Robert Ryan: Signal Red

The estate agents on Blenheim Terrace was a holdover from the 1940s, with a heavily wooded front and thick frosted glass designed to keep natural light out of the place. What little managed to enter simply highlighted the volume of dust floating in the air, thrown up whenever a document was inadvertently disturbed. At the rear, under spluttering fluorescent lights, two elderly men were writing in ledgers, and they sent their apprentice forward to deal with the inconvenient interlopers.

The young clerk listened to Billy and WPC Waring as they explained they were looking to move into the area and how much they could afford. Apparently two thousand pounds was not enough to get them anything other than a garage in need of decoration, so they upped it to three and were rewarded with a thin folder of possibilities, mostly one-bedroom flats. One of them, however, was a tiny cottage in Ryder's Terrace. They took the single sheet description and left the gloom of the office before they developed rickets.

Holding the paper before them, they walked around the corner into the mews. WPC Waring slid her arm through Billy's as if snuggling for warmth. It was a cold, bright day, the sky blue and diamond-hard, the sun low enough to hurt the eyes.

'Relax,' she said, as she felt him stiffen when she pulled

him closer. 'Newly engaged couple looking for a house for marital bliss. What could be more natural?'

'What's GCH?' he asked.

'Gas Central Heating.'

'Right. T and G?'

'Don't know.'

He glanced down at her. Under an A-line topcoat she was wearing a grey woollen dress, sleeveless, with a cream chiffon blouse underneath. She had on knee-high boots, white tights or stockings, and a small beret on the back of her hair. It was certainly a change from the unflattering uniform and clunky shoes she was forced to wear most days. 'What made you join the Force, Patricia?'

'My dad.'

'Really?' It was hard to imagine any father wanting to put his daughter into the rough and tumble of the all-male, unforgiving world of the Met.

'He was a DS in Brighton for twenty years. Didn't want me to go in, but it's his own fault for telling so many good stories. And yes, he was right, you do get treated either like a dyke or a whore. It's Patti, by the way.'

'What?'

'My name. Patricia in uniform, Patti at all other times, William.'

'Billy.'

She rolled her eyes. 'I know. I was teasing. Shouldn't detectives be a bit quicker on the uptake?'

They had reached Ryder's Terrace and looked along the row of houses. There were two rows of cottages. Number 14 was on their left, on the plainer side of the street, flat- fronted and painted white. The ones opposite had fancier doorways and bowed windows.

The apparently happy couple stopped outside number 18, which contained the flat for sale, and looked up at it.

'Windows need painting,' he said. 'And look at that guttering.'

'Billy.'

He turned to look at her and she pushed onto her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips. 'Try and look pleased,' she whispered. 'Someone's just come out of number fourteen.'

He gave a smile.

'You look like you've got constipation. Show me the property details.'

He was aware of someone passing behind them as he looked from page to house, reading out some of the features.

'He's gone,' Patti said.

'Was it him?' Billy asked, stepping back from her and looking down the passage that led back to Blenheim Terrace.

'Right height. Beard, though. And hat. Hard to be sure. Sorry about the kiss.'

'All in the line of duty.'

'Well, I'd wipe off the lippie before you get back, for both our sakes.'

Billy took out his handkerchief and dabbed away the pink lipstick from the corner of his mouth. 'Nice shade.'

'Pale Fire,' she said. 'Come on, let's take a look.'

They strolled past number 14. It was a two-storey house, with large windows on the first floor, protected by railings, like a small, impractical balcony. Two doorbells showed it was also split into flats, although judging by the exterior dimension they must be exceedingly compact.

'The bottom one says Mrs King,' said Patti, squinting. 'I doubt if he's gone that far to disguise himself.'

'What good eyes you have,' Billy said, unable to read the names for himself. 'Let's take a stroll around the back.'

They walked the neighbouring streets, alert for a likely escape route. Number 14 butted against the walled yards of Blenheim Terrace. Jumping into one of those would trap you. One end of the row meant a drop into the access alley directly onto the pavement. You'd break a leg or ankle. At the western end of the cottages, the terrace gave onto rough waste, its ground level higher than that of the street. The distance from the roof to earth was still daunting.

'He'd need a parachute,' said Billy, turning away.

'Hold on.'

Patti picked her way gingerly across the rubble and broken glass, careful not to snap her spike heels. She hesitated at the foot of the wall and crouched down.

'What is it?'

She stood up and retraced her steps just as carefully. Then held up a hand blackened with dark soil. 'An allotment, apparently.'

'DC Naughton. A word.'

It was George Hatherill, looking terribly drawn, his usually immaculate tie askew. Billy guessed the Train Squad weren't the only ones working all the hours God and the devil sent.

'Sir.'

'In here.' He shuffled Billy into an unused interview room. 'You've heard, I suppose? About the DPP?'

'Yes. Trial to go ahead.'

Hatherill took out a cigarette and offered Billy one. They lit up. 'Well, the PM, Home Secretary and Postmaster General all had a hand in it. I want to know whether things are watertight this end.'

'Sir?'

'You know what I mean. Has anyone been unduly enthusiastic? I don't want any nasty surprises in court.'

Billy thought about Gordon Goody and the paint. Len had certainly been 'enthusiastic', but he wasn't going to reveal that to Hatherill, just as he hadn't to Slipper. 'Not that I know of, sir.'

'Because these blokes have the cash to hire some of the best briefs in town. Speed, Finch and Salmon, among others. One of them has that bastard Miles Cokely who would get Hitler off if the money was right.'

'There's one thing worrying me, sir.'

Hatherill smoked furiously. 'What's that – Frank Williams?'

'No. We've got the robbers at the farm, right?'

'Yes. Conclusively.'

Billy didn't think so. 'Many of the prints are on items that could be moved. Monopoly, for instance.'

'I am aware of that. They'll claim they played elsewhere. We'll be prepared for it.'

'And we have nothing at all to place anyone at the robbery. Nobody at Bridego Bridge or Sears Crossing. Not a single print, fibre or hair. Everything depends on that farm and the jury believing that if you were at the farm you were part of the team.'

Hatherill dismissed that with a wave of his Senior Service. 'Well, it's commonsense.'

'Will that bastard Cokely think so? Or will he sow some seeds of doubt? You might have been at the farm, you might even have money, but does that mean you were at the train? He could go for accessory after the fact or receiving.'

'That's true,' the Commander conceded. 'But we've got Arthur James and Neil MacDermot for the prosecution. They are no pushovers. Receiving might do for some of them, but

the main blaggers I want done for conspiracy to rob the mail and armed robbery. Which brings me back to my main point. I know time is running out, but I don't want to see anyone in the dock who will embarrass us. Is that clear? If you have any doubts about how anyone is proceeding, the veracity of the evidence, dates, times, forensics, anything at all, then come straight to me. Not Slipper or Butler or Williams. Me. You understand?