Signal Red Page 23

  'Brilliant. He can't do the bends. He'll have us on the straight, but that thing doesn't handle.' He flashed a knowing smile. 'Not for Bruce anyway.'

  Tony knew he was a good driver, a very competent roadman. But Roy was something else. His gear changes were sharp, precise. The rev counter never made wild swings, the engine note remained constant, and the speedo stayed well over to the right. He was what they called a 'natural', the kind of driver who had a feel for both the car and the road.

  'That right-hander's coming up.'

  'Hold on, 'cause I'm not slowing.'

  They emerged almost on top of the Healey. Roy let out a whoop. 'He missed a gear, I'll bet.'

  With the precision of a slot-car, the Mini pulled out and zipped past the Austin. Tony looked up and caught a glimpse of Bruce's mouth working overtime. He didn't have to be a lipreader to guess what words were coming out. The next section, between Oving and Pitchcott, was twisty enough to thwart Bruce and the Austin Healey. It would come burbling behind, threatening to shoulder the Cooper aside, but Roy brilliantly used the bends and curves to his advantage.

  'Railway bridge. Not our railway line, though. Long hill down to Chearsley. It's straight.'

  Roy nodded and pushed the engine to the red line. The Healey fought back again, edging closer. 'He's got us. Shit.'

  Tony looked over his shoulder. Gordy was jumping up and down in his seat, willing Bruce on. The bigger sports car reeled them in until, like a stately liner, it glided past. Gordy flashed a V-sign.

  'Nice,' said Tony.

  'Don't panic. Just enjoy the scenery on this stretch. We'll come back at them.'

  Tony had to admit that the Chilterns did look lovely, streaked with sunlight, interrupted by the shadows of low cloud. On a nearby hillside to his left, Tony saw a strange observatory, a domed housing for a large telescope, but didn't feel he could distract Roy from his focus on the road.

  'He's pulling away. Any bends?'

  'Sharp right to Chearsley, coming up. Really sharp.'

  'How sharp?'

  'Ninety degrees. Then through Chilton, on the B4011 and we're there.'

  Roy didn't reply, just grunted as they recovered ground on the right-hander, driving through the narrow lanes as if they were tied to the Healey's rear bumper. Nice big houses, thought Roy. Gardens, horses, conservatories, but such was their speed he had little time to process much more than flash images. Roy suddenly dived into a gap between the Austin and a brick wall that didn't seem to be there. Tony's eyes flicked shut again. When he opened them they were through and in front, into the final twisting lanes that would take them to Leatherslade Farm.

  'Fuckin' Land Rovers and lorries my arse,' Roy said. 'You can't beat a quick motor.'

  They turned right up the unmarked track that led to Leatherslade, Roy finally allowing the Mini to breathe, dropping to second as he manoeuvred between the ruts and potholes.

  'What time?' he asked.

  'Eighteen minutes,' said Tony.

  They pulled over in front of the house and Bruce drove alongside. He climbed out and leaned on the hardtop of the Healey. 'You were lucky there're so many bends,' he said to Roy. 'It'd eat that little toy otherwise.'

  'Tell you what, after you've bought lunch, let's swap cars and do it in reverse. See how you get on then.'

  Bruce considered this as he watched Gordy unfold himself from the passenger side. 'What, and ruin my excuse?'

  'You change your mind about the Jags?' Roy asked.

  Bruce frowned. To him, the race had been a bit of a laugh, not to prove a point.

  'No, Roy. I told you, the money will weigh over a ton. We need a lorry. We stick with the plan.'

  Gordy looked a little pale after being thrown around by Bruce. 'Yeah. Fuck that. We stick with the lorry and Land Rovers.'

  Roy did his best to hide his disappointment, and indicated his acceptance. He just hoped Bruce didn't live to regret it.

  Forty

  Headley, Surrey, May 1992

  Bruce took off his overcoat and sat down at the kitchen table while I put the kettle on. Roy, apparently dazed by his old boss's arrival, stared at him, open-mouthed.

  'Nice whistle,' he finally said.

  'Thanks.' Bruce looked down at the jacket. 'Mark Powell. He said I should sue Michael Caine for stealing my look.'

