Signal Red (26 page)

'Per carriage. They've got a spare up there, remember.'

Bruce was speechless. The Glasgow link was already being well remunerated. He examined Brian's face, masked though most of it was by shadows, for signs of deviousness or naked avarice. He wouldn't be the first thief to pad his expenses.

Brian could read Bruce's expression. 'That's what they said, Bruce. They said if they were caught they'd be sacked. Had to be enough to make losing their job worthwhile.'

'How much do BR pay these days then?' Bruce snapped. 'Maybe we should just get a job on the rails.'

Brian spread his hands out, palms up. 'They'll have money to lay out too. Watchmen to be paid off for turning a blind eye.'

'So it begins,' said Gordy. 'The shape of things to come.'

Gordy was right. Once they got a sniff of a big payday, the jackals all appeared. The price of everything went through the roof. Especially Blind Eyes. It would be even worse when they had the actual cash in their hands. 'We haven't got much choice, have we? Tell them to go ahead.'

Brian showed a nervous flicker of teeth in the moonlight. 'I already have.'

'Hello, is that the police? Yes, my name is Charmian Biggs. Look, I'm sorry to bother you, but I don't quite know what else to do.

I'm at my wit's end. Sorry, I'm a bit tearful. Just a second. I'll have to blow my nose. This is a call concerning my husband, Ronnie Biggs. Ronald Biggs, yes. The thing is, he has gone off chopping wood in Wiltshire for some firm. No, it's just an odd job; he normally does painting and decorating. This is just a few days' casual work - well paid, he said. But I've just heard that his brother has died. So we are really keen to get hold of him, as you can imagine. No, Ronnie didn't even know he was ill, otherwise he wouldn't have gone. He is - was - very close to his brother. So I wondered, is there any way you can check on any woodcutting firms in Wiltshire? I'm sure that's where he said it was. Thank you, that's very kind. No, I'm sure you'll find him, and when you do I'm certain he'll be very grateful.'

Forty-two

London, 6 August 1963

'Charlie Delta Three to Foxtrot Delta Control. Have contact with silver Jaguar from the all-car message regarding a smash and grab. Proceeding along Langton Terrace. Over.' 'Roger that, Charlie Delta Three.'

'Control, I have with me DC William Naughton and DS Leonard Haslam. We are now turning into Keating Close. It's them, all right; he's seen us and he's put his foot down. Turning left into Baker Rise.'

'Charlie Delta Three, you're now car-to-car. All cars in Number One division switch to Channel Five. Repeat, Channel Five.'

'Control, this is DC Naughton. George, our driver, has his hands . . .Jesus! . . . his hands full at the moment. I shall transmit the details.'

'Very well, Charlie Delta Three.'

'The car vehicle identification on the Jaguar is bravo yankee romeo five zero two alpha. He's taking a hard right into Yates Street. He's really throwing it around now.

Ugh - sorry, dropped the handset. He's going mad ... so are we.'

'Anyone able to lend assistance to Charlie Delta Three, now pursuing suspect Jaguar from all-car message one-one- nine-six towards Kilburn against the traffic?'

'This is Tango Bravo Two, am heading down Abercorn Place to try and intercept.'

'He's kerbed it. Lost a hubcap. He's back on track. Trying to lose us on these corners. Just into Foster Place. Repeat, Foster Place. Fifty yards behind now. There's a bloody wood-entop standing in the road trying to wave him down. They'll have him. Jump, you idiot! Bloody hell. Hello, Control? Unknown PC managed to get a truncheon into their screen. Repeat, Jaguar now has no windscreen. They've punched it out. You should find that silly bugger and give him a commendation.'

'Roger that, Charlie Delta Three.'

'Into the tunnel at Finlay Street, touching seventy now. Going to lose radio cont— Hang on, one of the bastards has jumped out.'

'Please observe on-air protocol, Charlie Delta Three.'

'Charlie Delta Three to Control. One of the bastards exited the vehicle at the eastern end of the Finlay Street Tunnel. Suggest you send unit to search the area. He's probably hurt himself after coming out at that speed. Oh Lord, there's a school crossing. Lollipop man. Get out the way, you old fool! Jesus, he's going to hit him. Watch out, George . . . Watch out for the kids.'

'Charlie Delta Three? This is Control. Come in, Charlie Delta Three.'

