Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'I think the forensics are finished,' the young man said. I'll go and check.'

After he had left, Len turned to Billy with the kind of smile on his face that always made the junior officer uneasy.

'We've got to get back,' Billy said. 'Slipper wants us to talk to Biggs again. We can't hang around.'

Slipper had gone through the OB – the Occurrences Book

– in Redhill and discovered Charmian's call about Ronnie and the woodcutting. The wife had blown her husband's alibi wide open. So now they had to ask him where he really was on the seventh and eighth of August.

'Don't you worry, Billy,' Len said with a wink. 'One day, Slipper will thank me for this.'

The farm disappointed the London policemen. Despite themselves, the Squad had come to admire the men behind the crime, if only for their style, bottle and chutzpah. They genuinely disagreed with those who painted them as latterday Robin Hoods – where exactly was the 'give-to-the-poor' part?

– but they could accept that the whole job was a cut above the run-of-the-mill. Unlike Leatherslade Farm.

Billy walked around the outside of the house. He had seen photographs, of course, and been surprised then that it wasn't some cute, half-timbered structure, only a dull, suburban dwelling. But with its blistered paintwork and neglected windowboxes, it looked even more down-at-heel than he expected. Hardly the kind of HQ Mr Big would choose. Didn't they operate from flashy penthouse flats with armed minions dressed in black?

'Len? Shall we go inside?' he shouted.

There was no answer.

'Len?'

He found him in one of the garages, kneeling down beside the Austin lorry. In his left hand, he had a brown suede shoe.

'What are you doing?'

'Shut up! Anyone out there?'

'No, they are either inside or at the gate.'

'Gently does it.'

Using a long-bladed screwdriver, he took a dried flake of

yellow paint from the can on the floor and pressed it onto the sole of the shoe. Billy noticed he was wearing gloves.

'Len…'

Duke stood and looked at his handiwork. 'There.' He slipped the shoe into a large plastic evidence bag and then placed it in his briefcase. 'Do you want to look inside?'

He went to push by, but Billy stepped into his path. 'What are you doing?'

The other man stripped off his gloves and shoved them into his jacket pocket. 'What does it look like I am doing? I'm fucking Gordon Goody.'

'Sir? You in there, sir?'

It was the young copper from the incident room.

'Just coming,' said Len.

When they emerged from the semi-darkness into the light, they could see the PC hopping from foot to foot in excitement.

'What is it?'

'Just come over the radio. They've got the fingerprinting results.'

'And?'

'Hundreds. We've got them all – Reynolds, James, Hussey, Biggs. We should get back. There's a big round-up coming.'

As they followed some distance behind, Len held up the briefcase containing the suede shoe. 'Ah well, Billy. We might not be needing this after all.'

Goodwood Racing Circuit, 24 August 1963

Roy pulled into Goodwood's cramped, overcrowded paddock, almost slicing off a few toes. It was, as usual, a zoo, but a cracking one. Being invited to race at the Tourist Trophy meet was a big deal. There would be a cocktail party with the Duke of Richmond that evening and the next day a Driver's XI took on the Duke's players. Roy was not much of a batsman but he had a turn of speed as a bowler. But the match meant more than just rubbing elbows with a few nobs. It represented recognition, the tacit nod that you had been noticed, were a coming man, a driver to keep tabs on. Roy James was going up the ladder, to the roof.

As if it knew what rested on its shoulders, his car had performed well, lapping the tricky circuit – actually the perimeter road of a wartime RAF airfield – at close to 100mph. Only Peter Arundell in his Lotus-Ford was quicker.

As he pulled to a stop, hands reached out and patted him on the back. Bobby Pelham, Roy 's mechanic, had to push wellwishers aside to lever him out of the cockpit.

'Not bad,' Bobby said, as Roy pulled off his goggles and blinked dust from his eyes.

'Not bad?' Roy protested with a smile. 'A ton, not bad?'

'Lost your line on Woodcote,' Bobby tutted. 'Cost you.'

'Nearly lost the front end at No-name, thanks to bloody Dickie. Still, as you say, not bad.'

A tall, blazered figure pushed through the crowd. It was one of the track stewards, Major Grace – a crusty sort, very much from the right side of the tracks. However, he liked Roy and had always looked out for him at other events, no matter how rough and ready the young man's origins.

' Roy, your mother just phoned the office.'

'My mum? Is she OK?'

'She said you'd had visitors.'

'Visitors?'

'Yes. Wouldn't be more specific. Said you would understand. Insisted I give you the message.' The Major looked nonplussed, like a bawled-out schoolboy. Roy could imagine his mother taking him to task if he had even hesitated to carry out her wishes. She had a tongue like a stiletto when required.

Roy took off his helmet and handed it to Bobby. 'I know what that means. It's my uncle, from Australia. Look, Major, I've got to do some work on the engine overnight. Need to get it back to the workshop.'

'Can't you do it here?'

'I'd rather use my own tools. You know how it is.'

The Major knew full well that drivers and mechanics liked to cosset their steel and fibreglass babies on their own home turf. 'You'll miss drinks.'

'Well, it's more about the racing than drinking.'

The Major laughed. 'So some say.'

'I'll be back for the cricket.'

'That's more like it.'

As soon as the Major had left, Roy pulled Bobby Pelham aside. 'Can you take the car back to the garage?'

'OK. What's up?'

'That rubbish about "visitors". Means the Old Bill was at my mum's.'

Bobby looked shaken. 'Christ. About you-know-what?'

Bobby knew what Roy had been up to, but not the exact details of how much he had received for the job.

'Well, I doubt if it's because my Road Tax is overdue.'

Roy had been gripped by a sense of urgency. He looked at the crowd in the pits, as if he expected to see Tommy Buder to be shouldering his way through at any moment. He walked to the Jaguar he used as a towing motor and searched in the boot, producing a fat envelope from beneath the toolkit. He handed it to Bobby. 'Wages,' he said. 'That'll keep you going for a while.'

Bobby looked inside and paled. 'Is it…'

'Just don't spend it all at once.' Roy slapped Bobby on the upper arm. 'I'm going to use the Mini. I'll call you when I know what's what, OK?'

Bobby could tell from the cast of Roy's face that he didn't expect things to be OK for a long time. 'Yeah – 'course.'

Tommy Butler wanted to do Charlie Wilson himself. Of all the names that had come into the frame with the fingerprints, he knew Charlie could be the most troublesome. He might not have the bulk of Hussey, Wisbey and some of the others, or the brains of Bruce Reynolds or Gordon Goody, but he was cunning. And he had a temper.

There was only one place where he wouldn't kick up a fuss. With his family. His wife and three daughters were Charlie's

very own Kryptonite, his weakness. The news had already gone out to all police forces that Charlie, Reynolds and Jimmy White – the first three with confirmed dabs at the farm – were wanted. Butler needed to lift Charlie before the item hit the evening news bulletins and the papers.

So, it was lunchtime when four squad cars pulled up outside Charlie's home in Crescent Lane, Clapham, circling like covered wagons in a Western. Tommy made the officers wait while he strode up to the bright yellow door and rang the bell.