Robert Ryan: Signal Red

Oh yes, sir. You want your Last Big Case to go off without a hitch. And you want me as you own little snout.

'Perfectly.'

'Good.' He clapped him on the shoulder and left, puffing smoke behind him like a corpulent steam engine.

Billy stubbed out his own cigarette and followed, his feet dragging a little more than when he entered the room.

Roy James heard the doorbell downstairs ring and froze. He wasn't expecting anyone. Nobody came round at night and he never went out. Who would come calling? The only people who knew where he was were his mum, who didn't do visits in the dead of winter, and Dennis, a friend who had the rest of his train money well hidden. Before that he had entrusted it to an 'associate' of Charlie's and the Richardsons, but that bastard had started to spend it. When he'd tried to get it back he had been forced to drop the names of some of Charlie's even heavier friends who might assist in its recovery. Using mallets and nails. He'd got the lump back, minus seven grand 'expenses and minder's fee'.

Dennis, though, wasn't a gangster, and Roy was confident he wouldn't take advantage. He was equally certain that Dennis wouldn't come round unannounced, ringing his doorbell.

Roy was aware that whoever was at the door would know

somebody was in the flat. He was playing Ray Charles loud enough to be heard outside and the lights were on in the first-floor living room and hallway

From the bedroom he heard the tinkle of breaking glass and leaped to his feet. His 'cush' was stashed in the low cupboard next to the mantelpiece. He yanked the door open, grabbed the BEA vinyl bag and ran into the hallway. There was a key in the lock of the bedroom, which he turned, buying himself a few seconds. In a well-practised move, he then climbed onto the stair banister and pushed open the fanlight.

He tossed the bag onto the roof and hauled himself through. Below him came the sound of hammering and splintering as the bedroom door was shattered.

It was bitterly cold outside and he shivered as, jacketless, he clambered onto the low-pitched roof. The stars were out, with but a sliver of a moon, but even in that light he could see the roof was sparkling with frost. It was going to be slippy, getting over the tiles.

He picked up the bag and crept forward, bent almost double, walking like Max Wall, his feet slithering and the slates splitting underfoot with a series of loud cracks, until he reached the end of the terrace. Below him, he could hear raised voices in the street. Police and neighbours, bellowing at each other.

Roy peeked over into the blackness, a void not penetrated either by the feeble starlight or the distant street-lamps. He had to visualise the landing pad he had prepared – a six-inch deep strip of soft, yielding soil amid the broken bottles and scrap metal. He dropped the bag over, wincing as it thudded to earth. It was quite some drop.

Counting to three, Roy followed it, launching himself into space, his legs slightly bent, ready to absorb the impact, cold air streaking past him, flapping his shirt. His feet sank into

the soft soil and he pitched forward, landing heavily on one shoulder and partially winding himself. He took a couple of deep breaths, waiting for the pain to subside, then sprang up. He swept to the left where he was sure the bag had fallen.

Nothing.

He moved to the right, hands scything low over the soil, until something sharp caught one of his fingers. 'Shit.' He sucked it and tasted coppery blood.

'Looking for this, Roy?'

The torch beam snapped on, illuminating a woman holding his BEA shoulder bag.

'That? That's not mine,' he said quickly, standing upright. 'Never seen it before.'

'Oh, Roy,' said Billy Naughton, his voice full of regret at such a feeble lie. 'The prints placed you at the farm – what do you think these will do?' The cylinder of light turned on him and Roy held up his arm to shield his eyes from the glare. As he did so, someone grabbed his wrist and snapped a handcuff bracelet round it.

'Four months since you gave us the slip at Goodwood,' said Duke Haslam, as he squeezed the second steel circle shut on the left wrist and gave him a poke in the kidneys for good measure. 'Hope you enjoyed it. It's the last bit of freedom you'll have for a while.'

Billy looked over at a beaming Patti Waring. He hoped she got credit for working out that the bit of urban 'gardening' on the bombsite was, in fact, a soft landing pad for a quick, daring escape, dug by the wily racing driver. She probably wouldn't, though. Both Butler and Slipper were at the front of 14 Ryder's Terrace and one or both would doubtless scoop all the kudos.

As Len Haslam led a disconsolate Roy James around to

one of the waiting Squad cars, Billy took the bag from Patti and tucked it under his arm. She deserved a drink if nothing else.

'And then there were twelve,' he said, having added up who was behind bars now.

'Best go for the round number then,' shouted Len over his shoulder. 'A nice fat baker's dozen.'

For the moment, Billy didn't appreciate what he meant. But he would soon enough.

Scotland Yard, December 1963

In the small room put aside for them, the two Bank of England officials examined the contents of Roy 's holdall while Frank Williams and a bleary-eyed but happy Billy Naughton watched. After depositing Roy James and the money at Cannon Row, he and Patti had gone out for that drink, which became seven or eight. He had avoided the Dive Bar and the Phoenix, instead using one off Charlotte Street she knew. It had been a better-than-pleasant evening, and had ended with a kiss that was the genuine article, rather than a means of distraction. Or, at least, he hoped so.

The Senior Clerk examined the piles of cash before him and said, with evident satisfaction, 'Twelve thousand, five hundred pounds exactly.'

'What are those?' asked Billy, pointing at the smallest pile.

'These have serial numbers that match the money on the train.'

'Yesss.' hissed Frank, punching the air. 'Got the weaselly

bastard. If that doesn't give Tommy a hard-on, his dick has died and gone to heaven.' He caught the expression on the bankers' faces. 'Sorry, gents.'

'And there is this. At the bottom of the bag.' The clerk's cotton-gloved hands smoothed out a piece of paper. It was a list of figures.

£22,400-£5

£15,000-£1

£18,200-£1

£14,000- £5

£10,000-?

£5,000-1 Os

FRA- £1,000

Flat – £2,000

Car – £1,000

£12,500 – Dennis

£1,500 – Brab

The Senior Clerk watched the policemen's lips moving as they performed the mental arithmetic. 'In case you are wondering,' he said, 'it comes to one hundred and nine thousand and five hundred pounds.'

'It must be his share,' said Billy. 'Although it doesn't seem enough.'

Frank snorted. 'It'd do me. Maybe minus some expenses or drinks. Bobby Pelham's lot isn't there, is it?' He read it one more time. 'What's a Brab?'

'Brabham,' said Billy. 'Might be a new engine or something. You can't buy a Brabham car for that.'

'And Dennis?'

Billy thought, sifting through the dozens, no, scores of

names which had been linked to the robbery. 'Can't recall a Dennis ever coming up.' 'FRAP'

'Nope. Franny? Bruce Reynolds's wife?'

'Unlikely. A Frank somebody, perhaps. I'm sure Tommy will get to the bottom of it when he questions the lad. Well, we'll bag the list and get it to Aylesbury for him. Yet another exhibit. Must be like the bloody V and A in their evidence room.'

There were already more than a thousand items that could be used as evidence, and the witness list – which included virtually anyone who had come across the accused – had passed two hundred. It was going to be a very big number indeed.