Signal Red (2 page)

'It's pretty,' she said. 'Classy, too.'

Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh, as if he had just been browbeaten into a decision against his will. 'Oh go on, you can have it.'

Her jaw dropped and she gave a little squeak. 'Charlie, I couldn't.'

'I only got it in payment for a debt.' This was true. Although the man would be in deep shit once his wife found out how he had settled the loan. 'You must have a birthday coming up.'

'Not for months.'

'Early present, then.'

'No. Bruce'll—'

'I'll square it with Bruce. I'll tap him for twenty sovs, so he'll know it was business.' She had already fastened the catch. 'Although seeing it on you gives me a certain amount of pleasure.'

She looked flustered, not sure if he was flirting or not. It made her momentarily uncomfortable. 'Charlie . . .'

'Rather than the fat cow who owned it, I mean. You couldn't see it in the folds of her flesh at all.'

'What about Pat? Wouldn't she like it?'

Charlie smiled. 'Pat's got enough tom to start her own shop.'

Franny unclipped the bracelet and laid it down on the white cotton square once more. She admired it for a few moments. 'I'll ask Bruce before I wear it. Just in case.'

'Very wise,' he said, with studied solemnity.

Franny sighed. 'This all right, is it - this work he's doing with you? Whatever it is.'

Charlie shrugged. 'Be fine.'

'But you're worried about something, aren't you? Is that why you came to see him?'

Very perceptive, he thought. She wasn't just a pretty, well-scrubbed face. 'Nothing serious. Just a little problem with one of the boys, is all. Tell Bruce I'll be at the Lambeth later.'

'I will.' She scribbled a note to remind herself. 'And thanks for this.'

'You're welcome. I like things to go to a good home.'

He turned to leave and Franny asked: 'Charlie, how bad is the problem?'

He smiled and his ice-blue eyes seemed to darken. Franny remembered some of the stories she had heard about Chas from his younger days and suppressed a shudder.

'Nothing I can't take care of,' he said.

They drove up the Ml in the Rover, with the lanky form of Gordon Goody behind the wheel. Bruce Reynolds had turned up dressed in flat-fronted checked trousers and a Lanvin sweater over a pastel Dare & Dolphin shirt, managing to make both Tony - in his Dunn's sheepskin, and Goody, in his trademark long black coat - look dowdy.

The Rover's V8 happily pulled them to 90mph, effortlessly passing the Hillmans, A30s and Morris Minors plodding up the middle lane. The Rover had a Smith's Radiomobile that was audible even over the tyre noise the big car generated at close to the ton. Saturday Club was on, with Eden Kane, but Bruce switched to the Home Service.

'"Forget Me Not", indeed,' he said, naming the singer's signature tune. 'Chance'd be a fine thing.' He swivelled round in the front seat. 'You seen that film Too Late Blues?'

Tony said he hadn't.

'Good movie. About a jazz man. Bobby Darin's in it and ... that little fella, you know who I mean. Played Johnny Staccato on the box.'

'John Cassavetes,' grunted Gordy.

'Blimey,' said Bruce, looking across at the big man with a puzzled expression. 'When did you turn into Dilys Powell?'

Gordy just grinned.

'Anyway, that's who Roy reminds me of. He's not a big bloke, but intense. Committed. Know what I mean?'

'Yeah.' Although Tony had no real idea what he was talking about.

The Ml, touted as the Highway to Birmingham, actually fell short of the city, ending in Northamptonshire. Their speed dropped as they came off the motorway and hit the A road, and Tony settled down in the leather of the rear seat and nodded off, just as Bruce retuned to Eamonn Andrews and Sports Parade and began to fret about Chelsea's new season in the second division, hoping they could bounce back up. As an Arsenal fan, Tony was used to disappointing Saturdays, although it hadn't yet come down to the ignominy of relegation. But the Gunners had never been the same since Tom Whittaker died in 1956. Now there was a manager...

