Signal Red

For Guy Barker, Michael Brandon and Ian Shaw

Although Signal Red was inspired by and based on real figures and events, the narrative is essentially fiction. Therefore the thoughts, feelings, dialogue and action ascribed to the characters are the author's invention, and Signal Red should be understood to be a fictional account, not history. The narrative contains many characters on both sides of the law who are entirely the creation of the writer, and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, in those cases is entirely coincidental.

A broad definition of crime in England is that it is any lower-class activity that is displeasing to the upper classes.

David Frost and Anthony Jay, To England with Love

Extract from An Honest Citizen's Guide to the Criminal Classes by Colin Maclnnes

Which is the criminal aristocracy?

Safe-blowers, accomplished breakers and enterers, robbery with violence men and reliable 'getaway' drivers.

Have professionals characteristics in common?

To generalise, they are above average intelligence, with good nerves, loyalty (they have to be - to 'grass' is the only real criminal crime), cheerful and humorous and not particularly vicious, outside the job.

Why are there fewer women criminals?

The girls (and women) participate all right but as an informant put it - 'they make the tea while the men get on with the job'.

Are there criminal areas of London?

Yes, just as Marylebone is for doctors, Mayfair for advertisers and Holborn for lawyers. South London has, traditionally, a greater criminal concentration than the North.

Are the crimes masterminded?

The notion of there being one individual who sits like a spider in his web and plans it all, but does not participate, is quite unreal. On the other hand, there are many 'jobs' - and big ones - about which the initial information that makes them possible comes from a man or men with a considerable front of respectability, and whose role is to supply vital facts, but not do the actual job.

What are the relations between criminals and the police?

Intimate. They are enemies, yes, but in relation to anyone who is neither a villain nor a copper, they form a closed society, rather like soldiers of two warring armies in relation to the larger mass of civilians.

Sunday Times Magazine, 1963

Blackheath, South London, May 1992

I was aware of the blue flashes on the bedroom ceiling even before the telephone rang. I felt a cold cramp grip my insides, although my brain told me I was being ridiculous. How could they have come for you? I asked myself. After all this time? Christ, Tony, even your VAT is up to date these days. And they don't do raids in the wee small hours for VAT anyway. Do they?

I listened to the sounds from outside, muffled by the double-glazing. There was the bark of a police controller on the radio, the distorted voice interrupted by stabs of static; a motor was still running, at idle, but hunting slightly. I thought the Met was meant to look after their vehicles? Maybe they had privatised their maintenance departments, outsourced to the lowest bidder. And look at what you got. Revs that rose and fell at random.

The bedside phone chirruped the annoying tone set by my wife, Jane, jolting me out of my ruminations on free market forces. It sounded like a sparrow being strangled. She claimed it was less of a shock to the system than an ordinary ringing tone if a call came while you were asleep. Not when police lights were raking the room it wasn't.

'Hello?'

I heard a throat being cleared on the other end of the line. 'Tony? Tony Fortune?'

'Who's this?'

'Bill Naughton.'

I swung my feet out of bed and squinted at the clock. Past one in the morning. My head was clouded by the residual fuzz of the late-night brandy I had downed after taking in part of the Burt Lancaster season at the cinema in Greenwich. I had seen a strange movie called The Swimmer and John Huston's The Unforgiven. Maybe that last title applied to me, too. Perhaps they hadn't forgiven me my youthful misdemeanours. I was aware of Jane stirring behind me, pushing back the duvet, releasing a few stray molecules of last night's perfume. I held out a hand to stop her saying anything.

'Mr Naughton.' Or, more correctly, DC Billy - not Bill - Naughton. At least, that had been his rank when I had known him. 'Been a while. How are you?'

'Retired, Tony Have been for a few years now.'

I looked up at the lights strobing through the curtains. 'Pleased to hear it. So the fact that my bedroom looks like the last dance at the Policeman's Ball is nothing to do with you then?'

He gave the feeble joke an appropriately dismissive snort. 'Well, Tony, I am afraid it is. I'm back, as they say, for one night only, by public demand. Or at least, some Deputy Commander's request.'

I spoke slowly and carefully Was it time to run, at last? At every house and flat I had lived in for the past thirty years I had rehearsed it. My escape route. Out the back, over the garden wall, or onto the roof, along to the neighbour's yard. But now I was too old for that. My running days were over. 'New evidence come to light has it, Mr Naughton?'

'Not about you, Tony.' Was that regret I could hear? 'Fact is, they dragged me from my bed, too. Youngsters are all fresh out of ideas. Need a couple of old hands.'

