Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'No, thanks,' said Bruce. 'Tell you what though, wouldn't mind a paper. News or Standard. Might put a bet on later.' He tossed a shilling over.

The uniform frowned as he caught the coin. For a few seconds Bruce thought he had been rumbled. He was just about to give an it-was-worth-a-punt smile when the youngster said, I’ll see what I can do.'

'I'd appreciate it.'

The door closed and he heard the bolt slide home with a clang that echoed around the bare, stuffy room. They were fishing. No, they were trawling, pulling in every one of the chaps they could. Roy James had warned him that humiliating the Flying Squad by selling them a dummy was not a good idea, that wounded pride made the detectives dangerous and reckless, much more likely to fit up whoever they fancied for the job. But Charlie especially had thought it too good an opportunity to miss, sending the coppers down to Gatwick while the firm did Heathrow. Priceless.

As Roy had predicted, they did react in the fevered way they had whenever a policeman got shot. And in their Old- Bill-in-a-China-Shop routine they had scooped up Bruce, Charlie, Gordy, Roy and Mickey.

Bruce had no idea what they had on him and acted as if there was nothing to be had. He was merely helping police with their enquiries. He hadn't even contacted a solicitor. Best be nonchalant, as if he really was giving every assistance, as if he was certain of his own innocence.

An ID parade. But who was going to eyeball him? The lavatory attendant? Surely he had seen Buster more times than Bruce. The security guards? The receptionist? None had got a decent look at him.

The young copper came back with an Evening Standard. Bruce flicked through it after he had gone, but the City gent gang was already old news. Kennedy had declared a blockade on Cuba, because he believed nuclear missiles were there. Four hundred people had been killed by a flash flood in Barcelona. China and India were going to war over a border dispute. What was a few grand lifted at Heathrow compared with that lot?

'OK, Mr Reynolds. I'm DS Haslam.' The young copper had been replaced by a plainclothes, older, rougher, baggier about the eyes. They were Flying Squad eyes, reddened and veined from booze and smoke. 'You know the score, I'm sure.' Bruce didn't bother disputing that it wasn't his first parade. 'Would you mind putting these on?'

It was a pinstriped jacket and a bowler hat. Bruce did as he was asked, irritated that the jacket was a size too big and came down to his knuckles and the hat-band was tight. 'If you'll come this way.'

As he left, Bruce grabbed the Standard, rolled it up and slotted it into the jacket pocket. 'Let's get it over with. My mum is expecting me for tea.'

Len 'Duke' Haslam smiled. 'I hope she hasn't baked special, Mr Reynolds.'

'Oh, she will have. My mum makes the best scones.'

'Let's hope you don't let her down then,' the detective said, in a tone that hoped for just that.

There were seven others in the open yard at the rear of the station. This less than magnificent group were already in a loose line, all in dark suits and hats, ready for the few bob they would pick up as concerned citizens doing their bit. They ranged from five-eight to six-four, with Bruce somewhere in the middle, and half had moustaches. The outside air stung, needle-sharp on his face, only just above zero. Bruce shivered, hoping this wouldn't take long. 'It's freezing out here,' he said.

'Shut it.'

'Why do you always have to do these things in midwinter?' he asked.

'We're hoping your bollocks drop off.'

Haslam positioned Bruce third from the end – he felt those bookending him move away slightly – and inspected the group, like an RSM on parade. He swapped a couple around and straightened the line, making sure the gap between Bruce and the others was closed up. Then he produced four fake moustaches, and pressed them onto the cleanshaven faces. He stepped back, then adjusted Bruce's 'tache. 'That tickles, DS Haslam,' he complained. 'I hope I don't sneeze.'

Duke Haslam said nothing.

When he was satisfied with his charges, he clicked his fingers and out came another detective, younger, with the witness. Bruce kept his face impassive as he recognised him. It was the old bastard from the Austin A40, the one who had backed across the gates to try and block them in. The one Bruce had taken careful aim at with his fake umbrella.

'Take your time now, sir,' the new copper said to the witness.

You could usually smell the nerves and fear on the poor sod who had to walk the line-up. It was no small thing, to face the suspected villain head-on and place the incriminating hand on the shoulder. He had seen plenty bottle it before. Not this one.

The old man – in truth he was probably no more than fifty, flat cap, bad dentures – strode down the line, pausing before each of the potential robbers, looking him up and down and peering into the eyes. 'Can you ask this man to squint?'

'Squint, sir?'

'Yes. Screw up his eyes.'

'Number three, would you mind screwing up your eyes? Thanking you.'

A shake of the head and the witness moved on, until he came level with Bruce. Stay impassive. No smiles. No attempt to either ingratiate or intimidate. Neutral. Bored. Want to get back to your desk.

He watched as the eyes flicked down to the newspaper in his pocket. His brain would be processing that little prop. Why would a prisoner have a newly rolled-up newspaper in his jacket? Surely this was more likely to be one of the makeweights, pulled off the street, who had hastily pocketed his Standard.

Go on, you old bastard, put two and two together.

The witness moved on and Bruce saw a flash of irritation cloud Haslam's face. Bruce Reynolds didn't move a muscle, just let a slow stream of air – an extended sigh of relief – bleed from the corner of his mouth.

He would have warm scones for tea after all.

Jack Brabham's place was in Byfleet, Surrey. Although the racing cars with their Coventry-Climax engines bore Jack's name, the machines were principally designed by Ron Tauranac, and the company was officially Motor Racing Developments, MRD for short. It wasn't until the first race of one of the new cars in France that they realised a drawback with the initials, when the announcer introduced Team MRD and the crowd tittered. Team MRD. Team Merde. Team Shit. The cars were hastily rebadged as Brabhams.

Roy James discovered the workshops were shuttered and locked. Yet he could hear the sound of car builders at work inside, the clatter of tools, the hiss of hydraulic and airlines. It didn't surprise him. Formula One teams disliked casual visitors who might just be coming to see how the monocoque or the water-cooling was configured.

He found a side door, with a bell, and pressed it. A feeble ringing sounded somewhere deep within the unit.

As he waited, Roy put his case down and wondered how Mickey was doing. Mickey fucking idiot Ball. It was a few weeks since they had all been lifted. Both Roy and Mickey passed the ID parade, but Mickey had left part of his chauffeur's uniform at home. A pair of grey trousers. How stupid was it to go down for a pair of strides?

I hey earned Mickey a second ID parade and one of the harrier operators at Heathrow placed him at the scene.

On the positive side, Bruce had walked away, but Gordy was in trouble. False moustaches had been found in his flat, along with a bowler hat. Planted, of course, so Gordy said, although it was pointless saying that. He was going down the Fancy Dress Party defence route. Juries must think dressing up in silly costumes was an essential part of the villainous life. And there was an ID from the hardware-shop owner, saying it was Gordy who had bought the cutters, and another from a security guard. Charlie, too, had been fingered, in his case by the lavatory attendant.