Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'Nothing so far, guv,' said the DC from the local nick to Duke.

'Fair enough. He's the careful sort, is Gordy. Why don't you go and get a cup of tea?'

'Tea?' the DC asked, as if he never touched the filthy stuff. 'We've only the bedrooms and the loft to do.'

'And I want them done properly. Not the sudden spurt at the end when everyone thinks it's time for a cuppa. Come back refreshed.' He pointed at Billy. 'We'll hold the fort till you get back.'

The DC pointed down to the nylon sports bag Duke had brought along. 'Off to the gym?'

'Oh aye. Judo. Couple of throws on the mat. Nothing like it at the end of the day.'

The DC looked sceptical, but he waved his uniforms out.

Duke took out a fiver. 'Get them a sandwich, too.' The DC hesitated before he took it.

After they had left, Duke crossed to the cocktail cabinet and opened it. 'Bird's eye maple, this. Pricy. Oh, looky here. Nice drop of Laphroaig. Fancy some?'

'Nah.'

'Come on.' He examined the bottle. 'It's not like he's marked it. Bent bastard isn't going to miss two snifters. Probably swag anyway.' He splashed out a generous measure into each of two cut-glass tumblers. 'Secret with this is, a drop of water.'

He returned from the kitchen beaming and handed Billy one of the glasses. 'Cheers.'

Billy just gave a tight smile. He wasn't sure he felt like toasting with the guy who had dropped him in this particular pile of shit. He sipped his drink, his eyes watering at the rich, peaty aroma released by the few drops of water.

Duke grabbed an arm, steered him over to the sofa and pushed him down. He stood over him, a lopsided grin slapped onto his face. Billy felt an urge to punch it. 'Now look, Billy boy, I know you are pissed off. Black mark and everything. But just imagine if that little shit's tip-off hadn't been moody. The power and the fuckin' glory you would have got. Would you be sharin' that with me now? Would you fuck. But listen, old Millen is sayin' to George Hatherill, "Well, he's a new boy. Happens to us all. Give him some slack." More than they would for me. "Cocky cunt," they'd have said about me; "should have seen it comin'. Should have smelled it".' He sniffed his drink to emphasise the point and the grin returned. 'But all that could be water under the bridge if we make this stick on someone. That's all they care about. Arrests have been made – that's good. But what have we got so far?'

'A couple of IDs.' 'Right.'

'And the bolt-cutters.'

'Also correct. We have a man who fits Gordon Goody's description down to a T buying a massive pair of bolt-cutters. Now, Gordy will claim they were for home dentistry. And by the time we come to court, the hardware bloke will have changed his mind.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Oh, I'd put a few bob on it. He'll get a visit from the chaps. Then he'll contract terminal amnesia. I know the type. He just wants to go back to his brown coat and his pound of nails. Not all of them will roll over, mind. But for Gordy… we need more than his word against a witness.'

'Such as?'

'Such as you going to take a peek under the bed?'

'He doesn't seem like the kind of man to put his loot under the mattress.'

'You'd be surprised. Go and have a butcher's.'

Curious, Billy went to the bedroom, got down on his hands and knees onto the soft cream carpet and peered at the space under the bed. Empty. Not so much as a dust ball. He got up and went back out, bored with Duke's games.

'There's nothing th-'

The bowler hat came flying across the room at him, spinning almost at face level. Billy reached up to pluck it from the air and felt his fingers pushed back and a stab of pain in his wrist. 'Ow. Shit.'

The hat made a dull thump as it hit the carpet.

'There will be if you slide that under.'

It was one of the steel bowlers recovered from the scene. No prints, no indication who made them. Useless. 'Why?'

'I checked,' said Duke. 'Seven and three-eighths, give or take. Have a look at the trilby in the hall. Same size.'

Billy felt his stomach shrink when he realised what the DS was suggesting. 'Duke-'

'You know and I know that Gordon Goody is right for this. All we have to do is convince a jury of that. He bought the cutters three miles from the airport and he has previous. Oh, and guess where his neighbour used to work?'

He knew – the bloke had been a janitor at Comet House, but the neighbour had insisted it was mere coincidence.

'Circumstantial.'

Billy's face darkened. 'So is your career in the Squad at this moment. The hat puts him at the scene. The hat saves your skinny arse. Because we get a result and it isn't a fuckin' fiasco. You live to fight another day.' He finished his whisky. 'Up to you, son. No, really. I can put it back in the bag here and have it returned to the shelf where it will lie gathering dust because it is of no use to us. Or we can make it count.'

Billy's mouth went dry and he was worried that, if he spoke, his voice would betray the tears he felt welling up inside. It wasn't the way he wanted to catch crooks, not what he envisioned at all. Oh, he knew it went on, the verbalising, the fit-up, but not him, he had always thought. Not Billy Naughton.

Against that, he had to stack the cloud he felt oppressing him every day, the looks and the mumbles in the Squad room. The new dread of showing his face at work at all. A work he loved. Perhaps Duke was right. It was better to live and fight another day. He left the room to find a spot under the bed where the local DS would discover the steel bowler.

Tony Fortune didn't like the atmosphere in the flat when he got home that evening. Marie had come back early from work at the bank and had made shepherd's pie. But she wouldn't catch Tony's eye as she laid the table. He opened the cupboard to fetch the sauce and found himself staring at a dozen bottles of HP.

'We'll be all right for sauce when the bomb drops then,' he said.

'They were on special offer. Just the peas to do. Want a beer?'

'All right.' He sat and flicked through the Evening News, to see if there was any more on the Heathrow job. He also wondered if Shaw Taylor's appeal had generated any leads. He hadn't had the Jags for long and had worked on them well away from Warren Street. Everyone involved had been paid handsomely, so there was nobody disgruntled. But there was the reward, that insidious cancer which might eat away at the cash-strapped. Tony determined to do a quick ring around, make sure everyone was sound.

Marie opened a brown ale for him, and then delivered the bowl of peas and the pie to the table. He sat up and stared across at her as she ladled out the food. She gave a thin smile. She looked tired, her brown hair needed a wash and she still had on one of those cheap synthetic drip-dry blouses she wore to work. Still, he felt a sudden burst of affection, possibly tinged with lust, for her. He didn't speak until he had tasted the pie and nodded his approval. 'Lovely. You all right?'

She pushed the hair away from her face. 'Yes, love. Except… well, you know I had those pains the last couple of weeks?'

Tony recalled something about stomach cramps and ulcers, but he had been too distracted by his own concerns to pay much attention. 'Of course.'

'I went to the doctor, Tony.'

He felt a stab of nervousness. His mother had died of some female cancer. Cervical, that was it. He put down his knife and fork and gave her his full attention. 'And what did he say?'

'He says we're going to need a bigger flat.'

She burst into tears, and it was a good few seconds before he made the connection. The realisation hit him like a sack of wet sand. He was going to be a father.

Cannon Row police station, December 1962

The young copper popped his head into the interview room. 'Be ready for you in about fifteen minutes, Mr Reynolds.' The lad nodded towards the empty mug on the table. 'Need a top-up?'