Signal Red Part 38

'Gordy never left any prints either. Careful, see?' Len hissed. 'And I reckon most of the prints were left after the robbery - when they got money-struck and sloppy. And we are sure Fortune was there before the take, not after. Put the paint in your pocket. Go on - get onto it. Right?'

'DS Haslam, Line Five!'

Len loped over and took the call and came back rubbing his hands together.

'What?' asked Billy.

'Money.'

'In the phone box?'

'Two potato sacks. They've just done a quick count.' Len clapped his hands with glee. 'We've just got about fifty thousand pounds back.'

Gordon Goody was going stir crazy. The small room above the pub on the river near Tower Bridge seemed to shrink by the day. Here he was, rich at last - and with the money well hidden - and he was like some kind of laboratory rat in a s...o...b..x. Now and then he went down to the pub and worked behind the bar, but it was risky. He was a big man, not the kind of character you would forget in a hurry. And he could never stop himself flirting with the girls. Couldn't be helped. Skirts were shorter, tops tighter, eyelashes, for the batting of, longer.

But he couldn't risk a bird up in that room. So far he had been very, very careful. The reason that his smudge wasn't plastered all over the front of the Daily Sketch was because they had no dabs at the farm. He had never, ever taken his gloves off. The others had been unlucky. A palm print from where his fabric glove had shrunk got Jim Hussey bang to rights. And Bruce? Mr b.l.o.o.d.y Sheen himself managed to get dusted. There was something fishy there, Gordy thought. Bruce with his prints on a ketchup bottle? Pretentious sod only ever used Lea & Perrins. Which suggested the Fewtrells and Butlers of this world would stop at nothing to bring them in. The job had proved too big to ignore, too much of a poke in the eye with a blunt cosh. b.l.o.o.d.y Buster and his cosh and that daffy c.u.n.t Tiny Dave. If that driver had not been thumped, the hue and cry would be that much less intense. But now they were baying for them.

Gordy looked at his watch. Not yet eleven. The day was crawling by. The pub would open soon and he would hear the noise of the customers through the floor, braying and shouting. He never served at lunchtime. Different crowd, all male, even some lawyers and coppers.

He had to do something though; he would end up topping himself if he had to watch the ceiling cracks for much longer. He reached into the bedside cabinet and found his address book. Locating the number he wanted, Gordy swung his feet off the bed, grabbed a handful of change and padded downstairs to the telephone by the Gents.

While he dialled he shouted to the landlord. 'Reg?'

The ruddy-faced Reg stuck his head out from behind the bar. 'You all right?'

'Can I borrow your car for a couple of days?'

Reg looked unsure.

'There's a nifty in it.'

Reg shrugged. 'Two days.'

Two days, fifty quid. Plus a monkey for the use of the room. Reg wasn't doing too badly. Even got a free barman now and then.

'Thanks,' Gordon said. Then: 'Sue? Is that you? It's me, Gordon. Right. Look, Sue, I know it's short notice, but do you fancy a get-together? Yes, that sort of get-together. At a hotel, on me. The Grand. Sounds perfect. Tomorrow? Well, dump him. You deserve better anyway. Well, me for one. Right. Tomorrow. Book it in your name, will you? And get some champagne on ice. What are we celebrating? Me seeing you again.'

Gordy put the phone down and walked through to Reg, who had unbolted the doors to open for the day's business. There were only a couple of regulars in at that time of day and they didn't even look up from their papers. Gordy's stomach rumbled as he caught the aroma of the homemade pies that the pub dished out at lunchtime. He pulled a couple of pound notes out. 'Reg, can you send your boy to Woolworths? Get me a couple of spectacle frames with plain gla.s.s in them.'

Reg took the money. 'OK.'

'And does your missus have any hair-dye?'

Reg had a traditional landlord's build, with sizeable beer belly and a florid complexion. Marjorie was whippet-thin and exuded a blowsy glamour. 'What shade?'

'Not blonde.' He pointed at his scalp. 'Darker than tin*.

'I'll ask. If she hasn't, I'll tell her to get you sonic.'

'Thanks.'

'What is it, Gordy?' smirked Reg. 'Fancy dress, Who you going as?'

Gordy smiled back. 'Clark bleedin' Kent.'

Billy Naughton stepped into the rowing boat and the lad from the hire shed pushed them off. Tony dipped the oars and pulled them away, heading out into the centre of the Alexandra Palace boating lake. It was a bl.u.s.tery day, with the sun piercing the cap of white cloud only infrequently. Apart from a couple of schoolboys playing truant to smoke f.a.gs, they had no company out on the water. Which was how they both wanted it.

