Signal Red (37 page)

'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 breakin 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.

Fifty –six

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.'