Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'I know what you have. It's a pretty light caseload though, now Islington is sorted. DS Haslam can handle it on his own. And we'll be away as long as it takes.'

Hatherill lit up a cigarette from a burnished walnut box with what could be a German eagle on it, picked out in silver. Almost as an after-thought he offered Billy one of the Senior Service. After a moment's hesitation, he took one. Hatherill lit both with an enormous desk lighter. 'Take a seat. Look, Billy, I'm long enough in the tooth to know that breadth of your experience will matter as much as its intensity. The Squad can't teach you everything. There is one investigation I recall that demonstrates that perfectly. Did you ever hear of the Penn murder case?'

Billy's heart sank. He remembered Duke's advice about feigning an epileptic fit if the guv'nor starting blahing. 'Rings a bell, sir.'

'Well, look it up, look it up. This one in Perranporth could be as interesting.'

Billy realised he had been spared a long walk down Memory Lane and brightened. 'What is it, sir? In Cornwall?'

'A headless corpse.'

Now the old windbag had his interest. The Last Big Case.

Bruce Reynolds had had enough. So had Franny. He hadn't told his wife exactly what he was up to, but she knew from the comings and goings, the phone calls, the drinking and the short temper that something big was on the cards and that Bruce was feeling the pressure.

So, on the night before the football match at Clapham Common, Bruce agreed to drive Franny down to Redhill to visit Charmian and Ronnie Biggs. The two girls could make dinner and have a good chinwag, while Ronnie and Bruce went to the local. It would do him good to talk about something other than trains. They parked their son Nick with Mary, a friend, and motored down in a TR4, borrowed from the garage that was reshodding and servicing the Lotus. Bruce took with him a copy of Afro Blue Impressions by John Coltrane, which he had picked up in Dobell's on Charing Cross Road. He presented it as a gift to Ronnie, the only one of his friends who would really appreciate it.

'I think you'll like it. Bit out there in places, if you know what I mean. It's got this mad twenty-one-minute version of "My Favourite Things",' Bruce explained as the two men left the house. 'Don't play it while Charmian's in the room. Drives Franny mental. She says he's just forgotten the tune, that's why it's so bleedin' long.'

The two men walked down to the Red Lion, which Ronnie said was his new favourite boozer. Bruce knew the beefy, avuncular Ronnie was a so-so thief but excellent company, and he was obviously popular: Biggsy was greeted by name by almost everyone in the place.

Having equipped themselves with mild and bitters, the two men found a table, away from the jukebox that was pumping out 'Foot Tapper' by the Shadows. A couple of burly would- be Hank Marvins at the bar were doing the Shadows' walk, swinging imaginary guitars.

'Look at those plonkers,' said Ronnie, speaking loudly so the men could hear. 'More Lee Marvin than Hank. I hope they lay bricks better than they mime guitar.' He laughed when that earned him synchronised V-signs. Satisfied, Ronnie turned to his old friend. 'You all right, Bruce? Look tired.'

'I've been busy.'

Ronnie cracked a smile. 'When were you never?'

'What about you?'

'Usual. Bit of painting here and there. How's that racing driver pal of yours, Roy?'

'Doing well.'

'No more sponsorship? Doesn't he need a nice Duckhams sign painted on his car?'

This train job goes off, Roy won't need to go cap in hand to Duckhams, Bruce thought. 'Not yet. But the cash will come once he gets his name in the paper a bit more. They'd be daft not to invest in him. He's going places.'

Ronnie sniffed, as if suddenly a little nervous. 'Talking of investing, I was wondering, Bruce – you know, if you were interested in helping me set something up.'

Bruce waited. The sentence was ambiguous. It could mean lots of things.

'I mean something on the straight and narrow.'

'Not motors, I hope?'

Ronnie's last three-year stretch had been for a bungled car theft. It had been a harsh sentence, Bruce thought. Cars were so easy to steal, he wondered why everyone didn't do it. You could make a key that worked out of tinfoil for older models; newer ones had the serial number written on the dashboard or on the collar of the ignition lock. And when you went to get a key made, nobody ever asked you if you actually owned the car you wanted it for. Which, of course, made it tragic that Ronnie was caught for something that should have been child's play. He just wasn't a born thief.

'No. Painting and decorating. I've been doing this bungalow in Eastbourne. Seems to me, those seaside places need painting more than any other, what with the wind and the salt. Lots of demand for painters, but most of the blokes do a terrible job. Slapdash. No stripping back to bare wood, no filling. It's criminal.'

They both laughed.

'Ronnie Biggs, the decorator you can trust?' Bruce asked.

'Well, as long as you don't leave too much lying around.'

'What do you need?'

'I reckon one or two grand. Enough to cover a van, leaflets, adverts in local papers and all that.'

Bruce drank while he thought. Part of the plan he had spent the week putting together involved lorries, which would need disguising, with new plates and new colour schemes. 'A few hundred is the best I could manage right now, mate. Had some expenses. We might have a painting job for you, though.'

'We? You mean you and Fran?'

'Nooooo.' He let the word draw out. 'Me and some of the chaps.'

Ronnie shook his head vigorously. 'Look, Bruce, if it's anything not quite on the level, best count me out. Charmian said she'd have my bollocks on the mantelpiece next time.'

'Fair enough. But I might be in a position to help you out in a couple of months.'

'A couple of months? That long? Must be a big one, eh?'

'Just being careful. You know how it is. I don't think Franny wants to see me across a metal table again.'

He could see curiosity in Ronnie's eyes, the conflict of a man who wants to know more but is scared to ask. It would be like describing a gourmet feast to a starving man, so Bruce just said, 'Another?'

When he returned with the refills, Bruce asked: 'You OK for the moment though?'

'Scrabbling a bit. Working for this old geezer. Hasn't got a lot of money. House is in a right state. He pays me half in cash and half in bloody kind at the yards. Actually, you should bring your Nick down. Both the boys could have a go. The two Nicks.'

Like Bruce, Ronnie had called his son after Nick Adams, the Hemingway character. A love of Papa was something else, along with the jazz, which they shared. Hemingway, Miles, Brubeck, Orwell, Jamal, Fitzgerald, Mingus, Cheever, Dexter, Capote – it was their common language.

'Have a go at what?' Bruce asked.

'Driving the train.'

Bruce slopped a mouthful of beer onto his slacks. 'Shit.' He took out his handkerchief and blotted the mark on his thigh. 'What train?'

'That Stan Peters I was talking about – the bloke whose bungalow I'm doing up. Well, he's getting on a bit so he only- does some of the shunting once or twice a week now. But he takes Nick along on the footplate sometimes. Lets him do the horn, everything.'

Bruce couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. 'Footplate?'

Ronnie was puzzled and slightly alarmed at how Bruce's demeanour had suddenly changed. His body had become taut, as if he'd received an electric shock, his eyes were bulging and a pulse was throbbing visibly in his temple.

'So this… Stan,' Bruce asked, leaning forward, the pressure in his chest meaning he could only take shallow breaths. 'He's what, exactly?'

'I told you. A train driver.'