'Tony? Who—?' Jane began, but I shushed her.

'Sorry to disturb you and the missus, Tony.'

'What can I do for you exactly, Mr Naughton?'

'It's Roy. He's in a spot of bother.'

Jesus, I thought, so it is the VAT after all. I might have dropped out of the life, but even I knew that a few of the old lads were playing silly buggers with importing/exporting gold Krugerrands and running VAT scams on the deals. 'It isn't my area of expertise.'

'What isn't?'

'Whatever Roy has been up to. I haven't seen him in ... must be ten or more years. Silverstone, it was.'

'He's shot someone.'

Now I was fully awake. The words, though, didn't make sense. 'Hold up. We are talking about Roy James?'

'Yes.'

'Roy James shot someone?' It was so ridiculous I laughed at the very notion. 'Come on, Mr Naughton. That can't be right. He was never—'

I almost heard the twang of Naughton's patience snapping. 'He shot his father-in-law, then hit the wife with the gun-butt.'

I was quiet for a moment while I took that in. Roy was never a violent man. He'd made sure he'd stayed away from all that business. The coshing’s that were sometimes a part of the job had always vexed him. And guns? He'd ran a mile from them. 'I'll be damned.'

'And he'll be shot dead if you don't help. And then, no doubt, he'll be damned. The one and sevens are here.'

'Who?'

'PT Seventeen,' he explained carefully, as if only just remembering I wasn't up on the latest jargon. 'Tactical Firearms Squad - the boys with the Heckler and Kochs and what have you. Roy's barricaded himself in the house. So they want friendly voices to talk some sense into him before they are forced to go in guns blazing. And believe you me, these lads don't take much forcing.'

'How's the father-in-law?'

'How do you think? In a lot of pain. But he'll live.'

That was something. If it had been murder, the armed police would be even more trigger-happy. 'So the idea is for you and me to talk Roy down?'

'Yeah. Police and thieves,' he chortled. 'Working together for once.'

'Now, now, Mr Naughton,' I protested.

'Figure of speech, Tony. Forget it. Right - the car is outside, ready to take you to the scene.'

It was then I remembered I had tickets for the FA Cup replay the next day. Arsenal versus Sheffield Wednesday at Wembley, courtesy of BMW corporate hospitality. 'Is there nobody else?' I felt a prickle of shame as I said it.

It was nerves, I told myself. The nagging feeling that Billy Naughton might really have unfinished business with me, not Roy. 'What about Bruce?'

Naughton let out a sigh. 'Bruce Reynolds is too busy with his bloody memoirs, so he says. Which puts Roy's life in your hands, Tony. Our hands, that is. I hate to play this card

After what, thirty years, but you owe me one. A big one, at that.'

I did. I owed him my freedom, even though he knew, deep down, I was a wrong 'un. He had an overdeveloped sense of fair play, our Mr Naughton, to ever be a real, hard, bastard copper. As I had found out to my benefit. 'So, payback at last.'

But sparring was over. 'You gonna help or what?'

I was already pulling on my clothes, so I supposed I had decided to go along with his plan. 'All right then, Mr Naughton, for old times' sake.'

His voice softened once more. 'Good man. Be nice to see you again, Tony. As you say, been a long time.'

'Yeah.' Not long enough, part of my brain protested as I struggled with my socks, using my free hand. 'I'll see you there.'

I cradled the receiver and explained to a bleary Jane that I had to go out to help an old friend. Jane was my second wife, younger than me, a different generation almost. She knew next to nothing of the old Tony Fortune, the one whose wife left him because of his misadventures in the underworld.

'Who is he?' she asked.

'A bloke called Roy James.'

I saw her brow farrow. Like most people she could recall the names of Roy's better-known associates, the celebrity thieves. To Jane, and most of the British public, Roy was a vague memory, a half-forgotten name. Wasn't he the fella who played the trumpet? they might ask. No, that was Roy Castle. Or the quiz-show host? Roy Walker. Desert Island Discs? Roy Plomley. If only he'd gone over the wall and ended up in Brazil doing crappy punk songs, they'd remember him then. Who?

'He was a thief,' I went on. 'Cat burglar. First-floor man.'

She was awake now, eyes wide. 'How on earth do you know him, Tony?'

'It's a long story.'

One I had a feeling that Billy Naughton, Roy James and I were going to be chewing over for the rest of what was shaping up to be a very peculiar night.

'Try me.'

