Robert Ryan - Signal Red

A lot of money, thought Bruce, then stopped himself. There was enough to go round. Even for this Mark, who had done fuck-all apart from make the intros.

'And some drinks for the boys in the estate agent's office maybe,' Brian continued. 'Few grand. Just in case they tumble this place. We want to make sure our stories tally and that nobody can remember what you look like, Bruce.'

It occurred to Bruce that perhaps Brian wasn't padding his total. It didn't matter: he had brought in Mark and the Jock in the first place.

'Charlie will help you count it out. Won't you, Charlie?'

'With pleasure.'

'You've got cases with you?' Bruce asked. 'We're running short.'

'In the car,' said Brian.

'Start counting it out then. Charlie will show you which piles you can use. We'll leave in the morning. Staggered. We do this co-ordinated, we stick together, and we stay in contact. It's all for one and that crap. We are a unit, a good one, let's stay that way.'

'What about the farm?' asked Charlie.

'We clean it till it sparkles. Then we clean it again. Then

we get Tony to come up and do it again. And anything we can't clean, we burn.'

Charlie Wilson was just parking up his Rover outside the Ten Bells, opposite Spitalfields Market, early on Friday morning, when he heard. He had dropped off Gordy at the Tube, so he could go back to Putney, then Charlie had driven to East London to kick-start his alibi: that he had been 'on The Fruit' every morning that week from 5.30 a.m. There were a dozen porters and a couple of traders who would swear to it, no problem.

It had been dark when he had left the farm, now his eyes felt tired and gritty in the grey light of an East London dawn. The others would be scattering, too. Bruce had announced he was going off to buy a couple of Austin Healeys, Roger that he would buy a car in Oxford, and most of the others would be ferried by Brian to hole up at his place for a night or two.

Roy, sensibly in Charlie's mind, had opted to travel back to London by train rather than join Brian's party. Tiny Dave Thompson, too. It was a mistake to have too many people in one place. Too much cash to be able to explain away.

In the boot of Charlie's Rover was his share of the haul, £150,000, plus Roy and Tiny Dave's whacks and a big drink for Frenchie who had stumped up some of the investment cash when the funds ran low. It was a lot to get rid of. He felt as if he could sense the heat from the bundles of notes bleeding from the boot. What was that song? 'Too Hot to Handle'. Bloody right.

He was about to turn off the ignition when the news came on the radio. The robbery was, of course, the first item. A special unit had been put together at Scotland Yard to run

down the Great Train Robbers. It was to be headed by – he knew what was coming even before the announcer said the name – Tommy Butler.

Tommy Butler. A right attention-seeking humourless weirdo, who lived with his dear old mum and, therefore, only had the job to occupy his time. The Grey Fox. The Sad Bastard, more like. If he was bent, he was Bent for the Job, but although Charlie had heard rumours about bungs and backhanders, they needed to be taken with a large pinch of Saxo. Still, a special unit at the Yard – that sounded serious.

The bulletin continued with news about the train driver. He was out of danger and out of hospital, but still very poorly. The driver, the driver, the driver. They pushed it forward every time, just in case people should get the wrong idea about the job. Just in case someone felt like saying, 'Good on ya, son.' There it was, the shadow of – what was the old cunt's name? – Jack Mills. He would be on TV soon: bandaged head, black eye, hangdog look, blinking into press flashbulbs. Fifty- eight years old. Coshed mercilessly. What sort of men are these? Hunt them down, now.

The firm was caught between Butler and Mills and a ten- grand reward. They were fucked now. No matter what Bruce had said, this was no time for musketeering. It was every man for himself.

Scotland Yard, August 1963

There was only one show in town now for any self-respecting copper. If you weren't in it, you weren't just second division, you weren't even in the league. You were a kick-around Sunday side. The Train Squad, on the other hand, was Liverpool, Man U and Spurs combined.

An uncharacteristic gloom had settled over the Flying Squad room. They weren't used to thinking of themselves as second- best. Yet every other case paled beside THE GREAT TRAIN ROBBERY as everyone called it. Always said in CAPITALS. Len Haslam took his exclusion from the inner core particularly poorly, although Billy Naughton had half-expected Hatherill to bring him along and couldn't help feeling a little snubbed too.

But the top guys wanted this for themselves. Glory and headlines beckoned for whoever nailed these blokes, and the big boys wanted their share of it, that much was certain. As someone said, such Big Guns hadn't been wheeled out together since the Somme. Sequestered in their room, festooned with the brown cables of extra phones hanging from the ceiling, were George

Hatherill, Ernie Millen, Tommy Butler, Frank Williams, Peter Vibart, Gerald McArthur, Jack Slipper and Jim Nevill. They were sifting through what little evidence they had so far.

The rest of the Squad was on donkey work, tapping snouts and sifting records of those most likely to have a finger in the GTR pie. Billy and Len had done both those things and presented their findings. Len had put Gordon Goody at the top of his list of those worth a tug, because of the London Central Airport job, but no snitches had mentioned his name, nor any of the known blaggers they had pulled in for it. But the airport job was not the only possibility: those behind the Finsbury Park wages snatch, the Hatton Garden ram-raid or the Bishopsgate vault would have the right kind of pedigree, too. Old case files were dusted off and reexamined to see what names had cropped up in the frame back then.

But unless they could bring something concrete to the table, both Len and Billy knew they were out in the cold, shut out of the biggest investigation for years. What did you do during The Great Train Robbery, Daddy? their children would ask. 'Fuck-all,' would be the sullen reply.

Still, they had been told that the information fund was temporarily bottomless and that they should start casting cash around, like chum bait on the surface of the sea. Sooner or later, they would get a nibble.

'DC Naughton, line five!' the operator shouted.

Billy closed the file on his desk and dragged himself over to take the call. He was barely gone two minutes and when he returned Len noticed there was a fresh spring in his step and a glint in his bloodshot eyes.

'Who was that?'

'Come on.' Billy scribbled a request chit for a driver and car and passed it to the Duty Sergeant.

'What? Who was it?'

'Just some old dear reporting suspicious activity behind a Post Office. We've got to check it out, though.'

Len just about caught the fast wink that punctuated the sentence.

'You coming?'

Duke stood and stretched as if being dragged away from a session with Sophia Loren. 'Oh, OK.'

As they hit the corridor, heading for the garage, Len stopped Billy. 'Well? I know that was for the benefit of the big ears in there. Some old dear? Some old L.O.B., more like. What's really going on, Billy?'

He was right; it had been a Load of Bollocks. 'It was Marie – Tony Fortune's wife.'

'She out already?'

'No, she's still in hospital. Wants to see us. You got some money for flowers?'

'A few bob. What does she want to see us about? She's not putting the kid down for Hendon already? What's so urgent?'

Billy let rip with a 200-watt grin. 'She wants to give us the Train Robbers.'