'Clear though school, Control. Charlie Delta Three left onto Stanley Lane, by the gasworks. He's on the wrong side

of the road! He's swerving back over. That was close. No, he's clipped a lorry. All over the shop now. Steam. No, smoke. Smoke. He's got a puncture! He's slowing!'

'Control again. Reminder that suspects may be armed and dangerous, Charlie Delta Three.'

'Roger that. We are pulling over outside Marlowe House. They're getting out!'

'This is Tango Bravo Two. I have suspect Jaguar in sight, ready to assist Charlie Delta Three. Have DS Edward Boyle, an authorised firearms officer, on board.'

'Right. Charlie Delta Tango leaving vehicle to continue pursuit on foot. Fuckin' move it!'

'Charlie Delta Three. Please observe on-air protocol. Over.'

Forty-three

London, 7 August 1963

The sabotaging of the Mk. 2 HVP armoured carriages presented little difficulty. Tiny Dave and Tony both wore overalls and carried toolkits, and nobody questioned their right to be moving among the coaches in the middle of the day. In fact, it would have been a brave man who questioned Tiny about anything, given his size and the scowl on his face, which suggested he had been sent to perform some horrible task and was not happy about it. Tony had slid under the gleaming HVP while Tiny Dave kept a lookout.

With new, clean fittings still uncontaminated by dirt and grit, it was a simple matter to undo the nuts, free the pipes and stuff a mixture of Swarfega and iron filings into each pipe. Stan assured them it would play havoc with the vacuum, and the Post Office would switch to an older coach. Engineers would then take a day or so to come from BR or the GPO to see what was up with their new babies.

Still, by the time he climbed from under the carriage and headed back to the Morris Oxford with Tiny Dave, Tony's

face was streaked with grease and his hair felt like wire wool. He needed a shower.

As they drove away, he let out a sigh. 'Dave, do you mind if we swing by my place? We got plenty of time.' 'Where's that then?'

He gave him the address and Dave frowned. 'Holloway Road? Bit out of the way.'

'Nothing happens at the farm for another eight hours. Come on, Dave. The wife's about to drop one.'

'Yeah?' Dave looked sideways at him, to see if he was having him on. 'What's this job then? A christening present?' 'Something like that.' 'All right.'

'And I've got some brown sauce. The missus developed a bit of a thing for it for a few weeks. Bought loads of bottles. Now she can't even stand the smell of it.'

'My Jackie was the same with the boy. Marmite it was with her. Makes her gag now.'

They slid into the traffic, heading for his new house. It was a warm day, London finally bathed in full August sunshine, and Tony wound his window down. 'What will you do after this, Dave?' 'Bangkok.'

'Bangkok?' Tony asked, not sure where it was. 'I was in the Army in Malaya for a bit. Shootin' Commies. Went to Bangkok. Man, what a place.' 'You'll take Jackie?'

Dave looked at him as if he had just let one rip. 'Fuck off. Few months in Bangkok, on me tod, then I'll move to Hong Kong and send for her and the kids.' 'You kill any?' 'What?'

'Commies.'

'Fuck, yes. Shed-loads. That's one thing I don't understand about Bruce. Why we can't have guns. He's a funny fucker.'

'I don't think the GPO will agree after tonight.'

Reminded of what was at stake, Dave lapsed into silence, his meaty hands on the wheel, the car threading through London towards Tony's new place.

It was close to five by the time they arrived at the house. Tony slid out of the car, closed the door and put his head through the open window. 'Want to come in? Cup of tea?'

'Don't want to break up a nice domestic scene,' he said. 'I'll have a fag.'

'Won't be long. Get out of these overalls, grab the sauce, kiss the missus and be out.'

'Take your time.' Dave pointed down the road to the corner shop on Holloway Road. 'I'll get a paper.'

Tony took the five steps up to his house in one jump, wondering how it was going to be carrying a pram up and down. Maybe they should have gone for something without a raised porch. Like he'd had much say in it.

He put his key in the lock, stepped in and at once smelled strangers. Cigarette smoke, whisky and something stale wafted down the hallway.

'Marie?'

'Tony? That you?' The voice from the lounge was querulous.

Tony walked in. Marie was on the settee. Two men were sat in the armchairs. On the coffee table in between them were teacups and biscuits. He recognised the man on the left. It was the detective who had come with the Stolen Car Squad to the garage.

Marie pushed herself up to her feet, the strain making her face flush. 'Oh, Tony.'

'What is it?' he demanded of the two policemen.

