Signal Red Page 26

  Bruce consulted his watch again, marvelling at how the hands were crawling round. As the second hand swept past the six he cleared his throat. 'OK, lads.'

  They all stopped what they were doing.

  'Head 'em up, move 'em out.'

  There was the clatter of mugs being put aside, the rough scrape of chairs being pushed back, the sudden burble of excitement. Cigarettes were stubbed out, board games abandoned, dregs of coffee swallowed. 'Candles, gents. Don't want to come back to see a smouldering wreck.'

  Roy, in charge of transport, shouted out a reminder of who was in what vehicle. 'And keep your speed down,' he said. 'There's only one racing driver here and even he's on a go-slow.'

  The men tumbled out past Roy into a lovely warm summer's evening, silvered by a big, friendly moon. The air hardly moved, wrapped round them like a light soft blanket. It was the kind of night, thought Bruce as he headed for one of the Land Rovers, where you could believe in fairies and elves.

  The kind of night where something magical might happen. A miracle, even.

  He felt a hand heavy on his shoulder as he opened the Land Rover's door. It was Charlie. 'Just want to say, Bruce, no matter what happens. Nice one.'

  It meant a lot coming from Chas. Almost twenty years they had known each other; from bombsites to train jobs, it had been quite a journey. Bruce watched his old friend slide into what they called the 'heavy' vehicle – Charlie plus Buster, Tiny Dave, Tommy Wisbey and Gordy. Bruce climbed into the second Land Rover, into the passenger seat next to his second cousin. 'Quiet' Ralph had volunteered to take Tony's role as driver; Bruce was happy with that. As Roy had said, it wasn't a race. He switched on the VHF radio that was tuned to Buckinghamshire Constabulary.

  Bruce turned around, elbow on the seat. He had Roger, Ronnie and Stan in the back, the technical team. 'Everyone all right?'

  'Fine.' Roger was licking his lips as if he hadn't had a drink for months. He looked strained. Stan was rolling another fag, a slight tremor evident in his fingers. Ronnie was Ronnie, relaxed, ready for what the night would throw at him.

  Roy gunned the engine of the Land Rover and pulled away first, taking his fearsome crew with him. God help anyone who got in their way, thought Bruce. The lorry that would carry the cash came out second, a tired-looking Jimmy White at the wheel, Bobby Welch next to him, Jim Hussey in the rear.

  Ralph let in the clutch and they bounced towards the track that led to the B4011 and the back roads to Bridego. Bruce checked the time. Twelve-forty. In three hours he would either be a hero to these men or a dismal failure.

  Nobody spoke for the first few miles, lost in their own version of what the coming twenty-four hours might hold.

  'Eh,' said Stan eventually. 'I just had a thought.'

  Fuck me, thought Bruce, that must be lonely in there. 'What is it, Stan?'

  'It's coming from Glasgow, right, the train?'

  'Yes.'

  'And the money is from banks up there?'

  'That's correct.'

  'What if they're all Scottish notes?'

  Bruce laughed. They would be a bugger to shift; even trying to get a single Scottish pound note accepted in London was hard enough. 'Tell you what, Stan.'

  'What, Bruce?'

  'If they are, you can keep the lot.'

  'Someone on the road ahead,' said Ralph.

  A figure was caught in the headlights, a solitary man on a lonely road at some godforsaken hour. His hand was stretched out, thumb pointing east.

  'Hitchhiker,' said Bruce. 'Keep going.'

  This was no time for Good Samaritans.

  Tony Fortune lay staring at the ceiling in the flat, unable to sleep, his mind churning and restless. It flitted from images of Marie and the lovely, crumpled baby that had reduced him to tears, and the sixteen men in the farmhouse – seventeen if you counted Brian Field – waiting to pull off a ridiculously audacious crime.

  And his poxy brother-in-law. Banged up for armed robbery, having tried to prove that he, too, could be a getaway driver.

  He was disappointed about missing out on the payday from the train, mainly for Marie's sake. Maybe the others would

  bung him a drink. He deserved at least that. Perhaps enough to pay for a nursery for the baby. And a nice pram. Marie would be home in a few days. He should get to work on doing some painting.

  He leaned up onto one elbow and looked at his watch. Twelve forty-five. For a moment he imagined he could hear the grind of Army gears, smell the excitement and anxiety of the men in unfamiliar uniforms, see the gleam in Bruce Reynolds's eyes. Then he slumped back down and let his lids droop, willing sleep to come. Good luck, lads, he thought. Good luck.