  There was something in that. Bruce had looked a little like Harry Palmer-period Caine in his youth, and the two had run across each other in the early days at the Establishment, when the actor was out and about with Terry Stamp. But I wasn't worried about where Bruce got his suits made or whether his style had been purloined for The Ipcress File. 'What are you doing here, Bruce?' I asked.

  'Naughton called me.'

  I didn't mention that Bill Naughton had said Bruce was too busy to help out. He was entitled to change his mind.

  'Good of you to come, mate,' said Roy.

  'Well, I didn't want to leave you hangin' in the wind, did I?

  I don't think we've got very long, judging by the activity out there. The heavy mob has heaved up close to the gate. With machine guns.' Bruce nodded towards the pistol, still held slackly in Roy's hand. 'That'll be as much use as a fuckin' icecream dildo.'

  From his jacket pocket, Bruce produced cigarette papers and tobacco and began building a fag. He looked up at me.

  'How you been, Tony?'

  'Can't complain,' I said, rinsing out the teapot. 'You?'

  'I do OK.'

  'What you driving now?' It was Roy.

  'Don't ask,' shuddered Bruce. 'Ashamed to say. You know those fuckers sold my Austin Healey? The Mark Two Three Thousand? Lovely motor. Christ, I'd like that again. In order to claw back some of the proceeds, they said. Fetched double what it should've.'

  'The power of celebrity,' I said as I poured the boiling water into the pot.

  'Notoriety,' he corrected.

  'Should've used fast cars,' said Roy.

  'Leave it out, Roy,' Bruce said, not without kindness. 'Water under Bridego Bridge.' He shot me a glance that was loaded with meaning. 'We should have done lots of things. Can't change the past. Not unless you're bleedin' Doctor Who.'

  After I had made the tea, I fetched the bottle of Johnnie Walker and placed it on the table, along with some glasses from the drainer. To my surprise, Bruce pulled out a block of dope, unwrapped the foil and scorched one corner with a lighter.

  'Don't look so shocked. I picked up the habit at Maidstone. A good prison. You ever do Maidstone, Roy? Towards the end of my stretch, I had a year in the library there and a year as a gym orderly when I used to run ten miles a day, play badminton and then swim. Fucking marvellous life. No women, apart from those in Razzle and Club International. At least you didn't get any aggro from those girls. And Gordy, bless him, would send the odd beauty in for a quick fondle, just to let me know I was still alive down below. I got into smoking dope there.' He chuckled. 'Montecristo Number Twos being hard to come by. Stuff was a fuckin' revelation. Two happy years.'

  I thought he was joking. And my expression must have given that away, since he went on, 'Straight up. When I came out I felt like doing something so I could go right back in for a joint with my pals. Now that is what you call institutionalised, eh?'

  'Tell me about it,' muttered Roy. 'I was saying the same thing to Tony earlier. It's easier inside, somehow.'

  Bruce gave a grin then lit the roll-up, taking a lungful and holding his breath while he passed the joint to Roy. The little man took a hefty toke.

  Very clever, Bruce, I thought. He wasn't going to talk him down, he was going to dope him out.

  The sweet aroma filled the air and I poured myself a finger of scotch, shaking my head when the joint was offered to me.

  'Governor in Maidstone used to come in and say: "Bit smoky in here, isn't it, lads?'" Bruce told us, 'but while it was just dope, he was happy enough. The first two weeks after coming home, I'm walking on air. Life is sweet. I'm famous, I have friends, family. Then it hits me – bang! Like a t
rain.' He winked. 'Or a cosh. That's it. Washed-up. Depression, it's a terrible thing. Eh, Roy?'

  The driver simply nodded thoughtfully.

  Bruce took the spliff back and sucked on it a while longer, indicating I should pour the tea. As I did so, he let out a long thin stream of smoke from pursed lips. 'Well, I'd like to say the gang's all here, but it's not, is it? But while we are gathered together in this cosy place, Tony, maybe you can answer me a question.' His eyes shone brightly and his mouth was drawn tight.

  'What's that, Bruce?' I asked, my hand shaking slightly as I lifted the teapot.

  'Why the fuck you grassed us up.'

  Forty-one

  6 August 1963

  As arranged, the men came to the farm in dribs and drabs, their arrival staggered so as not to arouse suspicion from any nosy neighbours. Brian Field met several of them at the railway station during the course of the day, ferrying them backwards and forwards.

