Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Lovely might be going too far, but at least it wasn't raining and the sun beamed out from behind the clouds once in a while. What a summer. Still, he would be able to afford to take Marie and the baby somewhere warm after that night. He hefted the last crate from the rear of the Land Rover and said, 'OK, Ronnie, all yours.'

'Do me a favour,' said Biggsy from the side of his mouth. 'Keep Stan company, will you? Feels a bit left out with this lot.'

'I'll get Roy to talk trains with him. I swear he likes them more than racing cars now.'

'Good one.'

'Oi, everyone!' It was Buster at the door. 'Bruce wants the vehicles away and everyone inside, curtains drawn. And tea's up for those that want it.'

Tony looked at his watch. It was early afternoon. At least twelve hours before they would pull out and head for Bridego Bridge and Sears Crossing. Time enough for a few rounds of Monopoly.

'There's someone coming!' shouted Buster from the kitchen.

Bruce leaped to his feet. 'Who is it?'

'Not one of ours. Someone walking up the drive. Jacket, gumboots. I think it's a farmer.'

'Everyone shut up!' said Bruce. 'Tony, you come with me.'

The pair of them stepped outside, blinking into the afternoon sunshine after the gloom inside. The man walking towards them was dressed in rough cords and an old waxed jacket, with a flat cap on his head. He certainly looked like everybody's idea of a Farmer Giles. 'Afternoon,' he said brightly.

'Afternoon,' said Bruce. Tony could see he was looking around for anything suspicious that they might have left out in the open. But the Army truck and Land Rovers were well hidden. Only the number of tyre tracks gave all the activity away.

'Wyatt's the name. Thought I saw some movement over here. You the new owners?'

'No,' said Bruce. Then he dried up.

Sensing the hesitation, Tony jumped in. 'We're the decorators.

They've just asked us to come over and spruce the place up. Lick of paint inside.'

The man grunted. 'Well, it could do with it. Who is the owner then?'

'A Mr Field,' said Bruce. 'Leonard Field. From Aylesbury.' This was true; Brian had put the farm in the name of another Field – but not a relative – who would be paid a drink as a front man.

'Thing is, I rent the field over yonder – for my sheep. And I was wondering if Mr Field would allow me to continue.'

'Can't say,' said Bruce.

'But unless you hear otherwise,' Tony said, 'you just carry on as before. We'll mention it to him.'

'That's very kind.' He hesitated, as if expecting to be asked in for a cup of tea.

Bruce, however, just glanced over his shoulder, saying, 'Well, best get back to it.'

'Yes. Right. Thank you.'

They watched the man walk back down towards the farm's gate. He turned once and raised a hand and they returned the gesture.

'Fuck,' said Bruce.

'Be all right,' said Tony, echoing the words of Geoff, his brother-in-law. 'No harm done.'

'He's seen my face.'

'You know what people are like. He'll have forgotten it by the morning.'

'Yeah.' But Bruce didn't sound convinced.

They turned and headed back in. 'Still,' suggested Tony, 'we can always go round to his place and kill them all, just to be on the safe side.'

Bruce's eye darted to him, thinking he was serious. Tony cracked a grin. The sight of Bruce laughing as they stepped into the half-light of the house reassured the others that all was well.

By early evening most of the team had gathered together. Charlie Wilson and Bobby Welch had swelled the numbers at around three in the afternoon. Tiny Dave Thompson, the London Airport man, had come by Morris Oxford. He would supply extra clenched fists just in case anything went wrong with the sorters.

Tony knew there had been some heated arguments amongst the principals over the final numbers. Extra bodies diluted the whacks. Charlie was also worried about security, that if outsiders were brought in, word would leak out about something big going down. It only needed a rumour for the Heavy Mob at the Yard to start sniffing around the usual suspects. Which certainly included Charlie and Gordy after the airport job.

But as Bruce had insisted, with only limited time on the track, the more hands, the greater the number of sacks they could load, therefore the larger the pot to be divided between them. Everyone knew that Bruce, Charlie, Gordy and Buster would take a slightly larger cut to compensate for their longer prep and expenses. Roy too, perhaps – that was down to Bruce. The rest would be divided equally, once the 'drink' for Stan and a few others had been deducted, including a whack to Brian and one for the mysterious 'fixer' in Glasgow. That meant, with Tiny Dave a late addition, thirteen into whatever the dividend was. So, eighteen slices of the pie in all. It was one of the biggest firms Tony had ever heard of and, as he looked around the room, he felt fresh admiration for Bruce, Charlie and Gordy. Not many men could pull all this together and keep it quiet.

As the hours passed and the atmosphere in the darkened rooms grew oppressive, the firm split into smaller groups. Jim Hussey, Jimmy White and Ronnie played cards. Stan sat quietly in the corner, rolling one fag after another, sometimes smoking a pipe for light relief. Roger Cordrey lay on a mattress and dozed.

Most of the rest played Monopoly, although Bruce took up his role as the commander, moving among his troops, keeping morale up. Buster organised the kitchen, announcing it was Fray Bentos pies for tea, along with a rabbit stew, using an animal Jimmy White had sideswiped on the road. The former Para was adept at living off the land. But one rabbit didn't go far among so many big chaps.

'Where's Gordy?' asked Roy.

'Ireland,' replied Bruce.

'Ireland?' asked a jittery Ralph, alarmed at the news of being a man down. 'Shouldn't he be here?'

'He will be. Brian is picking him up from the airport and driving him here. It's his alibi – that he was in Ireland.'

Bruce knew that Gordy was a little nervous, although he would never tell the others. After narrowly missing going down for the airport job, he felt exposed. No matter what the evidence, the Squad might lay the train at his door. Hence the alibi and his preference for arriving after dark. Gordy was taking no chances.

'Missus thinks I'm chopping wood in Wiltshire,' chipped in Ronnie. 'Lumberjackin', like.'

'She's gonna think choppin' down trees pays bloody well,' offered Buster. 'Will someone give me a hand in here? It's like feedin' the bleedin' five thousand. Anyone got any loaves and fishes?'

'Anyone fed the cat yet?' asked Roy.

There were a few howls of derision. The farm had come with a rather bedraggled tom, prone to pissing in corners and on beds. It wasn't universally popular, but Roy seemed attached to it.

'I'd best do it then.' Roy got up and went into the kitchen area, looking for something suitable for the cat. A bleary Roger levered himself up from his mattress and followed. He began breaking open the packs of cutlery that Jimmy had provided. The first beers were cracked, although Bruce told everyone to take it easy. He didn't want anyone drunk on duty or busting for a piss at the wrong time. On the other hand, he knew some of them needed a little drink to steady their nerves. He himself would abstain, apart from a little nip of brandy from his silver Mappin & Webb hip flask, a present from Roy. The fact that Roy hadn't paid for it didn't detract from its value as a gift: it was an important memento of Le Furet's days as a Third-Floor Man. He would, however, smoke a cigar just before; a good Havana always calmed him down.

'After dinner, we'll check the uniforms and go over it one last time,' Bruce announced. 'Just to be sure we all know what we are doing.'

'I could rob that train in my sleep,' Tommy Wisbey said.