'Oi, Tony - Sleepy Bollocks. We're here.'

He pushed himself up the seat, unmussed his hair and rubbed his eyes clear. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Out for almost an hour. They were on a B road now, in a short queue behind an MGA, a Morris Oxford and one of the brand new Ford Cortinas, which Tony hadn't had a chance to drive yet.

At the head of this line, a young lad in a duffel coat was collecting the five shillings entry and parking fee. Next to him was a large sign telling them they were about to enter War Department property. Then a board proclaiming that this was RAF Hemswell, home to No 97 (SM) Squadron. Someone had scrawled the letters CND across the sign and underneath Yanks Go Home. There was, indeed, a US flag fluttering over the gate, indicating that USAAF personnel were deployed on the base. Tony had done his miserable National Service in the RAF. He knew what all this meant.

'I thought we were going to see a race?' he said.

'We are,' Bruce replied.

'What, an arms race?'

Gordy edged forward in the line as the Cortina drove into the site and then turned to look at Tony. 'What you mean?'

'Don't you two ever read the front of the papers? This is a bloody nuclear missile base.'

Two

Holland's Gym, Elephant and Castle, South London, September 1962

Charlie Wilson counted the repetitions as he crunched his biceps with the twenty-pound dumbbells. He'd been doing the same routine for six months now, and although he wasn't yet Steve Reeves, he could see the difference in his physique. It was harder, leaner. Old Man Levy had been forced to let out the chest of his latest suit jacket, and allow more material in the sleeves so Charlie could flex his arms. Now, when he walked into the Mayflower or Donovan's, he could feel the dip in the volume of the conversation as the mugs looked him over. He'd always had a reputation, usually backed up with blades or a revolver. Now he didn't feel he needed anything other than his bare hands to make his point. He was even fitter than when he'd fought bare-knuckle with the pikeys in Barnet, and he'd been bloody hard to put down then.

Lately, he had built a fitness room in the shed at home in Clapham. His wife Pat joked he must be training for the

Tokyo Olympics. He was training, that was true, but not for any athletics. With a new house, three kids and a wife, never mind the cars, clubs and the clothes to support, he needed more money than ever. That's what he was in training for.

Although he had the home gym, it did him good to get out from under Pat's feet during the day and he liked Danny Holland's place. Danny had the best equipment, some of it Jack LaLanne from the States, as well as the standard punchbags and speedballs of boxing. Charlie relished the satisfying smack of leather on leather when they were used by a pro, loved the smell of liniment and sweat that was missing from his domestic set-up. But when he put down the dumbbells and wiped his face, all was quiet. There were no grunts, groans or thrown punches because there were no other clients. Danny had booked him an hour clear, all to himself.

He heard the thud of footfall on the stairs. The heavier tread would be Ray Cauli, so-called because of the pair of misshapen ears bracketing his head that testified to a long but not very illustrious boxing career, sometimes in the ring but mostly in the field at the gash fights at Epsom and Epping Forest. The softer sound would be Derek, the lad Ray was 'escorting' to the meeting.

Charlie stood up off the bench, put his foot on it, retied his Lonsdales and fetched himself a glass of water from the sink. At their meeting at the Lambeth Walk pub, Bruce had given him a free hand on this. It was Charlie who had brought the job to Bruce, but, as always, it was Bruce who had taken it and shaped it from crude concept to a workable plan. When, over pints of bitter, Charlie had told Bruce about Derek, however, he had deferred to him. 'Do what you think is appropriate,' Bruce had said. Just do it when I am not around was the second, unspoken part of the sentence.

The two men entered the second-floor gym puffing and wheezing. Derek had on a shiny Levy Tonik mohair suit and Cecil Gee Italian suede shoes. They all did now. The first bit of money in their pockets, they copied the boss and went to Levy in Whitechapel for their first taste of Dormeuil. That was why, on Bruce's advice, Charlie had decided to take his custom from Levy to Dougie Millings on Old Compton Street, Soho. Dougie dressed pop stars like Billy Fury and Wee Willie Harris, making silly stage outfits, but he could also produce the genuine article. And Charlie wasn't going to shout about who made his stuff this time. Let them find their own bleedin' tailors.

