Robert Ryan - Signal Red

The Lion was the Squad's designated pub, an act of apartheid that was respected by lesser coppers, who tended to use the Gate or the King Edward. It was also acknowledged by Squad chief Ernest Millen, who might come in to celebrate a good collar with a half, but generally left the Lion as somewhere for his team to let off a bit of steam.

Billy began to push through to the bar, where it looked as if a session was beginning. A fug of blue smoke hovered over the three-deep crowd. Someone was singing 'Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend' in a terrible falsetto. There was a television, tuned to a Brian London fight, but nobody seemed to be watching. The rough-edged but brave heavyweight had lost his crown as British boxing's favourite son to the more polished Henry Cooper. London, though, was staking his resurrection on a forthcoming bout with Ingemar Johansson. By the look of it the contest on the television was a warm-up for that, because London was hammering an opponent who seemed unable to come back at him, despite London 's famously lax defence. Cannon fodder, Billy decided, and looked away.

'How's it going, son?' someone asked.

Billy turned. It was DI Jack Slipper, a tall, erect, military- looking man who had come through a similar path to Billy – Hendon then the suburbs, then CID – a decade earlier. He was known as a diligent detective who, belying his clipped, stuffy appearance, was prepared to bend rules and take the odd risk. Although, like Butler, not strictly part of the Squad, he had been given a floating role by the Yard's chief, Commander George Hatherill, which was why he was tolerated in the Red Lion. 'Fine, Skip.'

Slipper's moustache twitched, like some insect's antenna. 'Have you got something on the boil?'

How could he know that? 'I might have.'

Slipper nudged him and Billy caught a clove-heavy whiff of Bay Rum cologne. 'Now, now. I bumped into Duke. He said you'd been busy. Wouldn't tell me what. Said it's your shout.'

Nothing got past Slipper. What they had gleaned from Derek Anderson meant putting a team together to watch the airport. It was a big number, tying up a lot of manpower, and calling on many elements of C Division. Soon it would be Billy's baby no more, but orchestrated by Commander Hatherill and Tommy Butler with someone, perhaps even Jack Slipper, in charge on the ground. He might as well enjoy the feeling of power while he could. 'Once I write it up.'

'Please y'self, son. What you having?' Slipper asked. Well past the six-foot mark, the DI towered over the crush at the bar and could easily attract the barmaid's attention. He fetched

Billy a pint of bitter and they moved to the side of the melee, up against the panelled wall, beneath the old Punch cartoon of Churchill clinging to Big Ben, swatting Messerschmitts from the sky, like King Kong on the Empire State.

Billy raised his dimpled glass. 'Thanks, Skip.'

'How's Duke?'

'Yeah,' Billy said. 'Magic.'

'Be careful, son. Good copper is Duke,' Slipper said, 'but not perfect.'

Billy supped his pint. 'Who is, Skip? Apart from you?'

Slipper grinned. 'Tommy Butler.'

'Oh yeah.'

'Although even he…' Slipper stopped, as if talking out of turn. Then he lowered his voice. 'The word is Tommy might be moving into Millen's seat. He's a different animal. He'd rather a verbal than a fingerprint. Old-fashioned, methodical police- work, that's what he likes. Nothing involving a microscope or men with little brushes. Not sure he even trusts something as modern as photographs.' They both laughed. Buder was certainly an odd one. Still lived with his mum. But he could catch a thief, that was for sure. 'So what is it you've got?'

Billy decided he could afford to give Slipper a taster. 'It's just a snout with a score to settle.'

Slipper downed his whisky. 'Promising. I like it when thieves fall out. Right – got to get back. I'm on SPECRIMS.' This meant he had to return to the Yard and check the Serious Crime reports on the internal police communication system before he could call it a night. If he found anything important enough he might well return to clear the pubs with an all-hands-to-the-pumps order. 'You come and see me tomorrow, eh? We'll tidy up whatever you've got before we pass it along to your Guv'nor.'

CID helping a green Flying Squad boy write his report? Unheard of. But he would be a fool to turn it down. 'Right, Skip, thanks. I will.'

Another singer started up with 'I Wanna Be Loved By You'. The drinkers at the bar joined in the boo-boo-be-doo chorus.

Billy looked up at Jack, puzzled.

'Haven't you heard, son?' the older man said. 'Roy Foster is starting the Marilyn Monroe Memorial Drinking Club.'

At Ronnie Scott's Club in the basement of 39 Gerrard Street, Stan Tracey and the band were mining a piece by Thelonious Monk, excavating the quirky chord sequences with a dogged invention that had Scott himself – the co-owner – nodding from his place at the bar. The club being the size it was – it had been a bolthole for gypsy cabbies to have coffee and cigarettes between fares – this meant Ronnie was virtually on the stage with the players.

Although Zoot Sims, Dexter Gordon and a talented but cantankerous sax-player called Lucky Thompson had all graced the tiny venue in the past few months, there were no big names on the bill that night, just homegrown talent. This meant the club was relatively quiet, which suited Bruce, who had called the meet, just fine.

He sat at the rear, at one of only two rough tables, alternating watching the band with admiring the woman sitting on a stool next to Ronnie in her black, sleeveless and mostly backless dress, smoking a cigarette as if it were an erotic act. Actually, the way Janie Riley smoked a Sobranie was an erotic act. She could get a slot at Raymond's Revue Bar, just by lighting up and blowing smoke, any night of the week.

Charlie Wilson came and sat down next to Bruce and ordered a beer. He listened to the band for a few moments with his face screwed into concentration. 'When does the tune start?'

'About one a.m. usually,' said Bruce. The club was only licensed until eleven – for the first few months of its life the strongest drinks on offer were coffee or a lemon tea – but musicians often gathered after-hours, especially tyros looking for impromptu tuition and false-fingering tips from Ronnie.

'I had to join to get in,' Charlie complained. 'Never had to join a club in me life.'

'It's in a good cause.' Bruce had often spoken to the guv'nor, as they called Ronnie, and knew how precarious it was running a jazz club. Ronnie claimed he and his partner got together on Sunday afternoon every week and decided whether they could afford to reopen on Monday or if they should just hand back the keys. Their hunger for cash meant that getting past Pete King on the door without shelling out for membership was a feat in itself, even for a hard man like Charlie. 'Besides, there's one thing you never get in here.'

Charlie cocked an ear to the spiky runs coming from the stage. 'Melody?' he offered.

Bruce had to smile. 'Old Bill.'

Charlie grunted. It was true that most of the clip joints, strip clubs and drinking dens in Soho were subject to random visits by coppers, either looking for information or a few quid. Some of the West End Central boys were regulars at the Flamingo, Murray 's Cabaret and the Kismet. So were various politicians, judges, hacks, and even members of the clergy, the hypocritical bastards. But the kind of real jazz played at Ronnie's kept most of them away.

'Where've you been?' Bruce asked.

There was no reply. Charlie had clocked Janie Riley and was craning his neck. Bruce was well aware that Charlie was a fervent family man, doting on Pat and his daughters, but once in Soho he would take a run at anything that didn't have a dick between its legs.