Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'Diesel?' The kid's blotchy face twisted with scorn. 'That's really boring. A lot of them don't even have names.'

'Yeah, well,' said Roy with a shrug, shuffling away. 'Takes all sorts, eh?'

Jimmy White poured a cup of Bovril and passed it to Tony Fortune, who was behind the wheel of a Vauxhall Velox, sitting in the overflow parking area just off Mill Road. This asphalted area was higher than the main car park, affording them a better view of the activities on some of the over-lit platforms of Rugby railway station. Unfortunately, most of the activity seemed to be happening beneath the cantilevered canopies that blocked their view. Still, they weren't worried about that.

It was coming up to two o'clock in the morning, stars pin- sharp in a clear sky, and both men were sleepy. Jimmy was supposed to do this by himself, but he had felt sorry for Tony after the Jag foul-up. He had expected a decent drink and what did he get? An empty garage. And, apparently, an earful from his missus about missing paydays.

Jimmy had cleared bringing Tony along with Bruce, of course, and Bruce had said OK. They might still need a driver for the job he had in mind, and Roy had told him that Tony could handle a motor.

'Thanks,' said Tony as he took the Bovril.

Jimmy poured himself a second cup. He held it in both hands and blew across the surface. 'Love this stuff. Bloody Army marches on it. Well, the Paras do. You all right?'

Tony had only been lending half an ear. He felt more at ease with Jimmy than he did many of the others. Certainly more than Gordy and Charlie. With them, he felt that the least wrong word would land him a right hook or worse. There was always an air of crackling tension about them, as if an electrical storm could break out at any moment. 'What? Yeah. Just thinking. You don't want to buy a Hillman Husky, do you?'

Jimmy laughed. 'Nah. I like Land Rovers, me. They go on for ever.'

'Husky's got a heater.'

'You poof,' chuckled White. 'A heater? Only sissies need a heater in their car. You'll be telling me it has suspension next.'

'And you don't need an airfield to turn it round in.'

'Greengrocer's car,' sneered Jimmy. 'Not your sort, I would have thought.'

'Brother-in-law's,' Tony admitted. 'Ah.'

Marie had beseeched him – there was no other word – to take the Hillman Husky off her brother, Geoff, who was boracic. He'd done so, and paid him cash, over the odds. Now it was stuck at the back of the showroom, embarrassing him. 'I got myself right stitched up. Wife's up the duff, you see. Hard to say no to her.'

'Congratulations. First one?' Tony nodded. That explained why she had been disappointed in him, Jimmy thought. Broody women have big plans. 'This'll come in handy then.'

'What will?'

'The tickle. This train thing, whatever it is.'

Bruce had been very tight-lipped, insisting this was simply a reconnaissance mission, just to confirm certain facts. They were not to let their minds run away with them.

'I don't know if I'm in yet, do I? I mean, if they need a driver. And it's not really my thing.'

'What isn't?'

'Robbery with violence, I think they call it.'

Jimmy chortled. 'Nor me, son. This is not going to be just some smash and grab. I don't like the rough stuff either.'

Tony was surprised. Jimmy had a reputation. 'You were a Para.'

'We're not all Sergeant bloody Hurricane. We had a bit of finesse. So does Bruce. I wouldn't be here if I thought we was just the heavy mob. Hold up.'

They heard the whistle of an approaching train and squinted into darkness broken only by what appeared to be a random pattern of red and green lights. The powerful loco of the Night Mail appeared, its twin beams glaring like jaundiced eyes, and above them the duller glow of the tripartite screen. Tony knew people were sentimental about steam, but he had to admire the monstrous brutality of the diesel that shouldered its way under the station lamps and disappeared from view. It was all solid muscle and attitude, like a steel-clad bull terrier.

They wound the Vauxhall's windows down and listened. The TPO sat, obscured by the station buildings and roof, its engine thrumming at idle, for another ten minutes. Then came a coarse whistle, the low grunt of the engine taking the strain, and the money train pulled out. Next stop, Euston.

Jimmy White slapped Tony's thigh, making him jump. 'Best go out and buy that baby the biggest fuckin' cot you can find. If I know Bruce, and he's thinkin' what I think he's thinkin' – then we're in the money. Fortune by name…'

Tony smiled as if he hadn't heard that one.

Jimmy was still whistling the tune 'We're in the Money' when they pulled out of the car park and headed back to London on empty roads, each lost in their own thoughts of untold riches.

South-east England, June 1963

It seemed appropriate for Bruce to catch the train down to Brighton, rather than take the Lotus. It meant breakfast in one of the Pullman carriages, after all, and they had the place nearly to themselves, as most morning traffic was 'up' to the city. He had taken Janie Riley along, now dressed as a prosperous middle-class housewife in twin-set and pillbox hat. He would park her at the Grand or let her do some shopping while he met the Flowerpot Man. Bruce didn't like to bring in outsiders, but the more he thought about it, the more he needed particular expertise. After all, this was a moving target. He had heard – from Buster – that the Flowerpot Man could take care of that. Buster had told him about the train jobs on the South Coast Line, engineered by a pretty solid team. Small beer, Buster had said, but the principle was sound.

'Looks like summer is finally here,' said Janie, making conversation with the white-jacketed steward as he fussed around them with the tea and toast.

'About time, miss.'

Bruce glanced out of the window. London had fallen away and Janie was right, the countryside was bathed in a diffuse pale yellow and the sheep were sunbathing rather than shivering. The winter and spluttering spring had played havoc with the country. The football league was still in disarray, with dozens of postponed matches yet to be played, and race cards had been scratched for weeks on end. It had been the coldest year since 1740, so the Express said. Bruce didn't know about that, but he remembered the one of 1947 – the bomb- sites, suddenly pretty under the thick crust of snow, but even more dangerous than before. His mate Jimmy Standing had jumped into what looked like a harmless snowdrift and fallen into one of the firefighters' emergency water tanks from the Blitz and broken his leg. Bruce still remembered the sight of the red-streaked bone poking through flesh and the sound of the poor sod's whimpering.

'Bruce.' Janie brought him back to the attentions of the steward. 'Full breakfast?'

Bruce could still feel an echo of the queasiness that the wound had brought on. 'Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs,' he said. 'Hold the tomatoes and black pudding.'

'Very good, sir.'

Janie concentrated on lighting a cigarette and Bruce went back to thinking about trains. The team so far was himself, Charlie, Gordy, Buster and Roy. Good men all, but just not enough. He would add Jimmy White to that and, for sheer muscle, Tommy Wisbey. Old Tommy would make both Frank Nitti and Elliot Ness shit their pants. Bruce loved the TV series The Untouchables, and often wondered if he should give the gang a moniker like that. That, and a soundtrack by Nelson Riddle. Although he already had a tune for the job. Of late he had been playing Charles Mingus's Ah Um and the track

'Boogie Stop Shuffle'. Just the right tempo for a great heist sequence with sudden dramatic stabs from the horns and the wah-wah of plunged trumpets. He could see the tide sequence, designed by the guy who did Anatomy of a Murder or John Cassavetes's Johnny Staccato.