'Charlie,' Derek squeaked when he had his breath back, nerves taking his voice up the octaves. 'Ray here said you wanted to see me.'

Charlie rose to his full height. He had on a black Everlast vest and shorts. When he crossed his arms, he knew the biceps bulged impressively. He crossed his arms.

'Nice to see you suited and booted. I approve. But a bit out of condition, aren't you, Derek? Too many Woodbines?'

'No, I'm all right, Charlie. Straight up.' Derek had just turned twenty, making him a decade younger than Charlie, and he still had the pipe-cleaner thinness of a teenager. He was from that generation who were lucky enough to have just missed National Service. Or unlucky. Charlie had met some who claimed they had learned all they ever needed to know about thieving in the Army.

Charlie slapped the wooden bench. 'Stamina, that's what you need. Lie down here. No, no, serious. Don't worry, you won't mess up your whistle. Here, let me take the jacket. Nice shirt. Turnbull and Asser? Oh, Woodall's. Nice, that is. 'Ere, lie down.'

He threw the jacket across the room and it landed in a heap near the entrance.

Ray Cauli stood and watched impassively as Charlie laid the youngster prone on the padded wooden bench. Derek had begun sweating, moisture glistening on his upper lip. 'What 'ave I done, Charlie?'

'Nothing. Yet. But we'll sort you out. Ray, give us a hand, will you? Pass me that barbell and the weights.' He looked back down at a parchment-pale Derek. 'We'll work the chest first.'

Between them Ray and Charlie made a pyramid of the various weights that could be slid onto the steel shaft of the barbell.

'What's on it now?' Charlie asked himself. 'Sixty pounds. There you are. Take it. Go on, my son, take it. Arms straight. There we are. How's that feel?'

Derek grunted.

'I'll loosen your tie for you. There. How's that?'

'Fine.'

'Good. Now bend the arms and push it up again. Go on, like that. Let's do ten.' A tremor ran through Derek's arms as he lowered the bar to his chest then straightened them again. They all knew it wasn't the weight that was causing the shaking. 'Come on, nine to go.'

Charlie stood back and appraised him, as if he were a genuine protege. 'Three, two ... one. Easy? OK, let's put a few more pounds on. Keep the arms locked.' He nodded to Ray and they selected a forty-pound disc each and slid it onto the stock. Derek let out something between a groan and a squeal.

'Ten.'

'I can't, Charlie—' 'TEN!'

As Derek struggled with the raises, his eyes screwed shut, Charlie leaned in close and bent at the waist. 'You know what I hate most in this life, Derek?'

'No, Charlie.'

'Yes, you do. Think. Seven to go.'

'Coppers?'

Charlie jutted out his lower lip in approval. 'Not a bad guess. Bent coppers, that is. How can you respect a man who'll turn a blind eye for a fiver or a tenner? Why are they better than us?' He paused, as if thinking what tortures should befall such people. 'But no, that's not what I hate most. Not coppers, bent or otherwise. Three . . . two . . . one more, you can do it, me old china. Right, keep it up. I said keep it UR Arms straight, you fuckin' cunt.'

Derek's arms wobbled even more at this last spittle-rich outburst, but he managed to lock the elbows, although the barbell began to swing in an arc, like an inverted pendulum.

'No, Derek, what I hate most in this world is a grass.'

Charlie could tell from the whimper that escaped Derek's mouth, and the fact that he now had the complexion of a maggot, that he was going to piss himself or worse any minute. Turkish Delight, all over his nice new Bowl of Fruit.

'Charlie, I ain't—'

'Even worse than greasy coppers.' He indicated to Ray and they loaded up another disc each and slotted them onto the shaft. It was nudging two hundred pounds now. Charlie could have taken it; the lad couldn't. 'Grasses are scum. Wouldn't you say so?'

