Signal Red Part 8

Charlie winked at him. 'Don't whistle.'

Buster felt the pouch of the briefcase that held the cosh. A little spark of antic.i.p.ation shot through him and he let the adrenaline flow, enjoying the thump of his heart.

A bell pinged and the doors slid back. Both men stepped smartly into the empty lift. Charlie looked at his watch and jammed his umbrella against one of the doors. 'Two minutes, yet. Don't want to be too early.'

Buster eased the cosh from his case and put his right hand behind his back to keep it out of sight. Anyone entered and made a fuss about a jammed lift, he'd take care of them.

Outside Comet House, the Bedford security van had pulled to a stop in front of the revolving door and the hinged gla.s.s double doors beside it. The police Wolseley slotted into place behind the armoured vehicle, allowing enough room for the guards to gain access to the rear of the Bedford. The supervisor came round from the front seat, banged on the door and the two guards inside opened up. The trolley was manhandled out and the four boxes quickly placed on it. The door was slammed shut again.

In the police car, one of the officers was surrept.i.tiously reading the sports pages of the Herald, spread out on his knee. 'You know what? I wouldn't mind doing some b.r.e.a.s.t.stroke with that Anita Lonsbrough.'

The driver shook his head, more in pity than disgust. 'You wouldn't mind doing some b.r.e.a.s.t.stroke with Dorothy in the canteen.'

'Leave it out. I do have some standards.'

'Yeah. Low ones.'

The lead Jaguar, driven by Roy, rolled to a smooth halt in the parking bay ten yards behind the police Wolseley. Roy feigned disinterest, but from the corner of his eye he watched as the two security guards started to push the trolley towards Comet House and the bas.e.m.e.nt vault. A third man appeared to be riding shotgun. But without the shotgun, just a baton dangling at his belt.

'Seats,' Roy said quietly.

Janie exited the rear and moved quickly to the pa.s.senger seat next to Roy. Tiny Dave quickly collapsed the two folding seats and remained crouching, his powerful thigh muscles able to take the strain for as long as need be.

Roy again looked in his mirror. He could tell that Ian, the other heavy in the back of Mickey's Jag, was also dismanding his stool. Excellent. Ten past ten and all was well.

Still crouching, Tiny Dave reached into his inside pocket. From it he extracted a new quarter-inch chisel and removed the red plastic cover protecting the tip. He gripped the handle like a knife, careful not to catch anything with the unused, factory-sharp business end.

At eleven minutes past ten, the two guards plus the supervisor entered the foyer.

'Morning!' the supervisor shouted to the male receptionist. One of the guards pressed the lift b.u.t.ton. Nothing happened. The supervisor stepped in and stabbed it repeatedly. 'Come on, come on,' he grumbled. 'Is this lift OK?' he yelled at the receptionist.

The lad shrugged. 'As far as I know. Could be someone holding it while they load stuff in. It happens.'

The supervisor muttered a curse under his breath.

Somewhere in the shaft above them a distant bell pinged and an arrow above the metal doors illuminated, showing that the lift was on its way down.

'About b.l.o.o.d.y time.'

'Bacon b.u.t.ty after this,' said one guard.

'Starvin',' agreed the other.

The supervisor tapped his foot impatiently.

Billy Naughton approached the suspicious car at a crouch. There was a driver in the front, he could see the silhouette, but no pa.s.sengers. He moved towards the rear so he could check the registration on the plate. It was the right car. A Morris Oxford.

Another aircraft came in low over his head, the screech of jet engines swirling around him, and his walkie-talkie squawked. He ignored it. What was this one up to? he wondered as he sprinted round and yanked the driver's door open.

Gordy, Bruce and Harry had reached the bottom of the stairs some minutes ago and watched the trio of security men waiting for the lift to arrive.

'Now?' asked Harry.

'Not yet,' said Bruce. The word had barely left his lips when the doors to the elevator began to separate and a louder bell sounded. 'Now!'

