Robert Ryan - Signal Red

An indistinct voice answered. 'It's open.'

I pushed the door and it swung back. The Yale lock had been clicked into the withdrawn position. It was dark inside.

'Come in and close it behind you,' said the disembodied voice.

I did as I was told.

'Release the catch so it locks.' I had him now. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs in the cold, black hallway. As my eyes adjusted I could see the shape of Roy James, looking shrunken, no bigger than a child I could also make out the faint glint of metal. The gun.

I pulled the button down and heard the latch snick into place. 'Hello, Roy. Long time.'

'Yeah. A very long time.'

I rubbed my hands together. 'Christ, it's cold in here.' 'Is it?'

'Yes, it is. You got any heating?'

'The boiler's broken. There's a gasfire in the kitchen.' He gave a loud, self-pitying sniff. 'They coming to get me, Tony?'

I shivered again, not from the chill in the air this time, but from the odd dispassion in the words he spoke. They were colder than the house. 'Eventually, Roy.'

He stood. 'Fancy some tea?'

'I do, Roy. I have biscuits.'

'You go and light the fire. I'll put the kettle on. Matches are on the mantelpiece.'

It was a huge kitchen, stone-flagged, with a fireplace large enough to roast an ox in. Much of it had been boarded up, leaving a triple-element gas fire. While he fussed with the kettle I lit it, almost singeing my eyebrows.

The sole illumination was a 100-watt bulb hanging above the table with no lampshade and it made his skin look waxy and accentuated the shadows under his eyes. Once I had unloaded the biscuits onto a plate, I stood near the now- glowing fire, letting it warm my legs. He sat at the table, the pistol – a Browning automatic – in front of him.

'You remember that winter?' Roy asked. 'Sixty-two and three? That was fuckin' cold.'

It had been beyond cold into absolutely freezing, the sort of temperature that made your very bones ache. Trains shut down, there were power cuts, blizzards. The days and weeks of ice and snow and grim, low skies had been very bad for the car business, and me with a baby on the way. Roy, too, had suffered disappointments as more and more race meets were cancelled. Had he got consistent early practice in, he would have progressed to International Formula Junior more quickly, which would have meant the chance of sponsorship, which meant… well, it could have changed everything for him.

'It's all turned to shit, hasn't it, Tony? For me, anyway.' He paused. 'Fuck, I've given that speech too many times. But I was good.'

'We all knew it, Roy.'

'I hope he fuckin' dies.'

'Your father-in-law? No, you don't.'

He took a deep breath. 'No. I don't. But sometimes I think I was happier in nick.'

'Don't say that.'

'Well, you know, in one way it's a lot less aggro. Just do your time. Out here, fuck, it's a battle, isn't it? Every day a battle. I saw Buster the other week on his flower stall. Says the same. Gets him down.'

'Buster always had a black streak,' I said carefully. 'You know that. Things just look bad now. Nobody's died. It's a bit of a domestic that got out of hand, that's all. I think we should go outside, Roy.'

'Why?'

'Before they come inside.'

He suddenly looked up at me, his eyes suspicious. 'Why did you say yes?'

'To coming here?'

'No. That day I came to the showroom and asked you to drive for us on the train job. Why did you say yes?'

It had been April, winter easing its terrible, almost malevolent grip at last. Nobody who lived through those months would ever forget it. Britain was thrust back to the Middle Ages – cold enough for Frost Fairs, almost. I had said yes for the same reason they all had: the money. I had no ready cash, too many cars nobody wanted to buy – the only people doing well in the motor business were the makers of anti-freeze and snow chains – and a wife who was pregnant. A wife who suddenly wanted a bigger house and things for the baby. Nice things. Expensive things.

Roy had come asking for two more Jags and I'd said no, not with the Chalk Farm boys looking my way. So he had asked whether, if they sourced the cars from elsewhere, I would take the second wheel. For good money. Buy-you-a- nice-flat kind of cash. Yes, I'd said, even though I knew what had happened to Mickey Ball. Five years.

I told myself I wouldn't ever make that kind of mistake.

Yeah, right.

Twenty-six

London, May 1963

Billy Naughton thought the girl would pull away as he came, but she kept her mouth clamped over the end of his cock until the last spasm had passed through it. When he had finished, she stood up and crossed the dingy room to the sink where she spat loudly while the detective buttoned himself up.

They were in a grey cubicle above the Hat Trick on Berwick Street. It was one of those come-on places with a hawker at the door who promised punters no end of delights but, in the end, sent them to a grim basement in Rupert Court where they were fleeced all over again. Its real business happened in the warren of tawdry rooms above it: a bed with a mattress that didn't bear thinking about, a dresser, a sink and a sharp smell that a gallon of Dettol couldn't hide.

The girl rinsed her mouth and looked at him with a disarmingly direct gaze. Billy felt himself blush. She was barely in her twenties, skinny, with a black Helen Shapiro semi-beehive that was in need of fresh backcombing. She spoke with an accent he couldn't place, apart from it originating north of the Watford Gap. 'You been eating spicy food, have you?' she asked, smacking her lips.

Buckling his belt, he checked the front of his trousers for stains. He recalled that the team had been for a curry at some place off Regent Street the night before. When he admitted he had never had an Indian before, Len had made him order vindaloo. Bastard. 'You can tell that?'

She gave a grin that dimpled her cheeks, softening the hard lines around her mouth. 'Look, love, after two years of this I can tell whether the customers prefer fruit gums or fruit pastilles.'

Two years? He thought briefly of all the cocks she had sucked in that time and shuddered. She had offered more, but now he was glad he just went for the oral.

There was a banging on the door and he heard Duke's voice through the thin chipboard and ply. 'You finished, lover boy? Come on, wipe your dick on the curtains and let's be havin' you.'

Billy gave a shrug and reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pound note. The girl arched an eyebrow. 'Blimey, a copper who leaves a tip. Is that a pig with wings I can see?'

He threw it onto the lurid shiny bedspread, then felt he had to say something as he put on his jacket. 'Look, Paulette, wasn't it?'

She nodded. 'Well, Pauline as was. But the punters like a French name. Among other things.'

'I don't normally do that… you know.'

'Do what?' She was teasing.

'Take advantage.' It wasn't strictly true. Len Haslam had nobbled him out for a similar 'treat' to drown their sorrows at Gordon Goody slipping through their fingers. It was a 'stag do' after a lock-in at a pub in Bermondsey. There had been blue films and a couple of willing girls high on, appropriately enough, blueys.

"Course not,' she sneered as she sat on the bed. Its overworked springs gave a tired groan. He went to continue but she held up a hand to silence him. 'Look, darling, one of your lot comes round for a free gobble every week or so. Happy to oblige. GTP, eh?'

It stood for Good To Police and described anywhere that gave discounts or free samples to the Force. 'But I don't want to listen to any speeches. Some of you coppers, the fresh ones like you, get sucked off and turn into Sir Galahad. Start suggesting I'm special, tell me how they'd like to help. But you are no different from the bastards that run this place, sonny. Or the punters. At least they pay decent.' She picked up the note and tossed it back at him. He let it flutter to the floor. 'Go on, fuck off, there's probably someone with real cash downstairs waiting for a good time. Types like you ruin the business, you do.'