Robert Ryan: Signal Red

Gordy approached the reception desk and beamed at the young woman behind it. 'Morning.' He couldn't keep the cheeriness from his voice.

'Afternoon, sir.' Well, it was two o'clock he supposed, so technically she was right. The girl had a black beehive with a slight flick at shoulder level and kohl-blackened eyes. She reminded Gordy of Susan Maugham, the singer of 'Bobby's Girl', and if he hadn't been here to see Sue, he might have spent some time on her.

'I believe my wife booked a room. Susan Crosby. I'm Mr Crosby.'

'Let me check, sir. Yes, here we are. Six-oh-two. You are the first to arrive, but I'm afraid it isn't ready as yet.' She pointed to the clock behind her. 'Check-in is at three, but

I'll see what I can do to hurry it along. Would you like to take a seat? Or have a drink in the bar?'

Gordy looked at the row of glistening optics he could see through the archway to his left. 'How long?'

'Twenty minutes at most, sir.'

'I'll wait in the bar.'

'Very well, sir.'

As soon as the big man was out of sight, the receptionist burst through the door into the office and began to rummage around on her desk. Peter, the Duty Manager, looked up, perplexed.

'What's wrong?'

'Call the police.'

Peter rose to his feet. 'What's happened, Brenda?'

But Brenda had found the newspaper she was looking for and tore through it. The pictures had long vacated the front page, but often put in an appearance whenever an arrest was made. There, next to a story about Great Train Robbery money being found in a phone box, were the mugshots of the three wanted thieves. The top one stared out at the camera from behind hornrimmed glasses. 'It's him.'

'Who?'

'You won't believe this.' She showed Peter the picture of the bespectacled robber and tried to keep the thrill from her voice, the excitement of having a story she would repeat ad nauseam for the next few days. 'Bruce Reynolds has just checked in!'

Bedford Prison, October 1963

Charlie found his prison visits bittersweet. It was wonderful to see Pat, to hear about the kids, but the inevitable moment of separation brought home to him just what might lie ahead: years of being apart from his family. The thought made him angry, but as he stood in the holding pen waiting for his name to be called through to the visitors' room, he tried to contain the fury building in him. There had almost been an incident in the kitchen that morning, a temptation with a pan of boiling water and a sneering screw, but Charlie had just smiled and walked away.

'Fourteen years,' the cunt had whispered in his ear. 'Fourteen on the Forty-Four.'

Special Order 44 was used to stop known associates gathering and communicating in prison, just in case they got up to their old tricks. Or new ones, such as prison breaks. The screw was suggesting he would get fourteen years and never see his old mates again. As if the latter part worried him.

'Charles Wilson, table seven.' At least, being on remand,

he had no number for them to bark out and he was wearing his own clothes. He still felt at least partially human. More so than the institutionalised screws, he thought as he glared at one of those sad bastards who slashed the peak of his hat so it came down partially over the eyes. You aren't in the Guards, mate, he thought. You are just a grown-up babysitter in a shitty gaol.

He passed through the gate and into the depressingly bare visitors' room, where he expected to see John Matthew, his brief. As he recognised who it really was sitting at the other side of the table, Charlie kept his face impassive. He was good at that. Hadn't so much as glanced at Ronnie Biggs when they crossed in the exercise yard.

He sat down and, in a ritual repeated at tables across the room, the two men leaned in close, foreheads almost touching, voices low.

'Fuck me,' said Charlie.

'I registered as Joe Gray.'

'Gordy, what are you doing here?'

'I came to tell you what's going on. I got picked up because some silly bitch thought I was Bruce. How fucking ironic is that? I was blond, then brunette, but underneath, I was a natural dickhead. Butler interviewed me, then I got released. On bail.'

'I heard.'

'Thought you might have thought it… you know, iffy.'

Charlie frowned, but said nothing.

'Butler had a pair of my shoes with yellow paint on them, from the garage at the farm. I'm on remand while tests are carried out.'

'No prints?'

'At Leatherslade? Nothing. I was worse than Bruce with the gloves.'

'What about the shoes?'

Gordy leaned in closer, until he could smell Charlie's sour breath. 'I never took them with me to the farm, Charlie. I'm sure of it. Butler's done me up like a kipper. I just wanted you to know I didn't do any kind of deal.'

'You silly cunt.' Charlie's face darkened. He made fists and the knuckles turned white. 'I know you're all right. Jesus, I'm not worried about anyone grassing. Not in our firm. That bleedin' driver of Ronnie's maybe, but not us.' Charlie thought for a minute, considering all he had just heard. His expression relaxed and his fists uncurled. 'You sure this is Butler's style? He might verbal you a bit, like he did me, but planting evidence? Not sure.'

'Doesn't matter if it's Butler or one of the others. That paint ties me to the farm, I'm cooked.'

Charlie didn't disagree.

'How you holding up?'

Charlie rubbed his forehead. 'So far, OK. They're talking about double-digits for it.'

'Come on,' said Gordy. 'It was a tickle. You only get that for murder now.'

Charlie shook his head. 'We didn't think what we was robbing, mate. We thought it was a train, didn't we?'

'It was a train.'

'Ah, but it wasn't British Rail. It was the Royal Mail.' He said it again, emphasising the first word. 'The ROYAL Mail. We nobbled the Establishment. The Establishment will want to nobble us back. Even if it does mean painting your shoes yellow.'

'Christ. What are we going to do?'

Charlie came in very close and spoke in a murmur. 'Ronnie and me passed a couple of messages back and forth. We get

fourteen years?' His eyes darted right. 'We're goin' over that fuckin' wall.'

Bruce returned to the flat in buoyant mood. It was the first time for weeks he had been out, but the smart moustache he had grown had given him confidence, as if it was a full-face mask. He had risked taking Franny into town, where he treated himself to a new haircut at Trumper's in Curzon Street, as well as a trim for the face furniture, followed by lunch at the Mirabelle, which cost a whopping fourteen pounds. Afterwards, slightly tipsy on a nice Fleurie, he had called at Coombs & Dobbie in Jermyn Street and ordered a pair of handmade shoes – under an alias, of course. They were twenty- six pounds. It would take two months to complete the order, the master cobbler reckoned. So he told them he would forward an address abroad where they could be sent when they were ready. The afternoon ended with champagne cocktails at the Ritz, reminding him of happier times when they had celebrated the acquittal of Gordy and Charlie.

One day, well over fifty pounds down. But it was worth every penny: he had become used to sending Franny out with an 'escort'. She was a young woman, and needed to get out of doors, so Bruce had arranged a series of 'chaperones'. And anyway, even a hundred quid was nothing compared to what was being leeched off him by 'friends' and 'associates' keeping him in hiding till he and Fran could skip.

So, pleased and still buzzing, he hailed a cab all the way back to the new place at Croydon. As soon as they opened the door, they knew something was wrong. An unfamiliar breeze was blowing through the flat.

'Did you leave a window open, Fran?'