Signal Red (39 page)

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.

Fifty –seven

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 breakin 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.'

Fifty-eight

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.