Robert Ryan - Signal Red

He had to do something though; he would end up topping himself if he had to watch the ceiling cracks for much longer. He reached into the bedside cabinet and found his address book. Locating the number he wanted, Gordy swung his feet off the bed, grabbed a handful of change and padded downstairs to the telephone by the Gents.

While he dialled he shouted to the landlord. 'Reg?'

The ruddy-faced Reg stuck his head out from behind the bar. 'You all right?'

'Can I borrow your car for a couple of days?'

Reg looked unsure.

'There's a nifty in it.'

Reg shrugged. 'Two days.'

Two days, fifty quid. Plus a monkey for the use of the room. Reg wasn't doing too badly. Even got a free barman now and then.

'Thanks,' Gordon said. Then: 'Sue? Is that you? It's me, Gordon. Right. Look, Sue, I know it's short notice, but do you fancy a get-together? Yes, that sort of get-together. At a hotel, on me. The Grand. Sounds perfect. Tomorrow? Well, dump him. You deserve better anyway. Well, me for one. Right. Tomorrow. Book it in your name, will you? And get some champagne on ice. What are we celebrating? Me seeing you again.'

Gordy put the phone down and walked through to Reg, who had unbolted the doors to open for the day's business. There were only a couple of regulars in at that time of day and they didn't even look up from their papers. Gordy's stomach rumbled as he caught the aroma of the homemade pies that the pub dished out at lunchtime. He pulled a couple of pound notes out. 'Reg, can you send your boy to Woolworths? Get me a couple of spectacle frames with plain glass in them.'

Reg took the money. 'OK.'

'And does your missus have any hair-dye?'

Reg had a traditional landlord's build, with sizeable beer belly and a florid complexion. Marjorie was whippet-thin and exuded a blowsy glamour. 'What shade?'

'Not blonde.' He pointed at his scalp. 'Darker than tin*.

'I'll ask. If she hasn't, I'll tell her to get you sonic.'

'Thanks.'

'What is it, Gordy?' smirked Reg. 'Fancy dress, Who you going as?'

Gordy smiled back. 'Clark bleedin' Kent.'

Billy Naughton stepped into the rowing boat and the lad from the hire shed pushed them off. Tony dipped the oars and pulled them away, heading out into the centre of the Alexandra Palace boating lake. It was a blustery day, with the sun piercing the cap of white cloud only infrequently. Apart from a couple of schoolboys playing truant to smoke fags, they had no company out on the water. Which was how they both wanted it.

'You know that they kept German civilians here, during the war?' Billy asked.

'No, I didn't, Mr Naughton. Is this to be a history lesson?'

'Recent history, Tony. It was your money, wasn't it?' said Billy.

Tony carried on pulling, settling into a good smooth rhythm. He was enjoying the exertion. 'What was?'

'In the phone box.'

Tony shrugged. 'Don't know.'

'Look, we know you were at the farm. We know you probably got a drink out of it. We know that on the day after we collared Roy's mechanic, someone dumped the money. Panicked, most likely. It's gone toxic.'

Tony laughed at the expression. 'What does that mean?'

'Corrosive. Poisonous. It's like King Midas, except everything it touches turns to shit.' Tony blew out his cheeks, as if accepting this was true. 'Roger Cordrey cops it by flashing too big a roll of money. Charmian Biggs, she spends too much of it and gets herself noticed. The money left in Dorking woods – who was that for? Either way, he or they didn't make it in time, did they? Some guy with his trousers round his ankles found it. Ten-grand reward and a right earful from the wife for going off into the woods in the first place. Bobby Welch. We get a call that he is in a betting shop near London

Bridge. Now who would tell us that? Maybe the bloke he left his stash with. Take Bobby out of the game, he can do what he wants with it because Bobby is looking at a fifteen, twenty jolt. Who else? Oh yeah, another Bobby – Bobby Pelham, the mechanic. Done for receiving. And you. I think your man panicked when he heard about Pelham and dumped the cash in the phone booth. What do you reckon?'

Tony had a good view of the ugly palace itself, with the transmitter mast that beamed out the evening BBC news. He began to describe a long, lazy circle around the edge of the lake. 'I reckon I remember you when you were some wet-behind-the-ears tenderfoot. About six months ago, that was. Now here you are lecturing me like you're Tommy Butler.'

Billy ignored that, saying, 'The thing is, you lot don't have much of a choice, do you? You either give your cash to someone who isn't in the life, in which case they are likely to panic. Or you leave it with some villain who, because they are by nature thieving bastards, either takes it all or charges you an extortionate minder's fee. Right Shylocks some of them, so I hear.'

Tony stopped rowing. A duck paddled over, in search of food. It quacked plaintively then moved on. Tony fixed the copper with a hard stare. 'What is this about?'

'I'll tell you another interesting thing. The count written on the wrappers of that stash in the phone box added up to forty-seven thousand pounds. But there weren't forty-seven in notes. Only forty-two. It was five grand light. So whoever dumped it took a little sweetener and skipped. Am I right?'

Tony sighed. He was sure that wasn't the case. Or perhaps it was. Money changed everything. 'Can you blame him? It's a free-for-all.'

So someone had stiffed him, thought Billy. 'Roger, Charlie, Bobby, Ronnie, Tommy, Jim Hussey, Bill Boal-'

'What's this? Some kind of rollcall?'

'All I'm saying is, it's only a matter of time before we get the rest. Bruce, John, Buster, Roy, Jimmy White, Gordy and… you.'

Tony began rowing again, pulling deep and hard. Did they have his fingerprints? No. Otherwise he would be in Aylesbury right now, facing Butler, Williams, Fewtrell or Hatherill or at Cannon Row with Slipper or one of the other DIs.

Billy placed a small brown bag, the top rolled over several times, on the seat between them. It looked like someone's packed lunch.

'What's that? A bribe? Doesn't look enough, Mr Naughton.'

'I'm meant to be spinning your place right now. In there are some flakes of yellow paint which, in the course of my perfunctory search, will find its way onto the bottom of a pair of your shoes.'

'Yellow paint?'

'From the garage at Leatherslade.'

Tony stared down at the bag, as if it was radioactive. He nudged it with his foot. 'I don't understand.'

'I'm meant to daub that on the sole of one of your shoes. Tomorrow, under the same warrant, a forensic officer will be sent over. He will discover said paint and take the shoes away for analysis.'

'Why are you telling me this?'

Billy hesitated. He wasn't 100 per cent sure himself. But he wanted to get rid of the temptation to ape Len once and for all. 'I'll just say this. You ever see George Hatherill in a

pub, you send him over a drink.'

Gordon Goody parked the borrowed Morris Minor Traveller and checked himself in its mirror. His hair was several shades darker and he now wore tortoiseshell glasses. There was nothing he could do about his height except stoop, but he didn't look like any picture of him they might have circulated. Just because one hadn't appeared in the press didn't mean the police weren't pushing them around to stations throughout the country. Gordy's was one scalp they wanted very, very badly.

Satisfied with his new appearance, he fetched his holdall from the back seat and walked into the Grand Hotel, looking forward to seeing Sue Crosby again. She had been a hostess at Marbles, one of the better London clubs, and then won a Miss Brighton contest and had set up a small clothes shop in her hometown of Leicester. She and Gordy had not seen each other for two years, but they had the kind of relationship that could be picked up – or curtailed – without any recrimination or consequences.