Robert Ryan: Signal Red

He grabbed the handle, jerked the door open and said loudly in his best, mellifluous Leslie Phillips voice: 'After you, gentlemen.'

One of the security men muttered his thanks and the duo trundled the trolley through en route to the BOAC vault in the basement. Buster could tell from the effort it took to overcome the inertia of the steel cart that the metal boxes must be full. Maybe the old bastard who was their informant had been right. Perhaps there was half a million quid in there. He felt the Moet gurgling in his stomach already as he strode through the door to the outside.

As he left the building, he raised his bowler to the policemen in the Zephyr pulling away from the kerb. The fact that one of them saluted him almost caused Buster Edwards to wet himself with laughter. They're just asking for it, he thought. Just asking for it.

RAF Hemswell, Lincolnshire, October 1962

Tony Fortune had always thought Go-Karts faintly ridiculous, like dodgems freed from their overhead electric grid and sent round the track. That day at the missile base changed his mind for good. As the flag dropped on Roy James's race, the field of cars seemed to bunch together like a flock of starlings, and began to weave in the same way, as if one organic unit. The noise of the 200cc engines and the stench of oil, rubber and petrol was exhilarating. Unlike at Goodwood or Silverstone, the drivers – alarmingly vulnerable on their tiny chariots – flashed by feet away from the spectators. The physicality of wrestling with such a small yet potent machine was all too apparent as they approached the first bend.

'Those Go-Karts got limited slip diffs?' he shouted to Bruce.

'Don't let Roy hear you call them that. They're karts, not Go-Karts.'

'Why?'

'He says it's like calling every racing car a Vanwall or a

Cooper. Go-Kart is just another make, so he reckons. Anyway, it upsets him – and I don't want him upset. There are no diffs at all though, not limited or otherwise. If you want to corner tight, you have to lift one of the rear wheels. If you get it wrong…'

As if to demonstrate his point, one of the karts drifted wide, catching the rear of another; it spun out in a cloud of dust and an explosion of hay as it crashed into the bales.

The mass of men and machines began to pull apart as they came into the second lap, with four drivers breaking away from the pack. Tony didn't have to ask which one was Roy. He was the one in third place throwing the machine into the dogleg between the missile silos with one rear tyre spinning in thin air. There looked to be a good ten inches of space between rubber and track.

'Jesus, he's going to overcook it, isn't he?' Tony muttered.

'Wouldn't be the first time, mate,' said Gordy.

'How many laps?'

'Ten,' replied Bruce.

The field began to stretch out, the initial solid wall of engine noise devolving into the buzz of individual machines. Roy was still third, but he was slipstreaming the kart in front, so close that Tony thought they must be touching. It was a risky strategy, because if Roy didn't match his opponent's braking exactly, he could end up going over the top of the man in front.

Gordy detached himself and came back with three teas, all of them heavily sugared, and a Mars Bar each.

Roy made his move on the fourth lap, just as he approached their position, seemingly moving directly sideways, and taking not only the second man, but rejoining his line in front of number one. The former leader braked as he saw Roy was about to tangle with his front wheels, and the number two and three made contact. The pair of them pirouetted together, off into the grass on the inside of the track. Angry, frustrated fists were raised as the dustcloud settled, but the damage was done. Roy James was now in the lead, where he looked set to remain.

Bruce put his tea in the crook of his arm and applauded. 'See, stunts like that may not be what you always want in a racing driver.' He shook his head in admiration. 'But in a wheel-man… fuckin' gold dust.'

Roy was examining his silver trophy as he walked up to Bruce, Gordy and Tony. He held it up to show them. 'I could knock out a better one than this during the fuckin' potter's wheel interlude,' he sneered.

'I didn't say', said Bruce to Tony, 'that Roy here fancies himself as a regular whatsisname. The one who made the eggs.'

'Faberge,' said Roy.

'Yeah, Faberge. Roy 's clever, see. When he did his borstal he learned silversmithing. Not like the rest of us. We learned fuck all.' Bruce looked at Gordy. 'Well, how to blow a peter maybe.' Then he stood back and pointed at each man in turn. 'Tony Fortune. Roy James.'

They shook hands. 'Nice driving,' said Tony, and meant it.

Roy grunted his thanks.

'Tony here can get us what we want,' Bruce went on.

'Oh yeah?' Roy asked, his voice laced with disbelief. 'Mark Twos?'

Tony nodded. 'Any preference on what model?'

'The three point four,' Roy said firmly, accepting a fresh tea off Gordy and taking a sip. 'Bloody hell, Gordy, how much Harry Tate you spoon in there?'

'Put hairs on your chest.'

'And on my tongue.' He looked over his shoulder, where the Class Is were about to begin a rolling start.

'Why the three point four?' Tony asked. 'The three point eight is faster.'

'Yeah, 'course it is. And it's the same lump, just with a bigger rad and oil cooler. But somehow, the balance is all wrong. And the power output isn't as even; there's a good chance of wheelspin, especially on those Dunlops they fit. The three point four is a sweeter engine, gets the power down much more smoothly.' He shrugged. 'That's what I think anyway.'

'Well, you'll be the one driving it,' Tony said. 'Anything else?'

'I really like the metallic blue that Jaguar does,' said Roy with a smile. 'One of them in that colour would be handy.'

Tony nodded again. 'OK, Roy, a three point four Mark Two Jaguar in metallic blue. Leave it to me.'

The Class 1 karts came up to the start line, the flag dropped and, in a cloud of two-stroke, the angry buzzing of competition began again. 'I got another race after this, boys,' Roy told them. 'See you later.'

After Roy had left, Bruce said, 'I told you he was particular. There's one other thing he doesn't know about though, another mod.'

'What's that?' asked Gordy. 'A gun turret?'

Bruce stroked his chin as if he were actually considering it before breaking into a grin. 'No, more's the pity.' He turned to Tony. 'Just make sure you lose the back seats.'

From the Daily Sketch, 16 October 1962

ACTOR LAMENTS LOSS OF 'PRIDE AND JOY'

TV's Peter Gunn, the American actor Craig Stevens, last night appealed for the return of his metallic-blue 3.4 Mk 2 Jaguar. The luxury saloon was taken from outside his home on Eaton Square, where he is renting a house with his wife Alexis, on Tuesday night. 'The car was a welcome-to-London present from Lew Grade,' said the actor. 'I have only had it a few weeks and it is my pride and joy.' Mr Stevens, who played private detective Peter Gunn for a hundred episodes of the series, is in England to film Man of the World, his new thriller programme, for Mr Grade. A reward of a hundred pounds has been offered for the safe recovery of the Jaguar.

New Scotland Yard, Central London, October 1962

Detective Constable William Naughton never did discover who put his name in the Flying Squad's 'book' at Scotland Yard. Whenever their peripatetic approach to crime took them to an outlying district, the Squad detectives were encouraged to keep an eye out for any likely prospects among the officers there. Names were logged back at New Scodand Yard – The Big House – and enquiries then made of DIs as to the subject's suitability for moving up a league.