Signal Red Part 10

'Fair enough. He's the careful sort, is Gordy. Why don't you go and get a cup of tea?'

'Tea?' the DC asked, as if he never touched the filthy stuff. 'We've only the bedrooms and the loft to do.'

'And I want them done properly. Not the sudden spurt at the end when everyone thinks it's time for a cuppa. Come back refreshed.' He pointed at Billy. 'We'll hold the fort till you get back.'

The DC pointed down to the nylon sports bag Duke had brought along. 'Off to the gym?'

'Oh aye. Judo. Couple of throws on the mat. Nothing like it at the end of the day.'

The DC looked sceptical, but he waved his uniforms out.

Duke took out a fiver. 'Get them a sandwich, too.' The DC hesitated before he took it.

After they had left, Duke crossed to the c.o.c.ktail cabinet and opened it. 'Bird's eye maple, this. Pricy. Oh, looky here. Nice drop of Laphroaig. Fancy some?'

'Nah.'

'Come on.' He examined the bottle. 'It's not like he's marked it. Bent b.a.s.t.a.r.d isn't going to miss two snifters. Probably swag anyway.' He splashed out a generous measure into each of two cut-gla.s.s tumblers. 'Secret with this is, a drop of water.'

He returned from the kitchen beaming and handed Billy one of the gla.s.ses. 'Cheers.'

Billy just gave a tight smile. He wasn't sure he felt like toasting with the guy who had dropped him in this particular pile of s.h.i.t. He sipped his drink, his eyes watering at the rich, peaty aroma released by the few drops of water.

Duke grabbed an arm, steered him over to the sofa and pushed him down. He stood over him, a lopsided grin slapped onto his face. Billy felt an urge to punch it. 'Now look, Billy boy, I know you are p.i.s.sed off. Black mark and everything. But just imagine if that little s.h.i.t's tip-off hadn't been moody. The power and the f.u.c.kin' glory you would have got. Would you be sharin' that with me now? Would you f.u.c.k. But listen, old Millen is sayin' to George Hatherill, "Well, he's a new boy. Happens to us all. Give him some slack." More than they would for me. "c.o.c.ky c.u.n.t," they'd have said about me; "should have seen it comin'. Should have smelled it".' He sniffed his drink to emphasise the point and the grin returned. 'But all that could be water under the bridge if we make this stick on someone. That's all they care about. Arrests have been made - that's good. But what have we got so far?'

'A couple of IDs.' 'Right.'

'And the bolt-cutters.'

'Also correct. We have a man who fits Gordon Goody's description down to a T buying a ma.s.sive pair of bolt-cutters. Now, Gordy will claim they were for home dentistry. And by the time we come to court, the hardware bloke will have changed his mind.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Oh, I'd put a few bob on it. He'll get a visit from the chaps. Then he'll contract terminal amnesia. I know the type. He just wants to go back to his brown coat and his pound of nails. Not all of them will roll over, mind. But for Gordy . . . we need more than his word against a witness.'

'Such as?'

'Such as you going to take a peek under the bed?'

'He doesn't seem like the kind of man to put his loot under the mattress.'

'You'd be surprised. Go and have a butcher's.'

Curious, Billy went to the bedroom, got down on his hands and knees onto the soft cream carpet and peered at the s.p.a.ce under the bed. Empty. Not so much as a dust ball. He got up and went back out, bored with Duke's games.

'There's nothing th-'

The bowler hat came flying across the room at him, spinning almost at face level. Billy reached up to pluck it from the air and felt his fingers pushed back and a stab of pain in his wrist. 'Ow. s.h.i.t.'

The hat made a dull thump as it hit the carpet.

'There will be if you slide that under.'

It was one of the steel bowlers recovered from the scene. No prints, no indication who made them. Useless. 'Why?'

'I checked,' said Duke. 'Seven and three-eighths, give or take. Have a look at the trilby in the hall. Same size.'

Billy felt his stomach shrink when he realised what the DS was suggesting. 'Duke-'

'You know and I know that Gordon Goody is right for this. All we have to do is convince a jury of that. He bought the cutters three miles from the airport and he has previous. Oh, and guess where his neighbour used to work?'

He knew - the bloke had been a janitor at Comet House, but the neighbour had insisted it was mere coincidence.

'Circ.u.mstantial.'

Billy's face darkened. 'So is your career in the Squad at this moment. The hat puts him at the scene. The hat saves your skinny a.r.s.e. Because we get a result and it isn't a f.u.c.kin' fiasco. You live to fight another day.' He finished his whisky. 'Up to you, son. No, really. I can put it back in the bag here and have it returned to the shelf where it will lie gathering dust because it is of no use to us. Or we can make it count.'

Billy's mouth went dry and he was worried that, if he spoke, his voice would betray the tears he felt welling up inside. It wasn't the way he wanted to catch crooks, not what he envisioned at all. Oh, he knew it went on, the verbalising, the fit-up, but not him, he had always thought. Not Billy Naughton.