As I leaned over and kissed her forehead, I didn't actually say the sentence that formed on my lips. I thought it best to let it die a lonely, unloved death. 'Roy was a Great Train Robber. And, come to that, so was I.'

Instead I whispered, 'I'll be as quick as I can. Go back to sleep.'

POLICE & THIEVES

One

Warren Street, Central London, October 1962

Tony Fortune was polishing the bonnet of a signal-red AC Ace Roadster when the big Rover purred to a halt outside his rented showroom. It was a P5, the imperious political barge much loved by government ministers. Except this one was the newer coupe, with a raffish and rakish roofline. It gave just a hint of flash to what could be perceived as a very staid motor. Tony stopped applying the Super Hard Shell Turde Wax and waited to see who emerged from it.

Recognising the spindly figure unfolding itself out of the car like a cobra emerging from a basket, he shouted to Paddy, his mechanic, who was out the back: 'Put the kettle on, mate. The poncy stuff.'

Then Tony returned to polishing, grabbing a few more minutes, hoping to give the Ace the high lustre it deserved before his visitor came inside. He had loved cars all his life. He still had the first one he had ever owned, although it was now scratched and battered and missing a wheel. It was a maroon Series 30 Daimler, magically unearthed by his mum for a birthday during the war and treasured until peace came and Dinky Toys production resumed.

Bruce Reynolds - the man from the P5 - beamed as he saw Tony glance up at him through the plate glass. As tall, dapper and bespectacled as ever, Bruce adjusted the collar of his cashmere topcoat, smoothed down the front, with its concealed buttons, and strode into the display area. He stood and appraised the stock with an expert eye, dismissing most of it, before nodding at the Ace.

'That's nice.'

Bruce had an appetite for sports cars. Last time Tony had seen him he'd been squiring his young wife Franny in a sleek Austin Sprite. 'More up your street than the Rover, Bruce.'

Bruce looked out into the street at the P5. 'That? It's Charlie's, not mine.' No surname was needed. He meant Charlie Wilson, one of Bruce's childhood friends who had grown into a formidable blagger and hard man. 'He likes the leg room. My Aston's playing up again, so he lent it to me. You're right about the Rover, though. Bit too Reggie Maudling for my liking.'

Tony smiled and held out his hand. Bruce made him laugh, always had. Tony's love of cars had progressed to 'borrowing' them when he was a young teenager. Which in turn had led to a meeting in borstal with an ambitious thief called Bruce Reynolds, who had a sideline in equally ambitious daydreaming. The slightly older lad used to describe in tedious detail The Good Life he would be acquiring for himself, once he pulled off The Big Job. It was a lengthy litany of quality cars, bespoke clothes, young attractive women, the finest booze and the best of mates, all to the accompaniment of the Modern Jazz Quartet and George Shearing. Even then, Tony had known it was a remarkably mature ragbag of aspirations for a young lad. And judging by the expensive sliver of a gold watch on his wrist, plus the fact that he had apparently acquired an Aston Martin, Bruce had ticked off at least some of his wish list. But Tony knew keeping up appearances was all part of the game. Bruce would walk and talk the high life even if he only had a half-a-crown in his Post Office Savings book.

'You doin' all right?' he asked Tony.

'Can't complain. There's more competition now, of course.'

Since the war, when it had been Spiv Alley, Warren Street had become car dealers' row. Initially it had been pavement jobs, cash only, no questions asked about such things as logbooks. But in the past few years, the ground floors of the office blocks had been opened up into showrooms and most of the dealing was more or less legitimate. It was still buyer beware, though, and you couldn't be sure that the name of the dealers - or the salesman - would be the same from one week to the next.

'How's the wife?' Bruce asked.

'Fine. Franny?'

'Good, thanks.'

'You workin'?'

Bruce's bony shoulders moved towards his ears in a noncommittal shrug. 'This and that.'

The role model for Bruce might be Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, but the 'work' sometimes fell short of that. One week it might be a safe full of cash or jewels, but the next it could easily be a few dozen packs of Navy Cut from a tobacconists or a shipment of 30-denier stockings. If there was good information and a margin to be had, you went at it. Even a thief with ambitions like Bruce couldn't go after the Crown Jewels or the Bank of England every day.

Paddy emerged with the Darjeeling, the 'poncy' tea that

Bruce liked. Bruce took the Castrol mug with a murmured thank you, sipped and smacked his lips appreciatively. 'The Champagne of Teas? You remembered.'

