Signal Red (11 page)

Nineteen

London, March 1963

Charlie knew enough to wear a royal-blue shirt to the Old Bailey, rather than a white one. The public areas of the Central Criminal Court might have been vacuumed, washed, polished and waxed daily, but downstairs some of the grime dated from the eighteenth century. He'd seen too many in the dock with smudged white shirts, looking like they'd just delivered a hundredweight of coal. Dark colours, they were best.

Charlie was led by one of the Brixton screws who did turns at the Bailey, past the squalid and crowded 'on bail' cells. One of the steel doors was open, a guard bellowing a name. Charlie glanced in, hoping for a glimpse of Gordy, but couldn't see beyond the swaying youth blocking the doorway. He'd worn a white shirt and tie, like a good boy. The effect was rather spoiled by a nose that had been split like a ripe tomato. Charlie shook his head. That would make a good impression on the jury. Still, the kid might be a nonce or a rapist and deserved it. The young offender glanced over his shoulder, back into the cell. He wasn't more than nineteen and his legs bowed and shook as he was pulled towards his moment in the dock. Nah, thought Charlie, he probably just looked at someone the wrong way.

As they approached the 'kennels' one of the prison officers unlocked the closest door and bowed, as if welcoming him to his hotel suite. Charlie remained impassive. Fuck them. The kennels - cells reserved for those on remand brought from prisons - were often worse than the 'on bails' - scorching in summer, cold in winter, no windows, just a series of holes drilled high in the wall for ventilation. No lavatory, of course, just a bucket. One shower on request, should your day drag on and your clothes and hair and skin grow rank as they absorbed the stench of your own, and everyone else's, sweat. But one shower for sixty or seventy meant you might not get a turn and if you did, the slimy, mould-tinged cubicle was hardly inviting.

'Mr Wilson,' said the screw with exaggerated politeness. 'We'll be calling you shortly.'

Charlie gave the man a thin smile, and imagined punching him hard, right between the eyes. He preferred it when they didn't speak to him. He did them that courtesy, why couldn't they just return it and keep their mouths shut? They all knew what this was: a rick of the life he had chosen. As such, he-thought of it now more like an athlete thought of a pulled tendon or a pilot his plane crashing. It can happen. It had happened.

The cell held only six other people, and one chair, occupied. The others sat on the filthy floor, cross-legged. He scanned the faces as they looked up at him. No sign of Mickey. He didn't recognise any of them. No friends here. Not much warmth either, with the winter that still ruled the country bleeding in through the ventilation holes.

The door closed behind him with a resounding clang and Charlie looked around at walls covered in graffiti and food slops and not a little blood. There was no way on God's earth he was going to lean against that. And the floor was covered in a film of dirt and piss. He looked at the man in the chair. Forty-ish, with the pallor of a life in pokey about him. Flabby upper arms, crude, homemade tattoos. Not in shape at all. Charlie had a hand on his own biceps. They were good and hard. He'd done push-ups and sit-ups morning and evening, hundreds of them, a way of numbing the pain of being separated from Pat. That was the only hard thing about being inside. Everything else was easy. The thought of five or ten years away from the family, though . . . but that wasn't the problem right now.

The man in the chair was reading a paper. Charlie scanned the second lead story. A 'freelance model' called Christine Keeler had failed to appear in court as a witness to a shooting by a 'coloured' man, John Arthur Edgecombe. Charlie knew Christine, vaguely, from the clubs. Hard-faced but softhearted. He wondered how long before the hacks really joined up the dots. Everyone knew who else hung out at Murray's Cabaret, and that the group treated Cliveden as its country branch.

But the man in the chair wasn't reading that. He was groaning about how the West Indies had beaten England by ten wickets in Barbados. 'Can you believe those nig-nogs?'

Those nig-nogs included players like Sobers and Gibbs, the best off-spinner in the game, thought Charlie. Ignorant cunt. He took a step forward and sniffed loudly.

