 'Let's see.'
He watched as the three coppers gave the little Goggomohil bubble car the once over and came up clean. Len's smile began to fade. 'Do it again.'
After ten more minutes, the copper shook his head. 'Shall we rip out the seats and panels?'
'You could,' said Tony. 'Then you'd have to pay me for the damage. There's nothing to find.'
Len took a deep breath. His skin had turned mottled, aflame with patches of red. 'Well, Mr Fortune.'
'Well, Mr Haslam.'
'Come on, lads. We'll be back.'
As he walked by the tiny German car he gave it a hefty kick, and the door dented. 'Built of tinfoil, these things,' he muttered.
A breathless Billy Naughton was waiting for him outside. Len sent the uniforms back to the cars and turned to Billy, a scowl where the smile had been minutes before. 'You fuckin' little pissbag of a shit cunt.'
'No luck, Len?'
'What did you do?'
'I asked Tony if he had had a break-in recently. He said he had. Nothing taken but a radio. No log books or MOTs or other stuff a real criminal might take. What was it you planted? A skim from the phone-box money? Because that didn't quite add up, did it? When the bankers counted it, it was light a few grand.'
'I tell you, Goody-two-shoes, Hatherill won't save you this time. When Tommy Butler hears what you did-'
'What, stopped you fabricating evidence? I should have shopped you for Goody.'
'What's stoppin' you?'
Billy shrugged. 'It's not the way it should be.'
The punch surprised him, a sharp uppercut that clashed his teeth together and sent him bouncing off the showroom window. He slithered down to a crouching position, waiting for the stars he was seeing to fade. A powerful kick to the ribs finished him off, and through sparking tunnel vision, he watched Duke stride off, still muttering obscenities.
He must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew Tony was feeding him sweet tea and he was sitting in the workshop.
'You all right?'
Billy touched his jaw and winced. When he spoke, his tongue felt too big for his mouth, as if he'd traded places with an ox. 'Think I need a dentist.'
'And a new opo.'
'That, too. Where's the money?'
'Safe, well away from here. You'll want it back, I assume.'
Billy shook his head, then regretted it. 'Right now, I can't explain where it came from. It hasn't been missed. It might be more trouble than it's worth. How much was there?'
Tony sipped his own tea. 'I didn't stop to count it. You called to say the cossers were coming with a warrant and that you suspected something incriminating had been planted. I was lucky it was in the second car I searched. The Goggomobil. Under the wheel arch.'
Billy looked around at the workshop, the faded calendars on the wall, the half-empty tins of oil, the mounds of spare or discarded parts. 'You got anything keeping you here?'
' London? No. Just the stock out there.'
'Will the train money cover it?'
'A good part.'
'Shut the place up then. Go and lie low till the scream dies down.'
Tony's eyes narrowed, his voice full of suspicion. 'Why would you do that? Let me walk away – again?'
'Did you do the train, Tony?'
'No,' he was able to answer truthfully.
'I thought not. But they aren't going to care about details. They're building a bloody great steamroller and everyone in its path is going to get flattened.'
'I would've though,' the other man said softly. 'I bloody would have.'
'And where would you be now?'
Tony ran a hand through his hair. 'Is that your crime- doesn't-pay-speech?'
'Perhaps. The closest to one you're going to get, anyway.'
Tony stood and went over to the pegboard where the keys for the cars dangled from hooks. He picked off a set and tossed them to Billy. 'If you were a certain kind of copper, I would recommend the Ace. Best motor in the shop. I straightened the chassis. It'll need bushes on the back axle within six months, is all. Log book is in the desk drawer. Signal Red, very eye-catching.'
Billy stared at the ignition key in his hand, imagining driving down through country lanes, to a pub in Kent perhaps, with Patti at his side. And he wondered how he would explain to Patti – or Hatherill, for that matter – how he came by such a racy machine. 'If I was that kind of copper I'd take it.' He sighed and threw the keys back to Tony.
Tony snatched them from the air. 'And you're not?'
'Apparently,' Billy said, as if he were baffled himself.
'I don't understand.'
'No. I expect you don't. Thanks for the offer of the car anyway. I'd best get back.'
