Robert Ryan - Signal Red

The men stood as one, stubbing out cigarettes and picking up the empties. They might be villains, thought Buster, but they were house-trained villains. 'Hold up, one last thing,' he said, brandishing a lined exercise pad and a Bic. He had forgotten about Bruce's little suggestion. 'Before you go, I need all your hat-sizes.'

The Flying Squad detectives could smell the stink of prison on John 'Yul' Jones as he was led into the interview room at Wormwood Scrubs. Piss, cheap soap and fear hung about him. Billy thought of the ad: 'Even your best friend won't tell you about B.O.' In the Scrubs that was because everyone smelled the same: Old Nick.

Yul was younger than Billy Naughton had expected, not yet twenty-five, with a totally bald pate and a round, boyish face that suggested a happy, over-fed baby The effect was marred, however, by dark half-moons under his eyes that told of too many sleepless nights.

The barrel-chested warder pulled back the chair for him and Yul slumped down at the metal table. He was on remand, so he had on a nice blue cotton shirt and jeans. When he spoke, the voice that came out shocked Billy. It was that of a far older man, coarse and raspy. 'Gentlemen. What can I do for you?'

'Tommy Butler sent us.'

'Did he? You got a cigarette?'

Len Haslam glanced at the warder, who nodded. Billy handed over a pack of five Woodbines and a box of Swan Vestas. Yul took his time lighting the cigarette, never taking his eyes from them, wondering how he should play this.

'You should be honoured, you know,' Len said eventually.

'Why's that then?'

'Being collared by Tommy Butler. He doesn't do much thief-taking these days. Not personally. You've been nicked by royalty.'

Yul gave a smile that showed a chipped front tooth. 'I should ask for some whatsit then on my chamber pot. That fur.'

'Ermine,' offered Billy.

'Yeah. I'd like an ermine piss pot.'

'I think we might be able to do something for you. But that might be pushing it, Yul. Other cons might get jealous. They'd be wanting silk pyjamas next.'

Duke let it sink in that 'something' might be on the table. He looked around the room at the bare walls, the bricks painted a lurid, glossy green up to waist-height, then dirty cream above that. You'd do a lot to get out of this place.

'You're Buder's boys, are you?' Yul asked.

'Not exactly.'

'C Eight?' This was the section that contained the Robbery and Flying Squads, as opposed to C5, the CID. It meant Yul knew his coppers.

'Yup.'

'Sweeney?' A nod acknowledged this. 'All right then.' He seemed satisfied that he was dealing with men with some clout at least. 'So what we going to talk about?'

'Motors,' said Billy.

Yul stuck out his lower lip, as if pleased. He was on safe ground here. Nothing about his cellmates or any of the more outlandish plans to go over the wall. Outside. Talking about the outside was safer than discussing the inside. 'What kind of motors?'

'Fast. Four-door,' said Len. 'That kind.'

'Mr Butler suggested to us,' added Billy, 'that you might know where a man who wanted a particular type of Jaguar might go, were you not available to source it for him.'

Yul's jaw tightened and he looked from one policeman to another. 'I don't know what all that means.'

Duke laughed suddenly, a violent explosion of mirth that made Yul flinch. 'Don't be ridiculous. My friend here might have made it a little too convoluted, but you know what we're saying. You want a car for a job, you come to you, Yul. Everyone knows that.' He pointed a finger as the prisoner made to speak. 'Shut up. All we want to know is: with you out of the picture, where would someone go? If they were in the market for a couple of fast Jags.'

Yul considered, smoking his Woodbine for a minute. 'They'd go to the Old Kent Road or Warren Street, wouldn't they? I can't give you names.'

'No?' Len asked quietly. 'Shame. 'Cause we can't do anything without a name, can we?'

'Well, we haven't discussed that yet, have we? What you can do for me?'

Len shot forward over the desk and Billy thought he was going to strike Yul for a moment and so did the prisoner, because he scraped the chair back out of arm's reach very sharpish indeed. The warder stood by, his face implacable. He'd seen it all before.

'Look,' Len said, 'you don't have to be a cunt all your life. You can take a day off. Today, for instance. You know how this works. Two Jags, stolen to order: who is doing the stealing and who is doing the ordering?'

It might seem a ridiculous idea, that one man would know about two cars in a city of thousands of them, would have knowledge of a particular criminal in its vast underclass. Except it wasn't that vast. Not once you took out all the petty chancers. When it came down to it, the hard-core blaggers constituted a small close-knit community.

Yul shrugged. 'If I hadn't been put on remand, I could've helped you.'

'If you weren't on remand, we wouldn't be having this little chat at all, would we?'

Yul accepted this truth with a nod. 'All I can tell you is which firms it might be doing the ordering.'

'And the drivers?'

Yul shook his head. 'You know them as well as I do.' Again, there were no more than ten or twelve top-class wheel-men in the capital.

'So, what've you heard? Who might be the market for a three point four?'

Yul moved his chair back in and drummed his fingers on the table. He glanced over his shoulder. 'This'll be worth my while?'

Len Haslam looked up at the warder and, with an inclination of his head, pointed him at the door. Once the big man had left, Billy told Yul, 'Tommy Butler said we could make it worth your while. Said you had his word.'

'I see.' The prisoner started on another cigarette, his tongue worrying his teeth. 'Well, before we get into that, there is one thing you can do for me straight off.'

Len relaxed, feeling the fish wriggling on the hook. 'What's that, Yul?'

'Have a word with the M.O. Get me on the asthma list.'

'Asthma?' Billy asked.

'Wheeze something dreadful, I do. Ask Stevie James, who I share a flowery with.'

A flowery dell, Billy automatically translated, a cell. He winked at him. 'I think you need an inhaler. Is that what you are saying?'

'A Benzedrex one, yeah.'

A supply of Benzedrex inhalers would make Yul a prince of the block, able to exchange hits of the amphetamine – usually boiled up as a soup – for fags or favours. At Chelsea Billy had come across plenty of lads marked for Borstal who suddenly developed bad lungs and tight airways. Never mind that the inhaler was mainly a decongestant that had little effect on asthma or that the only way to get a kick from it was to dissolve the drug-soaked strips of blotting paper inside, which meant taking in a nasty dose of menthol as well. The result was the 'minty-burp', which plagued users for days afterwards. The ragged high, they claimed, was worth the continuous taste of too-good-to-hurry-mints.

'Used to be a Teddy Boy, did we, Yul?' asked Billy. The Teds liked their inhalers and their pep pills as much as their bicycle chains and cut-throat razors.

'For a bit, yeah, when I was like, fourteen. When I still had hair I could get into a Duck's Arse.' He stroked his naked scalp, as if remembering a dear, departed friend. 'But the asthma's real, straight up.' He made a noise like a pair of bellows.

'I'll see to it,' said Len.

Yul fell silent as if gearing himself for the last sprint to the finish line. 'Urn…' he began, then thought better of it.

'Well?' asked Billy at last.

When Yul spoke, both the policemen knew why he had been so hesitant, why his voice shook slightly as he said, 'I did hear, before I got banged up, that Charlie Wilson wanted to see me about a bit of business.'

Once the firm had dispersed, Buster washed up the glasses and the saucers that had doubled as ashtrays. He liked to keep busy. It was too early to go to the club, and June wouldn't be back from Bingo for an hour at least. All that was on TV was Compact and This Is Your bleedin' Life.