Robert Ryan: Signal Red

'Now, now, Mr Naughton,' I protested.

'Figure of speech, Tony. Forget it. Right – the car is outside, ready to take you to the scene.'

It was then I remembered I had tickets for the FA Cup replay the next day. Arsenal versus Sheffield Wednesday at Wembley, courtesy of BMW corporate hospitality. 'Is there nobody else?' I felt a prickle of shame as I said it.

It was nerves, I told myself. The nagging feeling that Billy Naughton might really have unfinished business with me, not Roy. 'What about Bruce?'

Naughton let out a sigh. 'Bruce Reynolds is too busy with his bloody memoirs, so he says. Which puts Roy 's life in your hands, Tony. Our hands, that is. I hate to play this card

After what, thirty years, but you owe me one. A big one, at that.'

I did. I owed him my freedom, even though he knew, deep down, I was a wrong 'un. He had an overdeveloped sense of fair play, our Mr Naughton, to ever be a real, hard, bastard copper. As I had found out to my benefit. 'So, payback at last.'

But sparring was over. 'You gonna help or what?'

I was already pulling on my clothes, so I supposed I had decided to go along with his plan. 'All right then, Mr Naughton, for old times' sake.'

His voice softened once more. 'Good man. Be nice to see you again, Tony. As you say, been a long time.'

'Yeah.' Not long enough, part of my brain protested as I struggled with my socks, using my free hand. 'I'll see you there.'

I cradled the receiver and explained to a bleary Jane that I had to go out to help an old friend. Jane was my second wife, younger than me, a different generation almost. She knew next to nothing of the old Tony Fortune, the one whose wife left him because of his misadventures in the underworld.

'Who is he?' she asked.

'A bloke called Roy James.'

I saw her brow farrow. Like most people she could recall the names of Roy 's better-known associates, the celebrity thieves. To Jane, and most of the British public, Roy was a vague memory, a half-forgotten name. Wasn't he the fella who played the trumpet? they might ask. No, that was Roy Castle. Or the quiz-show host? Roy Walker. Desert Island Discs? Roy Plomley. If only he'd gone over the wall and ended up in Brazil doing crappy punk songs, they'd remember him then. Who?

'He was a thief,' I went on. 'Cat burglar. First-floor man.'

She was awake now, eyes wide. 'How on earth do you know him, Tony?'

'It's a long story.'

One I had a feeling that Billy Naughton, Roy James and I were going to be chewing over for the rest of what was shaping up to be a very peculiar night.

'Try me.'

As I leaned over and kissed her forehead, I didn't actually say the sentence that formed on my lips. I thought it best to let it die a lonely, unloved death. ' Roy was a Great Train Robber. And, come to that, so was I.'

Instead I whispered, 'I'll be as quick as I can. Go back to sleep.'

Warren Street, Central London, October 1962

Tony Fortune was polishing the bonnet of a signal-red AC Ace Roadster when the big Rover purred to a halt outside his rented showroom. It was a P5, the imperious political barge much loved by government ministers. Except this one was the newer coupe, with a raffish and rakish roofline. It gave just a hint of flash to what could be perceived as a very staid motor. Tony stopped applying the Super Hard Shell Turde Wax and waited to see who emerged from it.

Recognising the spindly figure unfolding itself out of the car like a cobra emerging from a basket, he shouted to Paddy, his mechanic, who was out the back: 'Put the kettle on, mate. The poncy stuff.'

Then Tony returned to polishing, grabbing a few more minutes, hoping to give the Ace the high lustre it deserved before his visitor came inside. He had loved cars all his life. He still had the first one he had ever owned, although it was now scratched and battered and missing a wheel. It was a maroon Series 30 Daimler, magically unearthed by his mum for a birthday during the war and treasured until peace came and Dinky Toys production resumed.

Bruce Reynolds – the man from the P5 – beamed as he saw Tony glance up at him through the plate glass. As tall, dapper and bespectacled as ever, Bruce adjusted the collar of his cashmere topcoat, smoothed down the front, with its concealed buttons, and strode into the display area. He stood and appraised the stock with an expert eye, dismissing most of it, before nodding at the Ace.

'That's nice.'

Bruce had an appetite for sports cars. Last time Tony had seen him he'd been squiring his young wife Franny in a sleek Austin Sprite. 'More up your street than the Rover, Bruce.'

Bruce looked out into the street at the P5. 'That? It's Charlie's, not mine.' No surname was needed. He meant Charlie Wilson, one of Bruce's childhood friends who had grown into a formidable blagger and hard man. 'He likes the leg room. My Aston's playing up again, so he lent it to me. You're right about the Rover, though. Bit too Reggie Maudling for my liking.'

Tony smiled and held out his hand. Bruce made him laugh, always had. Tony's love of cars had progressed to 'borrowing' them when he was a young teenager. Which in turn had led to a meeting in borstal with an ambitious thief called Bruce Reynolds, who had a sideline in equally ambitious daydreaming. The slightly older lad used to describe in tedious detail The Good Life he would be acquiring for himself, once he pulled off The Big Job. It was a lengthy litany of quality cars, bespoke clothes, young attractive women, the finest booze and the best of mates, all to the accompaniment of the Modern Jazz Quartet and George Shearing. Even then, Tony had known it was a remarkably mature ragbag of aspirations for a young lad. And judging by the expensive sliver of a gold watch on his wrist, plus the fact that he had apparently acquired an Aston Martin, Bruce had ticked off at least some of his wish list. But Tony knew keeping up appearances was all part of the game. Bruce would walk and talk the high life even if he only had a half-a-crown in his Post Office Savings book.

'You doin' all right?' he asked Tony.

'Can't complain. There's more competition now, of course.'

Since the war, when it had been Spiv Alley, Warren Street had become car dealers' row. Initially it had been pavement jobs, cash only, no questions asked about such things as logbooks. But in the past few years, the ground floors of the office blocks had been opened up into showrooms and most of the dealing was more or less legitimate. It was still buyer beware, though, and you couldn't be sure that the name of the dealers – or the salesman – would be the same from one week to the next.

'How's the wife?' Bruce asked.

'Fine. Franny?'

'Good, thanks.'

'You workin'?'

Bruce's bony shoulders moved towards his ears in a noncommittal shrug. 'This and that.'

The role model for Bruce might be Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, but the 'work' sometimes fell short of that. One week it might be a safe full of cash or jewels, but the next it could easily be a few dozen packs of Navy Cut from a tobacconists or a shipment of 30-denier stockings. If there was good information and a margin to be had, you went at it. Even a thief with ambitions like Bruce couldn't go after the Crown Jewels or the Bank of England every day.

Paddy emerged with the Darjeeling, the 'poncy' tea that

Bruce liked. Bruce took the Castrol mug with a murmured thank you, sipped and smacked his lips appreciatively. 'The Champagne of Teas? You remembered.'

'You banged on about it so much inside, how could I forget?' Bruce stared at him, a slight smirk on his face, until Tony admitted the truth. 'All right, I have this guy who buys Mercs who likes it.'

'I thought it was a bit odd, keeping a caddy just on the off- chance I turn up.'