Robert Ryan - Signal Red

They sat and thought about this for a minute. 'Roger?'

'Yes?'

'Can you drive a train?'

'No. I can stop them, that's usually enough.'

'So we need a driver then. Although they do tend to come complete with one, don't they? Trains, I mean.'

Roger screwed his face up. 'In my experience they are stroppy bastards, these BR types. If the fucker at the controls says you can go and fuck yourself – well, you're fucked, aren't you?'

That was true. Drive the train or we'll beat your brains out. Go on, then. The whole thing could come down around their ears because of one bolshie driver. 'OK, best have a think.' Bruce stood up and threw the dregs of his tea towards the track. 'What's this place called again?'

'Sears Crossing.'

'Sears Crossing,' he repeated. 'Right. Sears Crossing is where we catch our train.'

New Scotland Yard, June 1963

Len Haslam took one glance at Billy Naughton, sitting rigid at his desk in the Squad room, and knew something was wrong. 'Fuck me, lad, you look like someone who drank seven pints and three scotches last night.'

'Don't exaggerate. Five pints. Two scotches.' He did feel rough around the edges, his stomach burning from all the alcohol – celebrating the nicking of the Islington Post Office gang – and no food. But that wasn't why he felt queasy.

Duke, fresh-faced apart from a razor nick on his upper lip, grinned. 'Right. Must have been me who did the seven and three then – and I feel fine. So what's up with you, Junior? Need to see Dr Kildare?'

Dr Kildare was the half-bottle of scotch that Duke kept handy in case a hair of the dog was needed.

'Leave it out. Got to see the TM.'

TM stood for Top Man: Commander George Hatherill, overall head of Scotland Yard's C Division, the business end, and a classic Old Sweat, who had been everywhere, seen everything.

'He asked for you?'

Billy said he had.

'Could be a good thing,' Haslam told him. 'You never know.'

Billy doubted it. He hadn't made much of an impression over the past few months, could hardly claim to have established himself as a thief-taker.

'By the way, I forgot to ask you last night. Did you turn up anything on that bloke who was with Bruce Reynolds?' Len clicked his fingers in front of Billy's eyes. 'Come on, boy, snap out of it.'

'He's a writer,' said Billy distantly.

'A what?'

'A writer,' he repeated.

'What kind of fuckin' writer? A sign writer?'

'Journalist. Author. Colin Thirkell.' Billy fetched one of the paperback novels he had bought at Foyles from his drawer and tossed it onto the desk.

Duke picked it up and read the title.'Black and Blues. What's this?'

'About the clashes between the coloureds and the police. In Notting Hill.'

'Is he a coon-lover then, this Thirkell?'

Billy shrugged. 'I haven't read it. He's queer though.'

'How do you know? Is it because he takes men's dicks up the arse? Is that the clue?' Len leered at him, making Billy feel even more nauseous.

'Drinks at the Moorhen off Tottenham Court Road.'

'Ah. Queers and nig-nogs.' Duke scanned the rear of the novel. It was a twin-strand story about Dexter, a Jamaican seaman who ends up as a pimp, and Stirrup, a Detective

Inspector on the Vice Squad. 'Coon-lover,' he confirmed. 'As well as an arse-bandit. What time are you seeing the TM?'

'Eleven.'

'Well, don't get trapped by one of his bloody stories. If he mentions the Penn murder case, fake an epileptic fit. The big kind.' Duke handed the book back. 'Filth. But it means he might have just been trawling the gutter for background to one of his stories.'

'What shall we do about him then?'

Len Haslam thought for a moment. They had a lot on their plate. Millen was pressuring them to find Michael Morris, who had escaped from Lewes Prison swearing to kill the woman who had sent him a Dear John letter. There had been a dozen sightings over the past three weeks and it was known he had bought a Luger in Brighton. Some queer nig-nog lover in Notting Hill who liked to hang around with thieving toerags like Bruce Reynolds wasn't much of a priority.

Just then, the operator called out Duke's name, telling him he had a call. 'Pass his name along to the Vice,' he advised Billy. 'He gets caught cottaging, tell them to let us know. Otherwise, we'll save him for later.'

George Hatherill's nickname of Top Man wasn't just a respectful courtesy tide. Billy stood before the man's desk in an office crammed with commemorative photographs and awards, going back to before the war. Hatherill was well past the age when he could have retired, but there was always one last little job for him. Right now, with the senior management laid low by a series of unforeseen deaths – three heart-attacks and a cancer that had spread with terrifying speed – and long- term illnesses, it was to supervise a reorganisation of the Yard.

But everyone knew he was really sniffing around for the Last Big Case, the one that would seal his career.

Hatherill was portly and avuncular, smoked like the proverbial chimney, enjoyed a good glass of wine – thanks to his pre-war travels on the continent on police business, which also gave him his eight languages – and was always well turned- out. Today he had on a dark three-piece suit, with a white saw-toothed handkerchief in the top pocket, a finely pinstriped shirt, Windsor-knotted tie and, although Billy couldn't see them, doubdess mirror-finished shoes.

Billy was aware of the man's career and its scope. Hatherill had met Hitler and Himmler when he was investigating forgery of British fivers in Germany before the war. Which was ironic considering that during the war Hitler and Himmler went into the same forgery business. He had even been allowed to tour Gestapo headquarters and got a good sense of Nazi justice. He had also been responsible for the capture of Peter Griffiths, the so-called Beast of Blackburn. The latter had raped a three-year-old girl whom he had abducted from her hospital cot. It was said Hatherill stood virtually every officer in the Met a drink the day Griffiths had hanged.

In recent years he had gathered a reputation for long- windedness, for recapitulating highlights of his career, as if rehearsing for the memoirs he claimed to be writing. Some said he was only sticking around for the Last Big Case so he had a closing chapter for the book that wasn't entitled My Twilight Years Behind a Desk.

'I have been speaking to Mr Millen and a few of your colleagues,' said Hatherill, tapping Billy's file. 'They mostly have good things to say about you.'

Billy noted the 'mostly' and wondered what the caveats might be. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Of course, it is not easy fitting into the Flying Squad. They have their own way of doing things.' He arched an eyebrow. He was referring to the informal way of recruiting. The Flying Squad liked to 'bring on their own', which helped foster the camaraderie and elitism for which it was known. It also meant that when officers were transferred out, they sometimes had trouble adjusting to a different regime. 'But it appears you have made a good job of it.'

'Yes, sir.'

'But I think you need a wider experience. You did ten weeks' Detective School?' 'I did.'

'Then how long in plainclothes before coming across?'

'Six months, give or take. But I was an Aide to CID as well. In and out of uniform.'

'Mainly in,' said Hatherill, showing he had read the file. 'Not enough, m'boy, not enough. Well, pack your bags. Mr Millen has released you to me. We are going on a trip.'

'Trip?'

' Cornwall – Newquay. You know it?'

'No, guv.'

'Actually a little place called Perranporth. Look it up.'

He thought about Len's reaction. It would be something along the lines of 'teacher's pet'. 'Sir, how long will we be gone? I mean, I have ongoing cases-'