'You know that they kept German civilians here, during the war?' Billy asked.

'No, I didn't, Mr Naughton. Is this to be a history lesson?'

'Recent history, Tony. It was your money, wasn't it?' said Billy.

Tony carried on pulling, settling into a good smooth rhythm. He was enjoying the exertion. 'What was?'

'In the phone box.'

Tony shrugged. 'Don't know.'

'Look, we know you were at the farm. We know you probably got a drink out of it. We know that on the day after we collared Roy's mechanic, someone dumped the money. Panicked, most likely. It's gone toxic.'

Tony laughed at the expression. 'What does that mean?'

'Corrosive. Poisonous. It's like King Midas, except everything it touches turns to s.h.i.+t.' Tony blew out his cheeks, as if accepting this was true. 'Roger Cordrey cops it by flas.h.i.+ng too big a roll of money. Charmian Biggs, she spends too much of it and gets herself noticed. The money left in Dorking woods - who was that for? Either way, he or they didn't make it in time, did they? Some guy with his trousers round his ankles found it. Ten-grand reward and a right earful from the wife for going off into the woods in the first place. Bobby Welch. We get a call that he is in a betting shop near London Bridge. Now who would tell us that? Maybe the bloke he left his stash with. Take Bobby out of the game, he can do what he wants with it because Bobby is looking at a fifteen, twenty jolt. Who else? Oh yeah, another Bobby - Bobby Pelham, the mechanic. Done for receiving. And you. I think your man panicked when he heard about Pelham and dumped the cash in the phone booth. What do you reckon?'

Tony had a good view of the ugly palace itself, with the transmitter mast that beamed out the evening BBC news. He began to describe a long, lazy circle around the edge of the lake. 'I reckon I remember you when you were some wet-behind-the-ears tenderfoot. About six months ago, that was. Now here you are lecturing me like you're Tommy Butler.'

Billy ignored that, saying, 'The thing is, you lot don't have much of a choice, do you? You either give your cash to someone who isn't in the life, in which case they are likely to panic. Or you leave it with some villain who, because they are by nature thieving b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, either takes it all or charges you an extortionate minder's fee. Right Shylocks some of them, so I hear.'

Tony stopped rowing. A duck paddled over, in search of food. It quacked plaintively then moved on. Tony fixed the copper with a hard stare. 'What is this about?'

'I'll tell you another interesting thing. The count written on the wrappers of that stash in the phone box added up to forty-seven thousand pounds. But there weren't forty-seven in notes. Only forty-two. It was five grand light. So whoever dumped it took a little sweetener and skipped. Am I right?'

Tony sighed. He was sure that wasn't the case. Or perhaps it was. Money changed everything. 'Can you blame him? It's a free-for-all.'

So someone had stiffed him, thought Billy. 'Roger, Charlie, Bobby, Ronnie, Tommy, Jim Hussey, Bill Boal-'

'What's this? Some kind of rollcall?'

'All I'm saying is, it's only a matter of time before we get the rest. Bruce, John, Buster, Roy, Jimmy White, Gordy and ... you.'

Tony began rowing again, pulling deep and hard. Did they have his fingerprints? No. Otherwise he would be in Aylesbury right now, facing Butler, Williams, Fewtrell or Hatherill or at Cannon Row with Slipper or one of the other DIs.

Billy placed a small brown bag, the top rolled over several times, on the seat between them. It looked like someone's packed lunch.

'What's that? A bribe? Doesn't look enough, Mr Naughton.'

'I'm meant to be spinning your place right now. In there are some flakes of yellow paint which, in the course of my perfunctory search, will find its way onto the bottom of a pair of your shoes.'

'Yellow paint?'

'From the garage at Leatherslade.'

Tony stared down at the bag, as if it was radioactive. He nudged it with his foot. 'I don't understand.'

'I'm meant to daub that on the sole of one of your shoes. Tomorrow, under the same warrant, a forensic officer will be sent over. He will discover said paint and take the shoes away for a.n.a.lysis.'

'Why are you telling me this?'

Billy hesitated. He wasn't 100 per cent sure himself. But he wanted to get rid of the temptation to ape Len once and for all. 'I'll just say this. You ever see George Hatherill in a pub, you send him over a drink.'

Gordon Goody parked the borrowed Morris Minor Traveller and checked himself in its mirror. His hair was several shades darker and he now wore tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses. There was nothing he could do about his height except stoop, but he didn't look like any picture of him they might have circulated. Just because one hadn't appeared in the press didn't mean the police weren't pus.h.i.+ng them around to stations throughout the country. Gordy's was one scalp they wanted very, very badly.

