Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'Six grand?'

With his free hand, Derek tapped his stack of newfound wealth. 'At least I'll live to spend this.'

'That's right, my son,' Charlie agreed, releasing his grip. 'Go on, fuck off, see you in twelve months. Sure I'll have something for you then.'

Derek wrapped the money with an elastic band, folded it into his inside pocket and left. Charlie was still sitting in the snug, drinking, when Len Haslam, sporting a face like a sack of hammers, and two uniforms came in to arrest him.

London, December 1962

The steam in the sanatorium at the Savoy Baths on Jermyn Street was so thick, it was as if super-heated cumulus had fallen to earth and been manhandled into a cupboard. Through the swirling clouds, Bruce Reynolds couldn't tell whether there was anybody already in the room. He sat down on the hot, wet marble bench and waited while Buster made himself comfortable opposite. Neither spoke for a while, letting the vapour scour their lungs.

Eventually, when they were sure they were alone, Buster spoke. 'Fuck, eh?'

'Yeah. Fuck.' Bruce thought about the relatively poor haul. A few months' grace, that was all it would give him, before they would have to do it all again. 'On the bright side, it worked, didn't it?'

Buster laughed. Bloody optimist, he thought. Bruce could be a regular Pollyanna. 'Yeah, it worked.'

'Shows what can be done with a little planning. Good, tight teamwork.'

'Yeah. True enough.' Buster took three deep breaths, feeling his airways burn and almost enjoying it. 'Didn't really do it for the camaraderie, Bruce.'

'No?'

'Nice though it is. A bit more cash wouldn't have gone amiss.'

'Yeah.' Sweat began to trickle into his eyes, and Bruce leaned forward. The moisture gathered on his nose and dropped onto the floor with a loud plop. 'Any news on Roy and Mickey?'

'Identity parades,' said Bruce. 'But they only pulled them because of who they are. You know that. Anyone drives a bit handily, there are only six names on the Squad's list. Roy and Mickey are at three and four. Might have even been promoted to one and two.'

'You heard from Charlie?'

'Nah.' Bruce wasn't worried. Charlie often went to earth after a job. 'Probably taken Pat off to Jersey.'

Buster grunted. 'Been there once – never again. Full of stuck-up rich gits. Everyone seemed to be over sixty. Give me Brighton any day.'

They sucked more hot air for a minute, lost in their thoughts. 'Where do you think you'll be when you're sixty, Buster?'

Buster wiped his forehead. It was slippery with sweat. He was already looking forward to a cold shower. Bruce had a bit more stamina for this kind of thing than him. Man must have been a lobster in a former life. 'Parkhurst at this rate.'

'You miserable cunt,' Bruce said affectionately. He didn't understand the gloom that could afflict Buster. It was a mystery. Buster hated the idea of prison and he suffered deep bouts of melancholy about it, even on the outside. 'It might never happen.'

Bruce accepted pokey as part of the deal, the same way that life and death were intertwined; you couldn't have one without the certainty of the other. For him, his chosen path – the criminal way, some might call it – was a state of mind. It moved life to an intensity that was only rarely achievable in other ways. A film might do it, a few bars of Bill Evans, sex, of course, but nothing else sustained that feeling of being larger than life, beyond its quotidian dullness, like being in the midst of a great take-down. Quotidian. That wasn't a word you heard every day. He had read that in JP Donleavy. He'd had to look it up, but he liked it. The Quotidian Life. It was what they all kicked against, some harder than others. Like Dangerfield in Donleavy's novel, or Marlon Brando in The Wild One, which Bruce had seen in France, he wanted to live these few years on earth at full tilt, not succumb to an anaesthetised greyness.

'And where will you be?' asked Buster, interrupting his thoughts.

'Me? Saint Tropez. Acapulco. Watching Frank at The Sands in Vegas and flying over to see Terry Downes fight and Rod Laver play.' He leaned forward and tapped Buster's knee. 'You got to have ambition.'

'My ambition is for Gordy to hurry up so I can get out of here.' Through a gap in the steam, Bruce could see Buster's pudgy face, red and glistening, with rivulets of sweat gathering at his chin. 'You thought about that other thing – for the next tickle?'

'Tickle? More like a belly laugh, Buster.'

'Is that a yes?'

Bruce shook his head, even though he doubted Buster could see the gesture. 'I'd love to do the Bank of England,' he said, 'but come on.'

Buster had been approached by an ex-messenger at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, who had given him details of the Watch. This was the system by which a rotating roster of staff members stayed the night at the Bank of England. Every employee gave up one night a month plus four weekends and a Bank Holiday a year. Each night at 6 p.m., every bank key – a hundred in all – had to be checked in and the bank secured. A convivial supper and rooms were provided. The odd guest was allowed in, but males only. The source had told them that the men-only rule was subtly undermined by smuggled mistresses in tuxedos or even kilts.

'You got to be able to hide in a place that size,' said Buster. 'My bloke says there's a dozen hidey-holes that could avoid the Sweep.'

At 10.45 each night patrols reported to the Bank's Security Control that every corner of the Old Lady had been swept and was free of stowaways intent on mischief.

'And the Guards? Just our luck we'd get the fuckin' Gurkhas.' The various Guards regiments took it in turns to supply the military presence overnight at the bank; but the Gurkhas occasionally did a stint. Bruce could imagine being gutted by one of those little bastards with his kukri.

'Who's being negative now?' Buster asked petulantly.

And what, thought Bruce, was the jolt for trying to rob the Bank of England? Ten years? Fifteen? Christ, a hanging judge might go as high as twenty. For a man who was bird- averse, like Buster, it didn't bear thinking about. But banged up they would be, because there was no way on God's earth Prime Minister Macmillan and Co would let anyone get away with tickling the Old Lady. Only politicians got to rob the country blind.

Bruce, not wanting to encourage his friend into despondency, said: 'You're right. Set up a meet with your man. It's worth dropping a bit of cash to see if he's on the level, if he can get us plans and the like.'

'Will do.' Buster made a blowing sound, like a whale breaching. 'I've got to get out of here, Bruce.'

Buster stood, just as the door opened, allowing steam to billow out into what suddenly seemed like an icy corridor. Standing there was Mannie, one of the attendants at the baths.

'Mr Reynolds. Mr Edwards. Sorry to interrupt your steam but there're a couple of gentlemen here to see you. When you are ready, they said. And not to worry about Mr Goody, they said. They have dealt with him already.'

A couple of gentlemen? Buster looked down at Bruce. 'Fuck.'

'Yeah. Fuck.'

'It doesn't look much like a villain's drum,' said Billy as he walked into Gordon Goody's neat, clean flat. There was G-Plan furniture, a Bush TV, Axminster carpets – none of that Cyril Lord tat – a well-stocked drinks cabinet and a sideboard containing some fancy Wedgwood tableware. In the kitchen was a nice new stove and the biggest refrigerator Billy had ever seen, taller than him, but that was probably the flashiest item in the place. What kind of villain spends his ill-gotten gains on a fridge? he wondered.

'That's because his mum lives here, too,' said Len. 'WPC Waring has taken her off to tea and Bingo.'

Billy and Duke stood and watched as the mostly uniformed team went methodically through the place, unzipping cushions and carefully lifting carpets. Billy was impressed. On too many of the warrants he'd witnessed being served, the searching officers had acted like Desperate Dans. Big and oafish. These lads had finesse.