Robert Ryan - Signal Red

by Franny to fit better – would pass muster. Yes, he had to admit as he looked in the full-length mirror in the bedroom, he did have something of the officer class about him.

It was hard to believe, after the months of speculation, planning and scouting, that it was about to go down. Even more incredible was the thought of the amount of money that could be his – theirs – by the end of the evening. He'd be rich. Properly rich, not just enough for a flash motor and a few good dinners. But seriously, stonkingly rich. Maybe for life. That would be good. Bugger the Aston; if there was more than one million, he'd go for a Ferrari GTO. True, they cost a fortune to run. But he intended to have a bloody fortune, didn't he?

Bruce consulted his watch again, marvelling at how the hands were crawling round. As the second hand swept past the six he cleared his throat. 'OK, lads.'

They all stopped what they were doing.

'Head 'em up, move 'em out.'

There was the clatter of mugs being put aside, the rough scrape of chairs being pushed back, the sudden burble of excitement. Cigarettes were stubbed out, board games abandoned, dregs of coffee swallowed. 'Candles, gents. Don't want to come back to see a smouldering wreck.'

Roy, in charge of transport, shouted out a reminder of who was in what vehicle. 'And keep your speed down,' he said. 'There's only one racing driver here and even he's on a go-slow.'

The men tumbled out past Roy into a lovely warm summer's evening, silvered by a big, friendly moon. The air hardly moved, wrapped round them like a light soft blanket. It was the kind of night, thought Bruce as he headed for one of the Land Rovers, where you could believe in fairies and elves.

The kind of night where something magical might happen. A miracle, even.

He felt a hand heavy on his shoulder as he opened the Land Rover's door. It was Charlie. 'Just want to say, Bruce, no matter what happens. Nice one.'

It meant a lot coming from Chas. Almost twenty years they had known each other; from bombsites to train jobs, it had been quite a journey. Bruce watched his old friend slide into what they called the 'heavy' vehicle – Charlie plus Buster, Tiny Dave, Tommy Wisbey and Gordy. Bruce climbed into the second Land Rover, into the passenger seat next to his second cousin. 'Quiet' Ralph had volunteered to take Tony's role as driver; Bruce was happy with that. As Roy had said, it wasn't a race. He switched on the VHF radio that was tuned to Buckinghamshire Constabulary.

Bruce turned around, elbow on the seat. He had Roger, Ronnie and Stan in the back, the technical team. 'Everyone all right?'

'Fine.' Roger was licking his lips as if he hadn't had a drink for months. He looked strained. Stan was rolling another fag, a slight tremor evident in his fingers. Ronnie was Ronnie, relaxed, ready for what the night would throw at him.

Roy gunned the engine of the Land Rover and pulled away first, taking his fearsome crew with him. God help anyone who got in their way, thought Bruce. The lorry that would carry the cash came out second, a tired-looking Jimmy White at the wheel, Bobby Welch next to him, Jim Hussey in the rear.

Ralph let in the clutch and they bounced towards the track that led to the B4011 and the back roads to Bridego. Bruce checked the time. Twelve-forty. In three hours he would either be a hero to these men or a dismal failure.

Nobody spoke for the first few miles, lost in their own version of what the coming twenty-four hours might hold.

'Eh,' said Stan eventually. 'I just had a thought.'

Fuck me, thought Bruce, that must be lonely in there. 'What is it, Stan?'

'It's coming from Glasgow, right, the train?'

'Yes.'

'And the money is from banks up there?'

'That's correct.'

'What if they're all Scottish notes?'

Bruce laughed. They would be a bugger to shift; even trying to get a single Scottish pound note accepted in London was hard enough. 'Tell you what, Stan.'

'What, Bruce?'

'If they are, you can keep the lot.'

'Someone on the road ahead,' said Ralph.

A figure was caught in the headlights, a solitary man on a lonely road at some godforsaken hour. His hand was stretched out, thumb pointing east.

'Hitchhiker,' said Bruce. 'Keep going.'

This was no time for Good Samaritans.

Tony Fortune lay staring at the ceiling in the flat, unable to sleep, his mind churning and restless. It flitted from images of Marie and the lovely, crumpled baby that had reduced him to tears, and the sixteen men in the farmhouse – seventeen if you counted Brian Field – waiting to pull off a ridiculously audacious crime.

And his poxy brother-in-law. Banged up for armed robbery, having tried to prove that he, too, could be a getaway driver.

He was disappointed about missing out on the payday from the train, mainly for Marie's sake. Maybe the others would

bung him a drink. He deserved at least that. Perhaps enough to pay for a nursery for the baby. And a nice pram. Marie would be home in a few days. He should get to work on doing some painting.

He leaned up onto one elbow and looked at his watch. Twelve forty-five. For a moment he imagined he could hear the grind of Army gears, smell the excitement and anxiety of the men in unfamiliar uniforms, see the gleam in Bruce Reynolds's eyes. Then he slumped back down and let his lids droop, willing sleep to come. Good luck, lads, he thought. Good luck.

Sears Crossing, 8 August 1963

Roy James's walkie-talkie crackled as he walked alongside the rails, heading for the gantry of the 'home' signal. ' Roy?'

'Yes, Bruce?' 'How you doing?'

'I've cut the telephone to most of the farmhouses. Had to leave one, because it would come down on some cowsheds. Make a hell of a racket.' 'OK. Trackside phone?' 'That's already out. How about you?' Bruce was ahead of them all as point man, ready to send the alert when the TPO Up train left Linslade. 'Smoking a damn fine cigar.'

That's Bruce, Roy thought. Always doing it in style. Roy heard the steel rail beside him buzz and looked over his shoulder, beyond Bridego Bridge. 'Train coming,' he said. 'What?'

'From the south. Train coming. I'm getting down.'

Roy slipped behind one of the concrete huts at the track- side. A growling 08-type diesel shunter came by, its line of empty trucks rattling and groaning.

He waited until it would have passed Bruce before resuming the conversation. 'I'm going to the gantry now. What about Roger?'

Roger would have opened the control box for the 'distant' or 'dwarf' signal, then used a battery and crocodile clips to light up the amber warning light. Ralph's job was to connect up the last clip and to cover the bulb in the green light module, so only the amber would be showing to the driver. It was so simple, no wonder Roger wanted to keep it secret.

'He's just set up Ralph at the dwarf. Should be with you toot sweet. You still there, Ralph?'

Roy heard the reply. 'Check.'

'Good.'

'I need a piss.'

'You should have gone before we left,' said Roy.

Bruce chortled. 'Bottle it, Ralph. Where are you, Roy?'

'Coming up to the gantry now,' said Roy. He could see two figures at the base of the steel framework, Roger and Buster. Buster had his spring-loaded cosh in his hand. Peering into the gloom, Roy could just make out Jimmy and Tiny Dave at the edge of the track and, on the western side, the shapes of Charlie, Gordy and Tommy pressed against the embankment. All were armed with pickaxes or crowbars, many of them stolen from the nearby BR toolsheds. They were mainly for smashing into the coach, not maiming people. Buster's cosh, however, was different, specifically designed for the train crew. He had made it clear that he thought a quick, sharp dose of pain was the best way to cower the staff on