Robert Ryan - Signal Red

A significant amount of the notes had been designated as too worn to remain in circulation and been scheduled for destruction. Nobody recorded the numbers of those sacks. And the scruffy oncers and fivers would be a lot easier for the thieves to spend without attracting suspicion than crisp new notes.

'What proportion, Chief Superintendent?' someone asked.

Fewtrell looked irritated. 'Could we save the questions until the end, please? Otherwise we'll never get through. We do have a press conference to give later. But to answer that one question – less than two thousand pounds.'

There were audible gasps and Fewtrell nodded to signal his agreement. It seemed inconceivable that the gang could have got away with so much untraceable cash.

Fewtrell then went through the mechanics of how the train was stopped and the timetable of activities. He read partial statements from each of the witnesses. Then he said something that was music to Hatherill's ears.

'We will, of course, need the assistance of Scotland Yard in this matter. I find it hard to imagine that these are first- time criminals. It is likely we have come across them before, which is why the coaches and signals are still being worked on by the fingerprint boys. I don't need to tell my colleagues in the police force of the criminals' common modus operandi in these cases. The haul would have weighed between one- and-a-half and two tons. Tyre-tracks at the scene suggest at least one lorry. Such vehicles are normally dumped within a few miles and transferred to smaller, faster cars. But one of the robbers said something curious. "Don't leave for thirty minutes." Now, I think that is a psychological slip-up. Don't worry, I am not going all Herbert Lom on you. But let us say it would take them half an hour to get to their hideout and under cover. Might that not dictate what he says to the poor GPO men. "Lie down, don't move for thirty minutes, by which time we will be underground." Which means that we are looking for a changeover site at a distance of not more than thirty miles. We also have unconfirmed reports of a hitchhiker passed by an Army convoy in the early hours. Exact location not known, but to the west of where the robbery took place. At the moment, we are checking with the Army as to whether any official convoys were on the road at that time. As you can appreciate, it is a large undertaking. However, at least some of the robbers wore Army uniforms, so it is

looking as if the two may be connected.' He took a deep breath. 'Now, any questions?'

Hatherill's hand shot up. Fewtrell pointed to him and he gave his rank and name to the audience. 'Were there any clues to identities? Names used in the heat of the moment?'

'No. As I said, they were careful not to mention any names, but one of the thieves called another "Colonel", although Frank Dewhurst is fairly sure the man was a Major. Or, at least, pretending to be one. Mind you, we can be sure that these layabouts wouldn't know much about Army ranks – probably spent their whole National Service in the glasshouse.'

Hatherill thanked Fewtrell and the questions continued. Hatherill meanwhile wrote a single line on his pad.

Any criminals nicknamed the Colonel??

Leatherslade Farm, 10 August 1963

It seemed as if there was no other subject on the radio. Every news bulletin was about the 'Crime of the Century' or 'The Great Train Robbery' and each time, the amount stolen crept upwards. It was as if the GPO thought the public couldn't take the shock of the revelation of the final sum all in one go and had to be fed it incrementally.

The VHF, too, hummed with information about what the police were up to: fingerprints, helicopters, motorbike patrols. It was odd, thought Bruce. He had imagined them lying low, relaxing, till the scream blew over. But this wasn't a scream, it was the howl of a wounded animal, thrashing around, looking for revenge.

The atmosphere in the farm was tense. The money had been slacked, pending the final division of the spoils. Although the conversations still revolved around what they would do with such a windfall, the topic was kicked around in a desultory fashion. Each man knew they had to get the money somewhere

safe and then hang onto it before they could do anything as mundane as spend it.

That evening, Brian turned up to collect his own whack, the Jock's and various other 'drinks' he had laid out. The new arrival stood in the kitchen with Charlie, Bruce, Ronnie and Roy.

'I got a call from Tony Fortune,' said Brian.

'Yeah?' said Bruce. 'Where was he?'

'In a call box. He says well done. Turns out his brother-in- law pulled some stunt. They came to question Tony about the motors and his wife started to drop the kid. He couldn't get back up here.'

'I suppose he still wants a whack?' asked Charlie, who had taken a keen interest in the division of the money.

'Bollocks to that,' said Ronnie.

'He deserves something,' Roy retorted. 'As much as your bloody driver. And you'd have been more pissed off if he had come back with the Old Bill on his tail.'

Brian nodded his agreement. 'I told him he could earn the rest by acting as dustman.'

Bruce watched Charlie make a salt-beef sandwich, adding more salt from the cylinder of Saxo. The gloves were still being worn, but after all the manhandling of sacks and money, they were falling apart.

'Fair enough. Long as the coppers have lost interest in him.'

Brian Field waved his arms to indicate the farm around them. 'The police have lost interest in everything else but this. They want to know where you are holed up. We're top of the bill at the London Palladium. The star turn. Numero uno attraction now.'

Bruce's stomach contracted at that. He didn't want to be a star. Not in that sense. Not Public Enemy Number One. It was

hard to face up to, but as he had feared when he heard the total, it was possible there was just too much money. The authorities couldn't turn a blind eye to £2.6 million. It was like having a target painted on your back.

Buster entered the kitchen, frowning.

'What is it?'

'On the VHF. The order has just gone out to search all isolated buildings for Army-type vehicles.'

'Where?' asked Brian Field.

'Within a thirty-mile radius of the robbery. They have also appealed to the public to check any suspicious properties. There are roadblocks to stop and search any large vehicles.'

'Shit,' said Charlie through a mouthful of sandwich. 'There goes using the horsebox. Not unless we can get a horse to put in it.'

'No bloody room for the cash then,' said Buster. 'Use your loaf, Charlie. Have to take it out in dribs and drabs.'

'Riskier, in some ways,' said Bruce.

He scanned Brian's face for signs of alarm. The rest of the people at the farm – Stan and perhaps Ralph excepted – were pro villains. No matter what the police had on them, they'd stay calm and dumb. Bruce would make sure Ralph played it right, but Brian Field was a mere solicitor. However, there was no sign of panic in his eyes, which was good.

Ralph spoke up. 'How far are we from the train?'

'We're about twenty-seven miles away,' said Bruce. 'Give or take.'

They all understood at once. The idea of lying low for a week was shot. They would have to start pulling out. Charlie was thinking the same as Bruce. 'We'll have to have it on our toes. And any of us with form, we'd better have a fuckin' good story to tell.'

'And if we aren't at home when they come looking…' said Roy letting it tail off. Like the others, he was well aware that the London Airport robbery was similar enough in planning and execution for the Yard to make connections.

'Brian, remind me, what do you need?'

'A whack for the man in Glasgow. The cash for the HVP coach boys. The finder's fee for Mark who introduced me to Jock. We can put the last two together. Mark says he will see the railwayman all right. And my share, of course.'