In the confined space, it sounded like a bull snorting. The long-termer in the chair looked up, then returned to his paper. Charlie took a step closer, folding his arms, feeling his worked muscles press against the fabric of his clothes. The man put down his Mirror once more. He opened his mouth to speak, saw the expression in Charlie's eyes and the honed shape of his torso, and thought better of it. He stood and stepped aside.

Charlie shot his trousers from the knee as he sat, then nodded his thanks as he held out his hand. The man hesitated and passed over the newspaper. Charlie snapped it open at an article claiming that the police needed an extra £25 million a year to fight the underworld. A White Paper called Crime in the Sixties was claiming that every aspect of law enforcement, from the probation service to the courts, was 'clearly inadequately funded' with the ever-present risk of 'crime going unpunished'.

Charlie laughed to himself. That's handy, he thought. Crime going unpunished. Maybe the day would work out all right, after all.

Twenty

From The Times, 12 March 1963

MAN ACQUITTED ON £62,000 CHARGE

At the close of the case for the prosecution at the trial of the three men accused of being concerned in a £62,000 wages robbery at London Airport last November, Sir Anthony Hawke, the Recorder at the Central Criminal Court, directed the jury yesterday to acquit one of the accused on the grounds that there was insufficient evidence to justify proceeding further against him. A witness who placed the accused at the site was deemed 'unreliable', especially as another witness had insisted he was elsewhere at the time.

Charles Frederick Wilson, aged 30, bookmaker of Crescent Lane, S.W., was then found Not Guilty of robbing Arthur Henry Grey and Donald William Harris of boxes containing £62,599, the property of BOAC, while armed with offensive weapons. Wilson was formally discharged.

CONFESSION DENIED

Addressing the jury, the Judge said that the evidence against Wilson was of such doubtful character that it did not justify proceeding against him further.

The trial then proceeded against Michael John Ball, aged 26, credit agent of Lambrook Terrace, Fulham, S.W., and Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 32, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W. Mr Ball denied that he originally admitted his role in the robbery in a verbal confession and said that he intended to plead Not Guilty. The trial was adjourned for two weeks.

Twenty-one

London, March 1963

As happened every weekday except holidays, at six that morning the Billingsgate bell gave its sonorous clang, echoing around Fish Hill and Pudding Lane. Within the great hall and its satellite lock-ups, the market roared into life. Prices were shouted between buyers and sellers in an impenetrable piscine argot. As deals were made, the wooden-hatted porters stacked boxes of lobsters from Whitby, eels from Holland, mackerel from Newlyn or whiting from Fleetwood on their heads. The market's chimney began to belch its plume of black smoke into the slowly lightening sky.

Bruce took in the scene from the edge of the pandemonium, outside the entrance to the market hall, his etiolated form positioned under a street-light as he waited to be noticed. He was wearing a thick Aquascutum overcoat and a Hermes scarf, but still felt the bitter early-morning chill. The place, of course, also stank. It was a fish market, after all.

Alf Flowers was busy instructing his lads when he caught sight of Bruce. Like Charlie, who had a stake in a Covent Garden firm, Alf had a history - was 'known to the police', as they said. He had been up the steps a few times, although after the last stretch he had sworn to the missus that the only fishy business he would do was at the market. Which was mostly true. Except his chosen business now was not blowing peters but trading information and contacts. For half the villains in London, Alf was like dialling Directory Enquiries. One advantage of using Alf's services was you could get a nice Dungerness crab or two while you were at it. You never got that from the GPO.

'All right, Bruce? Sparrowfart's a bit early for you, isn't it?'

Bruce stifled a yawn. 'Hello, Alf.'

'Got some lovely halibut if you're interested.'

'Fancy a drink?'

Alf knew full well this wasn't about that night's supper. 'Rum and coffee over at the Wheatsheaf?' he asked, throwing a thumb to indicate across the river towards Borough Market. The pub opened at six, serving the porters from the local vicinity. Billingsgate had its own early licensed boozers, but Alf clearly wanted to do business away from under the gaze of his co-workers. Very wise.

'Perfect.'

'See you in thirty?'

'Fine.'

Alf lowered his voice. 'Give me an idea what you after?'

'A copper.'

