Robert Ryan: Signal Red

'Thank you, gentlemen,' he said. 'We'll take it from here.'

'You have to sign our count,' replied the Senior Clerk, pushing a document over to Frank.

The detective fished a pen from his jacket pocket and scrawled his name on the three sheets. 'I'm certain we'll be seeing you again.'

'Yes,' drawled the Senior Clerk, picking up his briefcase and hat. 'Just another two million or so to locate, I believe.'

'Piss off,' muttered Frank under his breath as they closed the door behind them.

'Where's Len, by the way?' he asked Williams. Duke rarely missed a chance to be at the finale of any collar, and they also had their notes for the previous evening to write up, in case they were called into the box to refute James's claim that he had never seen the BEA bag before.

Frank was busy wriggling his fingers into a set of the white gloves with which he would handle the compromising evidence. 'Len? He's got that warrant.'

It was the first Billy had heard about it. 'What warrant?'

'To turn over Tony Fortune.'

Billy swore softly. 'Home or showroom?'

'I don't know. Be in the Duty Book.'

Billy was out the door before he had finished. Frank's voice echoed down the linoleumed corridor as Billy skidded along it.

'Oi! I need a hand here. Where are you going?'

But Billy's mind was too occupied to even register the question. A baker's dozen, he had said. Len Haslam was going to take Tony Fortune down.

Buster Edwards risked going up top from the airless cabin he had been assigned on the stubby little freighter, but he took his case of money on deck with him. He positioned it between his feet and leaned on the rail. The ship was old, it stank of diesel and greasy food. His cabin was close to the engines, noisy and hot. He could have had one on the Canberra for the price he was paying for this crossing. And there would be food then. He was starving; all he had eaten while hiding in the cargo area in the shadow of the Custom House had been one cheese sandwich.

He let the chill breeze clear his airways, enjoying even the scent of the molasses factory by the Blackwall Tunnel which it carried. It reminded him of a brewery, rich and hoppy. The wind whipped at his hair and he leaned forward and looked down at the dirty old river churning beneath the hull.

The freighter steamed away from St Katharine's Docks, vibrating its way downriver, passing the first saw-toothed outline of the still-derelict warehouses of Wapping. Buster watched Tower Bridge shrink and then disappear as the ship

rounded a bend in the river. Would he ever look upon that bridge, or any other Thames crossing, again?

He had seriously considered giving himself up, but such was the frenzy about the Train, he was certain they would get double-digit sentences. He trusted Frank Williams, as much as he trusted any copper, but there was only so much the man could deliver on any promise. So, there had been no real choice. Buster could wait for them to come and get him or he could leave.

It had meant abandoning June, which pained him, but she would be all right. She had instructions to go to Williams once he was clear and tell him he had gone and to leave her alone. He was sure Frank would. None of the Squad cared much for prosecuting wives.

He had also left Bruce in London, still planning the details of his own escape and waiting for his fake documents. Buster was bound for Antwerp and then Germany.

'Mr Miller.' It was the captain, a hawk-faced Dutchman with a scraggly blond beard, standing behind him. 'You should go below. Stay out of sight. I'll call you for meals.'

'In a second. Just saying goodbye.'

'Don't be long. The crew get curious about passengers who carry their cases with them everywhere. If you understand me.'

Buster looked down at the cash between his feet. 'Thanks. Yeah.'

Mr Miller. He had to remember that he was no longer Buster Edwards, he was Jack Miller. Different name, then different face – Brian Field had friends of friends in Germany who could arrange plastic surgery. Then he would send for June and they would settle somewhere in the world, far away from Butler and Co. Mexico, Bruce had said

he fancied. Mexico sounded pretty good, Buster thought. And then a little voice in his head said, But not as good as London.

The weather was changing; the wind strengthened, moving from chilly to biting, and the sky darkened ominously, but Buster waited until they were level with Greenwich, and he admired the lines of the Cutty Sark and the beauty of Sir Christopher Wren's Naval College one last time, before he went below to his temporary prison, feeling dark clouds of his own gathering.

Tony Fortune was under a TR4, fitting a new clutch without the benefit of an aligning tool – Paddy seeming to have either hidden it or taken it – when he became aware of someone standing next to the car.

'Be with you in a mo'.'

'Take your time, Tony. No rush. We put the Closed sign up for you.'

Tony pushed himself out from beneath the chassis using the wheeled trolley underneath him. He was looking up at a grinning Len Haslam. He could hear car doors being opened and shut, out in the showroom. 'What's this?'

Len flipped open a piece of paper. 'I have here a search warrant to execute.'

Tony jumped to his feet, wiping his hands on his overalls. 'For what, exactly?'

'We have reason to believe that proceeds from the Sears Crossing Train Robbery-'

Tony grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the last of the grease from his fingers as he walked to the front of his premises. Three uniformed police officers were examining each car in turn.

'They won't find anything.'

Len folded his arms, the smirk still on his face. 'Let's see.'

He watched as the three coppers gave the little Goggomohil bubble car the once over and came up clean. Len's smile began to fade. 'Do it again.'

After ten more minutes, the copper shook his head. 'Shall we rip out the seats and panels?'

'You could,' said Tony. 'Then you'd have to pay me for the damage. There's nothing to find.'

Len took a deep breath. His skin had turned mottled, aflame with patches of red. 'Well, Mr Fortune.'

'Well, Mr Haslam.'

'Come on, lads. We'll be back.'

As he walked by the tiny German car he gave it a hefty kick, and the door dented. 'Built of tinfoil, these things,' he muttered.

A breathless Billy Naughton was waiting for him outside. Len sent the uniforms back to the cars and turned to Billy, a scowl where the smile had been minutes before. 'You fuckin' little pissbag of a shit cunt.'

'No luck, Len?'

'What did you do?'

'I asked Tony if he had had a break-in recently. He said he had. Nothing taken but a radio. No log books or MOTs or other stuff a real criminal might take. What was it you planted? A skim from the phone-box money? Because that didn't quite add up, did it? When the bankers counted it, it was light a few grand.'

'I tell you, Goody-two-shoes, Hatherill won't save you this time. When Tommy Butler hears what you did-'

'What, stopped you fabricating evidence? I should have shopped you for Goody.'

'What's stoppin' you?'

Billy shrugged. 'It's not the way it should be.'

The punch surprised him, a sharp uppercut that clashed his teeth together and sent him bouncing off the showroom window. He slithered down to a crouching position, waiting for the stars he was seeing to fade. A powerful kick to the ribs finished him off, and through sparking tunnel vision, he watched Duke stride off, still muttering obscenities.

He must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew Tony was feeding him sweet tea and he was sitting in the workshop.

'You all right?'

Billy touched his jaw and winced. When he spoke, his tongue felt too big for his mouth, as if he'd traded places with an ox. 'Think I need a dentist.'