Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Cornwall, June 1963

The headless corpse had been transported to Truro and examined there by the local Home Office pathologist. In fact, as Billy Naughton discovered, it wasn't just headless, there was precious little of the rest of it left on the slab of the overlit mortuary. The internal organs had mostly disappeared as well as one arm, and the remaining limbs looked like sections of a barrage balloon, all bloated and blue.

It was so far from being the body of a young woman that Billy found he was almost able to distance himself from it as having once been human. He could look upon the remains dispassionately, as if it really were just flotsam, albeit of organic origin. Only the rich chemical brew that infused the room's atmosphere made him feel nauseous.

Norman Carter, the pathologist, was wearing a double- breasted suit with a hospital gown thrown carelessly over it, as if he had rushed in from lunch.

'Well, of course, if we had got it when it was first spotted, we might have had more luck,' said Carter, who had travelled from Bristol for a second time to go over his findings and was clearly none too pleased with having to venture so far from home again. 'As it is, the saltwater immersion has ruined the fingerprints. There is, of course, no face.'

'What do you mean, if you had got it when it was first spotted?' asked Hatherill. They had only arrived the night before and were billeted in a pub near the beach where the body had been washed up. He had read through the preliminary reports on the finding, but none had mentioned a delay in contacting the authorities.

'You don't know the background?' asked Carter, looking over his half-moon spectacles.

Hatherill ignored the slight sneer in Carter's voice. 'I thought we had better see our victim first, and get your reaction. I've read the report of PC Trellick who found her.'

'The bobby might have found her, but she was seen on that beach a good week before – when she still had two arms and, I'll wager, all her internal organs.'

'Bloody hell,' said Billy. 'So why wasn't she brought here then?'

'Good question, lad. She lay on that beach for eight days.'

'Where is the head?' asked Billy.

The pathologist shrugged. 'Missing in action. As I said in my notes, there appear to be saw-marks on the cervical vertebrae that remain.'

'Saw-marks?' Hatherill asked. 'You sure?'

'Well, there are striations. You want to take a look?'

Hatherill stepped forward and Carter swung a magnifying lens over the stump of the neck. Billy held back, not wanting to see the gore in any greater detail. Hatherill made grunting noises.

'Sir, isn't it an offence not to report a dead body?'

Carter looked up at him with pity in his eyes. 'Have you been to Cornwall before, son?'

'No.'

He gave a wan smile. 'You'll learn.'

Hatherill clapped his hands together. 'Right. Can you try and get us some dabs?'

'Off this?'

Hatherill gave a flattering smile. 'Well, you pathologists have your methods, I know.'

Carter thought for a few moments, stroking his chin as he did so. 'I could dissolve away some of the tissue on the fingertips, see if I can get an impression of the underlying ridges then – if you don't mind me removing the hands and taking them back to Bristol.'

'I don't, and I think she is past caring. Don't you, Detective?'

'Sir,' Billy agreed.

'And palm prints?' Hatherill asked.

Carter tossed one of the hands back and forth, like a flipper. 'They might be easier to obtain, yes.'

The Old Man turned to Billy. 'People forget palm prints. They're just as distinctive though, as any fingerprints. So, DC Naughton, any thoughts?'

Billy felt himself blush as the two older men stared at him. I wish I were back in London, he thought. Even turning over queers in public toilets is better than this. But that wouldn't do as an answer.

'That the head was sawn off to prevent identification.'

'Then why not the hands?'

'Because… well, if the woman had no criminal record, the murdered would know we wouldn't have anything on file.'

Hatherill shook his head. 'But once we have a list of missing women in the area we could dust those houses. The murderer, if there were one, wouldn't know how long the corpse would be immersed, would he? If it is a he.'

Billy tried to think of something pertinent to say, but nothing came.

'Let's get the list of everyone who might have seen the body during the week it was there. Dog-walkers, beachcombers, fishermen, holidaymakers. We'll interview them all, reinterview if they have already been done.' Hatherill took out his cigarette case and placed a Senior Service in his mouth. He was enjoying himself. 'Then I want you to phone the Met in London.'

Billy assumed he meant Scotland Yard. 'We need more men?'

'Not the Metropolitan Police, the Meteorological Office. We are at the seaside, remember. I want a weather forecast.'

It had been raining persistently for two days until that morning and the sky was still a flat pewter colour, threatening more of the same. Clapham Common was greasy underfoot, the grass beaten into submission and dotted with muddy patches the size of small ponds. Bruce Reynolds was concerned. He knew how competitive some of these men could be. He imagined Charlie going for Jimmy, or Buster taking on Gordy and it all ending in grief.

'I want you to think about what you are doing.' Bruce tapped his temple forcefully with his right index finger. 'Think why we are here. We don't need any broken legs now, do we?' he warned them as they gathered on the edge of the pitch. 'It's not Yugoslavia versus Russia. And I don't want any Mujics. Got it?'

Tito's lads and Khrushchev's boys had faced up to each other in Group One of the previous year's World Cup in

Chile. It had been a scrappy match in all senses of the word, with on-pitch fighting and a broken leg sustained by Dubinski thanks to a heavy-footed tackle. The photo of the Russian's agony flashed around the world; Mujic was sent home in disgrace.

Bruce looked at the group of men gathered for a kick- about. Some, like Roy, had gone to town with their kit. He looked like a pocket-sized Roy of the Rovers. Buster, on the other hand, in his long black gym shorts and vest, looked more like Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track. Most were somewhere in between.

'Right, let's get the important bit over first. Gordy, pick your men. I'll have Roy and Tony.'

'Oh no, you don't,' said Gordy. 'Two fast wingers, I bet. You can have one of them.'

In the end, it was Bruce, Roy, Buster, Jimmy White and Charlie to take on Gordy, Tony, Ralph – a friend of Bruce's who would help with the signals if need be – Tommy and Roger. Brian Field, the solicitor, opted to stay on the sidelines. 'I'll peel the oranges at half-time,' he said with his cheeky grin.

'You can buy the pints at fall-time,' said Buster, pointing towards the Plough.

'Before we get started,' said Bruce, looking at Roger. 'I may have solved the problem of moving the train.' He suddenly had their complete attention, and felt like Alf Ramsey giving a pep talk. 'Ronnie Biggs knows a driver.'

'Will he let us at him?' Roy asked.

'No. It's his shout. I said I'd bring Ronnie in.'

Buster gave a loud sniff. 'None of us have worked with him. Not really.'

'I told you. He's reliable.' said Bruce, with feeling. He'd seen Ronnie beaten by screws till his testicles were like purple rugby balls, and he hadn't given an inch. 'He's keen.' The truth was, once Ronnie had realised the scale of the job, all his concerns about upsetting Charmian went out of the window. She wouldn't be miffed when she saw a heap of fivers on the bed. When he and Franny had left, Biggsy had given him a clear message. No Ronnie, No Stan the Engine Driver.