There were stains spreading under the arms of the Woodall's shirt, so big and dark that Charlie doubted you'd ever get the stink of fear from it. The barbell was clattering as the unsecured weights banged against each other.

'Yes, Charlie, you're right but I ain't no grass.'

Charlie stared down at him. Derek had forced himself to open his eyes so he could plead with them.

Charlie silently counted to ten. 'No, Derek. You're no grass. 'Cause grasses are Judases. They should be drowned at birth. If I thought you were a grass, I would have just wrung your fuckin' neck, here and now, and have done with it.'

The relief at hearing this was so great that Derek's poor, tortured muscles gave out. Charlie caught the barbell just before it cracked into the lad's sternum. He held onto it and rolled it over the chest until it rested against Derek's throat. 'What you are, you sack of shit, is a loudmouth.'

Derek's windpipe was being crushed so he couldn't really reply. He did manage to shake his head a fraction of an inch either way.

'Oh yes you are, Derek. A fuckin' big cakehole on legs - isn't he, Ray? Ray just nodded, Derek. I could get Sid the Coalman to put a hundredweight of nutty slack down that black hole of a gob and there'd still be room for me to reach in and pull your lungs out.'

Charlie lifted the barbell slightly, easing the pressure. When Derek spoke, the voice was raw, sandpapered. 'I swear I ain't said anything out of turn.'

'Oh no? Look, I know what it's like. You walk in an' they know you're with me, so you get served first, before the mugs. You get an extra on the house. You get the girls too, don't you? Works wonders. Well, maybe not in your case, you skinny little fucker. But even you would get a half-hour with the Gobble Twins, once they knew you were my boy. I accept that. We all start as privates, don't we? And we take whatever perks we can. I mean, what does Bruce say? We're in it for the three Cs: cars, cunt and cash, but not always in that order. But you, Derek, had to go one further. You tell people you don't just know Charlie Wilson, do a bit of work for him on the fruit at Covent Garden or Spitalfields now and then, but more than that, you know what Charlie is up to. Can't say too much, eh? Nod and wink. But it involves an airport.''

Charlie let the full weight of the barbell fall onto the throat, holding it there for a second while Derek struggled to push it away. The cold-sick colour of his face darkened as his oxygen supply plummeted. He coughed when Charlie finally lifted the steel away from his bruised flesh.

'Now, Charlie is doing a bank, OK? Well, not OK but not a disaster. A Post Office. Fine as far as it goes. I mean, nobody knows which Post Office, do they? But how many London airports are there, Derek? I mean real airports that handle gold and money and freight?'

Derek replied in a tremulous voice. 'One.'

'ONE! Fuckin' right. One. That narrows it down for any grasses earwiggin', doesn't it? One. Take the money or open the box, Derek?'

Derek's pupils darted left and right nervously. He didn't know what to say.

'What's that? Box thirteen, you say? Let's see what's in Box thirteen. Oh dear. The booby prize.' Charlie changed his tone, letting some more menace creep into it as he lifted the barbell off Derek. 'You are going to fuck off out of my sight. And I mean out of it. No more suits from my tailors. No more suck-offs from the Gobble Twins. If I walk into a boozer and you're there, you walk out. You don't even finish your drink. Understand?'

'Yes, Charlie—'

'Mr Wilson!' he barked.

'Yes, Mr Wilson.'

'And if, after a year, I haven't seen your face or heard your name, then maybe we'll think again. Won't we?'

'Yes, Mr Wilson.'

'Get him out of here, Ray. I'm going to do some punchbag work.'

Ray yanked Derek to his feet. The youth made to say something, but Ray clipped him smartly around the back of his head. Charlie was busy tying on the gloves, no longer even aware that Derek was in the room. It was over. And as Ray would tell Derek later, he'd got off very lightly indeed. The Guv'nor must be going soft.