Gordy was out first, his long legs closing the distance between stairwell and reception desk in a few lengthy strides. He looked at the duty receptionist, a young man with bad spots, and decided he would give them no trouble. At the same time, a second internal voice told him it was always best to play it safe. Kid might be a black belt in karate, after all. Behind him he could hear Bruce and Harry crossing to the guards, the metal tips on Harry's shoes ringing on the parquet.

A puzzled look on his face, as if he wasn't certain what was occurring, the receptionist automatically reached for the internal telephone. Gordy whipped off his hat and brought it down on the kid's hand. It made a dull clang as metal hit bone. The lad, his expression transformed into a mask of shock and pain, buckled at the knee and he went down, disappearing from view.

Not a black belt after all, thought Gordy.

The driver of the car shrank into his seat as the door was pulled open and a wild-eyed figure lunged in at him.

'Who the f.u.c.k are you?' yelled Billy as he grabbed at a lapel and pulled the lad close to him.

'Who the f.u.c.k are you?' retorted the young man, raising his hands to cover his face.

'Flying Squad.'

'What? I ain't done anything. Honest.'

It sounded as if he was about to cry. Either he was a very convincing actor, or he really wasn't up to no good. Billy relaxed his grip. 'What are you doing here?'

The lad fumbled in his pocket and produced his airside pa.s.s. 'I work over there. Just showing the car to a mate. He might buy it.'

'Here? At the airport?'

'Perimeter road, it's a good place to try a motor out. Straight up.'

's.h.i.t,' said Billy, letting him go and stepping back. His walkie-talkie crackled once more. This time he answered it.

Unaware as yet of the commotion at the reception desk, the guards stepped aside as the lift doors opened, intending to let the smart gentlemen within pa.s.s out.

The supervisor felt a thump on the side of his head and stumbled. He'd been fetched a tremendous blow with an umbrella from Harry.

One of the guards, realising a s.n.a.t.c.h was in progress, whipped out a baton and smacked it down hard on Bruce's head. Bruce staggered a little, but recovered. The guard, puzzled, raised the baton again. As he did so, Buster swung his cosh and caught the guard in the jaw. There was a sickly cracking sound. He did it again and the man crumpled into a heap. Buster leaned over for a coup de grace when he felt Gordy's hand on his arm. Gordy indicated three p.r.o.ne men, all with blood on their faces, each groaning and out of the game. Charlie, Gordy and Harry were all panting from the short, sharp skirmish. Bruce was pulling the laden trolley clear of the fallen men. The first part of the s.n.a.t.c.h was over.

'What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l's going on in there?' shouted the police driver, trying to make sense of the melee through the distortion of the gla.s.s windows.

His partner looked up reluctantly from the newspaper and his tawdry fantasies. 'Jesus Christ, someone's havin' it.'

He scrambled to leave the car, extracting his truncheon as he did so, while the driver reached for the radio handset to call it in.

As the copper left the car, Tiny Dave and Ian bent down and stabbed the rear tyres of the police car with the chisels. The Dunlops exploded in a rush of fetid air.

When the policeman turned to investigate this new occurrence, Tiny Dave swung at him repeatedly with his phony umbrella. Under the rain of blows, the copper fell back; two more sharp raps on the head and he was on the deck. Ian, meanwhile, had jerked the driver out of the car and felled him with a blow from the steel bowler.

Tiny Dave gave Roy and Mickey the thumbs-up.

The two Jags swung around the police cars and reversed up to the entrance in a cloud of exhaust smoke, slotting neatly either side of the Bedford armoured car.

The ap.r.o.n outside Comet House was quickly full of men, some of them carrying strongboxes.

'Get the doors!' yelled Bruce.

The rear doors of the Jaguars were yanked open.

They had rehea.r.s.ed this dozens of times, but Bruce knew amnesia could strike even the most well-prepared team. So he carried on with the instructions. 'Put the boxes where the back seats were.'

The strongboxes, two per Jaguar, were slotted in to form new rear seats.

'Blankets.'

A cover was thrown over the boxes.

'Get in. Move it.'

Three men clambered in and sat on top of each of them. The doors were pulled shut.

Mickey was first away, tyres squealing and smoking, heading west away from Comet House towards the exit gate.

