Robert Ryan - Signal Red

He opened the door. She had folded her arms across her bony chest. He stepped out into the narrow corridor, leaving the pound note where it had fallen onto the greasy carpet.

Despite the occasional visit to the working girls, Soho wasn't their patch, not really. The Flying Squad left it to Vice and West End Central, who had it carved up like a very fat, filling meat pie. But Duke had a few contacts he liked to keep sweet, ones he had known before they had gravitated like bluebottles to the shit-heap of Old Compton Street and environs. And besides, as he was fond of saying, a free quickie never did anyone any harm. A perk of the job.

In the division of spoils at the Big House they had caught

two cases, one a jewellery lift in Hatton Garden, the other a vicious Post Office raid in Islington, and spent the rest of the day flitting between the two locales, achieving very little that Billy could see, except winding up the local coppers and sinking a few pints.

They finished their shift at the Lamb and Flag, where Billy felt a cloud of gloom descend around him as he lit what would be the first of many fags. Duke sensed his mood at once. 'You think we've been wasting our fuckin' time, don't you?'

'Nooo…' Billy said, drawing out the word to breaking- point.

'Look, get over the idea that we have to be Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Whatsit,' said Duke, supping his eighth beer of the day. 'Sooner or later it'll fall in our lap, just like that tom of yours earlier.'

Billy smirked along with him, but there was no humour in it. His dick had been itching for the last couple of hours, even though he'd washed it in various scabrous Gents' sinks since the encounter. He was beginning to wonder if you could catch the clap from blowjobs.

'The thing you have to remember about villains is they are either stupid or overconfident or both. Some of them have intelligence, or rather rat-like cunning. A few have imagination, but not many. Which is why they stick to their patches. Territorial, see, like any animals. Yet we think of them as some kind of Raffles. You know, gentlemen thieves backed by a criminal mastermind. Now there's a fuckin' contradiction in terms. Criminal bleedin' masterminds. I tell you, if they were so mastermindy, you think they'd do the same thing over and over again? Do you? Does the team think, eh? I don't fuckin' think so.'

He was shouting now, and Billy looked around. The pub was almost empty, just a few woozy stragglers, and they weren't paying much attention. A buzzer went for last orders, but it didn't register with Duke. Billy knew that coppers were conditioned to ignore such sounds, like the opposite of Pavlov's dogs. At the sound of the bell, act like fuck-all has happened and it's got nothing to do with you. Which, with a flash of a warrant card, it rarely did.

'Well, does the team think?' Duke said, savouring the phrase. 'Not much, Y'Honour. Can't teach an old slag new tricks. Can you, Billy?'

A slyness had crept into Duke's voice and Billy realised he wasn't as pissed as he was pretending to be. He punched the older man on the shoulder. 'You cunt.'

Duke took that as a compliment and flashed his nicotine- stained teeth. 'You know this place used to be called the Bucket of Blood? Because of all the bare-knuckle fights outside. Back in…'

But Billy wasn't having any of that old flannel. 'Spare me the history lesson, Len. There'll be more blood on the floor if you don't tell me what you picked up.'

Duke reached into his pocket and took out a small square of paper which he unfolded and laid on the bar towel in front of them. There were two registration numbers on it. 'Bingo,' he said. 'All the three point fours, nickety-nick.'

Billy picked up the scrap and stared at it. 'What you on about?'

'Last weekend, just gone. Two Jags go missing within half a day of each other. And not any old Jags. Three point fours again. What does that tell you?'

Billy didn't need to think too hard. 'The Comet House boys?'

'Precisely. The City gents. Old fuckin' habits, see? Jaguar three point fours. The motor of choice for the discerning wheel-man everywhere.' His eyes were suddenly sober, the glassy stare replaced by something altogether more steely. 'They took the piss, didn't they? So now we take a good, long look at Roy James, Buster Edwards and especially Gordon "Big Head" Goody, and this time we catch them doing a bit more than scratching their bollocks.' He pointed at Billy's empty glass. 'Fancy another, son?'

London, May 1963

Tony's stomach was burning as he parked the Hillman in a side street lined with tall Edwardian houses, a ten-minute walk from the lock-ups at Lee where Jimmy White had stashed the two Jaguars. The idea was to move them closer to the job, which was scheduled for that night. A train. Robbing a bleeding train. It was like the Wild West, with Bruce Reynolds as Cheyenne Bodie. No, he was a good guy. Paladin, that was the bloke, a gunfighter with a dark streak in him. Have Gun, Will Travel it said on his calling card. Except Bruce said no guns. Using a shooter was like Double Your Money, he had told them, only here it was called Double Your Jolt.

Marie had sensed there was something up. She had never stopped asking questions. Where are you going? What are you doing? Why are you staying the night? Is it a woman?

No, it's not a woman. Well, she believed that. Because it was the truth. If only. No woman would churn his insides like this. His cover story – alibi, he supposed – was that he was going to buy a Ford Zodiac and a Zephyr in Southampton

and would be staying over before driving one of them back, with his new pal Jimmy White chauffeuring the second. (Who the hell is Jimmy White? she had asked.) He had already ordered them to be delivered by low-loader, so should she check in the showroom over the next few weeks, they would be there. He would probably sell them, too. Z-Cars had just swapped their Ford Consuls for the newer models, and sales had received a boost.

He walked quickly down towards the parade of shops and two pubs – the Old Tiger's Head and the New Tiger's Head – that faced off against each other and formed the heart of Lee, which for most people was little more than a crossroads on the A20 to Lewisham. He glanced at the pubs, suddenly thirsty, but kept his head down and continued across the lights.

Tony lit a cigarette as he went. He'd started smoking again, a pack a day. Marie could smell it on him and complained that he was stinking the flat out, even though he never lit up indoors. It was hormones that made her hysterical, he supposed. Everything for the good of the baby. Well, why did she think he was doing this?

And then those strange words when he had left. 'Make sure it's worth our while, Tony.'

He could see Jimmy up ahead, waiting for him, also smoking but leaning against a lamp-post, loose and relaxed. An old pro, Bruce had said. Best key-man in London. He raised a hand as he recognised Tony, who tossed his cigarette away. Before he reached him, Jimmy detached himself from his post and walked up the track that led to the lock-ups, where the Jags were stored.

Tony watched Jimmy's back as he strode down the lane between the houses and turned left towards the row of garages, disappearing from view. If Tony took one step onto the rough driveway, he was committed. He could just walk on now if he wanted. Say the Old Bill had spotted him and he'd become spooked. Say his bowels had turned to liquid. Say he had a feeling Marie needed him. Say anything.

Make sure it's worth our while.

She knew. Marie knew he was up to no good, as she used to say, and she didn't care. Just as long as the risk was worth the reward. Well, Bruce was talking fifteen, twenty each. They could live in Hampstead for that.

Jimmy's head reappeared, followed by an arm beckoning him on, a gesture ripe with impatience. They had two ringed Jags to deliver to Bruce & Co for their tickle. A train, so he had heard. But he was just a delivery boy, Tony told himself. Drop off the Jaguars and you're done. Take the fee and walk away. Tony realised he had stopped walking, his legs suddenly leaden. Jimmy waved at him again.