Robert Ryan: Signal Red

Charlie let the full weight of the barbell fall onto the throat, holding it there for a second while Derek struggled to push it away. The cold-sick colour of his face darkened as his oxygen supply plummeted. He coughed when Charlie finally lifted the steel away from his bruised flesh.

'Now, Charlie is doing a bank, OK? Well, not OK but not a disaster. A Post Office. Fine as far as it goes. I mean, nobody knows which Post Office, do they? But how many London airports are there, Derek? I mean real airports that handle gold and money and freight?'

Derek replied in a tremulous voice. 'One.'

'ONE! Fuckin' right. One. That narrows it down for any grasses earwiggin', doesn't it? One. Take the money or open the box, Derek?'

Derek's pupils darted left and right nervously. He didn't know what to say.

'What's that? Box thirteen, you say? Let's see what's in Box thirteen. Oh dear. The booby prize.' Charlie changed his tone, letting some more menace creep into it as he lifted the barbell off Derek. 'You are going to fuck off out of my sight. And I mean out of it. No more suits from my tailors. No more suck-offs from the Gobble Twins. If I walk into a boozer and you're there, you walk out. You don't even finish your drink. Understand?'

'Yes, Charlie-'

'Mr Wilson!' he barked.

'Yes, Mr Wilson.'

'And if, after a year, I haven't seen your face or heard your name, then maybe we'll think again. Won't we?'

'Yes, Mr Wilson.'

'Get him out of here, Ray. I'm going to do some punchbag work.'

Ray yanked Derek to his feet. The youth made to say something, but Ray clipped him smartly around the back of his head. Charlie was busy tying on the gloves, no longer even aware that Derek was in the room. It was over. And as Ray would tell Derek later, he'd got off very lightly indeed. The Guv'nor must be going soft.

RAF Hemswell, Lincolnshire, October 1962

The three-minute warning siren sounded, its hideous cry carried, appropriately enough, by the wind from the east that came across the North Sea and then blew unimpeded over the flatlands of Lincolnshire. Every man and woman on the base momentarily froze as the wail gathered its breath, rising to a full scream. All but the very youngest had the sound of sirens cauterised into their brains, either from the early days of the Blitz, the later, more insidious threats of V1s and V2s, or, in recent years, the pointess Civil Defence exercises.

Roy James scanned the sky, hoping, if these were indeed the final minutes of his life, to see the sleek silver English Electric Lightning of the RAF powering north to meet the bombers, intent on revenge for the millions who would die. The sky remained unsullied, however, apart from a lone Vickers Viscount rowing between the thin cumulus. Instead, the siren faltered and died. A test.

What a place to stage a race, he thought. But there was a keen karting club on the base, run by a kid called Mike

Lawrence, and driving between missile silos did, Roy had to admit, add a certain sense of extra danger to the proceedings.

He folded his slender frame into his kart, checking straps and connections as he did so. There was a tap on his helmet and he looked up into the grinning face of little Mickey Ball.

'Your fan club is here,' Mickey said, pointing at the sparse crowd of spectators.

Roy picked out the towering shape of Gordon Goody, in his long leather Gestapo-style coat; next to him the willowy Bruce Reynolds, aka the Colonel, fussing with his shirt collar, as dandyish as ever. Completing the trio was a third man Roy didn't recognise. He wasn't short, being five ten or eleven, but he looked it next to the other two. The stranger was about Roy 's age – younger than Bruce and Gordy – with fairish hair and a frown, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was doing there.

A distorted voice came over the Tannoy system. 'Engines, gentlemen, please.'

Roy knew what the visit from Bruce and Goody meant. About half a million quid, with a bit of luck.

Goodbye Italkart, hello Brabham.

Strapping himself in, Roy lowered his visor and gave the signal for Mickey to kick the Bultaco into life.

Comet House, Heathrow Airport, West London, October 1962

As he washed his hands for the fifth time, Ronald 'Buster' Edwards wondered why he had ever agreed to get involved with this malarkey. Sometimes you did it for the laugh, for the buzz, for the sheer hell of it. And sometimes it was just for the money. But he didn't need money, not at that moment. The club was doing OK. However, when they were putting a firm together, it was hard to say no to that little wave of excitement – euphoria, even – that swept through your brain and made your stomach fizz like it was filled with best bubbly. And there was always the fear that next time, they wouldn't ask you at all. What's more, he had to be honest with himself. Running a drinking den was fine – but it was also on the dreary side, a life oddly becalmed, waiting for a seductive wind to fill its sails. And right now Bruce, Charlie and Gordy were blowing a gale through his rigging.

A tall, thin-faced man in a pinstriped suit came into the Gents, gave him a sharp glance and Buster smiled. 'Mornin'.'

'Good morning,' came the frosty reply. The man hesitated, as if he was going to ask Buster what his business was on the third floor, but his bowels got the better of him. He slipped into a cubicle, and Buster heard the lock slide across and the ping of braces.

Buster looked out of the window at the graceful Air France Caravelle coming in to land. It made him think he'd like to be on one of the sleek jetliners, heading to Paris or Cannes. Bruce had told him so much about Monte Carlo and Nice, he felt as if he'd been there already, experienced the Mediterranean sun on his face. The way the Colonel told it, it'd been like Cary Grant in To Catch A Thief down there, with Roy and Mickey as his sidekicks. Except, unlike Cary 's character, Bruce hadn't retired.

Buster realised he had been so distracted by thoughts of the Riviera, he hadn't noticed the blue armoured van that had left the Barclays Bank that was just visible down the road and was now heading for the entrance to the airport and on to Comet House.

Quickly rolling down the sleeves of the pinstriped suit he was wearing, he checked his appearance in the mirror – putting on a bit of weight round the chin there, Ronald – and slotted the bowler hat onto his head. He almost burst out laughing, thinking he looked more like Bernie Winters in a sketch than a City gent. The lavatory flushed in the closet behind him and Buster grabbed the folded umbrella he had left dangling from one of the sinks and hurried out to the lift, almost knocking over the lavatory attendant, who had been on his break, as he did so.

At first, Buster thought he'd bollocked it with his daydreaming: the entrance lobby to Comet House was empty, but two receptionists were behind the desk. It was a shift changeover, the blazered young man taking over from the woman in the blue blouse. Good, he'd prefer it to be a man. No qualms about a little touch of cosh action there. Buster could see the dark shape of the van parked outside, but no sign of the bank guards. Perhaps, he fretted, they had already passed through.

Also outside, thirty feet back from the van that had travelled from Barclays, was a Ford Zephyr 6 police car, its roof light flashing lazily.

He remembered what Charlie had told him, not to break step no matter what happened. As he approached the conventional exit to the left of the revolving door, he was relieved to see two men emerge from the far side of the van. Each was carrying a metal strongbox, which they heaved onto a steel trolley. Their actions were observed by a supervisor with a clipboard. The men repeated this procedure, so there were four hefty boxes in place. Then they looked around, nodded to the waiting policemen to show all seemed in order, and wheeled the conveyance towards the lobby. Buster hesitated as he came face to face with the guards, with the glass door between them.