Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Tony sniffed nervously and took his first, heavy step on the road to robbery.

The observation van, a scruffy old Transit, stank of long- eaten Wimpys, greasy chips, sweat and ripe farts. It was a potent combination that always resisted even the steam hose deployed at the end of a particularly long stint.

The tatty Ford had been moved into position three days ago, when Roy James had been spotted at a disused bus garage in South London. Through the ventilation grills on the side, a policeman with binoculars could keep a log of the comings and goings at the depot.

That morning it was all comings. Bruce Reynolds – in some flash motor as always, this time one of the new Lotus Cortinas – Roy James, Buster Edwards and three men that Duke didn't recognise. No Goody or Wilson, which was disappointing. But something was definitely up. There was no way that lot was thinking of going into the public transport business. They had already brought in a Bedford van, sliding back the big main doors to allow it in, and then slamming them shut again. Duke could only imagine what was inside, but he'd wager his arse- hole it involved pickaxe handles and masks or something similar.

A couple of streets away were two Flying Squad drivers with two detectives, ready to either move in or follow, depending on what Duke decided.

'I need a piss,' said Billy Naughton.

'Go in that bucket.'

'I can get out quietly.'

'Fuck off. You'll be spotted. Who's to say they're not clocking us from the top floor now.' He moved the binoculars up to the shattered panes of the metal Crittall windows and refocused them. There was no movement, but that didn't signify anything. 'You can go out when you need a shit. Before that, use the bucket. Hold up.'

Billy moved close to Duke, but he couldn't see much through the grill. 'What is it?'

'Someone's coming out.'

The small access door cut within the larger gates opened and Bruce Reynolds stepped through into the feeble sunlight. Even so, Duke could see him squint at the unaccustomed glare. Must be dark within the old garage, Duke figured. Reynolds glanced at his watch – some fuck-off Swiss one, Duke didn't doubt – then looked right and left. He's waiting for someone, thought Duke. It's going down. He stared at the radio, the one he could use to call in reinforcements. Did they break it up now, or try and catch them red-handed?

He heard the sonorous ringing of the bucket as Billy relieved himself.

'Here, keep the bloody noise down, will you? It's like Big Ben going off.'

'Sorry. Christ, I needed that.'

Duke wrinkled his nose. 'Put the cover on it, will you?' There was another clang as Billy dropped the tea tray that acted as a lid onto the receptacle. 'Quietly!'

'Let's have a look.'

Len handed the bins over to Billy, and helped himself to some stewed tea from the Thermos, trying to ignore the smell of hot piss still wafting from the bucket, despite its lid.

So, Duke continued to muse, do we go in whenever the consignment or vehicle Reynolds is waiting for arrives, or see what develops? Jam today or tomorrow? There were times when he wished they had a bloody Whirlybird, a helicopter to track the buggers from the air.

'He's gone back in, Len,' said Billy.

'How did he look?'

'Very smart. Nice suit.'

Duke sighed. 'His face, you prick. What was his expression?'

Billy smirked to let him know he'd been pulling his plonker. 'Didn't give much away. Concerned, maybe.'

'Like he was expecting something?'

'Yeah.'

Charlie Wilson and Gordon Goody, perhaps. That would be a result. Duke picked up the radio. It was time to wake up the others. However it went down, here or at some as- yet-unknown tickle, Bruce Reynolds and his mates were going to be spending some time at a not-so-friendly nick that day.

Opportunity fuckin' Knocks, he thought, and the clapometer swings to 100 per cent.

Jimmy White waited until Tony caught up with him. He put out his hand and they shook. 'All right?'

'Yeah,' replied Tony, with a confidence he didn't feel.

'Where you parked?'

' Effingham Road.'

'Good. OK, they are in the end ones,' he said, indicating along the row of multi-coloured, up-and-over metal doors. Jimmy gave Tony a sidelong glance, something in the new boy's demeanour unsettling him. 'You sure you are all right?'

Tony shrugged. 'You know…'

Jimmy put a hand on his shoulder. 'Yeah, I know. Be all right. You're with the big boys now.'

'Don't worry about me, I'll do my bit.'

'Sure. Here. Take the green one.'Jimmy handed over a set of keys with a Jaguar leather fob, the metal disc featuring a close-up of the snarling cat. Tony took them, hoping Jimmy wouldn't see how sweaty his palms were.

'And this is for the garage. Number thirty-one. The one on the right.' He produced a second set of keys and tossed them to Tony.

They lined up in front of their respective metal doors, bent down and turned the keys in the locks, then twisted the handles. 'One, two, three,' said Jimmy, as if they were waiters about to lift their cloches in unison.

There was a rattle and rumble as the concrete counterweights slid down their runners, and the doors yawned open, to reveal the space within. And that was all there was. Space. No Jaguars. Just the empty, oil-stained cement floors where they had once stood.

Tony turned to Jimmy, open-mouthed, a baffled shock mixed with a cowardly streak of relief. White had already seen the hole in the roof where the robbers had gained initial access and discovered the cars. As a key-man, he knew how easy it was to start a Jag, almost as simple as picking and then resetting the locks in the garage doors' handles.

'They've gone,' said Tony.

Jimmy's face darkened, his lips twisting, but then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It was a coarse, frightening sound, although there might have been a hint of admiration in there as he shook his head in amazement. 'The thievin' bastards.'

New Scotland Yard, May 1963

Frank Williams, Ernie Millen's deputy, barely glanced at the reports on his desk before he looked up at Duke and Billy. He ran a hand over his thinning hair, his expression like someone sucking on a lemon. 'Fuckin' shambles,' he said quietly. 'A right fuckin' shambles.'

Len Haslam shifted his weight from leg to leg uncomfortably. 'We were sure they were at it…'

Williams's face closed like a fist. 'Of course they were bloody at it. But what were they at, Lennie boy?'

Duke shrugged. Williams reached over and took a sip of his tea. 'You are lucky Ernie or Hatherill haven't seen this, or they'd be having you back on the Big Hats. You know that, don't you?' No response was required.

Williams leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. His jacket flapped open to reveal a spreading gut – one of the hazards of the job at his level; there was deskwork and there was boozer time and little in between. Frank still believed the best way to catch villains was to mix it up with them, to spend time in the spielers and drinking clubs. He knew Ernie Millen distrusted this method of thief-taking, but he wasn't changing it now, not after all these years. He had too many valuable contacts.

'I'm not sure I shouldn't move young Billy here to the guidance of someone with more of a future in the Squad.'

Both junior officers remained mute. They jumped when Williams came forward with a crash. 'The thing is, it was Surrey.'

'What was?' asked Len.

'Whatever your lads were up to. Down Surrey way. No idea what. Not yet.'

Williams was enjoying this, thought Duke, the smug bastard. He still had a good network of snouts out there, and guarded them like an attack dog.

He let his revelation – that he was one step ahead of Duke – hang in the air while he fixed himself a cigarette. He didn't offer them around.