'You said something about a steamroller. What do you think they'll do? To the ones they've caught?'
Tony finished the tea and placed the mug on the bench. 'The Train Robbers? They'll throw the book at them.'
From The Times, 17 April 1964
GREAT PUNISHMENT FOR TRAIN ROBBERS
OBVIOUS MOTIVE OF GREED
SEVEN SENTENCED TO 30 YEARS' IMPRISONMENT
The heaviest series of sentences in modern British criminal history were imposed at Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire, yesterday on the 12 men guilty of being involved in last August's £2,600,000 mail train robbery. The effective total amounts to 307 years. Seven of the accused were each sentenced to 30 years' imprisonment. Earlier in the trial one of the defendants, John Daly, was found to have 'no case to answer', despite his fingerprints being found on a Monopoly board at the gang's hideout. Daly claimed to have played with his brother-in-law, Bruce Reynolds, still wanted in connection with the crime, some weeks before the robbery.
Passing sentence, the Judge, Mr Justice Edmund-Davies, said it would be positively evil if leniency were exercised. A great crime called for great punishment, not for mere retribution but to show others that crime did not pay – that the game was not worth even the most alluring candle.
FIRST AND LAST
As well as the seven who received sentences of 30 years, two more men were sent to prison for 25 years, one for 24, another to 20 and the twelfth man received 3 years.
Passing judgement on the twelve men, the Judge said that the crime, in its enormity, was the first of its kind in this country. 'I propose to do all within my power to ensure it will also be the last of its kind.
'Your outrageous conduct constitutes an intolerable menace to the well-being of society. Let us clear out of the way any romantic notion. This is nothing less than a sordid crime of violence, which was inspired by vast greed.
'The motive of greed is obvious. As to violence, anybody who has seen that nerve-shattered engine driver can have no doubt of the terrifying effect on law-abiding citizens of a concerted assault by armed robbers.'
All with the exception of Wheater (see table below) were found Guilty of conspiring together with other persons not in custody to stop the mail train with intent to rob the mail. All with the exception of Wheater, Cordrey and the two Fields (who are not related) were found Guilty of being armed with offensive weapons, robbing Frank Dewhurst, Post Office official on the train, of 120 mail bags.
Cordrey pleaded Guilty to three charges of receiving £78,983, £56,047 and £5,901.
Wheater and the two Fields were found Guilty of conspiring together to conceal the identity of the person who agreed to purchase Leatherslade Farm by making false statements to police officers, and thereby obstructing the course of justice.
In a separate trial, which ended on Wednesday, Ronald Arthur Biggs was found Guilty of conspiring to stop the train to rob it,
and also of taking part in the armed robbery. Like the majority of the defendants, he had pleaded Not Guilty.
Police still wish to interview Bruce Reynolds, Ronald Edwards and James White in connection with the robbery.
THE MEN AND THE SENTENCES
The men sentenced to 30 years were:
Ronald Arthur Biggs, aged 34, carpenter, of Alpine Road, Redhill, Surrey;
Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 34, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W.;
Charles Frederick Wilson, aged 31, market trader, of Crescent Lane, Clapham, S.W.;
Thomas William Wisbey, aged 33, bookmaker, of Ayton House, Camberwell, S.E.;
Robert Welch, aged 34, club proprietor, of Benyon Rd, Islington, N.; James Hussey, aged 34, painter, of Eridge House, Dog Kennel Hill, East Dulwich, S.E.;
Roy John James, aged 28, racing motorist and silversmith, of Nell Gwynn House, Sloane Avenue, S.W.
The other sentences were:
William Boal, aged 50, engineer, of Burnthwaite Road, Fulham, S.W. – 24 years
Roger John Cordrey, aged 42, florist, of Hurst Road, East Molesey, Surrey – 20 years
Brian Arthur Field, aged 29, solicitor's managing clerk, of Kabri, Bridge Road, Whitchurch Hill, Oxfordshire – 25 years
Leonard Denis Field, aged 31, merchant seaman, of Green Lanes, Haringay, N. – 25 years
John Denby Wheater, aged 41, solicitor, of Otways Lane, Ashtead, Surrey – three years
Surrey, May 1992
Our feet crunched on the gravel as we opened the gate and I started my second journey up the drive to the house. Above us the moon was sagging in the sky, as if tired of the effort of staying aloft. I knew how it felt.