But it was Marie who answered. 'It's Geoff. The silly bugger went and did a smash and grab.'

'Geoff?' Tony asked, not sure he was hearing correctly. 'Your brother?'

There was a strange noise and for a moment Tony thought a tap had been left running. Then Marie groaned with a mixture of shock and embarrassment as the carpet beneath her feet darkened. Her waters had broken.

Assistant GPO Inspector Thomas Kett walked along the platform at Glasgow station, watching the final preparations for the TPO's departure. It was his job to make sure the sorting ran smoothly during the journey, that each of the sixty-seven sorters in the ten regular coaches knew what had to be done. Each coach had its own supervisor, the majority old hands, so he had no concerns. The mail would get through to London and the south-east, as it did almost every night of the year, barring snowstorms and Christmas.

He reached the HVP, where British Transport Police and the GPO Inspectors were overseeing the loading of the last of the bright-red High Value mailbags containing cash. 'How many, Frank?' he asked.

Frank Dewhurst, Postman (Higher Grade) and in charge of the HVP carriage, consulted his clipboard. 'Ninety-two here. Another twenty or thirty to be picked up on the way down south. Bloody cage is going to be bursting. When do we get the new buggers back?'

The new coaches were fitted with much larger secure lockable areas, so the HVPs weren't crammed in like passengers on a rush-hour Tube. 'I dunno, few days at least, so they reckon.'

Thomas grumbled. The older HVP was draughty and noisy, as well as scuffed and threadbare after years of continuous service. Some of the pigeonholes were disintegrating, too, so if you weren't careful you ended the shift with a handful of splinters. The new ones had high-density plastic sorting trays. They had been given a teaser of what a modern coach could be like - decent kitchen, comfy seats - and a couple had run with a different crew the previous night and now they were told they were withdrawn. 'Who's with you in there?' Thomas asked.

'Just Les.'

Leslie Penn, a good lad, but still learning the ropes. 'What, just the two of you? To do all the sorting?'

'We'll pick up Joe Ware and Johnny O'Connor down the way.'

'Where?'

'Tamworth.'

'Bloody hell, Tom, that's almost the end of the line.'

Frank Dewhurst made a show of pushing up his sleeves, secretly pleased at having something to do other than walking up and down between the other coaches during the journey. He reached for the grab rail and hauled himself aboard the HVP. It smelled of old wood, leather, glue, string and brown paper. It was a kind of homely mix, Frank thought. 'If you don't mind, I'll lend a hand. Put the kettle on, Les.'

Frank looked at his watch and leaned back out the door, shouting up the platform to the driver climbing into the cab of the beefy English Electric diesel loco. 'Let's get this bloody thing moving. There's our mail to deliver!'

The driver, Jack Mills, a veteran of these night runs, smiled, let go with his left hand and flashed a not unfriendly V-sign. There was always banter between BR and the GPO. 'Hold

your horses. It might be your train, mate,' he yelled, 'but it's my effin' engine that has to pull it.'

'I counted ninety-two sacks into the HVP, although that is likely to be added to. Second carnage as always. And one of the older types. How much? I don't like to speculate. Over one million, clear. Maybe one and a half. Will that do you? I thought so. Right, that's me out of here. I'll tell Brian where he can leave my whack and Mark's as well. Plus drinks for the lads up here. The ones who fixed the coaches. No, I'll stay away from Glasgow. Mark will collect his down there. I'm coming south, too. Just in case Glasgow gets too hot for me. They are bound to know someone tipped you the wink. Right, there she goes, out of the station. A minute early, too. Over to you boys. And by the way, good luck. It's your train, now.'

Forty-four

Leatherslade Farm, near Oakley, Bucks, 7 August 1963

Bruce couldn't make sense of what he was hearing. While he thought, he scratched the skin beneath his gloves. It had been an oppressively warm day in the farmhouse. With the curtains drawn and no open windows, the temperature had climbed. It was early evening and most of the men had stripped down to vests or singlets. Gloves were still on, but they were becoming increasingly irritating. Still, Bruce didn't relent, bawling at anyone who so much as took them off to get some air to hot, sweaty palms.

Slowly, Bruce repeated what he had been told. 'So Tony went in for a cup of tea. You went back to his house? For a fuckin' cup of tea?'

The disapproval hit Tiny Dave like a slap across the face. Bruce made it clear he thought they should have driven straight back. 'And to get the sauce for Bobby.'

'Oh well, yes, the sauce. What's more important than brown