Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'Oi. Get your eyes off her. Where've you been?'

'Geisha Club.'

That was round the corner in Old Compton Street, a mix of a cabaret and a hostess bar that, like Murray 's, turned a blind eye to how the girls earned a little extra on the side. Charlie, of course, never paid for any of the 'specials'.

'Anything happening?'

'New act called Ding Dong Belle,' said Charlie, taking a slug of his drink. 'Covered in these little bells. She lets you ring them as they come off. Ends up with just three. You can guess where.' He was looking at Janie Riley again, his eyes glistening with lust. 'She's really nice. Classy. Looks like Audrey Hepburn – only after a good feed-up.'

Roy was the last of the three to enter the club, just as Stan Tracey gave his final two-fisted flurry of Monk. Ronnie grabbed the microphone and waited for the applause to fade. 'That was Stan Tracey, the thinking man's Winifred Atwell, with Tony Crombie on drums and Mr Jeff Clyne on bass. There will be a short break now while we give the piano the kiss of life. We'll be back in fifteen minutes when we will be auditioning a young saxophone-player called Ronnie Scott. Please treat him kindly as he only got his horn out of hock today. If any of you blokes want something to eat after the show I can recommend a Chinese place called Yung Poon Tang along the street. If you want food, try our sandwiches. After all, a million flies can't be wrong.' He flashed a lopsided grin at the baffled audience and walked off.

Ronnie nodded to Bruce as he strolled by and climbed the rickety stairs. Ronnie liked to gamble, which meant he knew some of the same Soho faces as Bruce. 'There's a lot in common between jazz and what you do,' the guv'nor often said. 'Insecurity, never knowing where the next payday is coming from and the hours are bleedin' awful.'

Roy got himself a Heineken from the bar and sat down as the drums of Art Blakey snapped out from the PA. 'All right, gents?' He gestured back up the stairs. 'I had to join to get in.'

'Apparendy it's all in a good cause,' said Charlie, pointing at Ronnie's back. 'They're saving up to buy the owner a joke book.'

Roy looked around at the dingy basement. 'I was talking to Dave Hill at the Steering Wheel Club up Shepherds Market. Dave bloody Hill, eh.' He was clearly disappointed to be pulled away from a chat with a Ferrari driver to a subterranean dive in Soho playing jittery bebop.

'Steve there?' Bruce said casually. They had seen McQueen take a credible third, behind Christabel Carlisle, in a Mini at Brands Hatch. No doubt the American was annoyed to be beaten by a woman, albeit one that Roy considered a great driver regardless of sex. The actor had spun out in the next race, although he had shown great control not flipping the tiny car. Unfortunately, despite Roy pulling a few strings, he hadn't managed to engineer a meeting between Bruce and the actor. The thief had hidden his disappointment, although not well.

'Nah, he's gone back over to Germany. He's filming some prisoner-of-war movie.'

'How'd it go with the gates?' Bruce asked, getting down to business.

'Gordy has bought the biggest pair of bolt-cutters I have ever seen. Honest. He could slice through Tower Bridge with them. He's going to cut the chain the night before. By the look of it, nobody ever goes near it, so it should be all right.'

Bruce didn't like that. In his experience 'should be all right' often came back to bite you on the arse. 'I'll have a word with him.'

'How is it with you two?' Roy asked, looking from one to the other.

'All in hand,' said Bruce. 'Harry, Ian and Tiny Dave are coming along as muscle.' Dave's nickname was ironic; he was an ex-weighlifter who looked as if he had accidentally left a set of barbells in the sleeves of his jacket. 'They'll be on a drink.' Which meant the heavies would get a fixed fee, not a share.

'Good.' Roy drank his beer, wondering why Bruce had called the meet. There didn't seem much to discuss. Especially as there was no Gordy or Buster. He felt a little trickle of fear and ran back over the last few weeks. Had he done anything wrong? Upset somebody? 'Is everything all right, Bruce?'

Bruce moved his head from side to side and sucked air through his teeth. He then rubbed one side of his mouth, as if he was suffering from a bad attack of nerves, something he was usually immune to. Charlie took a swig from his bottle and shot Roy a quizzical glance. With relief, Roy realised that Charlie Wilson had no idea what was coming either.

'I got a favour to ask, Roy.' He turned to Charlie. 'And as the tickle was your find, I thought you ought to hear it.'

Charlie nodded to show he appreciated the respect.

'What is it?' asked Roy

'Bit late in the day, I know, but I want to bring someone new in. Not part of any of our firms.'

Roy began to peel the label off the Heineken. 'Well, that's down to you, Bruce, isn't it?'

'Thing is, I'd like them to ride with you. In the Jag.'

Roy tore another strip from the gummed label and rolled it into a ball. Someone to keep an eye on him, perhaps? Had they lost faith in him – or in Mickey Ball? 'Who is it?'

Bruce looked up and snapped his fingers to get her attention above Wayne Shorter's tenor sax. Janie Riley slid off her stool and walked over towards the three men, a mischievous smile plastered over her pretty face.

Headley, Surrey, May 1992

The police had brought in one of those long white squared- off caravans to use as an incident room and parked it up at the gates to the driveway that led to Roy's house. It was an impressive pile, 1930s by the look of it, the front door boastfully porticoed, the green tiles of the roof glowing verdigris in the moonlight. I couldn't help wondering who, or what, had paid for it. This was the stockbroker belt, but Roy was no stockbroker or rock star, the other cashed-up profession that had moved into the area.

Neither of the two coppers in the front of the Panda car had spoken during the trip, which was fine by me. I needed time to get my brain into some kind of gear.

I stepped out and examined the road. It was the kind lined with high walls and hedges, and the driveways came with solid wooden gates to deter prying eyes; this was an area where an Englishman's home was his castle, and the residents wished they still came with moats. And boiling oil.

Bill Naughton was waiting for me outside the caravan, older, stouter, greyer, a cigarette in his mouth, rubbing his hands against the chill of the small hours. As I stepped out, I wished I'd brought more than a thin jacket. It was heading for 3 a.m. Wasn't that meant to be the hour when your metabolism was at its lowest, the perfect time for Gestapo raids and interrogations?

'Tony, thanks for coming. Cup of tea?'

'Why not?' We went inside the caravan. There were three uniforms and two detectives already in there, plus one bloke in black fatigues with body armour and a soft cap on his head. He also had a pistol on his belt. That would be PT 17.

'This is Tony Fortune – he's come to help us out. Get him a brew will you, Dave?' He turned to the Milk Fray Man. 'Give us five minutes, eh, John?' When John had gone, he explained to Tony, 'They've got their own van down the street. For the moment, they're staying in it. We want to keep it that way.' He indicated one of the plainclothes. 'This is Detective Inspector Reed. It's his situation.'

'Can we speak to him?' I asked. 'Have you got the GPO in?'

'BT, Tony, BT,' said Naughton. 'Got to move with the times. Jesus, hasn't been GPO since…' He furrowed his brow, trying to remember when the Post Office lost the phones, but gave up. 'Anyway, yes, we have a line to him.'

'Want to tell me what happened?'

DI Reed took my tea from the Constable and passed it to me. The Inspector looked tired. Perhaps we all did in that stark over-white light.