Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Old Bailey, London, April 1963

Sir Donald Harris, the prosecution counsel, approached the witness, one of the men who had transferred the strongboxes at the airport. A fresh trial needed a fresh approach. But the security guard who had seen Goody, who had originally picked him out in an identity parade, was now wavering even more than the last time. Sir Donald wondered if he had been nobbled.

'So, is the man who coshed you the man in this court or not?'

'I think so.'

'You think so?' He let a sneer play around the word 'think'.

'I can't be sure, sir.'

'Can't be sure?' Sir Donald barked.

The security guard swallowed hard. 'No, sir.'

'Yet you were sure in an identity parade.'

'They had hats on then, sir.'

'Hats?' asked the judge. 'What kind of hats?'

The witness looked over and addressed the judge directly. ' Bowler hats, like they wore in the robbery, Your Honour.'

'I see,' came the reply.

'It so happens we have a bowler hat recovered from Mr Goody's premises,' Sir Donald said affably. 'A steel hat, no less. Is this the type of hat he was wearing?'

'I believe so.'

The heavy metal bowler was passed to the witness, then the judge, and finally displayed to the jury. 'And if you saw him in this hat, do you think your memory might suddenly improve?'

'Objection!'

Sir Donald inclined his head and rephrased. 'Excuse me, do you think it might aid in identification?'

'I am sure it would, sir.'

'Very well. If the defence has no objection, I would like to invite Mr Goody to place this bowler hat on his head.'

'No objection, m'lud.'

Gordon Goody leaned over and took the bowler by the brim, spinning it round and round, as if selecting the correct alignment.

He stared over at the witness, an accommodating smile on his face, while he raised his arms above his head. He brought the hat down to the crown and hesitated, as if pausing for effect. When he let go, the oversized bowler – at least three hat-sizes too large – fell down around his ears, swallowing them and covering his eyes. 'Hold on,' he said. 'The lights have gone out. Someone got a shilling for the meter?'

The courtroom dissolved into laughter and Sir Donald's jowly face sagged further. He could hear the verdict already: Not Guilty.

'Did you see that cocky cunt?' Len Haslam spat beer and phlegm across the bar of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub in Fleet Street.

'You win some, you lose some,' said Billy. 'You know that.'

Len shook his head. 'Not like that. Not like it's some bloody variety show and he's Max bloody Miller.' He thumped the wooden bar top. 'Someone was got at.'

Len was in such an agitated state that the majority of the other early-evening customers – mostly journalists – were giving him a wide berth. He stank of trouble.

He was taking the Not Guilty worse than most, but Billy, too, was disappointed. Not only that, they had missed a trick. Once the verdict had come in, Gordy had walked across to where the chain and lock from the airport gate were sitting and pulled at it. A phony link had given way, showing how the robbers had opened the gate so quickly. He must have rejoined it at the scene and none of the so-called experts who had examined it had spotted that. All had assumed a key had been used, and the clasp reclosed.

'We got one for it though, didn't we?'

'Mickey Ball? Yeah, right. We lose Wilson then Goody and we're left with him? Nose-pickings.'

Len downed his pint and signalled for another, the anger still twisting his features. 'Let me tell you this, Billy boy.' He tapped the rim of the empty pint pot against the young man's chest. 'One day, I'm going to have that Douglas Gordon Goody by the short and curlies, whatever it takes.'

London, March 1963

The celebrations kicked off with champagne cocktails at the Ritz. They cost a whopping eleven bob each, but Bruce insisted that they were the best in town and well worth every penny.

'A lump of sugar in the bottom of the glass, one drop of Angostura bitters-'

'Anger what?' asked Buster.

Bruce ignored him. 'A dash of brandy, not too much or you kill the champagne stone fuckin' dead, ice-cold bubbly and an orange peel. Lovely.'

Buster sipped his drink. 'Very nice.' He winked at Bruce. 'If a little poncy.'

The small group, all but one suited and booted, sat in a corner of the bar. Roy thought its green and gold decor could do with refreshing, but then he was drinking orange juice. Judging from his friends' reactions, the cocktails packed quite a kick; you wouldn't worry about the state of the wallpaper after two of them.

They were celebrating first Charlie and then Gordy getting off. The steel bowler had been replaced by the larger one that Buster had slipped the bent bogey in Postman's Park. Somehow, he had switched them in the evidence room at Cannon Row.

Roy watched as Gordy and Charlie toasted each other. Brian, taking his due for his machinations behind the scenes, was there as well as Bruce, Buster and, looking dangerously glamorous next to the Colonel, Janie Riley in a black sheath dress.

'One more and we'll have dinner at Madame Prunier's and a drink at the A and R club. Then maybe catch the Blue Flames at the Flamingo. All on the emergency fund.'

The cash from the robbery had been divvied up so each of the principals got around seven grand each, and what was left was split into two pots, the emergency fund, for things like bail, and the investment fund. A few drinks and a slap- up French meal on St James's plus a few rounds at boxer Freddie Mills' club and watching Georgie Fame would empty out the emergency fund. That left ten thousand in the investment pot. And that had to kick-start the next job.

Td like to make a toast,' said Roy. 'Gentlemen?'

The others fell silent.

'A toast to Gordy and Charlie, of course.'

There were some grunts, but nobody raised their glasses. There was more to come.

'And Brian. Nice one.'

Nodding heads all round.

'But we shouldn't forget we lost a soldier.' Roy looked at Bruce, who clearly approved of the military analogy. 'Tonight, we are a man down. Gentlemen, I give you Mickey Ball.'

'Mickey Ball,' the others said in unison, before drinking, all of them thinking of the five years he had pulled down. It was on the high side because he refused to name any accomplices.

Bruce came over and sat down next to Roy. 'You know we'll see him all right, don't you?'

'Yes, I know. Be nice to have something for him to come out to.'

'True.' Bruce thought of the empty coffers. 'Well, while he was inside, Charlie heard about something interesting that might be right up our street. Mickey will get a drink out of it. Absent friends and all that.'

'What sort of thing?'

Bruce leaned in. He hadn't been going to say anything until he learned more, but he felt he should show Roy he was thinking ahead, and of Mickey.

'A train, my son.'

'What kind of train?'

Bruce looked surprised. There was only one sort of train that would interest him. 'The money kind.'

Headley, Surrey, May 1992

My legs wobbled slightly as I opened the gate at the bottom of the path and stepped towards the siege house. Nerves, I guessed. The young copper had turned back; I was on my own. No light shone from within. I wasn't sure what the form was. Did I go up and knock? Wait until the door opened?

In the end I strode up the gravel as if I was just popping round for a chat – which, in a way, I was. Apart from the fact that one of us had a gun and was probably unhinged by recent events. I walked up the three marble steps between the pillars, rang the bell and waited.