Against that, he had to stack the cloud he felt oppressing him every day, the looks and the mumbles in the Squad room. The new dread of showing his face at work at all. A work he loved. Perhaps Duke was right. It was better to live and fight another day. He left the room to find a spot under the bed where the local DS would discover the steel bowler.

Tony Fortune didn't like the atmosphere in the flat when he got home that evening. Marie had come back early from work at the bank and had made shepherd's pie. But she wouldn't catch Tony's eye as she laid the table. He opened the cupboard to fetch the sauce and found himself staring at a dozen bottles of HP.

'We'll be all right for sauce when the bomb drops then,' he said.

'They were on special offer. Just the peas to do. Want a beer?'

'All right.' He sat and flicked through the Evening News, to see if there was any more on the Heathrow job. He also wondered if Shaw Taylor's appeal had generated any leads. He hadn't had the Jags for long and had worked on them well away from Warren Street. Everyone involved had been paid handsomely, so there was n.o.body disgruntled. But there was the reward, that insidious cancer which might eat away at the cash-strapped. Tony determined to do a quick ring around, make sure everyone was sound.

Marie opened a brown ale for him, and then delivered the bowl of peas and the pie to the table. He sat up and stared across at her as she ladled out the food. She gave a thin smile. She looked tired, her brown hair needed a wash and she still had on one of those cheap synthetic drip-dry blouses she wore to work. Still, he felt a sudden burst of affection, possibly tinged with l.u.s.t, for her. He didn't speak until he had tasted the pie and nodded his approval. 'Lovely. You all right?'

She pushed the hair away from her face. 'Yes, love. Except... well, you know I had those pains the last couple of weeks?'

Tony recalled something about stomach cramps and ulcers, but he had been too distracted by his own concerns to pay much attention. 'Of course.'

'I went to the doctor, Tony.'

He felt a stab of nervousness. His mother had died of some female cancer. Cervical, that was it. He put down his knife and fork and gave her his full attention. 'And what did he say?'

'He says we're going to need a bigger flat.'

She burst into tears, and it was a good few seconds before he made the connection. The realisation hit him like a sack of wet sand. He was going to be a father.

Seventeen.

Cannon Row police station, December 1962 The young copper popped his head into the interview room. 'Be ready for you in about fifteen minutes, Mr Reynolds.' The lad nodded towards the empty mug on the table. 'Need a top-up?'

'No, thanks,' said Bruce. 'Tell you what though, wouldn't mind a paper. News or Standard. Might put a bet on later.' He tossed a shilling over.

The uniform frowned as he caught the coin. For a few seconds Bruce thought he had been rumbled. He was just about to give an it-was-worth-a-punt smile when the youngster said, I'll see what I can do.'

'I'd appreciate it.'

The door closed and he heard the bolt slide home with a clang that echoed around the bare, stuffy room. They were fishing. No, they were trawling, pulling in every one of the chaps they could. Roy James had warned him that humiliating the Flying Squad by selling them a dummy was not a good idea, that wounded pride made the detectives dangerous and reckless, much more likely to fit up whoever they fancied for the job. But Charlie especially had thought it too good an opportunity to miss, sending the coppers down to Gatwick while the firm did Heathrow. Priceless.

As Roy had predicted, they did react in the fevered way they had whenever a policeman got shot. And in their Old- Bill-in-a-China-Shop routine they had scooped up Bruce, Charlie, Gordy, Roy and Mickey.

Bruce had no idea what they had on him and acted as if there was nothing to be had. He was merely helping police with their enquiries. He hadn't even contacted a solicitor. Best be nonchalant, as if he really was giving every a.s.sistance, as if he was certain of his own innocence.

An ID parade. But who was going to eyeball him? The lavatory attendant? Surely he had seen Buster more times than Bruce. The security guards? The receptionist? None had got a decent look at him.

The young copper came back with an Evening Standard. Bruce flicked through it after he had gone, but the City gent gang was already old news. Kennedy had declared a blockade on Cuba, because he believed nuclear missiles were there. Four hundred people had been killed by a flash flood in Barcelona. China and India were going to war over a border dispute. What was a few grand lifted at Heathrow compared with that lot?

'OK, Mr Reynolds. I'm DS Haslam.' The young copper had been replaced by a plainclothes, older, rougher, baggier about the eyes. They were Flying Squad eyes, reddened and veined from booze and smoke. 'You know the score, I'm sure.' Bruce didn't bother disputing that it wasn't his first parade. 'Would you mind putting these on?'

It was a pinstriped jacket and a bowler hat. Bruce did as he was asked, irritated that the jacket was a size too big and came down to his knuckles and the hat-band was tight. 'If you'll come this way.'

As he left, Bruce grabbed the Standard, rolled it up and slotted it into the jacket pocket. 'Let's get it over with. My mum is expecting me for tea.'

Len 'Duke' Haslam smiled. 'I hope she hasn't baked special, Mr Reynolds.'

'Oh, she will have. My mum makes the best scones.'

'Let's hope you don't let her down then,' the detective said, in a tone that hoped for just that.

