Robert Ryan - Signal Red

The cars made contact, the Mk 2's rear panel smacking into the A40, but side on, lessening the impact. Both cars rocked to a halt, engines still burbling. Roy hoped the wheel arches had held. He didn't want torn metal to shred a tyre on the A4.

In the rear, Bruce raised his brolly like a rifle at the Good Samaritan. The man ducked. Roy gave the Jag a tentative press of the throttle and snapped the light embrace of the Austin. With one last wiggle as the power went down, the Jag, its pride only slightly crumpled, leaped away from the encounter and weaved its way through the traffic, heading for Hounslow.

As Roy dropped the car's speed to blend in with the regular folk, a whoop of joy and relief came from the rear. Janie lurched across at him. Roy felt the wetness of her mouth on his cheek and allowed himself a little smile of victory. Done it.

10.45 a.m. Billy gave his call sign and waited for a reply. There was just a stream of profanity, spat out over the airwaves. 'Say again?'

It was Duke on the radio, his voice full of anger and fear in equal measure. 'Fuckin' hell, Billy, there's been a wages snatch.'

Billy's mind couldn't quite grasp what was being said, distracted by the failure of protocol. 'Over?'

'Fuck "over", you silly cunt. A wages snatch at Comet House. At the airport.'

Billy felt a surge of acid into his windpipe and his bowels loosened. 'I don't-'

' London Central Airport. At Heathrow.' Billy stared up at the sign that said Gatwick Airport: Authorised Personnel Only. 'Don't you get it, Billy?' The voice was almost a falsetto now. 'You've been sold a pup. We're at the wrong bloody airport. O-fuckin'-ver.'

From the Daily Sketch, 28 November 1962

In a daring raid yesterday, members of a gang wearing bowler hats, false moustaches and carrying briefcases to make it appear they were businessmen carried out a cosh raid on wages clerks at Comet House, London Airport, and stole in excess of £50,000. The money had been transported from a nearby Barclays Bank and was destined for the BOAC pay-roll.

The robbers fled the scene in two high-powered Jaguar saloon cars, later found abandoned. Detective-Inspector Hugh Jarvis who will be leading the investigation said yesterday that they were looking for a criminal gang of: 'At least six men and one woman. We are appealing to any witnesses who saw the cars being driven to the airport or anyone who saw suspicious activity there in recent weeks. This a well-organised gang, and the raid took careful planning, but I would remind the public these are dangerous men.'

Police believe that very few criminals in the capital have the audacity and skill to carry out such a raid. 'It is only a matter of time before we learn their names,' a Scotland Yard spokesman said, although he did not dismiss the conjecture that there might have been 'foreign elements' involved completely. 'Crime is an international business now,' he added.

All airports and ports are being watched. DI Jarvis said anyone with information should not approach the men, but call Whitehall 1212. A reward is expected to be offered.

London, December 1962

The highlight of the week following the airport job was its appearance on Shaw Taylor's Police 5, which Roy watched in his flat above the Battersea garage. The police had discovered the Jags eventually, abandoned in Hounslow. They had also found the BSA motorbike, because the little bastard machine had failed to start for Roy. He had been forced to leave the area by bus, while Tiny Dave had driven the Co-operative furniture van to Norbury with the cashboxes and Mickey and Buster in the rear. The others had taken Tubes, trains and taxis.

Still, finding the cars had yielded nothing, because everything had been very well wiped down. Roy had used T-Cut abrasive cream on the doors and handles of the Jags to take off the top layer of paint, turpentine and thinner elsewhere. Those handling brollies and hats had been careful to wear gloves. So there were no latent dabs there. If there had been, they wouldn't all have been sitting in their respective homes or hangouts, watching Police 5.

'And did anyone see these two cars? Very smart Jaguars. Both stolen a few weeks before their use as getaway vehicles. They must have been stored somewhere.' Shaw Taylor adjusted his trademark thick-framed black glasses as he stared at the camera. 'Perhaps in that lock-up down the road? That disused factory? Were there any strange comings and goings in the middle of the night? If so, call the number I shall give you at the end of the show.'

Shaw Taylor moved to the rear of the Jaguar, hands in his sheepskin jacket, breath clouding the air in front of his face. Must have filmed this early in the morning, thought Roy. Taylor fished out one of the steel umbrellas and the metal bowlers from the boot. 'And look at this.'' He clashed them together. 'Solid metal, painted to look like the real thing and used to inflict – he shuddered – 'horrible injuries on innocent men. Make no mistake, these are not Robin Hoods or William Tells, fighting the Sheriff of Nottingham or Landburgher Gessler. These are vicious greedy crooks who have stolen the wages of hard-working men and women.'

Yeah, yeah, thought Roy as he turned off the TV and watched the image implode to a white dot. Not that many wages. When they had opened the cashboxes it was found that each contained around £15,000, rather than the £150,000 they had hoped for. Once the expenses were covered, Tiny Dave, Ian and Harry bunged a few grand, The Frenchman – one of the underworld's financiers who had laid out a few grand to help with set-up expenses – reimbursed and given his whack, there was only a pittance left each. And Bruce had insisted on 'taxing' that, creaming off enough to create a fund for the next job. The next 'Big One'.

It was a crying shame. It had been slick, daring and fast, and nobody got hurt. Well, a few headaches, but not much more. Certainly not the 'horrible injuries' Taylor had mentioned. No thanks to Buster though, who complained he never got to use his homemade cosh in real anger.

Still, with the sale of his kart and his share he had enough, just, for that Brabham. Let Bruce and Charlie spunk their share away on bespoke suits and tarts, Buster on that Sunbeam Alpine he claimed he'd always fancied and Gordy on… nobody was sure what Gordy spent his money on. Bigger and better hair-crimpers and driers, maybe. Or a new salon. Perhaps he wanted to be the new Mr Teasy Weasy demonstrating modern hairstyles to Cliff Michelmore on telly.

Roy picked up the current issue of Autosport, which had a Mark X Jaguar on the cover. He flicked through the technical articles on gas flow and came upon a beautiful cutaway drawing of the F1 Brabham, the one in which Jack Brabham himself, no less, had come fourth in the US Grand Prix, the first ever GP driver to score points in a car of his own design. It was built by Brabham and fellow Aussie Ron Tauranac at their workshops in Byfleet. This was the goal: Coventry- Climax powered, sitting on fat 13-inch front and 15-inch rears, twin Lukey Muffler exhausts, 174bhp at 8,300rpm. But that was walking before he could run. Karts to F1 in a single bound was unheard of. He'd have to prove himself in Formula Junior first.

The phone rang and he tossed the magazine aside. He knew who it would be. One of the lads to wind him up about Shaw Taylor. Roy 'Vicious Crook' James they would call him from now on. Made a change from Le Furet, the nickname his crimes in France had earned him. Les Flics had announced that the thief was able to scale drainpipes as if he had run up inside them, like Le Furet. Funny, it sounded better in French. 'The Ferret' didn't have quite the same ring.

He picked up the receiver. 'Yeah?'

' Roy?' It was Bruce.