'How is he?' Bill Naughton asked, huffing slightly, his cheeks glowing from the cold night air.
' Roy? Up and down.'
'Personally, I don't think he was ever the same once he came out. I think that thirty-year jolt disturbed the balance of his mind,' Naughton said. 'Roy's, I mean. Even though none of them served the full whack, it must've been a psychological blow.'
'Devastating.' I remembered the outrage at the sentences – including my own numb sense of shock, especially as I could so nearly have been in that dock – and the instinctive, widespread feeling that they were disproportionate to the crime, the coshed driver notwithstanding. The Judge had intended to show the public that the country wouldn't tolerate such
banditry, that there was no room for Robin Hoods. But it had the opposite effect to the one intended: it created a wave of sympathy for the robbers that a ten- or fifteen-year term would not have generated. The thirty years made them martyrs.
The Establishment, of course, must have felt besieged from all sides at that point in history, and the hefty sentences were part of it blindly lashing out at changes it couldn't understand. The ancien regime didn't know it, but the full force of the 1960s was about to burst over them. The robbery must have seemed just yet another worrying signifier – along with Peter Cook and the contraceptive Pill, Mick Jagger and miniskirts, Marlon Brando and Lenny Bruce – of a descent into anarchy. Baffled, out-of-touch authorities would make similar mistakes a few years later and over-react by busting the Rolling Stones and prosecuting gormless hippy magazines.
'Of course,' Bill continued, 'those with wives or girlfriends who stood by them managed the best. Roy never had that.'
'You ever get married, Mr Naughton?' I asked as we walked nearer the entrance.
'Yes. To a WPC. Patti. She passed away last year.'
'Sorry to hear that.'
'Yeah. Good while it lasted, though. Very good. What about you? Your missus ever come back?'
We reached the front door of Roy 's house, which I had left open. 'Only us. Don't shoot!' I shouted, only half-joking, then turned back to the copper who had once saved my bacon. 'No. She was disgusted that I couldn't even manage thieving properly. Divorced me. I've got a son out there somewhere who I last saw when he was just a couple of months old. Alfie.'
'Must hurt.'
It was a lot worse than that, but the pain had numbed over
the years. It was a wicked thing to do though, to keep me away from my boy. I sometimes felt I'd been punished worse than the train robbers for not doing the crime. I had heard that Marie had recently moved to Dubai or some other Godforsaken sandbox.
'Yeah, but I remarried,' I sighed. 'Did a Bruce and Roy. Chose a younger woman.'
Naughton dropped his voice as we neared the kitchen. 'Bruce struck lucky with Franny, but I hope you made a better job of it than Roy.'
I thought of Jane, still in bed at that hour, curled up, the echo of her perfume still on my skin. 'I did, I think.'
Bill walked ahead of me into the kitchen and sniffed the air. 'Ah, still a menace to society I see, gentlemen. Should I call the Drugs Squad?'
'Not unless we need fresh supplies. Those bastards are the biggest dealers in London. You want some first?' Bruce asked, holding out the joint. He had moved to sit next to Roy, at the opposite side of the table from where I was standing with Bill Naughton.
Bill shook his head. 'No, not for me. I'll have a drop of whisky, though.'
I poured him one and handed it over. His eyes went to the gun on the table, still lying in front of Roy. 'Cheers.'
'Bruce here wanted the griff on who grassed them up, Bill,' I said.
'Well, as you know, lads, I never did get to see it through to the end. I was taken off the Flying Squad well before the trial and moved to CID Uxbridge. Didn't get back on the Sweeney for another – oh, twelve years.'
'They shift you because you was too clean?' Bruce asked. 'Because you wouldn't bundle us up like the others?'
Bill sighed. 'Not that old tune, Bruce. You were done fair and square.'