  Tony drove up with Roy the morning after they had practised yet another decoupling in the shunting yards. Roy had mastered both types: the flexible screw kind, which required turning a tensioner before you could unhook them, and the buckeye – the commonest kind on HVPs – which had a simple release chain that you tugged to break the connection.

  'The important thing,' he impressed on Tony, 'is that when you take off the vacuum pipe for the brakes, you have to reattach it to a dummy on the HVP. Otherwise the vacuum won't build because it'll leak out the open end.'

  Confident now that he knew all there was to know about coach connections, nevertheless Roy was on edge, Tony could tell. They were driving north in a drab-coloured Land Rover, stolen from near Leicester Square by Bruce and Tony and painted by Ronnie Biggs, who had also sketched out the Army numbers he would fill in at the farm. If nothing else he was a good signwriter, that Ronnie Biggs.

  'You all right, Roy?' Tony asked.

  'Yeah, just thinking. Got a couple of Goodwoods coming up.'

  'That all you thinkin' about?'

  'It seems to me, Bruce isn't listening. I mean, I know it's his job and all, but…'

  'But?'

  'I think the farm is a mistake. I think we should have a decoy lorry we leave hallway to London. And there's too many of us. Fuck, it's like a real bleeding army, isn't it? You know, Bruce, Charlie, Buster, Gordy – even though he's a flash bastard sometimes – I know they are up to it.'

  Tony thought this must just be the nerves talking. He had them as well, although Marie's change of heart had steadied them somewhat. Now there was no subterfuge at home, he found he was able to relax more. 'Is that all that's up?'

  Roy smiled. 'I got offers of sponsorship. Esso and Shell, both bidding me up.'

  'Great,' said Tony, with genuine enthusiasm. 'So you are thinking you don't need this?'

  Roy shook his head. 'No, not at all. Hundred per cent, me.'

  There was an undercurrent of irritation there. 'Timing's crap though, eh?'

  'You said it.'

  'Look on the bright side, Roy.'

  'What's that?'

  'It comes off, you can always put "Sponsored by Royal Mail" down the side.'

  Roy laughed at the thought, then glanced at the fuel gauge. 'I'd better get some squirt.'

  They pulled into a garage on the A40 and Roy got out to fill up the tank. It was then Tony noticed the kid.

  'Fuck.'

  He stepped out of the Land Rover and walked over to the boy. He was around ten, school blazer, short pants. 'Hi there,' Tony said, looking round for his parents. There was a Vauxhall Cresta at another pump, the attendant filling her up. No driver. 'Collect car numbers, do you?'

  The boy nodded sheepishly. He turned around the notebook, which was filled with places, time and dates and licence numbers.

  'Like trainspotting, is it?'

  Another nod.

  Tony glanced over at Roy, who was paying off the lanky lad who had pumped the three star. Roy shot him a quizzical look. Both of their Land Rovers had the same number-plates – the legit one from the vehicle that had been purchased as well as this nicked one – so if cops checked the reg against the make, it wouldn't throw up an anomaly. If, however, by some coincidence someone clocked the registration of the other, being driven by Jimmy, and the police realised they had two vehicles in one place on the day with the same number, then alarm bells could ring. It was all 'what if and 'possibly', but Tony had to think what Bruce would say. And didn't they get caught by number-plates in that movie The League of fucking Gentlemen Bruce was always banging on about?

  'Can I see?' Tony asked, taking a step closer.

  Reluctantly, the lad handed over the red exercise book.

  'Just Land Rovers, is it?'

  'Army.' It was a whisper.

  'Army vehicles. Got any tank transporters?'

  The kid pointed enthusiastically to an earlier entry.

  'They're the best, aren't they? Sad to say, you've got the wrong one here, mate. Ex-Army, you see. Just bought it. Haven't had time to respray it. Just took the badges off. Sorry. I'll rip-'

  He went to tear the page out when he heard a gruff voice behind him.

  'Jeffrey. Are you bothering this man?'

  It was the father, forty-ish, ex-military himself by the look of him and the dazzling polish on his brogues.

  Tony turned. 'No, not at all, we was just talking car numbers. Telling him it was ex-Army.'

  'Sorry. Boy's obsessed. War films, soldiers, model kits.'

  'I was the same. Anything with John Wayne or William Bendix.'

