Robert Ryan - Signal Red

He gave him the address and Dave frowned. ' Holloway Road? Bit out of the way.'

'Nothing happens at the farm for another eight hours. Come on, Dave. The wife's about to drop one.'

'Yeah?' Dave looked sideways at him, to see if he was having him on. 'What's this job then? A christening present?' 'Something like that.' 'All right.'

'And I've got some brown sauce. The missus developed a bit of a thing for it for a few weeks. Bought loads of bottles. Now she can't even stand the smell of it.'

'My Jackie was the same with the boy. Marmite it was with her. Makes her gag now.'

They slid into the traffic, heading for his new house. It was a warm day, London finally bathed in full August sunshine, and Tony wound his window down. 'What will you do after this, Dave?' 'Bangkok.'

'Bangkok?' Tony asked, not sure where it was. 'I was in the Army in Malaya for a bit. Shootin' Commies. Went to Bangkok. Man, what a place.' 'You'll take Jackie?'

Dave looked at him as if he had just let one rip. 'Fuck off. Few months in Bangkok, on me tod, then I'll move to Hong Kong and send for her and the kids.' 'You kill any?' 'What?'

'Commies.'

'Fuck, yes. Shed-loads. That's one thing I don't understand about Bruce. Why we can't have guns. He's a funny fucker.'

'I don't think the GPO will agree after tonight.'

Reminded of what was at stake, Dave lapsed into silence, his meaty hands on the wheel, the car threading through London towards Tony's new place.

It was close to five by the time they arrived at the house. Tony slid out of the car, closed the door and put his head through the open window. 'Want to come in? Cup of tea?'

'Don't want to break up a nice domestic scene,' he said. 'I'll have a fag.'

'Won't be long. Get out of these overalls, grab the sauce, kiss the missus and be out.'

'Take your time.' Dave pointed down the road to the corner shop on Holloway Road. 'I'll get a paper.'

Tony took the five steps up to his house in one jump, wondering how it was going to be carrying a pram up and down. Maybe they should have gone for something without a raised porch. Like he'd had much say in it.

He put his key in the lock, stepped in and at once smelled strangers. Cigarette smoke, whisky and something stale wafted down the hallway.

'Marie?'

'Tony? That you?' The voice from the lounge was querulous.

Tony walked in. Marie was on the settee. Two men were sat in the armchairs. On the coffee table in between them were teacups and biscuits. He recognised the man on the left. It was the detective who had come with the Stolen Car Squad to the garage.

Marie pushed herself up to her feet, the strain making her face flush. 'Oh, Tony.'

'What is it?' he demanded of the two policemen.

But it was Marie who answered. 'It's Geoff. The silly bugger went and did a smash and grab.'

'Geoff?' Tony asked, not sure he was hearing correctly. 'Your brother?'

There was a strange noise and for a moment Tony thought a tap had been left running. Then Marie groaned with a mixture of shock and embarrassment as the carpet beneath her feet darkened. Her waters had broken.

Assistant GPO Inspector Thomas Kett walked along the platform at Glasgow station, watching the final preparations for the TPO's departure. It was his job to make sure the sorting ran smoothly during the journey, that each of the sixty-seven sorters in the ten regular coaches knew what had to be done. Each coach had its own supervisor, the majority old hands, so he had no concerns. The mail would get through to London and the south-east, as it did almost every night of the year, barring snowstorms and Christmas.

He reached the HVP, where British Transport Police and the GPO Inspectors were overseeing the loading of the last of the bright-red High Value mailbags containing cash. 'How many, Frank?' he asked.

Frank Dewhurst, Postman (Higher Grade) and in charge of the HVP carriage, consulted his clipboard. 'Ninety-two here. Another twenty or thirty to be picked up on the way down south. Bloody cage is going to be bursting. When do we get the new buggers back?'

The new coaches were fitted with much larger secure lock- able areas, so the HVPs weren't crammed in like passengers on a rush-hour Tube. 'I dunno, few days at least, so they reckon.'

Thomas grumbled. The older HVP was draughty and noisy, as well as scuffed and threadbare after years of continuous service. Some of the pigeonholes were disintegrating, too, so if you weren't careful you ended the shift with a handful of splinters. The new ones had high-density plastic sorting trays. They had been given a teaser of what a modern coach could be like – decent kitchen, comfy seats – and a couple had run with a different crew the previous night and now they were told they were withdrawn. 'Who's with you in there?' Thomas asked.

'Just Les.'

Leslie Penn, a good lad, but still learning the ropes. 'What, just the two of you? To do all the sorting?'

'We'll pick up Joe Ware and Johnny O'Connor down the way.'

'Where?'

' Tamworth.'

'Bloody hell, Tom, that's almost the end of the line.'

Frank Dewhurst made a show of pushing up his sleeves, secretly pleased at having something to do other than walking up and down between the other coaches during the journey. He reached for the grab rail and hauled himself aboard the HVP. It smelled of old wood, leather, glue, string and brown paper. It was a kind of homely mix, Frank thought. 'If you don't mind, I'll lend a hand. Put the kettle on, Les.'

Frank looked at his watch and leaned back out the door, shouting up the platform to the driver climbing into the cab of the beefy English Electric diesel loco. 'Let's get this bloody thing moving. There's our mail to deliver!'

The driver, Jack Mills, a veteran of these night runs, smiled, let go with his left hand and flashed a not unfriendly V-sign. There was always banter between BR and the GPO. 'Hold

your horses. It might be your train, mate,' he yelled, 'but it's my effin' engine that has to pull it.'

'I counted ninety-two sacks into the HVP, although that is likely to be added to. Second carnage as always. And one of the older types. How much? I don't like to speculate. Over one million, clear. Maybe one and a half. Will that do you? I thought so. Right, that's me out of here. I'll tell Brian where he can leave my whack and Mark's as well. Plus drinks for the lads up here. The ones who fixed the coaches. No, I'll stay away from Glasgow. Mark will collect his down there. I'm coming south, too. Just in case Glasgow gets too hot for me. They are bound to know someone tipped you the wink. Right, there she goes, out of the station. A minute early, too. Over to you boys. And by the way, good luck. It's your train, now.'

Leatherslade Farm, near Oakley, Bucks, 7 August 1963

Bruce couldn't make sense of what he was hearing. While he thought, he scratched the skin beneath his gloves. It had been an oppressively warm day in the farmhouse. With the curtains drawn and no open windows, the temperature had climbed. It was early evening and most of the men had stripped down to vests or singlets. Gloves were still on, but they were becoming increasingly irritating. Still, Bruce didn't relent, bawling at anyone who so much as took them off to get some air to hot, sweaty palms.

Slowly, Bruce repeated what he had been told. 'So Tony went in for a cup of tea. You went back to his house? For a fuckin' cup of tea?'

The disapproval hit Tiny Dave like a slap across the face. Bruce made it clear he thought they should have driven straight back. 'And to get the sauce for Bobby.'

'Oh well, yes, the sauce. What's more important than brown

sauce? So you stop outside and then Tony comes with two coppers?'

'And his missus. Holding her belly.'