Robert Ryan: Signal Red

'And Tommy Buder,' Slipper reminded him. Detectives with families, like Jack Slipper, sometimes resented Butler 's work-all-hours mentality, arguing that because he wasn't married, he didn't understand how difficult it was to keep family life going, particularly with kids, unless you had some time off. 'This business with the yellow paint, Billy. That's all above board, is it?'

'Yes, sir,' he said formally. 'Gordy's right for this one.'

The big man stood up, towering over Billy on his stool. Foam from his beer was stuck to his thin moustache. 'That wasn't what I asked.'

Billy almost crossed his fingers when he replied. Hatherill's example had made him hesitate in fitting up Tony Fortune, but that didn't mean he was going to drop Len in it. 'It's GOFC.' It stood for Good Old-Fashioned Coppering, one of Slipper's favourite phrases.

Slipper wiped the beer froth from his mouth and showed his gappy grin once more. 'In which case, we won't be seeing Gordon Goody for a long, long time.' He pointed to an angry lump on his neck. 'That'll be another of these buggers gone.' And then he swayed off towards the Gents, whistling the tune that had just finished on the jukebox.

'Oi'll give it foive,' Len said, as he came over and draped an arm around Billy, imitating the Brummie tones of Janice Nicholls from Thank Your Lucky Stars. Billy wondered if he'd ever get to see that, or any other TV programme, again.

Then Len came close to his ear, his hot beery breath filling it. 'You screwed me up with Tony Fortune, didn't you? Didn't you? I know you did. I don't know how and I don't know why.' He stood up. 'Well, no hard feelings, Billy.' Len slapped his cheek lightly with the ends of his fingers, in rhythm with

his words. 'Because I am going to make sure that fucker goes down for this, one way or another.'

Tony Fortune stood at the window of his showroom, his left foot tapping out a jittery rhythm, although he had no idea what it was. Some kind of modern jazz, he assumed. Nothing else was quite so jagged. Stravinsky, perhaps.

He normally watched the pavement for punters, the window-shoppers and tyre-kickers who might be enticed in to buy a nice, low-mileage run-around or prestige saloon. Men and women who might be open to flattery ('You'd look great behind the wheel') or bluster ('I had a bloke in here at lunchtime who was interested. He's coming back at four').

Today, he was watching the winter sky darkening and the strange clouds being jostled across it by the unimaginable winds of the upper atmosphere. They had been drawn out into peculiar shapes by the stratospheric forces, one a Zeppelin, its neighbour a graceful dolphin, another a praying mantis, poised to strike.

He was seeing signs and portents everywhere, he realised. Why had that copper given him the yellow paint? Why on earth had he believed his story and applied a substitute – Ford Signal Yellow – to his own shoes? Mischievousness, he supposed. It also stopped them planting anything else, because they had thought they had him with the Hush Puppies.

One thing was for sure, he was right about Paddy. There had been a break-in at the showroom the previous night, the back door jimmied. Nothing was taken except Paddy's precious transistor radio. True, it was the most portable thing in the place and it might have been kids looking for something to sell. But his heart told him it was Paddy, a farewell visit. So, if the coppers were to be believed, the old fella had skimmed

five grand for himself before dumping the loot in the phone box. Good on him.

But he had lost a good friend when the old man bolted. And now he had lost Marie, too. When he told her what had happened, she had raged and cursed. Failed car salesman, failed getaway driver, failed robber and now failed husband, apparently. Oh, and failed to give Geoff a part in the tickle, which caused all his problems to begin with. So, failed brother-in-law.

She had taken little, barely formed Alfie off to her mother's, embracing once more the family she had vehemently disowned.

He felt a stab of ice into his heart. He had hardly got to know Alfie, only got used to that strange, warm, milky smell, and he had been snatched away. Well, she would get over it. Women went a bit strange after giving birth, so he had heard. He would go and find them and hold his son again. The alternative was too grim to contemplate.

The next twisted cloud scudded into view. A hooded monk. Ah well, he thought, he could always retreat to a monastery and take a vow of silence. He had precious few people left he could talk to anyway. No wife, no son to coo over, no mechanic to confide in, no dodgy friends who weren't running scared.

In the meantime, there was a lock and clasp to fix on the back door. He tore himself away from the window and turned to go out back to repair the damage.

The entrance to the showroom clanged open and he stopped in his tracks. It was John, the newsagent opposite. 'You had the radio on, Tony?'

'No.'

'They've shot Kennedy. In Dallas.'

'Fuckin' hell. Is he dead?'

'Not sure.'

Ah well, he thought, at least that's one they can't pin on me.

Scotland Yard, December 1963

'We're pretty sure he's at fourteen, Ryder's Terrace,' announced Billy to Jack Slipper. He placed an A-Z on the desk. ' St John's Wood. Would you believe it, the very last newsagent we try. It's a mews, virtually a cul-de-sac, with only an alley leading off from the rear. We can block it off at both ends easily enough.'

Slipper took a look at the map, peering at the dense lines and tiny writing. Billy waited for a commendation, but nothing came. He was used to that with Butler, whose idea of praise was two grunts instead of one, but Slipper normally indulged his detectives.

'OK, Billy. You and Len get some Ordnance Survey maps of the area. Then get down there and poke around.'

'There's only those two exits, guv. A couple of cars each end'll bottle him up.'

Slipper shook his head. 'You've read his docket?'

'Of course.'

'He used to be a first-floor man, didn't he?'

Billy knew what was coming.

'Then if we come knocking at the front door, what is he likely to do?'

'Out through a skylight?'

'If there is one. We should find out. Go and look it over, on the QT, let me know what you find. Take Patricia Waring with you.'

'Why?' Waring was one of the small number of WPCs that the Squad called upon when a woman was the best, or only, option. She had posed as barmaids, toms, landladies and even a fruit-picker living in a caravan in Kent. For the Train Squad she had shared a Derry & Toms changing room with Charmian Biggs to monitor her spending behaviour. They got on so well they had moved on to cocktails at the Roof Garden. Billy had no problem with Waring; she just seemed an unnecessary encumbrance.

'Because a couple sniffing around an area for a house to buy or rent is a lot less suspicious than a lone bloke who looks like he's casing the joint. Think of her as Arm Meat,' he said, using the slang for West End escort girls who didn't go the whole way with clients. Or, at least, claimed not to. 'Spend a day or two on it, come back, and we'll make sure we get the bastard.'

Billy turned to leave, but he sensed Slipper wasn't done and paused. Slipper looked up at him and spoke slowly and softly.

'I just got off the blower with Butler. The DPP has been leaned on from on high. We don't wait until we've got James, Reynolds, Edwards and White, we go with who and what we have. Which means pulling everything together, pronto. All hands to the pumps on evidence prep, which means we let Reynolds and the others slide for now.' Billy could tell this

didn't please him. They had almost caught Jimmy White after his missus went on a spending spree in Reigate. They tracked him to a caravan where they found £30,000 hidden in the walls, and White's fingerprints. But no Jimmy. 'Trial will be early next year at Aylesbury. I'm going to claim the call came after I sent you after our laddie in St John's Wood. So, Billy, come January, make sure Roy James is in the dock as well, won't you?'