The fishmonger didn't seem surprised by this. It couldn't have been any old bogey though, because he knew Bruce was on nodding terms with a few of them down at the Marlborough in Chelsea. But then, Bruce was clever enough not to shit on his own doorstep. 'What kind of copper?'

'The kind who likes a flutter at Crockford's or the Pair of Shoes. Preferably one from AD.'

Alf smiled, as if certain this was unlikely to be a taxing assignment. 'I'll see you over there. Order me the FEB.'

'One Full English Breakfast coming up.'

It was Roy and Buster who made the drop. Buster chose Postman's Park, the churchyard of St Botolph's-Without- Aldersgate, famous for its monument to ordinary men and women who turned out to be heroes and heroines. The tiny space was just behind St Bart's Hospital, next to the GPO Headquarters.

There was snow in the air, small flurries presaging a full shower to come. While Roy paced back and forth in front of the park's narrow entrance, looking for suspicious activity and trying to keep warm, Buster put down the Derry & Tom's bag and read the glazed porcelain plaques in the little cloister.

He stopped before a plaque that commemorated a brave cozzer.

George Stephen FUNNELL

Police Constable

December 22nd, 1899.

In a fire at the Elephant and Castle,

Wick Road, Hackney Wick, after rescuing

2 lives, went back into the flames, saving

a barmaid at the risk of his own life.

Good man, thought Buster. He knew a few barmaids he'd like to save. Not that he would run into a burning pub for them - although doubtless this one was very grateful to

Constable Funnel. He wondered if the Elephant and Castle public house was still there.

A piercing whistle from Roy reached him and he turned around. A figure was heading towards him - a man in his thirties, with thinning blond hair, trailing clouds of cigarette smoke as if he was steam-powered. Buster waited for him to approach then turned back to the plaques.

'Look at this,' he said, reading from one of the other commemorations. '"Frederick Mills, A. Rutter, Robert Durrant and F.D. Jones who lost their lives in bravely striving to save a comrade who had fallen into the sewage pumping works. East Ham, July the eighteenth, 1895".'

The detective kept mute.

'Now that's what I call being in the shit,' Buster growled. 'Know what I mean?'

The policeman looked down at the carrier bag. 'That it?'

Buster indicated it was. He looked for Roy, but he had gone. Fetching the car, he hoped. 'You know what to do?'

'You want to go over it again?' the copper asked.

Buster suddenly felt nervous. 'No, I fuckin' don't.' He seized the man's overcoat and started pulling it open.

'Hey, hey, what the fuck—'

Buster grabbed the man's face, squeezing the cheeks together. He had little respect for coppers anyway, zero for bent ones. 'What's your game?' Buster hissed.

'Relax. Jesus, I was just winding you up. I know what to do.'

Buster let him go and the man readjusted his clothing. Buster felt a sour taste rise in his mouth as he said, 'It's all in there - the item and the money. If it goes right...'

'Look, I've got no say in that.'

'If it goes right, there's a bonus, as agreed. Now fuck off and piss it away at some spieler.'

Buster turned and strode off, hands in pockets, head down, alert for any lurking strangers. He reached the ornate gates and Roy pulled up in front of him, leaned over and opened the door of the Mini. Buster jumped in, banging his head as he did so. Roy gunned the little engine, releasing a satisfyingly deep note from the stainless-steel sports exhaust and they pulled away. Roy navigated them down to Fleet Street, past the Black Lubyanka - the Daily Express building - and onto the Strand, heading west and keeping one eye on the mirror.

He took a last-minute, tyre-squealing left turn onto Waterloo Bridge, towards the Festival Hall and the remnants of the Festival of Britain, now being reworked into some concrete monstrosity. Once on the bridge, he checked the wing mirrors. At the far end, he took the roundabout and drove back north again. Nobody followed. 'Where to?' he asked.

'The Marlborough,' Buster said, needing a drink and knowing Bruce would be there. He banged the dashboard of the diminutive machine. 'And don't spare the fuckin' ponies.'

