Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Tony Fortune met Brian Field in a transport cafe off the A1. Brian looked bloody awful and his hands shook. At first Tony thought the stress had got to him, that he had cracked under the strain.

'You OK?' he asked as Brian's spoon rattled in the mug.

The other man gave a wry smile. 'Nothing a bacon sandwich won't cure. Me, Tommy Wisbey and Bobby Welch tied one on last night.'

He didn't mention that they had tied one on the night before, too. He did explain how the gang had split up: Bruce

and Ronnie Biggs had left in one of the Austin Healeys, Jimmy White and Ralph in the other. Charlie and Gordy had gone together, while Roger had a Wolseley he had paid £375 cash for in Oxford and had left in that. Roy and Tiny Dave had been dropped off at Thame. Brian had done the same for Stan the driver an hour later.

Then the remaining crew had been ferried to the Fields' place and there had been a two-day celebration. It was quite raucous; at one point one of the neighbours had complained. But the robbers had gone now.

'What did Bruce say?'

'I've forty-eight grand in the van outside. He says you are owed that much.'

Tony's throat went dry. 'Cheers.'

'There's the same again if you take care of the farm.'

That sounded unpromising work. 'It must be crawling with police up there.'

'They haven't got that far out yet. You'd be OK if you take the A40 and approach it from the west. I'd come with you, but there's a lot to do my end. A fuck of a lot.'

Tony thought for a moment. It might just assuage the guilt and frustration he felt at missing out on the job. And the cash would certainly help placate Marie. She had left a deposit on a Silver Cross, just like the Queen used. He could be in and out before anyone saw him. 'What do you want me to do at the farm?'

Brian signalled for his bacon sandwich. 'At this stage of the game? Don't fuck about, Tony. Torch the lot.'

'Hello, is that Aylesbury police? Yes. My name is John Marris. Like the potato, yes, but with two "rs". I'm a farm labourer, a herdsman. I live on Oakley Road, and I thought you might be interested in

what I have just seen. I was woken last night, in the early hours, by lots of comings and goings. Cars and the like. I knew they must be coming from this farm, you see. So today I just had a peek, a bit of a nosey, wondering what the new owners were up to. It looked deserted, but all the curtains were drawn, like. In the middle of the morning. Thought that was odd. Except that each one had a corner turned up. As if someone wanted to spy on anyone coming up the lane. I nearly left then, because it was a little creepy, but I went to one of the outbuildings. There was a lorry in there. A yellow one. Yes, yellow. Just been painted, though. Still wet. Then next door there was a locked garage. And round the back, a pit where things had been burned. Clothes, mostly, I think. Well, I haven't got a phone so I am calling from my employer's house. The number? OAK five seven four nine. I heard on the radio there was a reward? All right, I'll wait until someone gets back in touch. Oh, you'll want the name of the place. It's called Leatherslade Farm. Righty-o, thank you.'

Even the Verve Cliquot tasted sour to Bruce. He and Fran were holed up in a flat in Queensway. Mary Manson was looking after their son, Nick, just in case they had to move quickly. The place was in someone else's name, so he was quite happy to have champagne and smoked salmon sent over from Fortnum's. And they weren't the kind of company surprised by payment in cash.

So they drank champagne and decent claret and ate well, but Bruce found he could hardly move from the chair in front of the TV, the news bulletins came so thick and fast. On each one he expected to see a shot of the farm, those outhouses, the kitchen with its supplies, and grinning among them Fewtrell and Butler, the two coppers vying for the limelight. They were like Arthur Lucan and Kitty McShane, or Jewell

and Warris, those two – a double act you suspected hated each other away from the public gaze.

Bruce went over and over what could tie him into the robbery. The farm; the purchase had been handled by Brian Field's firm, mainly his associate Leonard Field and his boss John Wheater. They had met Bruce and Gordy. Weak link. So had the previous owners of Leatherslade. Stupid. He had also stashed his whack in a garage rented in his own name. Careless. It was time to put those things right.

Late afternoon, fifteen minutes before the 5.55 news, he grabbed his coat.

'Where you going?' Fran asked.

'Make a call.'

She didn't ask any more, simply refilled her glass and carried on watching Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School. Bruce was worried, but then that was his job. They would be all right.

He went to the call box and dialled Brian's number. He let it ring, put the receiver down and called again. He did this four times in total. No pick-up.

Bruce put the phone down for the last time, his anxiety heightened by the worms in his stomach.

A new plan was needed. Step one, move the money somewhere safe, perhaps away from London. Step two, start planning for a proper safe house. Oh, and step three, make sure the farm was sterilised.

Janie Riley had waited patiently for the phone call from Bruce. Just to let her know he was all right. That they could meet sometime. To thank her for her help. To give her a night out. Just like the old days. Smoking, drinking, jazz and sex. Four things she rarely got at home.

Nothing.

But the papers were full of his exploits, even if his name hadn't been put to them. Clearly, he had taken the cash and gone without so much as a by-your-leave. Off with Franny or Mary or even some other woman. Not a thought for Janie. Sent her to buy the grub, that's all she was good for. She should have been there to see it, to revel in the whole caper. She deserved that.

'Bastard,' she said to herself as she left the house and walked down the pathway towards the elaborate gates depicting rampant peacocks. Hideous. But her husband liked them. And it was his money. Besides, they didn't look out of place in this part of Surrey.

She turned left and walked into the village, past the green where the cricket club was setting up. A few looked over at her, in her bright floral summer dress and oversized sunglasses, and she let her hips sway a little more than usual. They'll be polishing their balls on their whites a little more vigorously than usual now, she thought.

She slipped into the red phone box outside the Post Office. Best not use the line at home, just in case. Afterwards she would go into the Cricketers and have a quick gin and tonic, even if it was only lunchtime.

She dialled the number written on a scrap of paper. She wouldn't tell them everything. She would just give them one or two. Bruce. Oh, and that smug git Tony Fortune. He had pissed her off that day when they were shopping. She could tell what he thought of her. He deserved to go down, too.

'Hello,' she said in her roughest voice. 'Is that Scotland Yard?'

The police Rover pulled Tony before he had even left London en route to the farm. He watched the light in the rearview mirror of his two-tone powder-blue Ford Capri coupe that he had taken from his showroom. The Capri was nifty, but there was no way he could outrun the Rover.

He slowed, changed down using the column gearshift, and pulled over, then studied the rearview mirror, watching the two uniforms approach.

A knuckle on the window. 'Step out of the car, sir.'

He wound the window down. 'Why, Officer? Was I committing an offence?'

The man crouched down. He had a bruiser's face, square and solid-looking with a five-o'clock shadow you could tell no razor could banish completely. 'Mr Anthony Fortune?'

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 'Yes.'

'Can you step out of the vehicle?'