Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Roger looked back over his shoulder. 'No, he'll be fine. We are going into business together.'

'Locally?'

'Wimborne. But we'll base ourselves in Bournemouth.'

'Well, come in, come in.'

Roger stepped inside a house crammed full of china ornaments. He kept his hands pressed to his sides in case he inadvertently sent a windmill or a doe-eyed flower-seller crashing to the floor. 'What line of work are you in?'

'Flowers.'

'Lovely. Come through to the kitchen.'

Roger walked down the hallway. The kitchen wasn't any less hazardous, as every inch of the wall seemed to have decorative plates hanging on it.

'If you'll just put your name, address and telephone number down here. And I'll need a month's refundable deposit and a month in advance. There are two keys. I'll keep one. Don't worry, I won't go in. It's just in case you lose yours.'

Roger hesitated. 'Two of us will be using the garage, so

we'll need both keys. My friend outside in the car, Bill – we share the car.'

Mrs Clark's face seemed to fold in on itself. She wasn't happy.

'It's unlikely we would both lose them, but we'll copy the serial numbers just in case. And pay for any replacement.'

She looked partially mollified. 'Very well.'

'And I can give you the deposit plus three months' rent now. In cash.'

Her face unfurled. 'Oh, well. How rude of me – would you like a cup of tea while you count the money out?'

'Yes, that would be very nice.'

'Then I'll walk you round and show you which one it is. Nice blue door, only just painted before…' She put a hand to her throat. 'Sorry, before my husband passed away.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'It's why I don't need the garage, you see.'

'We'll take good care of it.'

'I'm sure you will.'

She watched while he counted out the rent in one-pound notes. She looked at the tower of cash sitting on her kitchen table, and at the impressive roll he had peeled them from. (lash. Bundles of it.

As her husband used to say after a few pints, 'If it looks like shit, smells like shit and feels like shit… it's probably shit.' She hated the crudity, but William hadn't risen to Sergeant in the police force without a good nose for a wrong 'un. And he would say this one stank to high heaven.

'Here are the keys. Why don't you walk round, take a look and we'll have the tea when you get back and sign if you are happy?'

'Very well.'

'Fourth one in. Blue door.'

As soon as he had gone, Mrs Clark went to the telephone in her hall. She didn't pick it up until she heard the engine of the van they had arrived in start up. She watched its blurred image through the glass of the front door as it pulled away and executed a U-turn.

Picking up the receiver, she was about to dial, then she hesitated. She was probably imagining things. Bucks was a long way from Bournemouth, after all. Still, 'report anything suspicious' they had said. She dialled.

'Hello, operator? Can you get me the Desk Sergeant at Poole police station?' This was her husband's old station. She would get a sympathetic hearing there. And wouldn't it raise a smile in his former canteen if William Clark's widow were responsible for capturing the Great Train Robbers?

Bruce was the first to arrive. He parked his Austin Healey in the gravel car park of the cafe, just off the North Circular Road. It was five days since the robbery, and the news was still full of bluster and exaggeration.

Roy pulled in next in his Mini Cooper, with a scowling Charlie in the seat beside him. Just Buster now and they had the quartet who would travel back to the farm. Charlie hoped Buster would bring a larger motor so they could all fit inside in comfort. He wished he'd used the big Rover.

Bruce stepped out, careful not to scuff his new elastic-sided boots. When he saw the other two he had to laugh. 'Christ, we look like a bloody Freeman's catalogue.'

Roy looked down at his new clothes, the roll-neck and cardigan combo and dark blue slacks. 'Speak for yourself. This lot cost some serious dough.'

Charlie had on a dark but well-cut suit that wasn't Burtons either.

'You lads been putting it about?' Bruce asked, only half- joking.

'Is that a Huntsman?' Charlie asked by way of reply, pointing to Bruce's suit.

' Davis. And I had it on order months ago. It's not off the fuckin' peg.'

They walked towards the cafe, one eye open for Buster. 'Speak to Field?' Charlie asked.

'No, his missus. He was out.'

'He's always out.'

'Has it been done?' Roy asked.

Bruce shrugged. 'That's why we have to go and check. I can't get hold of Tony Fortune, either. What's in the farm that might cause us grief?'

'Buster left some clothes behind,' Roy said. 'We couldn't burn them all because of the smoke.'

'And there are the mailbags in the basement,' said Charlie.

'They can't get prints off mailbags. And we always wore our gloves,' Bruce reminded them.

Both looked down at the floor. Not always, the guilty glances said.

'OK, there were a few lapses. But I scrubbed that place till my fingers bled. Remember?'

Charlie did recall. He had had a go about the scrubbing and Bruce whistling that stupid Flash 'Spring Clean' jingle.

'I said you should open a cleaning agency.'

'So it's got to be pretty clear of dabs. But when Buster gets here, we'll go there, burn the lot. After all, we own it. We can burn the fuckin' thing to the ground if we want.'

'Should've been done by now,' said Charlie. 'There's something else worrying me.'

'What's that?'

'Stan.'

'What about him?' asked Bruce.

'You know.'

Bruce knew. He could tell by Charlie's expression. He was a frightening cunt when he had it on. Charlie might have his doubts about Brian Field's robustness but he was absolutely 100 per cent sure old Stan would fold if questioned.

'No,' Bruce said.

'No what?'

'No topping people, Charlie.'

'I wasn't-'

'Yes, you was. Nobody gets killed.' Bruce used all the firmness he could muster. He couldn't back it up with violence, but he hoped he still had some authority left.

'All right, mate. Just thinkin' out loud.'

They entered the cafe, which was empty at that time of day, ordered three teas and sat at a red Formica table near the door. Roy played nervously with the tomato ketchup container.

'You fixed OK, Roy?' Bruce asked. 'Still in the flat?'

'No, thought I'd stay clear of that, just in case.' He had only gone there to dispose of his railway books and the Triang trainset. 'I'm staying with me mum,' he said. 'I can't go far. I got races.'

'Charlie?'

'At home with Pat and the kids. What else? Got nothing to hide. You?'

'Thinking of moving out a bit. Look, lads, it's only a matter of time before we get tugged. They'll take in anyone who could do this. I reckon there're only about thirty blokes, maybe fifty, tops, in the whole country who would be capable of what we did. We know who they are and therefore so

do Butler and his chummies. So they'll get to us eventually.'

The teas arrived and they spooned sugars in. All looked up as Buster burst into the cafe, his podgy face pulsing red. He looked like a traffic light, thought Bruce. Or a railway signal. Buster glanced at the girl behind the counter, took a deep breath and composed himself. 'Another tea, love.'

Then he put the folded newspaper on the table, spinning it slowly so all could read. It was the Evening Standard. There was a big splash headline.

YARD CHIEF HATHERILL ANNOUNCES…

We've found the gang's hideout!

Bruce picked up the newspaper and scanned down the article, picking out relevant phrases. Mailbags found… food stocks for many men… money wrappers in basement… attempt to burn clothes… Yard has called in Detective Superintendent Maurice Ray, the 'Bernard Quatermass'' of fingerprints. He had drunk with Maurice at the Marlborough. Nice bloke. For a copper. Then he stopped at one sentence and felt his throat constrict.