Twenty-two

From The Times, 26 March 1963

For his part in the £62,599 wages robbery at London Airport last November, Michael John Ball, aged 26, credit agent, of Lambrook Terrace, Fulham, S.W., was sentenced at the Criminal Crown Court yesterday to five years' imprisonment.

Ball had changed his plea from Not Guilty to Guilty of robbing Arthur Henry Gray and John Anthony Doyle of boxes containing £62,500, the property of BOAC, while armed with offensive weapons.

The jury was unable to agree on their verdict in the case of Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 32, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W., who had pleaded Not Guilty to the same charge. After the foreman had said there was no prospect of reaching a decision so far as Goody was concerned, Sir Anthony Hawke, the Recorder, discharged the jury from giving a verdict. Goody was then released on £15,000 bail pending a retrial.

Twenty-three

Old Bailey, London, April 1963

Sir Donald Harris, the prosecution counsel, approached the witness, one of the men who had transferred the strongboxes at the airport. A fresh trial needed a fresh approach. But the security guard who had seen Goody, who had originally picked him out in an identity parade, was now wavering even more than the last time. Sir Donald wondered if he had been nobbled.

'So, is the man who coshed you the man in this court or not?'

'I think so.'

'You think so?' He let a sneer play around the word 'think'.

'I can't be sure, sir.'

'Can't be sure?' Sir Donald barked.

The security guard swallowed hard. 'No, sir.'

'Yet you were sure in an identity parade.'

'They had hats on then, sir.'

'Hats?' asked the judge. 'What kind of hats?'

The witness looked over and addressed the judge directly. ' Bowler hats, like they wore in the robbery, Your Honour.'

'I see,' came the reply.

'It so happens we have a bowler hat recovered from Mr Goody's premises,' Sir Donald said affably. 'A steel hat, no less. Is this the type of hat he was wearing?'

'I believe so.'

The heavy metal bowler was passed to the witness, then the judge, and finally displayed to the jury. 'And if you saw him in this hat, do you think your memory might suddenly improve?'

'Objection!'

Sir Donald inclined his head and rephrased. 'Excuse me, do you think it might aid in identification?'

'I am sure it would, sir.'

'Very well. If the defence has no objection, I would like to invite Mr Goody to place this bowler hat on his head.'

'No objection, m'lud.'

Gordon Goody leaned over and took the bowler by the brim, spinning it round and round, as if selecting the correct alignment.

He stared over at the witness, an accommodating smile on his face, while he raised his arms above his head. He brought the hat down to the crown and hesitated, as if pausing for effect. When he let go, the oversized bowler - at least three hat-sizes too large - fell down around his ears, swallowing them and covering his eyes. 'Hold on,' he said. 'The lights have gone out. Someone got a shilling for the meter?'

The courtroom dissolved into laughter and Sir Donald's jowly face sagged further. He could hear the verdict already: Not Guilty.

'Did you see that cocky cunt?' Len Haslam spat beer and phlegm across the bar of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub in Fleet Street.

'You win some, you lose some,' said Billy. 'You know that.'

Len shook his head. 'Not like that. Not like it's some bloody variety show and he's Max bloody Miller.' He thumped the wooden bar top. 'Someone was got at.'

Len was in such an agitated state that the majority of the other early-evening customers - mostly journalists - were giving him a wide berth. He stank of trouble.

He was taking the Not Guilty worse than most, but Billy, too, was disappointed. Not only that, they had missed a trick. Once the verdict had come in, Gordy had walked across to where the chain and lock from the airport gate were sitting and pulled at it. A phony link had given way, showing how the robbers had opened the gate so quickly. He must have rejoined it at the scene and none of the so-called experts who had examined it had spotted that. All had assumed a key had been used, and the clasp reclosed.

'We got one for it though, didn't we?'

'Mickey Ball? Yeah, right. We lose Wilson then Goody and we're left with him? Nose-pickings.'

Len downed his pint and signalled for another, the anger still twisting his features. 'Let me tell you this, Billy boy.' He tapped the rim of the empty pint pot against the young man's chest. 'One day, I'm going to have that Douglas Gordon Goody by the short and curlies, whatever it takes.'