'I was.' Bruce had been caught in Torquay, down on his luck and with the remaining money dwindling fast, after five years on the run following spells in the South of France and Mexico. Rumour had it he simply shrugged when "tommy Butler had turned up at the door, as if he had been expecting him, almost relieved it was over. He had just three grand to give back. He received twenty-five years.
'But Bill Boal was just a mug who helped Roger out after the event and he died in prison, the poor sod. And Charlie never said anything about "poppy" when arrested. Buder made that up.'
'I can't say,' said Bill, as if reluctant to speak ill of the Squad that had disowned him. I wondered if they had done so because he would have no part in fitting me up. 'It's Butler 's word against Wilson 's.'
Charlie Wilson always maintained that the line he was meant to have spoken to Butler, 'I don't see how you can make it stick without the poppy and you won't find that' – the 'poppy red' (bread) being a convoluted rhyming slang for money – was a total fabrication. Maybe. I, for one, had never heard any of them use that particular phrase. But Butler didn't need to make anything up; he had prints at the farm.
'OK.' Bruce wagged a finger at the policeman. 'And you lot fitted up Gordy, good and proper.'
'He was there, Bruce,' Bill said. 'Gordy was at it, you all were. It was all part of the game back then.'
'Not for you,' I reminded him.
His face drooped a little. Did he regret once being quite so right and proper? 'I was out of step.'
'What happened to your mate? Haslam, was it?' I asked, knowing full well it was.
'Len? Went in one of the anti-corruption purges in the early seventies. Jumped before he was pushed. Frank Williams was head of security for Qantas by then. Gave him a job, I believe.'
'All right for some,' muttered Bruce.
The robbers had not fared well. Most were broke or dead, like Charlie, who escaped, was recaptured by Buder, served his time, then ended up in the drugs trade that killed him. Ronnie escaped from Wandsworth and was still at large in Rio, despite Jack Slipper's various attempts over the years to get him back. But everyone knew that what Ronnie craved most of all was a pint in Redhill, not cocktails on the Copacabana. He was not so much a fugitive as an exile, banished from his beloved homeland.
Roy spoke up for the first time. 'So – was there a grass?'
My heart began to beat a little faster. Geoff's role in this – and Marie's – had never come to light. It wasn't my fault, not really, although I had stupidly broken the rule about keeping the wives in the dark. Between them, Geoff and my missus had helped put Butler onto Bruce.
'Ah, that'd be telling. Was there a Mr Big?' Bill asked mockingly.
Bruce laughed. 'Now who is playing an old tune?' Bruce maintained he had never denied the Mr Big concept simply because it helpfully diminished his own role in things. He had hoped for a lighter sentence or earlier release if they thought he was a mere lieutenant. It might have helped, too; he only served nine of his twenty-five. Or perhaps attitudes had changed by the time he came to do his time. 'You can tell me now, Bill. If there was a snitch, it's not like I am in a position to do anything about it.'
Laughton sighed. 'You know we had anonymous calls. About you.'
Bruce's head snapped round and he glared at him. 'Who from?'
'Anonymous people. By definition we don't know who they are. One of them mentioned you, Bruce. And you, Tony. That's why we were so sure you'd had something to do with setting it up.'
Me? This was the first I had heard about that. Who could or would finger me?
But really, I knew immediately. Janie Riley. Beautiful, sexy, unstable Janie Riley.
Bill saw certainty forming on my face and moved quickly on. 'But we were already onto both of you. There was no big grass in the firm, Bruce, there didn't need to be. Just a lot of little mistakes on your part. I don't believe there was a Mr Big, either. Only some bloke on the inside we never caught. Eh, Bruce?'
Bruce remained impassive, brooding on it all. I hoped he didn't come up with Janie as the snitch. Not after all this time.
Then he surprised us all by saying, apparently a propos of nothing: 'You know Janie Riley topped herself? Pills. Well, pills and a bottle of vodka. It happened while Jack and I were in Mexico. Buster, I mean. He was Jack in Mexico. Shame.'
Nobody spoke until Roy put his head in his hands. 'What jolt will I get for all this, Mr Naughton?'
'I don't know, Roy. Four? Six, tops.'
He groaned. 'Don't talk to me about six. I can't do six.'