There were seven others in the open yard at the rear of the station. This less than magnificent group were already in a loose line, all in dark suits and hats, ready for the few bob they would pick up as concerned citizens doing their bit. They ranged from five-eight to six-four, with Bruce somewhere in the middle, and half had moustaches. The outside air stung, needle-sharp on his face, only just above zero. Bruce shivered, hoping this wouldn't take long. 'It's freezing out here,' he said.

'Shut it.'

'Why do you always have to do these things in midwinter?' he asked.

'We're hoping your b.o.l.l.o.c.ks drop off.'

Haslam positioned Bruce third from the end - he felt those bookending him move away slightly - and inspected the group, like an RSM on parade. He swapped a couple around and straightened the line, making sure the gap between Bruce and the others was closed up. Then he produced four fake moustaches, and pressed them onto the cleanshaven faces. He stepped back, then adjusted Bruce's 'tache. 'That tickles, DS Haslam,' he complained. 'I hope I don't sneeze.'

Duke Haslam said nothing.

When he was satisfied with his charges, he clicked his fingers and out came another detective, younger, with the witness. Bruce kept his face impa.s.sive as he recognised him. It was the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d from the Austin A40, the one who had backed across the gates to try and block them in. The one Bruce had taken careful aim at with his fake umbrella.

'Take your time now, sir,' the new copper said to the witness.

You could usually smell the nerves and fear on the poor sod who had to walk the line-up. It was no small thing, to face the suspected villain head-on and place the incriminating hand on the shoulder. He had seen plenty bottle it before. Not this one.

The old man - in truth he was probably no more than fifty, flat cap, bad dentures - strode down the line, pausing before each of the potential robbers, looking him up and down and peering into the eyes. 'Can you ask this man to squint?'

'Squint, sir?'

'Yes. Screw up his eyes.'

'Number three, would you mind s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up your eyes? Thanking you.'

A shake of the head and the witness moved on, until he came level with Bruce. Stay impa.s.sive. No smiles. No attempt to either ingratiate or intimidate. Neutral. Bored. Want to get back to your desk.

He watched as the eyes flicked down to the newspaper in his pocket. His brain would be processing that little prop. Why would a prisoner have a newly rolled-up newspaper in his jacket? Surely this was more likely to be one of the makeweights, pulled off the street, who had hastily pocketed his Standard.

Go on, you old b.a.s.t.a.r.d, put two and two together.

The witness moved on and Bruce saw a flash of irritation cloud Haslam's face. Bruce Reynolds didn't move a muscle, just let a slow stream of air - an extended sigh of relief - bleed from the corner of his mouth.

He would have warm scones for tea after all.

Jack Brabham's place was in Byfleet, Surrey. Although the racing cars with their Coventry-Climax engines bore Jack's name, the machines were princ.i.p.ally designed by Ron Tauranac, and the company was officially Motor Racing Developments, MRD for short. It wasn't until the first race of one of the new cars in France that they realised a drawback with the initials, when the announcer introduced Team MRD and the crowd t.i.ttered. Team MRD. Team Merde. Team s.h.i.t. The cars were hastily rebadged as Brabhams.

Roy James discovered the workshops were shuttered and locked. Yet he could hear the sound of car builders at work inside, the clatter of tools, the hiss of hydraulic and airlines. It didn't surprise him. Formula One teams disliked casual visitors who might just be coming to see how the monocoque or the water-cooling was configured.

He found a side door, with a bell, and pressed it. A feeble ringing sounded somewhere deep within the unit.

As he waited, Roy put his case down and wondered how Mickey was doing. Mickey f.u.c.king idiot Ball. It was a few weeks since they had all been lifted. Both Roy and Mickey pa.s.sed the ID parade, but Mickey had left part of his chauffeur's uniform at home. A pair of grey trousers. How stupid was it to go down for a pair of strides?

I hey earned Mickey a second ID parade and one of the harrier operators at Heathrow placed him at the scene.

On the positive side, Bruce had walked away, but Gordy was in trouble. False moustaches had been found in his flat, along with a bowler hat. Planted, of course, so Gordy said, although it was pointless saying that. He was going down the Fancy Dress Party defence route. Juries must think dressing up in silly costumes was an essential part of the villainous life. And there was an ID from the hardware-shop owner, saying it was Gordy who had bought the cutters, and another from a security guard. Charlie, too, had been fingered, in his case by the lavatory attendant.

The initial hearing was set for three weeks' time. It wasn't long to sort something out for the two lads. They wouldn't gra.s.s, that was for sure, which meant they were looking at a decent stretch.

'Yes?' The metal door swung open and a knotted face with hefty sideburns was staring at him.

'Ron in?' Roy asked.

'Busy.' From his accent, this was another Antipodean.

'Can you tell him Roy James is here?'

'What for?'

Roy suddenly put a name to the face. 'You're Denny Hulme, aren't you?'

The man relaxed a little. Belligerence softened into merely p.r.i.c.kly. 'Yeah. That's right.'

'I saw you race at Aintree. A second. You picking up a car?'

He shook his head. 'No. I'm the Service Manager here now.'