Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Len spilled his drink down his front. 'What, Brian Field – the solicitor? The one with the German wife?'

'That's the one.'

Slipper had clearly already made the next connection, but he let Len say it anyway. 'The one who put together the defence for Gordon Goody on the airport job?'

'The very same.'

'Bugger me sideways.' Len was beside himself. 'I knew it was Goody. I just fucking knew it.'

'Drink up, lads. First thing tomorrow, I want you down knockin' on his old lady's place in Putney, see if she knows where her little Gordy is.'

'What about Field?' asked Billy

'Malcolm Fewtrell is scooping him up, don't you worry.'

'So the dominoes have started tumbling.'

'Aye, lad,' said Slipper triumphantly. 'And we haven't even got the fingerprints back yet.'

The Chief Warden of Norwich Prison poked his head around the battered metal door of the visiting room. 'Gentlemen, it's nine o'clock. Visiting hours finish at nine-fifteen and I need to get home. If you will hurry it along.'

'We'll be as quick as we can,' said George Hatherill meekly. 'Thank you.'

He turned back to Geoff Barrow, sitting on his Remploy chair opposite himself and Ernie Millen. He was scratching at the chipped enamel on the table. 'They don't know who you are?' he asked nervously.

Millen shook his head. 'Told you, son. Anonymous. We were dropped off in town, we'll be picked up in town. Nobody will know who we are or what we wanted.'

'And this will help me?'

'Geoff, we'll do our best. All be on the QT though, won't it? We can't very well stand up in court and say: "Mitigating circumstances – Geoff Barrow gave us some right ripe names". Not unless you want to come out of the shower room with an extra arsehole.'

Millen looked at Hatherill with distaste. 'It won't come to that, George. Will it, Geoff?'

'I fuckin' hope not.'

'We have only ten minutes left.'

'And we won't be coming back next week,' said Hatherill. 'It's not like Beat the Clock.''

'I can't tell you where I got these names.'

'Of course.'

Geoff took a deep breath. The two detectives waited. It was like a dive off the high board. The nerve could go at any point up to the launch. After that, it was too late to turn back. 'Bruce someone. Begins with R,' Marie had actually told him the full name, but he wanted to hold some things back. They were meant to be detectives, after all. 'You know him? You going to write this down?'

Hatherill shook his head. 'Ernie has a phonographic memory.'

'Oh. Right. Well, they call this bloke the Colonel.'

'Do they indeed?' said George, with a smile. 'But spare us

the initials shit, Geoff. Full name.' He scowled. 'Now, or the deal is off.'

Geoff swallowed hard. 'Reynolds, that's it. Bruce Reynolds.'

Hatherill relaxed. Same name as the anonymous caller gave. Which meant Geoff Barrow might be on the level.

'He had a couple of old mates with him, by all accounts. From when he did time.'

'Names?'

'No, sorry.'

Well, Reynolds's known associates were already being checked. It wouldn't be hard to generate a list of likely accomplices. 'Who else?'

'A racing driver. Don't know his name. "The Weasel" is the nickname he goes by.'

'The Weasel? Nobody else?'

'Bits and pieces. Jimmy, an ex-Army bloke. No surname. A fella who has a club in South London. Edward something… or something Edward. And someone called Goodman. Or Goodrich. Antique dealer.'

Goody, thought Hatherill, but kept it to himself. Don't lead the witness. 'Half the villains in London are antique dealers, Geoff. You'll have to be more specific than that.'

Geoff went on like this, dropping hints and half-truths, until the warder banged on the door. Most of what he had told them was based on what his sister had spilled, which she had got out of Tony. The other names were from the Clarence Boys, who had big mouths.

At the last minute, he threw in a couple of extra blokes for good measure, men whom he knew had nothing to do with the robbery, but were faces he owed money to. They would have a hard time collecting from inside. Always assuming he

didn't spend too long in there and end up at the same nick. 'I don't want any of them sent here.'

'This is a geriatric prison, Geoff. Old men and first-timers.'

'That's me,' said Geoff. 'First offence.'

'More by luck than judgement,' said Hatherill, rising to his feet.

'We'll keep our part, best we can,' said Millen.

'If you can just answer this one last question?' Hatherill added. 'And think hard.'

'What's that?'

'Someone's put your brother-in-law Tony Fortune right in the frame for this. Any thoughts about that you would wish to share?'

Billy tried not to stare too hard at the boy's face. It was covered with pustules, some of them straining with the pressure beneath them, looking as if they could pop at any moment. They were sitting in the stationmaster's office at Euston, and Spotty Muldoon was the fourth train enthusiast he had interviewed.

It had seemed like a good idea. Surely the robbers would have cased their target at both ends of its journey? And on the platform there was a readily available group of witnesses. That was what they did, didn't they? Hung around stations, watching. But if the previous trio were anything to go by, they only had eyes for trains, not human beings. If someone should fall under a loco, Billy had the impression they'd be able to tell you the bogey layout of the fatal engine, but not whether the victim was male or female.

He passed the boy the bottle of Vimto he had asked for. 'Your name is Bernard…?'

'Harwood.' Billy wrote it down and then the address the lad volunteered.

'And you come here most evenings?' 'Yes. After school. Monday to Thursday. And Saturday mornings, too.'

'How long do you spend?'

'Depends. An hour on week days, perhaps four or five on the weekend.'

Christ, how boring, Billy thought.

'Now, I am going to show you some photographs of men and I want you to tell me if you have ever seen any of them down here. Understand?' 'Yes.'

Billy struck gold on the sixth of the smudges. Bernard Harwood bounced up and down in his seat, as if he needed the lavatory. He jabbed at the photograph with a shaking finger. 'Him! Him!'

Billy held it up at chest height. 'You sure?' 'Yes. Said he only collected diesels. Thought it was weird.' You should know, Billy thought uncharitably. Flipping the photo round, he found himself studying the delicate features of Roy James.

Letter sent to Train Squad, Scotland Yard

Dear Sir,

No doubt you will be surprised to hear from me. Especially after my trial at the Old Bailey for the London Airport Robbery. At the time of writing I am not living at my home address because it seems I am a suspect in the recent train robbery. Two Flying Squad officers recently visited my

home address and made a search of the premises, despite not having a warrant. To be honest, I am very worried that they will connect me with this crime.

The reason I write now is because the police always treated me very fairly during the Airport case. That cost me eight months and every penny I had, and to become a suspect in this last big robbery is more than I can stand. So my intention is to keep out of harm's way until the people concerned in the Train Robbery are found.

To some people, even writing this letter would seem like a sign of guilt, but all I am interested in now is keeping my freedom.

Yours Sincerely,

Gordon Goody

Paddy gave Tony the slip of paper with a number on it. He looked up from his desk in the office. 'Called while you were out.'

'There was no name next to the number. 'Who was it?' 'Didn't say,' the old man sniffed.

Tony took his jacket from the back of the chair. 'I'm just going out for ten minutes. Get you a sandwich?'