Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'A fuckin' Monopoly set?' Jim Hussey turned to Tommy Wisbey, who was sitting in the back seat. Roger was driving them back towards Brighton, where they were to pick up the last of the cash from their previous train jobs that was being 'minded' by one of the operators on the West Pier. It was time, as Bruce said, to concentrate on the Big One. For the moment, the South Coast Gang was being wound up.

It was the early hours, little traffic. Roger was sober, careful as they hit the A23 south of Croydon; he didn't want to be walking any white lines for a policeman. The car stank of the other two men's beer and fags.

'Who Dares Wins?' added Wisbey.

'Oh, you can't have a shooter because it might go off and hurt somebody,' lisped Hussey in a high-pitched feminine voice.

'Hey, lads,' said Roger meekly. 'Have some respect. It's Bruce's tickle. He calls the shots.'

'Or not havin' the shots.' The other two giggled like very overgrown schoolboys. 'He treats us like we got muscle between our ears sometimes.'

'Yeah, well sometimes you have,' said Roger, suddenly angry. 'Look, he wants you for what you are good at. Puttin' the shits up people. Now if you want to join the cooking and dishwashing rota-'

'Fuck off. Can't we get some bird in for that?'

'And a bit of the other while she's at it.'

Roger shook his head. They were nice enough boys, but something on this scale was beyond their experience. Hussey was a car thief who readily used his fists whenever he deemed the occasion demanded it. Which, when he was in his late teens, had been surprisingly often. Now he had calmed down, and tried his hand at pickpocketing. If caught, though, he was still liable to try and punch his way out of trouble.

Tommy Wisbey was a bookmaker and thief who intimidated by his size and rarely needed to thump anyone. If he did, Roger was under no illusion that those ham-hocks of arms – he looked like Popeye when he stripped down – would cause some damage.

'Just do what Bruce wants and you'll get your whack. Equal shares, he said, once the expenses are deducted. How fair is that?' Bruce could easily have upped his own stake, or insisted that the originating gang – the Heathrow boys, essentially – deserved a higher cut. But Roger knew Bruce thought an unequal division of the spoils led to resentment, which might cause someone to grass when his perceived 'tiny' whack ran out. There would, after all, be a hefty reward on offer.

'You know he said we might need a few more bodies?' asked Wisbey. 'Not for the washing-up, but at the train. What about Freddie Foreman? Or Frankie Fraser?'

Hussey shook his head. 'You'd have to keep those two on leashes.'

'Nah, they're all right. Good boys,' insisted Wisbey.

Roger knew the names. They were a couple of enforcers for the likes of the Richardsons and the Krays. They had reputations for violence that left Bobby Welch, Tommy and Jimmy looking as threatening as Rag, Tag and Bobtail. Bruce wouldn't like that. There was something else Bruce wouldn't like. 'Fraser is red-hot, isn't he?'

'I suppose,' said Wisbey.

'He was on Police Five,' said Hussey. 'Wanted for doing some bloke.'

'So don't approach anyone till you've cleared it with Bruce or Charlie or Gordy. They only want people they know, remember?'

The other two grunted. The euphoria caused by alcohol fading, they lapsed into silence, their arms folded. Jim's head began to nod as he fell into a fitful snooze.

After fifteen minutes, Tommy Wisbey spoke.

'There's one thing I'm really pissed off about, Roger.'

'What's that?' asked Roger, annoyed that they should be so ungrateful. Plenty would take their places.

'Meself, I prefer Cluedo.'

Bridego Bridge, July 1963

'Here we go. Now!'

Roy let the clutch in and Tony felt the front of the brand new Mini Cooper S judder as the power hit the front wheels. Next to them came the deeper roar of an Austin Healey 3000 Mk. II roadster, with Bruce behind the wheel.

The two cars shot out of the car park next to the fishing pond and turned right, Bridego Bridge receding rapidly in the Mini's mirror. Unlike the Healey, which filled it.

'He's got more power than us,' shouted Roy as he worked the Mini's gearbox.

The Austin pulled out behind them. Tony could see it in his wing mirror, Bruce behind the wheel, Gordy somehow folded into the passenger seat. It was a race and the last one to Leatherslade would buy lunch at the Red Lion pub in Brill. Bruce had taken the Austin Healey on 'a test drive', as he was considering buying one when he got his hands on the cash. This probably wasn't the kind of test drive the garage had in mind.

'Read the map,' Roy instructed. 'Check the sharpness of the bends, and whether they are right- or left-handers.'

The Mini was shifting, the little tuned-up engine doing its best to roar, although as the Healey drew close they could hear the deeper note of its larger lump.

'Right at the end,' said Tony. 'T-junction.'

Tony's mouth went dry as he watched the turning approach. Roy appeared not to know where the brake was. At the last moment, he stamped on the middle pedal once, changed down, then went back on the gas. Tony hoped nothing was coming. Roy leaned on the Healey slightly and flung the little Mini to the right.

'Disc brakes,' Roy grinned. 'Fuckin' brilliant. Much better than the standard Mini.'

The Healey fell back as it took the bend in a more refined manner. Then Tony watched it grow larger in the mirror once more as Bruce got the power back down.

'Sharp right at Ledburn. You have to go into the village. Watch-'

Roy jerked the Mini out and zipped by a dawdling Triumph Herald, then tucked back in.

'Did I say right?' Tony corrected. 'I meant left.'

'Keep it together, Tone. There're only two choices, after all,' Roy laughed. 'Right or left?'

'Left. My side,' he clarified.

A pair of decent-looking pubs went by in a blur and Roy took the turning. Tony caught sight of startled residents, stepping back from the kerb as the two cars powered recklessly through their hamlet.

'Long straight section to a crossroads.'

'How long?'

'Half a mile.'

'Not enough for him to have us.'

Tony looked up from the map. It was beautiful rolling countryside, the roads lined with hedgerows, guarded with stands of extravagant horse chestnuts.

'How far? This it?'

'No. Be signposted Wing.'

'Hang on.'

A throbbing filled the Mini's cabin. 'Christ, he's right behind us.'

At a particularly splendid horse chestnut, Roy put the Cooper S into a power slide, the snub rear-end poking out, almost touching the Healey's gleaming chrome bumper. Bruce backed off, giving Roy enough space to complete the turn, catch the drift and get the full bhp of the 1071cc engine onto the asphalt.

Tony, his heart thumping away, checked the OS map once more. 'Through Wing, left towards Cublington.'

Another couple of pubs, more outraged country folk and a left turn. The ominous black Healey was behind them again.

'Crap,' said Tony. 'You should have gone left there at the fork.'

He turned and watched the roadster take the correct route and disappear from view.

'No problem.' Roy braked, and Tony shot out an arm to steady himself on the windscreen as the front end of the Cooper dipped viciously. The driver found reverse first time and the gearbox whined as he took the Cooper back and resumed the chase.

'I though the left was the main drag-'

'Doesn't matter now,' Roy said evenly. 'Next?'

'Cublington. Some sharp bends.'

'Good.'

There was no sign of the roadster until they took a narrow bridge – Tony with his eyes closed in case there was anything coming the other way on the other side – and landed with a spine-jarring crack.