Satisfied with his new appearance, he fetched his holdall from the back seat and walked into the Grand Hotel, looking forward to seeing Sue Crosby again. She had been a hostess at Marbles, one of the better London clubs, and then won a Miss Brighton contest and had set up a small clothes shop in her hometown of Leicester. She and Gordy had not seen each other for two years, but they had the kind of relations.h.i.+p that could be picked up - or curtailed - without any recrimination or consequences.

Gordy approached the reception desk and beamed at the young woman behind it. 'Morning.' He couldn't keep the cheeriness from his voice.

'Afternoon, sir.' Well, it was two o'clock he supposed, so technically she was right. The girl had a black beehive with a slight flick at shoulder level and kohl-blackened eyes. She reminded Gordy of Susan Maugham, the singer of 'Bobby's Girl', and if he hadn't been here to see Sue, he might have spent some time on her.

'I believe my wife booked a room. Susan Crosby. I'm Mr Crosby.'

'Let me check, sir. Yes, here we are. Six-oh-two. You are the first to arrive, but I'm afraid it isn't ready as yet.' She pointed to the clock behind her. 'Check-in is at three, but I'll see what I can do to hurry it along. Would you like to take a seat? Or have a drink in the bar?'

Gordy looked at the row of glistening optics he could see through the archway to his left. 'How long?'

'Twenty minutes at most, sir.'

'I'll wait in the bar.'

'Very well, sir.'

As soon as the big man was out of sight, the receptionist burst through the door into the office and began to rummage around on her desk. Peter, the Duty Manager, looked up, perplexed.

'What's wrong?'

'Call the police.'

Peter rose to his feet. 'What's happened, Brenda?'

But Brenda had found the newspaper she was looking for and tore through it. The pictures had long vacated the front page, but often put in an appearance whenever an arrest was made. There, next to a story about Great Train Robbery money being found in a phone box, were the mugshots of the three wanted thieves. The top one stared out at the camera from behind hornrimmed gla.s.ses. 'It's him.'

'Who?'

'You won't believe this.' She showed Peter the picture of the bespectacled robber and tried to keep the thrill from her voice, the excitement of having a story she would repeat ad nauseam for the next few days. 'Bruce Reynolds has just checked in!'

Part Three

PROS & CONS.

Fifty-four.

Bedford Prison, October 1963.

Charlie found his prison visits bittersweet. It was wonderful to see Pat, to hear about the kids, but the inevitable moment of separation brought home to him just what might lie ahead: years of being apart from his family. The thought made him angry, but as he stood in the holding pen waiting for his name to be called through to the visitors' room, he tried to contain the fury building in him. There had almost been an incident in the kitchen that morning, a temptation with a pan of boiling water and a sneering screw, but Charlie had just smiled and walked away.

'Fourteen years,' the c.u.n.t had whispered in his ear. 'Fourteen on the Forty-Four.'

Special Order 44 was used to stop known a.s.sociates gathering and communicating in prison, just in case they got up to their old tricks. Or new ones, such as prison breaks. The screw was suggesting he would get fourteen years and never see his old mates again. As if the latter part worried him.

'Charles Wilson, table seven.' At least, being on remand, he had no number for them to bark out and he was wearing his own clothes. He still felt at least partially human. More so than the inst.i.tutionalised screws, he thought as he glared at one of those sad b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who slashed the peak of his hat so it came down partially over the eyes. You aren't in the Guards, mate, he thought. You are just a grown-up babysitter in a s.h.i.+tty gaol.

He pa.s.sed through the gate and into the depressingly bare visitors' room, where he expected to see John Matthew, his brief. As he recognised who it really was sitting at the other side of the table, Charlie kept his face impa.s.sive. He was good at that. Hadn't so much as glanced at Ronnie Biggs when they crossed in the exercise yard.

He sat down and, in a ritual repeated at tables across the room, the two men leaned in close, foreheads almost touching, voices low.

'f.u.c.k me,' said Charlie.

'I registered as Joe Gray.'

'Gordy, what are you doing here?'

'I came to tell you what's going on. I got picked up because some silly b.i.t.c.h thought I was Bruce. How f.u.c.king ironic is that? I was blond, then brunette, but underneath, I was a natural d.i.c.khead. Butler interviewed me, then I got released. On bail.'

'I heard.'

'Thought you might have thought it. . . you know, iffy.'

Charlie frowned, but said nothing.

'Butler had a pair of my shoes with yellow paint on them, from the garage at the farm. I'm on remand while tests are carried out.'

'No prints?'

'At Leatherslade? Nothing. I was worse than Bruce with the gloves.'

'What about the shoes?'