  The man sniffed at the mention of Hollywood 's war. 'Yes, well. Look at the travesty of The Longest Day. Did you see that? We were hardly in it, according to the Yanks. You hear what one of the producers said on the radio? "There'll always be an England… just as long as America is around to save its backside". Bloody cheek.'

  'Well, nice chatting to you.' Tony, sensing a sore point about to be scratched until it bled, offered the book back. The sulky boy snatched it.

  'Jeffrey, manners.'

  Roy was back in the car and sounded the horn to help extricate Tony. 'Right, got to go.'

  As he turned, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. The lad was scratching out the Land Rover's reg, even as the dad turned him away back towards the Vauxhall.

  Now he had to hope the father erased the incident from his mind as well.

  When they arrived at the tatty farm, Bruce, Buster, Jimmy White, Ronnie Biggs and Stan, the train driver, were all there in the house. Stan, who had been kept tucked away till now, was in his fifties, thin and cadaverous-looking, and was mostly occupied in using his nicotine-stained fingers to make roll- ups. The others were unpacking the supplies and laying out the uniforms and balaclavas. Roy and Tony set about emptying their Land Rover so Biggsy could make the final adjustments to the paint job.

  'Gloves!' Bruce kept reminding them. 'At all times. Even when you eat or wipe your hairy arses, OK?'

  While they were unloading, a Jaguar appeared on the track, driving up towards the house. Tony relaxed when he saw Brian behind the wheel. As it swept to a halt, flicking gravel everywhere, Roger Cordrey, Ralph, his new assistant, and Jim Hussey climbed out. The latter looked even bigger than he remembered.

  'Morning,' said Roger nervously, hefting a series of empty suitcases out of the boot. Clearly, he was expecting plenty of loot. 'Lovely day for it.'

  Lovely might be going too far, but at least it wasn't raining and the sun beamed out from behind the clouds once in a while. What a summer. Still, he would be able to afford to take Marie and the baby somewhere warm after that night. He hefted the last crate from the rear of the Land Rover and said, 'OK, Ronnie, all yours.'

  'Do me a favour,' said Biggsy from the side of his mouth. 'Keep Stan company, will you? Feels a bit left out with this lot.'

  'I'll get Roy to talk trains with him. I swear he likes them more than racing cars now.'

  'Good one.'

  'Oi, everyone!' It was Buster at the door. 'Br
uce wants the vehicles away and everyone inside, curtains drawn. And tea's up for those that want it.'

  Tony looked at his watch. It was early afternoon. At least twelve hours before they would pull out and head for Bridego Bridge and Sears Crossing. Time enough for a few rounds of Monopoly.

  'There's someone coming!' shouted Buster from the kitchen.

  Bruce leaped to his feet. 'Who is it?'

  'Not one of ours. Someone walking up the drive. Jacket, gumboots. I think it's a farmer.'

  'Everyone shut up!' said Bruce. 'Tony, you come with me.'

  The pair of them stepped outside, blinking into the afternoon sunshine after the gloom inside. The man walking towards them was dressed in rough cords and an old waxed jacket, with a flat cap on his head. He certainly looked like everybody's idea of a Farmer Giles. 'Afternoon,' he said brightly.

  'Afternoon,' said Bruce. Tony could see he was looking around for anything suspicious that they might have left out in the open. But the Army truck and Land Rovers were well hidden. Only the number of tyre tracks gave all the activity away.

  'Wyatt's the name. Thought I saw some movement over here. You the new owners?'

  'No,' said Bruce. Then he dried up.

  Sensing the hesitation, Tony jumped in. 'We're the decorators.

  They've just asked us to come over and spruce the place up. Lick of paint inside.'

  The man grunted. 'Well, it could do with it. Who is the owner then?'

  'A Mr Field,' said Bruce. 'Leonard Field. From Aylesbury.' This was true; Brian had put the farm in the name of another Field – but not a relative – who would be paid a drink as a front man.

  'Thing is, I rent the field over yonder – for my sheep. And I was wondering if Mr Field would allow me to continue.'

  'Can't say,' said Bruce.

  'But unless you hear otherwise,' Tony said, 'you just carry on as before. We'll mention it to him.'

  'That's very kind.' He hesitated, as if expecting to be asked in for a cup of tea.

  Bruce, however, just glanced over his shoulder, saying, 'Well, best get back to it.'

  'Yes. Right. Thank you.'