Please G.o.d, let them not have replaced the chain, thought Roy as he accelerated after him.

The young receptionist, sure that the robbers had fled, reached over and pressed the alarm b.u.t.ton with his undamaged but unsteady hand. A siren screeched around the hallway; he knew a similar sound would be torturing the ears of those down in the strongroom and at the local police station. Then he slumped back down and cupped his good hand over his nose as his palms filled with the blood streaming out of his nostrils. Fear had burst the vessels in his nose.

The felled driver of the police car, his vision still blurred from the blow, managed to crawl back inside the Wolseley and grab his handset. He pressed the transmit b.u.t.ton. When he spoke, his voice was thick, the words slurred. It was as if brain and jaw muscles were no longer in sync. But he was certain he could make himself understood. 'h.e.l.lo, control. h.e.l.lo, control. This is Romeo Romeo Alpha. Robbery in progress .. .'

Mickey slithered the Jag to a halt next to the exit gate in the perimeter fence. Gordy, primed for action, was out of the car while it was still rolling. He ran to the gate, lifted the chain and pulled at the phony link.

Nothing happened. The chain held.

Roy heard his anguished shout of 'f.u.c.k!' even over the idling engine. As he braked to a full stop, he wondered how long it would take before Gordy abandoned the trick linkage and fetched the cutters. Time was ticking away.

But Gordy held his ground, tugging at another link, then a third and finally, on the fourth, it pulled apart. He turned, a grin slapped across his face, like he was a turn on Sunday Night at the London Palladium.

'f.u.c.k's sake,' yelled Roy to n.o.body in particular. 'Get a move on.'

He checked the mirrors. All was still quiet behind them, although he had no doubt the alarm had been raised. They were still in the stunned phase of the blag, when the victims couldn't quite believe what had befallen them, but that wouldn't last much longer.

Gordy pulled open the left-hand gate fully and pushed the right one partly back, giving just enough room for the cars. Mickey took the Jag through, pausing only for Gordy, who had reconnected the phony chain-link, to throw himself into the rear. Roy ducktailed out into the Bath Road traffic after them. He floored the accelerator, feeling the wheels spin. Careful, he reminded himself. Wheelspin was a sign of nerves, of too much right foot, not enough finesse.

The little Austin A40 came from nowhere, reversing with speed and precision, powering at him like a tiny green rocket, ready to cut off his escape.

Roy used the little drift he had got into with the wheelspin and allowed the back to come round, blipping the throttle and going onto opposite lock. He could see the face of the other driver, flat cap, a mask of hate beneath it. Some do-gooder hero, no doubt, out for a headline.

The cars made contact, the Mk 2's rear panel smacking into the A40, but side on, lessening the impact. Both cars rocked to a halt, engines still burbling. Roy hoped the wheel arches had held. He didn't want torn metal to shred a tyre on the A4.

In the rear, Bruce raised his brolly like a rifle at the Good Samaritan. The man ducked. Roy gave the Jag a tentative press of the throttle and snapped the light embrace of the Austin. With one last wiggle as the power went down, the Jag, its pride only slightly crumpled, leaped away from the encounter and weaved its way through the traffic, heading for Hounslow.

As Roy dropped the car's speed to blend in with the regular folk, a whoop of joy and relief came from the rear. Janie lurched across at him. Roy felt the wetness of her mouth on his cheek and allowed himself a little smile of victory. Done it.

10.45 a.m. Billy gave his call sign and waited for a reply. There was just a stream of profanity, spat out over the airwaves. 'Say again?'

It was Duke on the radio, his voice full of anger and fear in equal measure. 'f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.l, Billy, there's been a wages s.n.a.t.c.h.'

Billy's mind couldn't quite grasp what was being said, distracted by the failure of protocol. 'Over?'

'f.u.c.k "over", you silly c.u.n.t. A wages s.n.a.t.c.h at Comet House. At the airport.'

