Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Very clever, Bruce, I thought. He wasn't going to talk him down, he was going to dope him out.

The sweet aroma filled the air and I poured myself a finger of scotch, shaking my head when the joint was offered to me.

'Governor in Maidstone used to come in and say: "Bit smoky in here, isn't it, lads?'" Bruce told us, 'but while it was just dope, he was happy enough. The first two weeks after coming home, I'm walking on air. Life is sweet. I'm famous, I have friends, family. Then it hits me – bang! Like a train.' He winked. 'Or a cosh. That's it. Washed-up. Depression, it's a terrible thing. Eh, Roy?'

The driver simply nodded thoughtfully.

Bruce took the spliff back and sucked on it a while longer, indicating I should pour the tea. As I did so, he let out a long thin stream of smoke from pursed lips. 'Well, I'd like to say the gang's all here, but it's not, is it? But while we are gathered together in this cosy place, Tony, maybe you can answer me a question.' His eyes shone brightly and his mouth was drawn tight.

'What's that, Bruce?' I asked, my hand shaking slightly as I lifted the teapot.

'Why the fuck you grassed us up.'

6 August 1963

As arranged, the men came to the farm in dribs and drabs, their arrival staggered so as not to arouse suspicion from any nosy neighbours. Brian Field met several of them at the railway station during the course of the day, ferrying them backwards and forwards.

Tony drove up with Roy the morning after they had practised yet another decoupling in the shunting yards. Roy had mastered both types: the flexible screw kind, which required turning a tensioner before you could unhook them, and the buckeye – the commonest kind on HVPs – which had a simple release chain that you tugged to break the connection.

'The important thing,' he impressed on Tony, 'is that when you take off the vacuum pipe for the brakes, you have to reattach it to a dummy on the HVP. Otherwise the vacuum won't build because it'll leak out the open end.'

Confident now that he knew all there was to know about coach connections, nevertheless Roy was on edge, Tony could tell. They were driving north in a drab-coloured Land Rover, stolen from near Leicester Square by Bruce and Tony and painted by Ronnie Biggs, who had also sketched out the Army numbers he would fill in at the farm. If nothing else he was a good signwriter, that Ronnie Biggs.

'You all right, Roy?' Tony asked.

'Yeah, just thinking. Got a couple of Goodwoods coming up.'

'That all you thinkin' about?'

'It seems to me, Bruce isn't listening. I mean, I know it's his job and all, but…'

'But?'

'I think the farm is a mistake. I think we should have a decoy lorry we leave hallway to London. And there's too many of us. Fuck, it's like a real bleeding army, isn't it? You know, Bruce, Charlie, Buster, Gordy – even though he's a flash bastard sometimes – I know they are up to it.'

Tony thought this must just be the nerves talking. He had them as well, although Marie's change of heart had steadied them somewhat. Now there was no subterfuge at home, he found he was able to relax more. 'Is that all that's up?'

Roy smiled. 'I got offers of sponsorship. Esso and Shell, both bidding me up.'

'Great,' said Tony, with genuine enthusiasm. 'So you are thinking you don't need this?'

Roy shook his head. 'No, not at all. Hundred per cent, me.'

There was an undercurrent of irritation there. 'Timing's crap though, eh?'

'You said it.'

'Look on the bright side, Roy.'

'What's that?'

'It comes off, you can always put "Sponsored by Royal Mail" down the side.'

Roy laughed at the thought, then glanced at the fuel gauge. 'I'd better get some squirt.'

They pulled into a garage on the A40 and Roy got out to fill up the tank. It was then Tony noticed the kid.

'Fuck.'

He stepped out of the Land Rover and walked over to the boy. He was around ten, school blazer, short pants. 'Hi there,' Tony said, looking round for his parents. There was a Vauxhall Cresta at another pump, the attendant filling her up. No driver. 'Collect car numbers, do you?'

The boy nodded sheepishly. He turned around the notebook, which was filled with places, time and dates and licence numbers.

'Like trainspotting, is it?'

Another nod.

Tony glanced over at Roy, who was paying off the lanky lad who had pumped the three star. Roy shot him a quizzical look. Both of their Land Rovers had the same number-plates – the legit one from the vehicle that had been purchased as well as this nicked one – so if cops checked the reg against the make, it wouldn't throw up an anomaly. If, however, by some coincidence someone clocked the registration of the other, being driven by Jimmy, and the police realised they had two vehicles in one place on the day with the same number, then alarm bells could ring. It was all 'what if and 'possibly', but Tony had to think what Bruce would say. And didn't they get caught by number-plates in that movie The League of fucking Gentlemen Bruce was always banging on about?

'Can I see?' Tony asked, taking a step closer.

Reluctantly, the lad handed over the red exercise book.

'Just Land Rovers, is it?'

'Army.' It was a whisper.

'Army vehicles. Got any tank transporters?'

The kid pointed enthusiastically to an earlier entry.

'They're the best, aren't they? Sad to say, you've got the wrong one here, mate. Ex-Army, you see. Just bought it. Haven't had time to respray it. Just took the badges off. Sorry. I'll rip-'

He went to tear the page out when he heard a gruff voice behind him.

'Jeffrey. Are you bothering this man?'

It was the father, forty-ish, ex-military himself by the look of him and the dazzling polish on his brogues.

Tony turned. 'No, not at all, we was just talking car numbers. Telling him it was ex-Army.'

'Sorry. Boy's obsessed. War films, soldiers, model kits.'

'I was the same. Anything with John Wayne or William Bendix.'

The man sniffed at the mention of Hollywood 's war. 'Yes, well. Look at the travesty of The Longest Day. Did you see that? We were hardly in it, according to the Yanks. You hear what one of the producers said on the radio? "There'll always be an England… just as long as America is around to save its backside". Bloody cheek.'

'Well, nice chatting to you.' Tony, sensing a sore point about to be scratched until it bled, offered the book back. The sulky boy snatched it.

'Jeffrey, manners.'

Roy was back in the car and sounded the horn to help extricate Tony. 'Right, got to go.'

As he turned, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. The lad was scratching out the Land Rover's reg, even as the dad turned him away back towards the Vauxhall.

Now he had to hope the father erased the incident from his mind as well.

When they arrived at the tatty farm, Bruce, Buster, Jimmy White, Ronnie Biggs and Stan, the train driver, were all there in the house. Stan, who had been kept tucked away till now, was in his fifties, thin and cadaverous-looking, and was mostly occupied in using his nicotine-stained fingers to make roll- ups. The others were unpacking the supplies and laying out the uniforms and balaclavas. Roy and Tony set about emptying their Land Rover so Biggsy could make the final adjustments to the paint job.

'Gloves!' Bruce kept reminding them. 'At all times. Even when you eat or wipe your hairy arses, OK?'

While they were unloading, a Jaguar appeared on the track, driving up towards the house. Tony relaxed when he saw Brian behind the wheel. As it swept to a halt, flicking gravel everywhere, Roger Cordrey, Ralph, his new assistant, and Jim Hussey climbed out. The latter looked even bigger than he remembered.

'Morning,' said Roger nervously, hefting a series of empty suitcases out of the boot. Clearly, he was expecting plenty of loot. 'Lovely day for it.'