"Course you can,' said Bruce, placing a hand on his shoulder. 'You're still a young bloke.'
The movement was so quick, the arm a blur, it was as if
Roy was demonstrating that he still had the reflexes of a twenty-eight year old. He snatched up the pistol and had it in his mouth before any of us could stop him
'No!' I managed to shout as I lunged forward, but Bruce was there before me, grappling with Roy. I threw myself backwards as the gun went off, the discharge filling the room and traumatising my eardrums. A slow trickle of plaster came down from the ceiling, as if it had escaped from a snow-globe.
A graceful curl of blue smoke spiralled slowly above the table. We all watched it, transfixed, for a moment.
Bruce stared down at the weapon in his hands and tossed it to Bill, who caught it and slotted it into his overcoat pocket.
We all then looked at Roy, and at the thin trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. Bruce must have caught the foresight on the skin as he wrenched it from his mouth.
'I fuckin' hate guns,' said Bruce, handing him an immaculate, folded handkerchief. 'What you doin' with one, Roy? You could hurt yourself, you know?'
Roy dabbed at the wound and gave a small, hollow laugh. 'I bought that from a mate of Charlie's when I got out. I was going to shoot Dennis for pissing all my money away. Good, solid Dennis, stand-up bloke, developed a taste for the gee- gees and bimbo women. Who would have thought it?' He looked up at Bill. 'Only thing I got to show for the whole kit and caboodle was a house for my mum.'
'Must be easier ways of getting one of those,' said Bill.
'I should have stuck to motor-racing.'
'We all should have,' said Bruce. 'You're still bleeding, mate. Sorry about that. Keep the handkerchief.'
'We have to go,' said Bill. 'Someone outside will have heard the shot. They'll be in here like Bruce bloody Willis any minute.'
I shook my head and my ears popped and I was fully back in the room. 'We'll lock up,' I promised. 'Turn out the lights.'
'Thanks. And can you leave a dish of milk outside for next door's cat?' Roy asked.
This tickled Bruce and his thin frame shook as he laughed. 'Fuck me, Roy. Don't you ever learn?'
I remembered then that one of the prints that incriminated Roy had been on the cat's bowl at the farm.
Roy gave a lascivious wink. 'You haven't seen the neighbour.'
He stood, and first I, then Bruce shook his hand, a solemn moment with a strange feeling of finality, of the curtain coming down one last time.
'Thank you for your time, gents,' said Bill. 'I'll be in touch.'
'I'll always stand character witness,' said Bruce, breaking the gloomy atmosphere. 'I'm good for it.'
'Christ, only if Peter Sutcliffe's not free,' said Roy, with a grin that seemed to come from the old Roy James.
Bill Naughton smiled, placed a hand on the small of Roy 's back and propelled him into the hallway. As they headed for the front door, Roy 's arms were already going up above his head in the traditional gesture of surrender.
Bruce and I sat in silence for a few minutes. I poured the remains of Bill's whisky into my own glass and pulled back the curtains. The sky was growing lighter now, a very tentative dawn, no more than a few spirals of burnished copper in the east.
'How are you really, Bruce?' I asked, turning back to him.
A wave of weariness seemed to wash over him. For the first time, he looked his age. I probably did too. Staying up till first light was a young man's game. We needed our beauty sleep.
'Me?' he said. 'Since I got home, I'm an old crook living on handouts from other old crooks.' He began to build himself another joint. 'You know, when I got back from Mexico and put the word out, I thought there'd be dozens of young guns wanting to get involved with the famous Great Train Robber. Not a bit of it. They were like – "whoa, thirty years? I'm not having any of that". Still the same, even now. I guess that fuckin' judge knew what he was doing, after all.'
I suddenly remembered I needed a lift back home and that the cops owed me one. I didn't want to walk out to an empty road. 'We should go, too.'
He looked at the joint, made to light it and thought better of it. He tucked it into an inside pocket. 'And then there are those twats who think I'm still loaded. That I live in Croydon because I'm an eccentric millionaire. They only got about three hundred grand back, so they reckon we still have the rest. They have no idea. There's some right fuckin' villains out there, including the lawyers. They should look at how much those cunts charged us all.'