'You banged on about it so much inside, how could I forget?' Bruce stared at him, a slight smirk on his face, until Tony admitted the truth. 'All right, I have this guy who buys Mercs who likes it.'

'I thought it was a bit odd, keeping a caddy just on the off-chance I turn up.'

'Thanks, Paddy,' Tony said.

Paddy, a weather-beaten Dubliner of uncertain vintage, gave a smile that showed just how few teeth he had and retreated back to the workshop. 'Any more trouble from Mammie Jolson?' Bruce asked, the pleasantries over.

'No. I meant to say thanks.'

'You already did.' Tony had sent over a case of Chivas Regal. 'But it was Gordy really what put the word in. I mean, nobody's frightened of me, are they?' Hugh 'Mammie' Jolson had tried to collect pensions - protection money - from the dealers in the street. Most had paid up; Tony had called Bruce who had said he'd 'have a word', even though north of the river was no-man's land to him and 'having a word' wasn't his true calling.

Bruce was a thief, an opportunist, from smash and grab to safe-breaking, but he wasn't a strong-arm man. Not for him mixing it with the likes of the Krays, Richardsons, Frasers, Foremans or Hills. He enjoyed his elegant clothes and his good looks too much to get his hands dirty that way. Besides, as he said, nobody was ever scared of him; you wouldn't use Bruce to put the frighteners on anyone. But he knew men who were skilled at that kind of thing - men like Charlie Wilson or Gordon Goody.

Charlie was your down-the-line London chancer, not stupid by any means, but he conformed to type. As Bruce said of him, he was 'a hard worker, reliable and a very funny fucker when he wanted to be'. Gordy, though, struck Tony as a strange mix - a handsome face on a thug's body, a hairdresser with a taste for Jermyn Street finery and thick gold bracelets, who was also capable of sudden violence.

A Tony Curtis haircut and two broken arms, please, Gordon.

Anyway, however it had been achieved - and often Gordy's trademark growl and daunting physical presence were enough to generate results - Mammie Jolson was off his back.

'You need some better stock.' Bruce pointed at a split-rear- windowed left-hand-drive Beetle. 'Not bloody German bombers.'

'What can I do for you, Bruce?' There was a price to be paid for unleashing Gordy, they both knew that. Bruce didn't stray far from his normal South London patch of the Elephant and Casde, Wandsworth, Battersea, Camberwell and Peckham without good reason - unless it involved Bobby Tambling and Chelsea. He was here to collect.

'Jags,' he said, peering inside the Ace. 'This one straight?'

'Had a prang,' Tony admitted. 'Insurance write-off. Drives OK. Well, pulls to the left a little when you brake. Can't seem to sort that out.'

'Chassis?'

'Maybe. Have to put it back on the rig. Or sell it to some chinless wonder. I thought you used Yul for cars?'

John 'Yul' Jones was a slap-headed chiseller whose only resemblance to his namesake, Mr Brynner, was the absence of hair. 'That bald cunt is currently chatting to Tommy Butler about a little job he pulled in Penge that he neglected to mention to me. So we might not see him for a while.'

He said the policeman's name with a mix of disdain and admiration. The CID's Tommy Butler, who relished his nickname of 'the Grey Fox', had a way of getting confessions and convictions from even the tightest-lipped villains. And Yul's mouth was not that firmly zipped.

'What kind of Jags?' Tony asked casually. 'And how many?'

'The usual kind.' Nicked, he meant, and untraceable. 'Two.'

Tony hesitated. He knew that to ask any more questions would pull him deeper into whatever scheme Bruce Reynolds had in mind - and not necessarily to his benefit. Like the futile escape Bruce had organised from the Gaynes Hall borstal, which had ended with them doing a jolt at the much harsher Wandsworth unit. This time around, he didn't want to end up having a 'chat' with Tommy Butler like Yul. But Bruce was right: he needed better stock. A bit of cash to inject into the cars would come in handy, plus there was that Jolson business to square. 'Anything special? The Jags, I mean.'

'Well, perhaps. I'd like you to talk to my man about it. He's particular, he is.'

Tony didn't like the sound of that. Some wheel-men were so superstitious they insisted on the same colour upholstery in their getaway vehicle each time, let alone whether the motor was booted with crossplys or radials. You could waste days trying to find or create exactly the right spec. 'Send him along.'

Reynolds grimaced. 'Let's not do it here. What you doin' Saturday?'

Tony shrugged. 'I was going to see Lawrence of Arabia.''