Billy felt a surge of acid into his windpipe and his bowels loosened. 'I don't-'

'London Central Airport. At Heathrow.' Billy stared up at the sign that said Gatwick Airport: Authorised Personnel Only. 'Don't you get it, Billy?' The voice was almost a falsetto now. 'You've been sold a pup. We're at the wrong b.l.o.o.d.y airport. O-f.u.c.kin'-ver.'

Fourteen.

From the Daily Sketch, 28 November 1962 In a daring raid yesterday, members of a gang wearing bowler hats, false moustaches and carrying briefcases to make it appear they were businessmen carried out a cosh raid on wages clerks at Comet House, London Airport, and stole in excess of 50,000. The money had been transported from a nearby Barclays Bank and was destined for the BOAC pay-roll.

The robbers fled the scene in two high-powered Jaguar saloon cars, later found abandoned. Detective-Inspector Hugh Jarvis who will be leading the investigation said yesterday that they were looking for a criminal gang of: 'At least six men and one woman. We are appealing to any witnesses who saw the cars being driven to the airport or anyone who saw suspicious activity there in recent weeks. This a well-organised gang, and the raid took careful planning, but I would remind the public these are dangerous men.'

Police believe that very few criminals in the capital have the audacity and skill to carry out such a raid. 'It is only a matter of time before we learn their names,' a Scotland Yard spokesman said, although he did not dismiss the conjecture that there might have been 'foreign elements' involved completely. 'Crime is an international business now,' he added.

All airports and ports are being watched. DI Jarvis said anyone with information should not approach the men, but call Whitehall 1212. A reward is expected to be offered.

Fifteen.

London, December 1962 The highlight of the week following the airport job was its appearance on Shaw Taylor's Police 5, which Roy watched in his flat above the Battersea garage. The police had discovered the Jags eventually, abandoned in Hounslow. They had also found the BSA motorbike, because the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d machine had failed to start for Roy. He had been forced to leave the area by bus, while Tiny Dave had driven the Co-operative furniture van to Norbury with the cashboxes and Mickey and Buster in the rear. The others had taken Tubes, trains and taxis.

Still, finding the cars had yielded nothing, because everything had been very well wiped down. Roy had used T-Cut abrasive cream on the doors and handles of the Jags to take off the top layer of paint, turpentine and thinner elsewhere. Those handling brollies and hats had been careful to wear gloves. So there were no latent dabs there. If there had been, they wouldn't all have been sitting in their respective homes or hangouts, watching Police 5.

'And did anyone see these two cars? Very smart Jaguars. Both stolen a few weeks before their use as getaway vehicles. They must have been stored somewhere.' Shaw Taylor adjusted his trademark thick-framed black gla.s.ses as he stared at the camera. 'Perhaps in that lock-up down the road? That disused factory? Were there any strange comings and goings in the middle of the night? If so, call the number I shall give you at the end of the show.'

Shaw Taylor moved to the rear of the Jaguar, hands in his sheepskin jacket, breath clouding the air in front of his face. Must have filmed this early in the morning, thought Roy. Taylor fished out one of the steel umbrellas and the metal bowlers from the boot. 'And look at this.'' He clashed them together. 'Solid metal, painted to look like the real thing and used to inflict - he shuddered - 'horrible injuries on innocent men. Make no mistake, these are not Robin Hoods or William Tells, fighting the Sheriff of Nottingham or Landburgher Gessler. These are vicious greedy crooks who have stolen the wages of hard-working men and women.'

Yeah, yeah, thought Roy as he turned off the TV and watched the image implode to a white dot. Not that many wages. When they had opened the cashboxes it was found that each contained around 15,000, rather than the 150,000 they had hoped for. Once the expenses were covered, Tiny Dave, Ian and Harry bunged a few grand, The Frenchman - one of the underworld's financiers who had laid out a few grand to help with set-up expenses - reimbursed and given his whack, there was only a pittance left each. And Bruce had insisted on 'taxing' that, creaming off enough to create a fund for the next job. The next 'Big One'.

It was a crying shame. It had been slick, daring and fast, and n.o.body got hurt. Well, a few headaches, but not much more. Certainly not the 'horrible injuries' Taylor had mentioned. No thanks to Buster though, who complained he never got to use his homemade cosh in real anger.