Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Pat Wilson answered, ashen-faced. She would have seen the cars through the window. 'We're just having lunch,' she said, looking over his shoulder into the street. Neighbours were already appearing to take in the show.

, 'Can't wait for pudding, I'm afraid. I'll give him a sandwich at the station.'

'It's all right, Pat,' said Charlie from the hallway, grabbing a jacket.

'Charles Wilson?' Butler asked in his most formal voice.

'Mr Butler, please.' Both his eyes and words were pleading.

The policeman could see his three daughters standing at the foot of the stairs. He understood what Charlie meant. This was no time for doing it by the book. He could caution him later.

'Cannon Row, Charlie. Just for a chat.' Although Tommy Buder knew it was likely to be Aylesbury before the day was out.

Charlie slipped his arms into his tweed jacket and kissed Pat goodbye. 'Give my brief a call,' he said. 'He'll have me back home for tea.'

'Mrs Wilson, some of my officers will be around later with a search warrant. Please don't disturb anything in the meantime. Come on, Charlie. Gently does it.'

As they walked to the cars, Butler held tightly to Charlie's upper arm. He should have cuffed him, but there was no point in winding up a man like Charlie Wilson. They tended to respond best to a little respect. 'You know what this is about, don't you, Charlie?'

'Is it the gas bill?'

'Not unless you ran up one for two point six million.'

Charlie smiled at that. 'I suspect someone has made a right balls-up.'

'One of your pals?'

'No, one of yours. You're wasting your time. I've got nothing to do with that. Never been there.'

'Then you have nothing to worry about.'

They reached the car, the door opened and a hand pushed Charlie's head down and folded him into the rear seat, where another detective waited. He produced a pair of handcuffs and snapped them over Charlie's proffered wrists. Tommy Butler leaned in. 'But I think it's you who have been wasting your time, Charlie. I don't think you'll be home for tea any time soon. About fifteen years, unless I am mistaken.'

Bruce Reynolds knew something was up as soon as Franny came back to the flat. She didn't bother to remove her coat; she simply strode up and turned the TV off. She tried to speak, but only tears came, coursing slowly down her cheeks.

Bruce stood. 'What is it? Is it Nick?'

She walked back to the hall and brought in the evening paper. Bruce felt a jolt when he saw his own face staring back at him. Yard name men wanted in connection with Great Train…

He read the rest in silence. When he reached the end he almost spat his words. 'It's a fuckin' liberty, putting the pictures in the paper. They never do that till after the trial. How can

you get a fair hearing when your face is all over the place, saying you was the bloke who done it? This is bloody Butler.'

He threw the paper down onto the floor.

That was it. It wasn't only the police who would be after him now – every last crook would be milking him for every penny. He was on the run, good and proper. Which meant the rent on any safe house would be enormous, and anyone who knew where he was would demand lots of little 'loans' for their silence. Plus there would be endless 'drinks' for their minders to do some fetching and carrying. It was sheer fucking extortion.

He walked over and gave Franny a hug, wiping away her tears. 'We knew it might come to this. Game's not over yet.'

She found a handkerchief and blew her nose. 'What do we do now, Bruce?'

'Stop using that name for a start.' It was time for new identities, a change of appearance. He glanced in the mirror, wondering what he could do. He stroked his upper lip. A moustache would help. Then he would need new clothes and passports, travel documents. Suddenly a hundred and fifty grand didn't sound like a lot. 'And think of a new one for you, too.'

'What then?'

'Start packing, love. That's what.'

'Where for?'

What did it matter where for? But he could see she was close to tears again, her lower lip quivering. Bruce said the first country that came into his head. 'Mexico.'

Roy was hammering the Mini Cooper back towards London when the news came on the radio. The last song played before it was 'Four Feather Falls' by Michael Holliday. The Bing

Crosby-like voice always triggered a loop of his 'I'm going well, I'm going Shell' jingle in Roy's brain. However, the first line of the bulletin banished the tune immediately.

'Police today arrested Londoner Charles Wilson in connection with The Great Train Robbery of two weeks ago. Scotland Yard says they are also keen to interview Bruce Reynolds and Jimmy White. They expect to be able to release further names within the next two days. Meanwhile Jack Mills, the driver…'

Roy switched the radio off. His hands were slick on the wheel, but his throat had dried. The A3 was clear ahead, reeling him back into London. And what? Butler or one of his crew, for sure.

He took his foot off the accelerator. An ERF coal lorry beeped him, and pulled out to overtake. He felt the slipstream buffet his little car, watched the black fallout from the sacks settle on his windscreen. He pulled over and rolled to a halt in a lay-by. He needed time to think. After all, he was a man on the run now. They all were.

'And where is the Weasel now?'

'The who?'

'Roy "the Weasel" James.'

'Nobody calls him the Weasel. He had some French-' Bobby Pelham stopped himself. 'Look, he's not called the Weasel, all right?'

Jack Slipper had it on good account – from George Hatherill, no less – that James's nickname was the Weasel, but he let it pass. 'Let's just stick with Roy James then, shall we? Where is he?'

As he spoke, Slipper walked around mechanic Bobby Pelham's first-floor flat in Notting Hill. The carpet was threadbare and stained; the furniture sadly mismatched and he could smell chip fat. On the wall was a poster for the Monaco Grand Prix 1932, a garish print of an Oriental woman and the centre pages from an ABC Film Review, of Ursula Andress rising from the sea. It was clearly a single man's abode. From outside, he could hear the clash and clanging of Len Haslam and Billy Naughton sorting through the yard which was full of discarded motor parts and oil cans.

Slipper stopped at the wooden mantel above the gasfire and picked up one of the trophies. It was for a second place that Roy had achieved at Thruxton.

'Shame about his career. To throw it all away like that.' He looked up at Bobby as there came the thump of something heavy being dropped below them. 'They going to find anything down there?'

'Well, if they find the Weber carb I'm missing I'd be grateful.'

'Don't be funny, Bobby,' said Slipper, rising to his full ramrod-straight height. 'It isn't a matter for levity any more. We almost had him yesterday, you know. Arrived ten, fifteen minutes after you two had left Goodwood. And he didn't say where he was going?'

'No, Mr Slipper.'

'Missing a big race today, too. You know, Roy will probably be the second most famous no-show in Goodwood's history.'

'How's that?'

'David Blakely, Easter Monday, 1955, didn't turn up for his event. He's the most well-known no-show.'

Jack Slipper could see Bobby was struggling to place the name. 'He practised on the Saturday at Goodwood and Ruth Ellis shot him on the Sunday outside the Magdala pub, Hampstead. Last woman to hang, of course. At least we won't do that to Roy.'

'Guv.' It was Len Haslam, his face streaked in grease, his white shirt spotted with sump oil. He was holding out a thick envelope. 'It was hidden in a spare tyre in the yard.'

Bobby licked his lips like a nervous reptile. The colour had gone from his face. 'Mr Slipper…' he croaked.

'Shush.' Slipper knew what was coming next. 'You going to say you never saw it before? That we planted it? But your prints will be on it, Bobby. You know we can get them off the envelope. We can even get them off mailbags, you know. Oh, yes. You bake them in the oven, so Maurice Ray told me. The material goes rock hard and you can lift the dabs off. Ingenious. You look like you want to sit down. Ah, Billy. Fetch Mr Pelham a glass of water, will you?'