Robert Ryan - Signal Red

The initial hearing was set for three weeks' time. It wasn't long to sort something out for the two lads. They wouldn't grass, that was for sure, which meant they were looking at a decent stretch.

'Yes?' The metal door swung open and a knotted face with hefty sideburns was staring at him.

'Ron in?' Roy asked.

'Busy.' From his accent, this was another Antipodean.

'Can you tell him Roy James is here?'

'What for?'

Roy suddenly put a name to the face. 'You're Denny Hulme, aren't you?'

The man relaxed a little. Belligerence softened into merely prickly. 'Yeah. That's right.'

'I saw you race at Aintree. A second. You picking up a car?'

He shook his head. 'No. I'm the Service Manager here now.'

Well, it was hardly service with a smile. 'You're not racing?'

A shrug. 'Can't afford it, mate.'

'Tell me about it,' said Roy sympathetically. 'Rich man's game.' Hulme nodded. 'Shame though. You're bloody good. Can I see Ron?'

'Really, he's under the cosh, working on the cars for South Africa.'

'Yeah, right. 'Course he is.'

The South African would be the final GP of the year and would decide whether Graham Hill or Jim Clark would be World Champion. Although Brabham weren't in contention for the top two places, with Stirling Moss out of action after a hideous crash, Bruce McLaren, who had won at Monaco, just had to be in the points to stay ahead of Surtees and take third. It would be a real boost for the Brabham-Climax team.

'Just that I want to order a car.'

'A car?'

'To race,' he added redundantly.

Hulme looked down at the case at Roy 's feet. 'You one of those rich men we were just talking about?'

'Had a bit of luck on the Spot-the-Ball competition.'

'Congratulations. What you after?'

'Formula Junior. A BT6.'

'You done much racing?'

'Karts. British team. Ron can vouch for me.' I know what I am doing, is what he really meant.

'A BT6 is five and a half thousand, including Purchase Tax. You must be good at spotting those balls.'

Roy picked up the case. It was most of what he had earned from the job. Affording the running costs for any car he bought was going to be tricky, but he would worry about that later. 'I am. Think Ron'll take cash?'

For the first time Denny Hulme smiled, and when Roy left two hours later, he had a single-seat racing car specced up, a delivery date and a chassis number: FJ-13-62. He was on his way.

London, January 1963

The council of war was held at the Trat – the Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street – on another bitterly cold day. A series of angry storms had lashed the British Isles and there had been four days of fog in London. Now the temperature was down in the basement. So the men who entered the Italian restaurant were bundled up in coats, scarves, gloves and hats and took several minutes to disrobe as Alvaro, the manager, fussed around them, ordering vino rosso before they had even sat down, and listing the day's specials.

Alvaro had selected a circular table at the rear of the room. There was Bruce, back from the South of France where he had gone immediately after the identity parade. He was in the clear now. Fifteen hundred pounds, spread around liberally, meant his name was no longer associated with the Heathrow job. Roy was present, as were Gordy, Buster and a young solicitor, Brian Field.

Gordy was only there because of Brian, who had secured him bail, which had been refused for Charlie and Mickey.

Bruce, a tanned and relaxed figure among wan winter-struck faces, ordered some antipasto for the table and said: 'Well, gentlemen, who is going fill me in? How's Charlie?'

'Quiet,' said Buster, who had visited him on remand. 'But calm.'

'What do they have on him?'

'The lavatory attendant,' said Brian. 'Good ID.'

'Is that all?' Bruce asked. 'Can we get to him?'

The solicitor shook his head. 'No.'

'Is he solid?'

'He's an old bloke. A good brief 11 make him wobble,' said Buster.

'And Brian has an idea,' said Gordy with something close to admiration. Theirs was not a normal client-counsel relationship. In fact, Bruce sometimes thought the angel-faced Brian, with his short hair, neat suits and sensible shirts, was the most bent out of all of them. He had, after all, a glamorous German wife with expensive tastes to support.

Bruce turned to look at the young man, not yet out of his twenties. He could almost pass for a teenager, albeit a particularly harmless, suburban one, apart from the flinty eyes. Bruce glimpsed a greedy venality in there.

'Well, there is a lad works at the airport – has done for two years. Never been on a plane, even though he has to watch them all day. That kid would love to catch a jet to New York or Rio.'

'Yeah? Go on.'

Brian hesitated as a large platter of ham, artichokes, olives and tomatoes was placed in the centre of the table, along with I stack of hot, crisp bread. 'So he'll say that he saw Charlie at exactly the same time as the robbery was taking place – but over with the plane-spotters.'

'Plane-spotters?' Bruce asked incredulously. 'Charlie? He can't tell a 707 from the hole in his arse.'

'I'll slip him a copy of the Observer's Book of Jet Airliners,' said Brian with a smirk. 'Come the trial, he'll be an expert.'

Buster took a sliver of translucent ham and folded it into his mouth. 'OK, fair enough, that's confusing the attendant's evidence – can't be in two places at once,' he said eventually. 'But is that enough?'

Roy waved away the offer of wine and asked for lemonade. 'What about a juror?'

Brian nodded. 'Likely we can get us one. We'll have to wait on that, obviously.'

'How much for the kid at the airport?' Bruce asked.

'Two grand should do it.'

Two grand. The money from the score was dwindling fast. 'I'll get it to you,' said Bruce. 'What about Mickey?'

What he really meant was: would he go QE? 'He's holding up,' said Roy, knowing Mickey would never take the Queen's Evidence route. 'Saw him last week.'

'And what do they have on him?'

'Two witnesses who put him in Comet House.'

'What?' He looked at Brian. 'He wasn't inside.'

'They think it's me,' said Buster. 'Same sort of height, you see.'

'Bollocks,' said Bruce.

Brian supped his wine. 'He could cop a plea. If they do him for the violence inside, he could be looking at a cockle, maybe more.'

'And Mickey can't do ten years standing,' said Roy glumly. They all appreciated that Mickey wasn't made of the same stuff as Charlie, Gordy or Bruce.

They finished the antipasto in silence. Bruce indicated that the table be cleared.

'What if he does cop a plea?'

Brian sniffed. 'A handful, maybe.' Five years. 'They have the chauffeur's trousers from his drum, so it isn't hard to convince them he wasn't inside but behind the wheel. He might even get away with a lagging. Three and out in two.'

'But he won't roll over?' asked Buster, suddenly concerned for his own skin.

'Mickey? Nah,' insisted Roy. 'He knows which side his bread is buttered on.' He also knew what would happen if he did give them Charlie or any of the others. Life inside wouldn't be safe. 'I'll have a word. See if I can get him to change his mind and do a Not Guilty.'

A small bowl of ravioli each – on the house, the waiter informed them – was set before them and more wine taken by all but Roy. Then Bruce turned to Gordy. 'What about you?'

Brian answered for him, mischievousness in his voice. Bruce was reminded yet again that the solicitor often treated all this as a game. Brian v the Bogeys. 'Now Gordon has an idea.'

Gordy quickly outlined his plan, which clearly appealed to his sense of humour. Bruce wasn't so sure.

'That's it? Bit Tommy Cooper, isn't it?'