Signal Red Part 39

Gordy leaned in closer, until he could smell Charlie's sour breath. 'I never took them with me to the farm, Charlie. I'm sure of it. Butler's done me up like a kipper. I just wanted you to know I didn't do any kind of deal.'

'You silly c.u.n.t.' Charlie's face darkened. He made fists and the knuckles turned white. 'I know you're all right. Jesus, I'm not worried about anyone gra.s.sing. Not in our firm. That bleedin' driver of Ronnie's maybe, but not us.' Charlie thought for a minute, considering all he had just heard. His expression relaxed and his fists uncurled. 'You sure this is Butler's style? He might verbal you a bit, like he did me, but planting evidence? Not sure.'

'Doesn't matter if it's Butler or one of the others. That paint ties me to the farm, I'm cooked.'

Charlie didn't disagree.

'How you holding up?'

Charlie rubbed his forehead. 'So far, OK. They're talking about double-digits for it.'

'Come on,' said Gordy. 'It was a tickle. You only get that for murder now.'

Charlie shook his head. 'We didn't think what we was robbing, mate. We thought it was a train, didn't we?'

'It was a train.'

'Ah, but it wasn't British Rail. It was the Royal Mail.' He said it again, emphasising the first word. 'The ROYAL Mail. We n.o.bbled the Establishment. The Establishment will want to n.o.bble us back. Even if it does mean painting your shoes yellow.'

'Christ. What are we going to do?'

Charlie came in very close and spoke in a murmur. 'Ronnie and me pa.s.sed a couple of messages back and forth. We get fourteen years?' His eyes darted right. 'We're goin' over that f.u.c.kin' wall.'

Bruce returned to the flat in buoyant mood. It was the first time for weeks he had been out, but the smart moustache he had grown had given him confidence, as if it was a full-face mask. He had risked taking Franny into town, where he treated himself to a new haircut at Trumper's in Curzon Street, as well as a trim for the face furniture, followed by lunch at the Mirabelle, which cost a whopping fourteen pounds. Afterwards, slightly tipsy on a nice Fleurie, he had called at Coombs & Dobbie in Jermyn Street and ordered a pair of handmade shoes - under an alias, of course. They were twenty- six pounds. It would take two months to complete the order, the master cobbler reckoned. So he told them he would forward an address abroad where they could be sent when they were ready. The afternoon ended with champagne c.o.c.ktails at the Ritz, reminding him of happier times when they had celebrated the acquittal of Gordy and Charlie.

One day, well over fifty pounds down. But it was worth every penny: he had become used to sending Franny out with an 'escort'. She was a young woman, and needed to get out of doors, so Bruce had arranged a series of 'chaperones'. And anyway, even a hundred quid was nothing compared to what was being leeched off him by 'friends' and 'a.s.sociates' keeping him in hiding till he and Fran could skip.

So, pleased and still buzzing, he hailed a cab all the way back to the new place at Croydon. As soon as they opened the door, they knew something was wrong. An unfamiliar breeze was blowing through the flat.

'Did you leave a window open, Fran?'

'No.'

'Neither did I.'

The draught was coming from upstairs. Bruce took the steps two at a time, and found the open window in the spare bedroom. As he went to close it, he spotted the ladder that had been propped against the wall outside. He looked around the room with fresh eyes. It had been turned over, cases pushed aside, cupboards opened.

Burgled.

The b.l.o.o.d.y cheek of it. How f.u.c.kin' dare they?

'Coo-ee. h.e.l.lo.'

Bruce looked out of the window, at the neighbour waving from the garden next door. 'Are you all right?' the woman called. 'I saw it happen.'

'What, love?'

'The thief. I called the police. They should be here any minute.'

You interfering old cow. He bit his tongue. 'Thank you. Very kind of you. I don't think anything has been taken.'

'He was only in there five minutes. You must have disturbed him.'

Just then he heard the doorbell ring.

s.h.i.t.

Franny was behind him, wide-eyed with fear. He watched as she took a grip on herself. 'Get into bed, Bruce.'

Unused to taking orders from her, he hesitated. 'What?'

'Get your kit off and get into bed. Leave this to me.'

By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, Franny had undone her blouse and ruffled her hair. She yanked the front door open to reveal two uniformed Constables.

'Sorry to disturb you, miss.' The one who had spoken caught sight of her wedding ring and corrected himself. 'Madam. We had a report of a burglary at this address.'

'Yes, Officer. I mean, no. Someone did come in, but well, we made a bit of a racket and I think he got frightened. Nothing has been taken.'

'Do you mind if we take a look?' asked the older of the two coppers.

'Well.. .' She glanced nervously up the stairs, but snapped her head back when she realised her mistake.

'When you say "we",' asked the other one before she could formulate a decent excuse, 'who exactly do you mean?'

'Your husband?'

Right b.l.o.o.d.y Tweedledee and Tweedledumb, Franny thought. 'Not exactly.' She took a deep breath. 'Come in, Officers. We have the top two floors.'

