Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Bruce saw Gordy look over and wink. Like all of them, Bruce strayed now and then. It was, depending on how you looked at it, one of the risks or the perks of their chosen profession. You found yourself in the Flamingo or the Gargoyle or Esmeralda's with a pretty – and willing – girl on your arm, what were you meant to do? The same as the MPs, lords, ladies, actors and barristers, photographers and pop stars who frequented those places did. Live a little.

Janie was around thirty, a little older than he liked them, but he just enjoyed the pleasure she derived from hanging around with his sort. She wasn't alone. There were plenty of people, including many showbiz stars such as Stanley Baker and Diana Dors, who hankered after the occasional stroll on the left side of the street. Mostly you found the hangers-on in Esmeralda's Barn, the Kray twins' club in Wilton Place, perhaps the Black Gardenia in Soho 's Dean Street or the nearby Establishment in Greek Street.

Bruce and Charlie generally avoided the limelight of such places, but they had picked up a few fans of their own – the criminal equivalent of Sinatra's bobbysoxers, he supposed, or Tommy Steele's hand-jivers. Sometimes these girls provided nothing more than a few drinks, sometimes an alibi, occasionally a lift out of town, no questions asked. They were, thought Bruce, a bit like Dracula's willing helpers in those Christopher Lee movies, drawn to the thrill of the night.

Janie claimed her motivation was simple: Bruce & Co made a change from Mr Riley who, she said, was a dull civil servant whose idea of excitement was having sex with the 60-watt left on.

Bruce touched her hair absentmindedly, letting some of the strands fall through his fingers.

'You know, you are a very gentle man for a thief.'

Bruce thought she was being sarcastic, but her face was a picture of innocence.

He nodded over to indicate the man with the incongruous handlebar moustache who was fencing the air with his umbrella. 'Well, when you have friends like Gordy and Charlie, you don't need to come the hard man.'

'Oh, I'm sure you can come the hard man when you want to.'

Bruce smirked at the innuendo. 'Right. But Janie, we get caught, this is no laughing matter, you know. It'll mean doing time. Even if you are just a passenger.'

'I'll say you forced me.'

Bruce laughed. 'I never forced a woman in my life.'

'Never had to, I'll bet.'

Bruce wagged an admonishing finger at her. 'Behave yourself.'

Janie pouted at him. 'Why should I?'

He consulted his watch again. This was work; the saucy banter could wait. 'Because we've got a job to do.'

Roy emerged fully uniformed, grey double-breasted jacket and trousers, with a matching peaked cap. He saluted smartly and Bruce threw him a thumbs-up.

'Gentlemen,' Bruce said. 'Start your engines.' He looked at his watch for the tenth time in less than a minute.

8.20 a.m.

Heathrow Airport, November 1962

At 9.35 a.m. precisely, Buster Edwards walked into the Gents on the third floor of Comet House, swinging his briefcase. He had been in there so many times, he thought, it was beginning to feel like a home from home. Or a khazi from khazi. Behind him was Charlie, umbrella over his arm, looking, if you stared too hard, a shade too beefy to be a convincing City gent. Both men were relaxed and calm. The jitters, if any came, always hit before kick-off. Once everything was underway, every fibre was concentrated on playing your part, not letting your mates down and, above all, not screwing up the score. There was no place for nerves.

Buster nodded to the lavatory attendant in cubicle two. The old boy, happy to see a familiar face, returned the gesture and carried on sprinkling Vim into one of the lavatory bowls.

Charlie put down his umbrella, removed his gloves and took up position at the urinal, slowly undoing his fly buttons. Buster decided to stand next to the window and wash his hands, once he had put down his nice new briefcase. He began to whistle a Frank Ifield tune. From his position he could see the turning from the bank perfectly.

'Beautiful morning,' came the voice from the cubicle.

'Marvellous,' said Buster, in his plummiest accent. 'Makes one glad to be alive.'

Charlie craned his neck and looked out of the window. Beautiful? It was a grey November day, the sky sullen and featureless. Ah well, just making conversation, he supposed.

The attendant came out. 'Follow the football, do you, sir?'

Charlie realised he was talking to him. 'No,' he said, not wanting to be drawn. 'I'm a rugby man.'

The attendant sniffed. 'Right.' He moved to the next cubicle with his brush and powders.

Buster turned to Charlie and gave the slightest inclination of the head, just to let him know all outside was as it should be. He could see his watch now he had rolled up his shirtsleeves. It was 9.37 a.m. Things should be moving at the bank.

Inside Barclays Bank (Bath Road Branch) the second hand of the enormous Wessex wall clock swept round and the minute hand jerked to show 9.38 p.m. Cecil Cochrane, the Manager, waited an extra minute before he gave the signal for the vault to be opened. His deputy and his assistant then inserted their keys while he himself dialled the combination lock.

Behind him came the security guards with their trolley, ready to collect the strongboxes sitting within. The BOAC wages had been sorted and packaged up the night before. Once they were loaded and left the premises they were no longer Cochrane's concern.

The door opened and Cochrane pulled it back. He gave a last glance at the wall clock before entering the vault: 9.40 p.m.

Just to the side of the runway, Billy Naughton lit another cigarette, his fingers cold and sore from a shift of changing bulbs. It had been a novelty at first – exciting, even. Now though, the noise, the frantic rushing, the broken fingernails as he struggled to free a stubborn housing, had all taken the shine off it. His back was also giving him gyp from all the crouching and bending over. One muscle was going into spasm every now and then, dancing to its own internal rhythm. And he was a young man. Some of the gangers were in their fifties. How did they manage it in all weathers?

Winter was already beginning in earnest, the metal housings cold and painful to the touch first thing in the morning. He didn't want to do too many more days of this. He found himself willing the thieves to show themselves, to make their play. Come on, fellas, he thought. Get a bloody move on.

It was close to quarter to ten when Roy, looking splendid in his grey chauffeur's uniform, swung the Mk 2 off the M4 and towards the airport access road. Behind him, Janie and Tiny Dave Thompson balanced on folding stools, placed where the back seats should have been. 'Telstar' by the Tornados was twanging out of the Jag's radio. Tiny Dave – whose gym- pumped frame filled most of the back window – was tapping his armrest in time to the instrumental. Janie was smoking a cigarette, slightly nervy. She looked every inch the smart businesswoman, right down to a briefcase, but the fag was somehow wrong.

As they approached the main entrance, she wound down the window and tossed the stub out. Good girl, thought Roy. Don't do anything that makes you seem ill-at-ease, like smoking too aggressively.

Janie leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Thanks for agreeing to this.'

'That's OK, Janie,' Roy said. 'What's an extra passenger?'

'Always wanted to see Bruce and you lads work up-close.'

Roy chuckled. Those on the receiving end wouldn't share that sentiment, he thought. He checked his mirror. Mickey Ball was right on his tail. He could make out the silhouette of Ian in the rear of the following car, his bowler hat in place.