Robert Ryan - Signal Red

' Roy had the two kids for a long weekend-' Reed began.

'Hold on. You said on the phone about a wife. When did Roy get married?'

'A while back,' Reed said. 'You didn't hear?'

'No.'

Billy turned to Reed. 'Tony here runs a BMW franchise near Blackheath. Doesn't mix with the old crowd much.'

'Well,' continued Reed. 'Married, yes. Much younger girl.'

That was no surprise. They all liked their girls young. Franny was barely sixteen when Bruce proposed. Most of the hostesses they tapped in Soho had just turned eighteen. But Roy had never really been part of that back then. For him, the racing was the thing; he didn't seem attracted to the girls in the clubs. Not queer, just not interested.

'It didn't last. His wife was picking the daughters up last night. With her father. Once they had the kids in the car they announced that they would be taking them to Spain for the summer, so Roy wouldn't see them for six weeks or more. Thing is, he loves those girls. He tried to get the kids back in the house, as a bargaining tool. The wife and father-in- law went to stop him. That's when it all went off. At least, the gun did.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'He's still in the excitable phase of the proceedings. Hyper. Bring him down, Tony. Talk about the old days. Make him see some sense, eh?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'We weren't that close.'

Billy gave a small grunt of disbelief.

'OK, for a few months maybe.'

'Look, PT Seventeen is itching to kick the door down and go in with the flashbangs like it's the bleedin' Iranian Embassy,' Bill said. He pointed at Reed. 'We've both done hostage and siege courses. DI Reed here went to bloody Quantico. You know – FBI. But we both agree, a friend trumps any pro negotiator in a domestic. That's all this is for the moment, a domestic.'

He let me ponder on the 'for the moment'. If Roy started shooting at an armed Met policeman, the chances were he wouldn't be coming out of that house vertical.

'I'll get him on the line, shall I?' Billy said.

I nodded.

Bill Naughton lifted up the receiver and pressed one button on the keypad. After a long minute, he said: ' Roy? Bill Naughton again. Got someone here who wants to speak with you.'

He handed the receiver across and picked up a second handset so he could listen in. ' Roy? Tony Fortune.'

I thought it was static on the line, but it was Roy laughing. 'Fuck me. Talk about scraping the barrel.'

'Thanks.'

'No offence, mate. I meant about dragging you out of bed. How you doing?'

Better than you, I thought. 'Can't complain. Except when some plod turns up in the middle of the night. I thought they'd come for me at last, I really did.'

Roy gave a more considered, rueful laugh. 'Well, they never stopped coming for me, Tony, that's the truth.'

The voice was full of self-pity, not a quality I associated with Roy. You didn't get to be his kind of driver – a genuine, exciting, God-given talent – by wallowing in what-might- have-beens. I guessed he'd had a few knocks over the past decade or so. I wondered how he must feel when he saw Nigel Mansell or John Watson or Graham Hill's son – what was his name? – Damon. What went through his mind when he saw those British drivers take on the world or when he saw Jackie Stewart, the elder statesmen of the sport, pontificating on TV? It should ’ve been me, no doubt.

'This is not good, though – is it, Roy?'

'Not good at all, Tony.'

'Why don't I come in?'

'In here?' I felt a hand on my bicep, squeezing it. A signal to back off.

'Yeah. We can talk properly then.' The grip tightened and I shrugged it away by twisting my body. 'Without this lot earwiggin'.'

'That would be good.'

'Tony-' hissed Billy.

'I'll be right over. Anything you need?'

'Packet of Rich Tea?'

'See what I can do.'

I put the phone down. I felt everyone in the room glaring at me. 'You've just given him a hostage,' said Billy.

'What, me? Leave it out, Billy. You got any biscuits?'

'I can't let you go,' said Reed. But I had spotted some milk chocolate digestives. I scooped them up and put them in my pocket, then turned my collar up for the short walk across the street to Roy 's house.

'Call yourself coppers?' I asked the room. 'You don't see it, do you?'

'See what?'

'What's wrong with him.'

Billy scratched his head and sniffed. 'Oh aye. I know what's up with Roy James. We're all agreed on that. Off you go. Dave, walk him to the gate, will you?'

The young uniform followed me down the steps and across the cordoned-off section of the road, our footsteps unnaturally loud. I caught sight of a few neighbours, standing back in the gloom, curiosity strong enough for them to leave their fortresses.

The air felt like treacle; I found every step an increasing effort until, finally, I ground to a halt.

The only sound seemed to be my breath, coming harsh.

'You OK?'

Sort of, I thought. Only sort of.

'What's wrong with him then, mate?' the copper asked softly. 'The bloke in there.'

But I didn't answer. I took another step forward. Then another. Keen to get there now, speeding up. It was obvious what was wrong with him. Roy James, once a celebrity thief, was now just a lonely, mixed-up, middle-aged man.

Heathrow Airport, November 1962

As he stood smoking a cigarette in the shade of a stores hangar, the smoke mixing with his breath in the cold morning air, Billy Naughton reflected that, although he had never really thought about it, it made perfect sense that the bulbs in airport landing lights sometimes needed changing. And it seemed silly to shut down a whole airport just so you could screw in a new Osram.

They worked in four-man teams, in constant touch with the tower. If a bulb failed, the tower radioed the appropriate team – there were three, covering different parts of the airport – and the quartet that made up the specified Illumination Replacement Unit moved into action in their Austin Champ jeep.

It was, to the uninitiated at least, hair-raising stuff. They drove into position at one side of the runway or taxiway and waited while the tower relayed details of aircraft movements. When there was deemed to be sufficient space between landings or take-offs, the Champ drove onto the flight path.

The driver stayed in radio contact. One man, the gang- master, located the faulty light and undid the restraining clips. A second then removed the housing, and the 'bulb man' – that was Billy's assigned role – twisted out the dud and put in the new one.

The very first time, he had fumbled, unable to get the old bulb out at first, and then having trouble with the replacement and the heavy-duty bayonet mechanism. Meanwhile, a Dan-Air Ambassador was on its final approach, its lights glaring down on them.

'Abort!' the gangmaster had shouted and they had sprinted for the Austin and spun out of the way as the old prop plane- the same sort that had crashed at Munich, killing Manchester United's Busby Babes – roared in for touchdown. He had been glad of the wads of Handy Andy tissues shoved in his ears then.

Since that first morning, almost a week ago, he had acquired some dexterity at the operation and a proper pair of foam earplugs. Mind you, he had had time to practise. The police ambush team had worked for two mornings, waiting for the robbery to take place. They were scattered across the airport, disguised as everything from baggage loaders to aircraft fitters. All were in radio contact because, although Derek Anderson knew the vague details of the plan – early Tuesday or Wednesday morning, within a week or two using a six- or eight-man firm, and promised to be the legendary Big One- the score that set them up for life – he couldn't be sure of the exact day. He was no longer in the inner circle, he was merely picking up crumbs from the periphery. It was a dangerous place to be. But then, should the raid be foiled, he was in line for a substantial payment from the intended victim. Not that they knew who that was either. Hence the