They removed their helmets and entered, their boots thumping as they climbed the stairs.

'Second bedroom. Down the corridor at the end.'

Only one of them went into the spare room. The other hovered outside as she came up. He pointed down the corridor. 'What's in there, madam?'

'The master bedroom.'

'Mind if I take a look?'

He was in before she could object and she heard his exclamation of surprise at the sight of a naked man in bed at five in the afternoon.

'Blimey,' said Bruce. 'Is s.e.x with a woman against the law now?'

The policeman laughed. 'Not yet, sir. And you are?'

'He's not my husband,' said Franny, blushing a deep red. 'We were in here when we heard a noise. Thought nothing of it, so we carried on.'

Bruce nodded to confirm her story. 'That's right. Then we heard a crash, I got up, but whoever it was had scarpered.'

The policeman looked puzzled. 'And you came back to bed?'

It was Bruce's turn to look baffled. 'We hadn't finished.'

'Right.' The officer put his helmet down. 'And your husband?'

'Works on the ferries. To the continent.'

'I'll take a name if I may, sir,' the copper said, with all the disapproval he could manage.

'Ca.s.savetes,' Bruce said, blurting out the first name that came into his head. 'John Ca.s.savetes.'

'Ca.s.sa-what? Can you spell that?'

Bruce did so.

'Address?'

'Forty-eight Margrove Close, Purley.'

The younger policeman poked his head into the room. Bruce sank further into the bed, feeling very vulnerable in only his underpants. 'You sure nothing was taken?'

'No, Officer,' said Franny. 'It's only junk in there.'

'Very well,' said the copper, closing his book. 'We may send someone round to dust for fingerprints, just in case.'

'Good idea,' said Bruce. 'You can catch a lot of villains with prints, so I hear. Those that make a career out of it, I mean.'

The copper just frowned at him. 'And your name, madam?'

'Frances Craddock.'

'But her friends call her f.a.n.n.y. Obviously,' said Bruce. 'Do you mind if I get dressed?'

'Of course, sir. You might be hearing from us. We will need your prints too.' 'Oh?'

'Just to eliminate you from any at the scene.'

'Only too happy to oblige,' said Bruce.

When she had shown them out, Franny rushed back upstairs and leaped onto the bed next to Bruce. The pair of them burst out laughing.

'f.a.n.n.y Craddock?' he asked.

'John Ca.s.savetes??'

'I almost said Stirling Moss.'

'You pushed your luck there. What if he had been a film fan?' She watched as Bruce's smile gradually faded. 'What is it?'

He jumped out of the covers, knelt down and pulled out the attache case from under the bed. He opened it and looked inside. The money was untouched. It was only what Franny called pin money, about three grand, but still, its loss would have hurt. 'I haven't been out for weeks,' he said bitterly. 'The one time I do, someone turns the place over. Too much of a coincidence, you ask me.' The money was a magnet. Some idiot obviously thought he slept with a hundred and fifty grand under the mattress.

'Does this mean we've got to move again?'

He nodded. 'It does. Especially as they'll be back for dabs, Mrs Craddock.'

'Not for a while, Mr Ca.s.savetes.'

'No, indeed.'

Franny yanked the partially unb.u.t.toned blouse over her head and Bruce slid back under the covers. 'Brilliant bit of acting,' he said, reaching round to undo her bra as she struggled with her skirt's zip. 'I'll tell you what, Mrs Craddock.'

'What's that?'

'Now you're cooking with gas.'

Fifty-five.

Denmark Hill, South-east London, 22 November 1963 Frank Williams wasn't sure why Buster had chosen Sidney Dart as his go-between on this one. Sidney was as slippery as an eel in a bucket of snot. An electric eel, at that, because he could always give you a sly shock. He was six-foot two and was so wide he appeared to be made of two men compressed into one. They met at the Royal, a pub on Denmark Hill, neutral ground for both of them. After pleasantries and beer, Sidney got down to it.

'How much would Buster have to deliver? If he was to get consideration for it?'

'All of it,' said Frank as he took the first third of the beer down in one large gulp.

Sidney found something to work at in his ear. 'There isn't all of it left.'

'Can you stop that, it's disgusting.' Sidney extracted his finger and examined the end of it, as if expecting to find a gold nugget stuck to the nail. 'I know he'll have expenses, but there's got to be over a hundred left. Unless you are charging him by the hour.'

'I'm just the go-between, Mr Williams. A friend. What Buster is worried about is someone - not you - st.i.tching him up for something he had no part of.'

'n.o.body is doing any fitting-up.'

Stanley didn't look convinced. 'That's not what Gordon Goody is saying.'

'Oh, right. Gordon Goody wasn't there, is that what you are trying to tell me? That we have the wrong man?'

Sidney took a slug of his beer and said nothing.

'Spare me the bleating about him. Gordy is overdue and you all know it. Now, what is Buster worried about?'

'The driver.'

'Jack Mills? Buster coshed the driver?'