Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Paddy was frowning down at him, his lined face thrown into even deeper creases. 'That packet you gave me to look after…'

Tony looked at the floor as he shrugged on his jacket. 'Yeah?' 'It's all right, is it?'

'I told you. Just hiding it from the taxman.' 'Oh, all the profit from all those cars we've been shifting.' He looked out at the full showroom. 'I'm not stupid, Tony.'

'I know that. Which is why you'll always be able to say, hand on heart, "I thought it was tax money". Understand?'

Paddy nodded. 'I see.'

'But it won't come to that.'

Paddy spoke softly, his voice tinged with regret. 'I robbed a bank once.'

'What?'

'Well, more of a Post Office it was. In Ireland. For some of The Boys, if you know who I mean.'

'I think I do.' Although he wasn't sure whether he meant gangsters or the IRA. Perhaps they were one and the same.

'It was the only way to get my brother off the hook, y'see. So I did it, with a kid's plastic cowboy gun, handed over the money to some fella, and left the country. Never been back. But I'm too old to do much more of that, Tony.'

He put a hand on his shoulder. 'We'll sort something out, very soon.'

'I'd be grateful.'

But where? Was there a foolproof hiding-place for so much cash? 'I'll get you a sandwich.'

'Butter not marge, mind.'

'Of course.'

Tony walked quickly to Warren Street Tube. The scuffed wooden phone booth just inside the entrance was unoccupied, so he stepped inside and dialled the number.

'Tony?' It was Roy.

'Yup. How are you, Roy?'

'You know. Ducking and diving. You hear about Roger?'

'Yeah.'

'Roger – of all people. You know this bloke they lifted with him? Bill Something?'

'Boal. No.'

'Me neither. And they have Brian, too.'

'I heard.' Tony had pieced together what had happened during his own interviews with the Flying Squad. 'They tied him to the money in the woods, apparently.'

'What was that all about?'

'It was the drinks, left for someone to pick up, I reckon. What else could it be? You don't go dumping that much cash in the bloody forest otherwise, do you?'

'I suppose not,' said Roy. 'Someone's going to be pissed off, aren't they? Talking of which, I just wanted to tell you: Bruce is pretty narked about the farm. Last time we met he asked Charlie to have a word with you and Brian.'

A cold, prickly sweat broke out on Tony's forehead. 'Have a word' could mean several things, depending on Charlie's mood, but even the mildest – an up-close-in-your-face bollocking – was less than pleasant. And at the other end of the spectrum…

'Fuck.'

'All I'm sayin' is, watch your back. Bruce will have calmed down by now. To him it's a figure of speech, know what I mean? But Chas… What happened anyway?'

'I met Brian. He told me to torch it. I was on my way up and I got a tug. Nothing I could do.'

'Brian left you to do it by yourself?'

'Yeah. Said he had things to sort out.'

'What was more important than the farm?' Roy yelled. '"One big clue", the paper said.'

'I know, Roy, I know. But the Old Bill is on my case. I can't move. They know I was at the farm, God knows how. Keep banging on about it.' Jack Slipper, Len Haslam and Billy Naughton had all interviewed him before they had let him go. They knew he was good for it, but so far had no proof. If they

found some, he could wave goodbye to his new son for ten years or more. The thought made him physically ill.

'They've tied you to the farm?' Roy asked.

'Not physically, but they seem certain I was there. They can't get me for the actual tickle, but they want me for some of it at least.' There had also been the sly allusion to 'helping him out' if he were to turn the others in.

'But you kept your gloves on, right?'

'Course I did. Nobody mentioned my dabs being there. Where's Bruce now?'

'Gone to ground. So has Buster. Says he's going abroad. Gordy's off to Spain for a while.'

Tony glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a familiar, and unwelcome face. 'And Charlie?'

'With the family. Look, don't worry about him. It was probably nothing. Be lucky.'

'You too, Roy. You too.'

In the Buckinghamshire Police incident room, Len Haslam and Billy Naughton stood before one of the two enormous blackboards that had been borrowed from the local Aylesbury Adult Education Institute. On them were written the names of all those in the frame for the robbery. The writing covered both boards, more than forty names in all. A code had been devised, updated daily. After each one was a colour-coded letter. S just meant suspect; KAO was Known Associate Of; I stood for Interviewed, with the officer's initials and the date in brackets afterwards; WFQ, Wanted For Questioning; DQ was for Detained for Questioning, with a cipher for which station; and a red C meant the suspect had been charged. So far, only three names had gained the C: Brian Field, Roger Cordrey and Bill Boal.

Jim Hussey, Tommy Wisbey, Ronnie Biggs and Bobby Welch were all T status. Slipper, Williams or Hatherill had interviewed each one. All were suspects by association, either with Cordrey or with the name heading the list, Bruce Reynolds.

Gordon Gordy was up there, despite his letter proclaiming his innocence, since Len had been able to prove he hadn't been in Belfast on the night of the robbery, but had left two days earlier. Ronald 'Buster' Edwards had earned his place because of connections to Roger Cordrey.

Tony Fortune was on a different list, one reserved for those who had in some way aided and abetted the actual robbery. The Squad would get him for accessory before or after the fact, they were sure.

The young PC in charge of updating the board finished adding the last of the morning's abbreviations and turned to the two Squad detectives. His tunic was covered in a coating of multi-coloured chalk dust. He looked as if he had been baking with Technicolor flour.

'I see how these boys fit together, but what tipped the wink about this Reynolds?' he asked, tapping the name he had just written in.

'I don't know,' said Len truthfully – although he had a shrewd idea. George Hatherill and Ernie Millen were adamant he was a key player but would offer no reason. Which meant the info came from Geoff Barrow. It was their lead. 'Guv'nor's call.'

They had driven up by car that day to attend the twice- weekly catch-up session with Malcolm Fewtrell, when information was pooled and cross-checked, only because more senior officers were still pulling in every villain in London and putting them through the wringer. The idea was it

concentrated the mind when they discovered it wasn't some junior detective facing them, but the heard-it-before expressions of Hatherill or Millen or Tommy Butler, Jack Slipper or Frank Williams. It was said hotels in Brighton and Eastbourne were booming as every face with form in the capital decided it was a good time for a seaside holiday.

'What's that?' asked Billy, pointing to a bright red question- mark hovering above Bruce's name.

'Mr Big.'

'What?'

'Mr Fewtrell thinks there must be someone behind it. A planner. He says that this is too complex for your average villain. Must be a Mr Big.'

'What, like Dr No?' sneered Len. 'Maybe we should see if Sean Connery is free to lend a hand.'

'Roy James, also known as "the Weasel"?' Billy asked as he read down the board. James was WFQ. Placing him at Euston looking at trains didn't amount to a watertight case – not unless being a weirdo became a crime. 'You ever heard him called that, Len – "Weasel"?'

Len shook his head. 'And he usually drives something, faster than Land Rovers.' It was his turn to read aloud 'Gordon Goody, KAO Brian Field.' He turned to the PC 'While we're up here, any chance we can take a look at die farm?'