'He's busy.' Bruce took off his glasses and polished them with a spotless handkerchief before replacing them. 'We'll go up to the Midlands and watch my driver race.'

'Race? Who is it - Graham Hill?'

They both laughed but then Reynolds looked serious. 'One day, he could be. Mark my words. His name is Roy James. Pick you up here at about nine?'

As soon as he nodded, Tony Fortune knew that Bruce had snared him once again.

Franny Reynolds was behind the counter of the antique shop when he walked in. She was playing 'Let's Twist Again' on the HMV record player, her eyes closed, lost in the swinging motion of the dance.

Charlie Wilson stood and watched her for a while. It was a gaze of appreciation, rather than lust. She was married to one of his oldest friends; he had known Bruce since 1943, when they had shared an Anderson shelter. Bruce was the man who had once saved him from a chivving at the hands of a razor gang outside the Wimbledon Palais. Charlie had been all for taking them on, but Bruce reckoned that fourteen to one - he didn't count himself as a fighter - was not good odds, even for a little maniac like Charlie. Bruce, already tall for his age, had towered over Stevie Pyle, the leader, and talked them out of striping young Chas. Bruce had even ended up discussing Catcher in the Rye, The Naked Lunch and The Manchurian Candidate with one of the tearaways later, at the coffee stall on Battersea Bridge.

It was why Charlie trusted Bruce, though: he didn't think like the rest of them. Charlie, Buster Edwards, another South London thief, and to some extent Gordon Goody ran on tram-tracks. You knew where you got on and got off with them. Bruce had a series of branch lines, which meant his mind went in different directions.

Chubby Checker was nearing the end of his invitation to the dance when Charlie finally spoke, his voice an imitation of Bruce's lighter cockney accent. 'What do you think this is? The Scotch Club?'

Franny nearly leaped out of her skin. Charlie began to laugh at her flustered fumbling with the arm of the record player. It made a loud scratching noise as the needle ripped across the grooves. She turned and faced him. 'Chas! You bastard!'

Charlie smiled at her. She was lovely all right, even devoid of make-up as she was now. Bruce had once dated her older sister but it was Franny who had written to him while he was inside, sixteen-year-old Franny who was waiting, all grown up, when he got out. Today, in slacks and a stripy top, she could still pass for a schoolgirl.

'You ought to get a bell on that door,' he told her. 'Anyone could sneak up on you.'

'We don't get that many customers.'

Charlie looked around the store. It was called Milestones and it was meant to be an antique shop, although most of it was tat. There were bentwood chairs piled high, a pair of old joannas, a couple of oak tables, bed headboards, a wall of wardrobes, chrome fireside sets made redundant by High Speed Gas, and canteens of cutlery in velvet-lined boxes. But nothing you might call an heirloom. It was hard to imagine anything in the shop being a Milestone in anyone's life. That wasn't the point; its job was to give Bruce a respectable front, like Charlie's work at the fruit and veg market or Gordy's hairdressing. 'Anything new in?'

'This record player,' she said, sliding an LP of Nina Simone out of its sleeve and putting it on the turntable. That would be Bruce's influence, of course. He loved all that American jazzy stuff. She changed the speed with a flick of the dial. 'And some Clarice Cliff stuff Bruce is excited about.'

'She a singer too?'

Franny hesitated, unsure whether he was pulling her leg. 'Pottery. It's out the back if you want to see.'

'Just in Time' came out of the HMV's speaker, the voice cool yet brittle, giving the song a slightly menacing edge.

'Nah. Only making conversation,' Charlie said. 'Bruce about?' She shook her head. 'Know where he's gone?'

'Didn't say.'

Charlie put his hand in his pocket and brought out a handkerchief, which he placed on the counter. He flipped it open to reveal a ladies' timepiece. 'Put that in your display, will you, Franny? We'll go fifty-fifty on it.'

Franny picked it up. It was a Cartier gold bracelet watch, probably from just after the war judging by the patina on it. It caught the light beautifully as she draped it over her wrist.

'Where'd you get this?' she asked.

'I know and you don't have to. Looks good on you, Fran.'

She smiled at him. There were plenty of people frightened of Chas Wilson and those steely blue eyes of his. Bruce had taught her not to be. Charlie, he explained, had watched his father squander any money the family had, then had suffered the belt when the last of it had gone and his dad couldn't afford the pub. Charlie's aims in life were simple: never to be poor and scrabbling like his father, and never to let anyone get the upper hand, at least physically, ever again. Charlie had worked hard to earn his reputation, Bruce said, and now that rep did most of the work for him.