Robert Ryan: Signal Red

Sidney chewed through a handful of crisps. 'He won't take it. He'll flee the country, as you lot like to put it.'

'Christ, they stink.' Frank waved away the blast of cheese and onion that washed over his face. 'Let him be the judge of that, eh? Offer it to him. Buster knows I like him. And I'm not the only one on his tail. Tell him this is a gypsy's whisper from me. Buder is thinking about him. Thinking a lot.'

'OK. I will.' Sidney slapped his palms together to get rid

of the crumbs. Normally, at this point, he would slip away. There was something else on his grubby mind.

'You after a few extra bob, Sidney?'

'Well, I've got something.'

Yes, the morals of a fucking sewer rat, Frank thought. 'What is it?'

'Roy James.'

Stay calm, Frank. 'The Weasel?'

'So you lot keep calling him. It was Ferret for a while. Ferret up a drainpipe, you know? But Weasel – never heard him called that.'

'But we are talking about Roy James, the racing driver?'

'Yes.'

'What have you got?'

'He was holed up with a bookie, but he got into a bit of bother.'

'What kind of bother?'

'Wife wanted a bit of comfort while Hubbie was at the dogs. Roy didn't fancy this particular bitch, she caused a fuss, he had to scarper.'

'To?'

' St John's Wood.'

'Address?'

Sidney looked down at his glass. 'That's all I know.'

' Saint John's Wood? That's the best you can do? What are we meant to do, house-to-house searches?'

'Narrows it down.'

'I'll narrow you down one of these days, Sidney.' Frank shook his head in mock disgust. 'For cryin' out loud.'

'Not worth anything, then?'

'Piss off, no. Get Buster in and the cash and you'll get a finder's fee.'

Sidney looked crestfallen and after a few moments Frank took out his wallet. Under the table he counted out three fives and passed them across.

'I'm going to put that down on my tax return as a charitable donation, right next to Battersea Dogs' Home. Now trot along and speak to Buster. Tell him it's a one-off offer. It's that or he'd better book a place in the sun a long way away.'

Sidney palmed the cash and stood. 'Yes, Mr Williams.'

Frank gave a thin smile and watched him go. Roy James. St John's Wood. Not bad for fifteen quid. Then he shuddered. As he always did after dealing with the likes of Sidney, Frank Williams felt as if he needed a long, hot bath.

'Inconclusive? What does that mean?' Len was virtually shouting into Billy Naughton's face, spraying spittle around the Public Bar of the Phoenix pub. Jack Slipper looked on, impassive.

'It means that they can't say for sure-'

'I know what it means, Billy. I'm not illiterate. But let me get this straight.' He banged his forehead, as if trying to hammer information in. 'The paint on Gordon Goody's shoes puts him at the crime scene. At Leatherslade Farm.'

'Along with some of the khaki from the Land Rover,' added Slipper.

Len looked at Slipper, as if he had forgotten he was even in the room. 'Yes, Skip. But yellow paint on Tony Fortune's shoes is "incon-fucking-clusive". Yet it's exactly the same paint.'

'We don't know that,' said Slipper softly.

Oh yes we do, thought Billy. At least, Len thinks we do.

'Bit of a bloody coincidence, guv,' Len said, 'him having yellow paint on the shoes at all. But not from the farm.'

'Tony Fortune deals in cars. He paints them sometimes. Some people even like yellow cars,' said Billy.

Len glared at him, as if he suspected some treachery on his part. Billy began to sweat under the gaze, and hid behind his drink.

'Ah lads, I was hoping to find you here.' It was Frank Williams, rubbing his hands together. 'Who's buying?'

'My shout,' said Slipper. 'What'll it be?'

'Just a Teacher's,' he replied. 'A double.'

The longsuffering landlord raised his eyebrows in mild protest – it was well past closing time – but he replenished everyone's drinks and they chinked glasses. 'What is it, Frank? You look like you've got feather underpants on.'

'I hear a whisper that you've been asked to concentrate on Buster Edwards. True?'

'Tommy did suggest we might switch to Buster, having drawn a blank on James.' It had been many weeks since the near-miss at Goodwood; there hadn't been a sniff of the driver since. Tommy Butler, newly appointed to the top Squad slot, had decided to shake things up. 'Is that a problem, Frank?'

'See, I have a contact with Buster. A friend of a friend. We've opened lines of communication.'

Slipper looked unfazed. Frank always had the best contacts at gutter level.

'I'd like a free hand to see how that runs. Without Tommy knowing too much.'

'How do we explain that, guv?' asked Len. 'When he's asked us to find him?'

'Because you have a fresh lead on Roy James to concentrate on.'

'But we-' Len began.

'Shush,' snapped Slipper, knowing how Williams operated. 'What have you got for us, Frank?'

'He's in St John's Wood. Before you say anything, I know how big it is. But, last time I looked, it was smaller than London, which is all you have at the moment. And at least you know he hasn't skipped completely. Is that something you can work with?'

Slipper didn't take long to make up his mind. 'I believe it is, Frank. Good luck with Buster.'

'And the tip didn't come from me, right? Anonymous bird phoned it into the Yard.' They all laughed. There had been plenty of those calls.

'That's fine by me.'

Frank Williams downed his drink and left with a spring in his step.

'What's his game?' asked Len after he had left the pub.

'I thought he'd be pissed off about Tommy Butler,' Billy suggested. The recent reorganisation put Butler as the new head of the Squad, with Millen kicked upstairs and Frank Williams stalled at deputy.

Slipper shook his head. 'No. Frank will never get head of Flying Squad. He knows that. Too many toes trodden on over the years.' He didn't offer any further explanation, just turned to them and said, 'So? Any thoughts on St John's Wood?'

The trio frowned into their glasses for a few minutes. Billy spoke first. 'You remember when we were at Bobby Pelham's – Roy 's mechanic?'

'Yup,' said Len. 'What about it?'

'All those copies of Motoring News and Autosports I nearly broke my neck on? There were stacks of them.'

'Go on,' prompted Jack Slipper, leaning his long skinny frame forward, eager to hear the next line.

'Well, Roy is still likely to want to know what's going on in racing, especially as he can't go to any meetings.'

'That's true,' Len agreed. 'So what do we do?'

Jack Slipper spoke for Billy, showing his gap-toothed smile. 'We go around all the newsagents in the area. See if anyone has put in an order for either Motoring News or Autosport recently.'

Len reached over and pinched Billy's cheek between forefinger and thumb. 'You little beauty,' he said. 'If you were a woman I'd let you suck my cock as a reward for that.'

Before Billy could come up with a smart answer to the remark, Len went over to the jukebox and put on the Chiffons' 'He's So Fine' and began to dance around the empty pub.

'Well done, son,' said Slipper. 'Proper police thinking. You all right? You look tired.'

'So do you.'

Slipper had come out in some ugly boils over the past weeks, scattered across his neck. Some jokers claimed each one represented a train robber still free, but it was the stress and the long days and nights taking their toll. 'Used to it. So's the missus. You don't get much chance of a love-life in the Squad if you don't have one before you begin.'

Billy smiled. He had given up free samples from the Soho girls – he would have anyway, even if the train robbery weren't all-consuming – and there had been a few tentative starts with WPCs, but all those had fizzled out, again because of the train. It was the same with his stable girl, scuppered by the distance involved. The newspapers were telling them that promiscuous sex was bursting out all over, what with Kinsey, Lady Chatterley, saucy pop music and the Pill, but not for him, it seemed. At least, not while some of the robbers were free. 'That's me and Cliff Richard, then. Bachelor Boys together.'