Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'Fuck me,' said Gordy as they bundled out, a roar of ineffectual outrage at their heels. 'I hope that was worth it.'

Charlie laughed as he yanked open the wooden gate that accessed the rear alley. 'Well, those cunts won't be nickin' Jags off us again, will they?'

'Morning, sir. It's Detective Constable Rennie here, from the Stolen Car Squad. Yes. I have some good news for you. We have recovered your Jaguar. Yes, I know. We were surprised as well. Don't get to make too many of these calls, to be honest. No, it appears to be relatively unharmed. Perhaps a slight scratch on one wing, but that will T-Cut out. Not today, I am afraid. We just want to check it for fingerprints and fibres, but that will only take a day or two. You should have it back by the weekend. Where did we find it? Well, there's the strange thing. It was left outside a police station in Romford, with the keys in the ignition. No, I can't imagine why. Maybe some villain had a sudden attack of conscience, saw the error of his ways. Stranger things have happened. Although not many. You are very welcome, sir, nice to have a result. Good day.'

Bruce Reynolds didn't have time for distractions and favours. He had a fucking great train robbery to plan. His brain was revving like one of Roy 's racing engines, a jumble of possibilities, all centred on the TPO that left Glasgow every night.

But, after some horizontal persuasion in the Grand at Brighton, he had promised Janie he would take the meeting, answer a few stupid questions. The guy had suggested a meet in the Colony Rooms, but although he had drunk there – George Melly had taken him a couple of times – Bruce had never felt particularly comfortable there. Rude bastards, he thought, and not half as clever as they clearly thought they were. Being called 'cunty' a lot was not his idea of entertainment.

Bruce had originally chosen the New Crown Club at the Elephant and Castle, which was home turf, but knew just how intimidating that crowd could be, so he had switched to the

Star, a flower-decked pub tucked down a mews in Belgravia. It covered all bases from lords to layabouts. Roy popped in now and then for a soda water because it had been Mike Hawthorn's boozer and it still pulled a crowd of racing drivers and their acolytes. It was also home to a hardcore of very genuine criminals.

It was Friday lunchtime, with that fuck-it one-more-pint- and-a-fag end of the working week feel. Although very few of the patrons of the Star actually had a conventional working week, apart from the odd copper who wandered in. They caused no problem. You saw it on Zoo Quest, when herds of antelope allowed lions to stroll among them without getting too spooked. The animals sensed when the predator was on the hunt, otherwise they ignored them. So it was with the police who liked to think that getting pissed in places like the Star was all part of vital detective work.

Bruce had given a rough description of himself – tall, glasses, a copy of the Daily Express, light-blue shirt and navy-blue suit. There was a horseshoe-shaped bar on the right as you entered the pub, the rougher clientele nearest the door, toffs at the far side. To the left, through an arch, were the seats, and Bruce had taken himself through this and to the far corner, past the fireplace, against the wooden wainscot. That nook, beneath the portraits of Regency jockeys and Punch cartoons, was as close to a 'snug' as the Star got.

Bruce ignored his newspaper and played with a beer mat while he waited. He had called together the entire crew – his boys and those with a Brighton connection – for a meeting in four days, and they were going to expect a plan. He was the Colonel, after all. Not quite Jack Hawkins – the meeting would be at Roy 's place, rather than the Cafe Royal – but he was expected to lay it all out.

Timing, he was certain, was the key, not just the application of mindless brute force – although that, or the implied threat of it, would play its part. A timetable was needed, a realistic one that should be adhered to, no matter what. It helped that everything, right down to the schedule of the trains, was just as this 'Jock' character had said.

Except maybe he wasn't a Jock.

Gordy claimed he could hear Belfast in there. Was he an Ulsterman? No matter, the man clearly knew what he was talking about. Did he know too much too well, though? Was this a set-up by the cops? A bit of fishing with a very, very juicy worm? After all, he was sure the Squad had a hard-on for them now.

But no, it felt right, like the genuine article. It was all too elaborate for the Old Bill, anyway; he doubted they had the nous to set up such an operation, just to pull in a team of blaggers. And anyway, a million quid was worth circling the hook for. It was a little tinge of paranoia making him think the cosspots were behind it. But he shouldn't disregard the feeling. It kept you sharp, kept you out of some stinking flowery for ten years.

'Mr Allen, is it?'

Bruce looked up at the tall, slightly cadaverous-looking man who had addressed him. Just those few well-rounded words marked him out as posh, a man who would be right at home with the Lucky Lucans and Maxwell-Smiths who gathered under the Star's Smiths clock each evening. His suit was of a good pedigree, too, although it looked as if he had slept in it. It was his face that was remarkable – as if all the blood had been drained from it: deathly white, with thin bloodless lips and remarkably pale eyes. He was close to albino.

'Colin Thirkell.' He held out a hand and Bruce took it.

Thirkell looked around as if he approved. 'I don't much care for pubs. They are like banks – never open when you need them. But I enjoy this one. Used to drink here… oh, must be ten years ago. With poor Tommy Carstairs.'

Bruce laughed. Poor Tommy Carstairs was doing a long one for murder. 'You aren't an ordinary journalist, are you?'

'No. And you, I hope, are no ordinary crook. Now, that lovely Godfrey Smith, my editor, was foolish enough to advance me some expenses. Would you care for a drink?'

Bruce examined his half-full glass of mild and bitter and said, 'A scotch would be very nice.'

'Very well.'

Bruce watched him walk away. Something in his manner suggested he batted and bowled, or at the very least fielded for the other side when they were a man short. Posh and a poof. Not that he minded either. Without posh there would be no Madame Prunier or Connaught Grill. As for poofs, well, they were on the wrong side of the law, too, poor buggers. He smiled at his choice of phrase. Where did Janie find this bloke? He knew she was a woman of many parts, but had never had her down for a literary type. A writer, she had said. Needs someone… what was the word she used? Erudite? 'Most of your mates can grunt and scratch their balls,' she said, 'and that's about it. And rarely both things at the same time.' Had a waspish streak, that Janie.

Thirkell came back with a scotch and a gin and tonic for himself. Bruce was impressed with how he had handled himself up there. It was a cliquey crowd; the writer, though, had an ease about him that suggested he was perfectly at home in any company.

'There.' He slid in opposite Bruce and raised his glass. 'Did Jane tell you what this was for?'

'You are writing an article.'

'For the Sunday Times, yes. About what you might call the underworld. Well, I'm sure you wouldn't, but my editor does. It is to be a plain man's guide to crime and criminals. No names, no direct quotes. Just a few thoughts. You see, I was lamenting to Jane – Janie as you call her – that my own contacts tend towards the pugilistic sort of criminal. Gangsters, should we say. I needed some light with that shade.'

Bruce looked at the table in front of them, empty but for the drinks. 'You take notes?'

'No, Mr Allen-'