Robert Ryan - Signal Red

CONFESSION DENIED

Addressing the jury, the Judge said that the evidence against Wilson was of such doubtful character that it did not justify proceeding against him further.

The trial then proceeded against Michael John Ball, aged 26, credit agent of Lambrook Terrace, Fulham, S.W., and Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 32, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W. Mr Ball denied that he originally admitted his role in the robbery in a verbal confession and said that he intended to plead Not Guilty. The trial was adjourned for two weeks.

London, March 1963

As happened every weekday except holidays, at six that morning the Billingsgate bell gave its sonorous clang, echoing around Fish Hill and Pudding Lane. Within the great hall and its satellite lock-ups, the market roared into life. Prices were shouted between buyers and sellers in an impenetrable piscine argot. As deals were made, the wooden-hatted porters stacked boxes of lobsters from Whitby, eels from Holland, mackerel from Newlyn or whiting from Fleetwood on their heads. The market's chimney began to belch its plume of black smoke into the slowly lightening sky.

Bruce took in the scene from the edge of the pandemonium, outside the entrance to the market hall, his etiolated form positioned under a street-light as he waited to be noticed. He was wearing a thick Aquascutum overcoat and a Hermes scarf, but still felt the bitter early-morning chill. The place, of course, also stank. It was a fish market, after all.

Alf Flowers was busy instructing his lads when he caught sight of Bruce. Like Charlie, who had a stake in a Covent Garden firm, Alf had a history – was 'known to the police', as they said. He had been up the steps a few times, although after the last stretch he had sworn to the missus that the only fishy business he would do was at the market. Which was mostly true. Except his chosen business now was not blowing peters but trading information and contacts. For half the villains in London, Alf was like dialling Directory Enquiries. One advantage of using Alf's services was you could get a nice Dungerness crab or two while you were at it. You never got that from the GPO.

'All right, Bruce? Sparrowfart's a bit early for you, isn't it?'

Bruce stifled a yawn. 'Hello, Alf.'

'Got some lovely halibut if you're interested.'

'Fancy a drink?'

Alf knew full well this wasn't about that night's supper. 'Rum and coffee over at the Wheatsheaf?' he asked, throwing a thumb to indicate across the river towards Borough Market. The pub opened at six, serving the porters from the local vicinity. Billingsgate had its own early licensed boozers, but Alf clearly wanted to do business away from under the gaze of his co-workers. Very wise.

'Perfect.'

'See you in thirty?'

'Fine.'

Alf lowered his voice. 'Give me an idea what you after?'

'A copper.'

The fishmonger didn't seem surprised by this. It couldn't have been any old bogey though, because he knew Bruce was on nodding terms with a few of them down at the Marlborough in Chelsea. But then, Bruce was clever enough not to shit on his own doorstep. 'What kind of copper?'

'The kind who likes a flutter at Crockford's or the Pair of Shoes. Preferably one from AD.'

Alf smiled, as if certain this was unlikely to be a taxing assignment. 'I'll see you over there. Order me the FEB.'

'One Full English Breakfast coming up.'

It was Roy and Buster who made the drop. Buster chose Postman's Park, the churchyard of St Botolph's-Without- Aldersgate, famous for its monument to ordinary men and women who turned out to be heroes and heroines. The tiny space was just behind St Bart's Hospital, next to the GPO Headquarters.

There was snow in the air, small flurries presaging a full shower to come. While Roy paced back and forth in front of the park's narrow entrance, looking for suspicious activity and trying to keep warm, Buster put down the Derry & Tom's bag and read the glazed porcelain plaques in the little cloister.

He stopped before a plaque that commemorated a brave cozzer.

George Stephen FUNNELL

Police Constable

December 22nd, 1899.

In a fire at the Elephant and Castle,

Wick Road, Hackney Wick, after rescuing

2 lives, went back into the flames, saving

a barmaid at the risk of his own life.

Good man, thought Buster. He knew a few barmaids he'd like to save. Not that he would run into a burning pub for them – although doubtless this one was very grateful to

Constable Funnel. He wondered if the Elephant and Castle public house was still there.

A piercing whistle from Roy reached him and he turned around. A figure was heading towards him – a man in his thirties, with thinning blond hair, trailing clouds of cigarette smoke as if he was steam-powered. Buster waited for him to approach then turned back to the plaques.

'Look at this,' he said, reading from one of the other commemorations. '"Frederick Mills, A. Rutter, Robert Durrant and F.D. Jones who lost their lives in bravely striving to save a comrade who had fallen into the sewage pumping works. East Ham, July the eighteenth, 1895".'

The detective kept mute.

'Now that's what I call being in the shit,' Buster growled. 'Know what I mean?'

The policeman looked down at the carrier bag. 'That it?'

Buster indicated it was. He looked for Roy, but he had gone. Fetching the car, he hoped. 'You know what to do?'

'You want to go over it again?' the copper asked.

Buster suddenly felt nervous. 'No, I fuckin' don't.' He seized the man's overcoat and started pulling it open.

'Hey, hey, what the fuck-'

Buster grabbed the man's face, squeezing the cheeks together. He had little respect for coppers anyway, zero for bent ones. 'What's your game?' Buster hissed.

'Relax. Jesus, I was just winding you up. I know what to do.'

Buster let him go and the man readjusted his clothing. Buster felt a sour taste rise in his mouth as he said, 'It's all in there – the item and the money. If it goes right…'

'Look, I've got no say in that.'

'If it goes right, there's a bonus, as agreed. Now fuck off and piss it away at some spieler.'

Buster turned and strode off, hands in pockets, head down, alert for any lurking strangers. He reached the ornate gates and Roy pulled up in front of him, leaned over and opened the door of the Mini. Buster jumped in, banging his head as he did so. Roy gunned the little engine, releasing a satisfyingly deep note from the stainless-steel sports exhaust and they pulled away. Roy navigated them down to Fleet Street, past the Black Lubyanka – the Daily Express building – and onto the Strand, heading west and keeping one eye on the mirror.

He took a last-minute, tyre-squealing left turn onto Waterloo Bridge, towards the Festival Hall and the remnants of the Festival of Britain, now being reworked into some concrete monstrosity. Once on the bridge, he checked the wing mirrors. At the far end, he took the roundabout and drove back north again. Nobody followed. 'Where to?' he asked.

'The Marlborough,' Buster said, needing a drink and knowing Bruce would be there. He banged the dashboard of the diminutive machine. 'And don't spare the fuckin' ponies.'

From The Times, 26 March 1963

For his part in the £62,599 wages robbery at London Airport last November, Michael John Ball, aged 26, credit agent, of Lambrook Terrace, Fulham, S.W., was sentenced at the Criminal Crown Court yesterday to five years' imprisonment.

Ball had changed his plea from Not Guilty to Guilty of robbing Arthur Henry Gray and John Anthony Doyle of boxes containing £62,500, the property of BOAC, while armed with offensive weapons.

The jury was unable to agree on their verdict in the case of Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 32, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W., who had pleaded Not Guilty to the same charge. After the foreman had said there was no prospect of reaching a decision so far as Goody was concerned, Sir Anthony Hawke, the Recorder, discharged the jury from giving a verdict. Goody was then released on £15,000 bail pending a retrial.