'I can do you a good deal on a BMW.' I handed over a card. 'Give me a bell.'
He took it and examined it. 'My BMW days are over, but thanks. If I get a second wind, I'll come down for one of those nice old Sixes. You must be doing OK.' He ran a thumb over the printing. 'Embossed and everything.'
I explained to him that after my run-in with Len Haslam, I'd gone to Germany with the money he had intended to plant on me, where I had bought ex-Post Office yellow VW vans and shipped them back to England. They soon became the favoured transport of the hippie generation, and I made enough, eventually, to come back and open a BMW and NSU franchise, one of which, at least, came good.
'So you landed on your feet, after all? You know, the only one of the rest of us who really did all right was Gordy. Served his time, came out, got his money, a hundred and sixty grand, and buggered off. Hardly a sniff since, apart from the odd wish-you-were here card from Spain. He did OK, did Gordy.'
'Him and Tiny Dave.'
'Ah, yes. The one who really coshed the driver.'
Jack Mills was dead now, killed by leukemia, although there were those – his family amongst them – who still reckoned it was the robbery that really did for him.
'It was Dave who hit him?' I asked. 'I always wondered.'
A shrug. 'I wasn't on the train. Bloody chaos it was, by all accounts. But yeah, that's how it went. With a lot of encouragement from Buster, so I hear. And if Dave hadn't done it, Buster would have. Like a bloody little Jack Russell with that cosh, he was.'
'Whatever happened to Tiny Dave?' I asked.
'Ah. Talk about Tales of Mystery and Imagination. Tiny Dave was last seen walking off into the night with his whack, thirty years ago.'
'Never heard anything?'
'Of Dave? Not a dicky bird.'
I remembered him talking about going to Bangkok. I wondered if he'd made it. 'Which means he is either the legendary One Who Got Away. Or…'
'Someone killed him and took the money. Wouldn't surprise me. That cash never brought anything but bad luck.'
I recalled Billy Naughton had said much the same thing when we were out on the rowing lake. 'Toxic', he had called it.
Bruce mistook my silence for disbelief. 'Look at the facts. Charlie dead, Brian Field dead, Bill Boal dead. Buster and Roy bloody basket cases. Ralph was coming back to give
himself up a few years ago. Been lying low in Belgium. Got a ferry back. The Spirit of Free Enterprise.'' I shook my head at the bad luck. The boat had capsized, killing 193 people. Clearly, Ralph, the dwarf signal man, had been among them. 'And Tommy Wisbey's in a bad way. You hear that? Strokes. Never the same after his sixteen-year-old daughter died in a car accident. And Bobby Welch a cripple. And for what? It was an eye-opener when I realised the poor sod of a train driver ended up with more than me in the end, after the great British public had a whip-round for him.'
That wasn't strictly true; Mills hadn't received anything like a hundred and fifty grand. More like thirty, as I recalled. But it was a fact that he held on to more of it than Bruce. 'You know the young fireman died too?' I asked.
'Who?'
'The co-driver. David something.' Anything to do with the robbery had always caught my eye, often triggered a what-if moment, where I thought about how close I came to being in that dock. 'Heart-attack. Thirty-three or four, he was.'
'Shit. That's a tough break.' Then, with a twinkle in his eye, 'They blame that one on me as well?'
'Not that I heard.'
Bruce stood, pulled on his overcoat, picked up the glasses and cups from the table and took them to the sink. 'Ah, well,' he said with a rueful smile as he rinsed them. 'As the old Sinatra song has it, you might be on top of the world in April, but you'll crash and burn in May.'
We stood staring at each other, pondering this pearl of wisdom from Ol' Blue Eyes. 'Wasn't he back on top in June?' I asked.
Bruce put a quarter-inch of milk in a saucer and placed it outside the kitchen door, then locked and bolted it. Placing
a bony, veined hand on my shoulder, he steered me towards the front door, flicking off lights as he went. When he spoke, the jaunty sing-song tone had disappeared, replaced by a melancholy whisper.
'Ask Roy. He'll tell you. Sometimes June is a fuck of a long time coming.'