  Forty-five

  Sears Crossing, 8 August 1963

  Roy James's walkie-talkie crackled as he walked alongside the rails, heading for the gantry of the 'home' signal. ' Roy?'

  'Yes, Bruce?' 'How you doing?'

  'I've cut the telephone to most of the farmhouses. Had to leave one, because it would come down on some cowsheds. Make a hell of a racket.' 'OK. Trackside phone?' 'That's already out. How about you?' Bruce was ahead of them all as point man, ready to send the alert when the TPO Up train left Linslade. 'Smoking a damn fine cigar.'

  That's Bruce, Roy thought. Always doing it in style. Roy heard the steel rail beside him buzz and looked over his shoulder, beyond Bridego Bridge. 'Train coming,' he said. 'What?'

  'From the south. Train coming. I'm getting down.'

  Roy slipped behind one of the concrete huts at the track- side. A growling 08-type diesel shunter came by, its line of empty trucks rattling and groaning.

  He waited until it would have passed Bruce before resuming the conversation. 'I'm going to the gantry now. What about Roger?'

  Roger would have opened the control box for the 'distant' or 'dwarf' signal, then used a battery and crocodile clips to light up the amber warning light. Ralph's job was to connect up the last clip and to cover the bulb in the green light module, so only the amber would be showing to the driver. It was so simple, no wonder Roger wanted to keep it secret.

  'He's just set up Ralph at the dwarf. Should be with you toot sweet. You still there, Ralph?'

  Roy heard the reply. 'Check.'

  'Good.'

  'I need a piss.'

  'You should have gone before we left,' said Roy.

  Bruce chortled. 'Bottle it, Ralph. Where are you, Roy?'

  'Coming up to the gantry now,' said Roy. He could see two figures at the base of the steel framework, Roger and Buster. Buster had his spring-loaded cosh in his hand. Peering into the gloom, Roy could just make out Jimmy and Tiny Dave at the edge of the track and, on the western side, the shapes of Charlie, Gordy and Tommy pressed against the embankment. All were armed with pickaxes or crowbars, many of them stolen from the nearby BR toolsheds. They were mainly for smashing into the coach, not maiming people. Buster's cosh, however, was different, specifically designed for the train crew. He had made it clear that he thought a quick, sharp dose of pain was the best way to cower the staff on

  board. 'Concentrates the mind,' he liked to say. Roy reminded himself to give Buster a wide berth.

  'OK?' asked Roger, the tension making his voice tremulous. 'You coming up?'

  Roy put the walkie-talkie over his shoulder and Roger did the same with his bag of tricks. They quickly ascended the ladder and stepped onto the walkway. Another train came by and the pair squeezed themselves into the metal. A horribly clammy cloud of steam and grit enveloped them briefly and was gone, as the loco puffed off towards London.

  Roy spat some dirt from his mouth. 'No wonder they switched to diesels.'

  It was cramped on the walkway but it afforded them a fine view up and down the track. Behind was Bridego Bridge, where the train would be unloaded. Ahead was Sears Crossing itself, actually the elevated track to nearby Rowden Farm, and beyond that the dwarf or distant signal which warned drivers to proceed with caution. Further on still was Major Bruce Reynolds, ready to leap in his La
nd Rover and drive back to Bridego, once he had spotted the Travelling Post Office and alerted them.

  Roy shone the torch while Roger fiddled with his battery and wires. The Flowerpot Man put the clips onto the red signal's bulb, which glowed into life. He disconnected it.

  'Now,' Roger said, 'for Katie's secret ingredient.' He mimed crumbling an Oxo cube before he pulled a glove from his pocket and slid it over the bulb in the green signal. He then craned his neck to ensure it masked the 'proceed' light completely.

  'A glove?' Roy asked, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.

  'Can't be any old glove. Nice bit of leather, this.'

  'We're going to rob a train with a glove?' Roy felt as if he had just discovered that David Nixon couldn't really pull a rabbit from a hat.

  'It works, Roy. What's the time?'

  'Five to three.'

  Roger squirmed to make himself comfortable. 'Worst part, waiting. Hate it, don't you? Must be like the start of a race. Waiting for the flag.'

  He was beginning to burble. 'Shut up, Rog.'

  'Yeah. Sorry.'

  Roy suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for the bag of nerves sharing a walkway with him. 'How did you ever get involved in this, anyway?'

  The answer was short, yet rueful. 'Ask my bookie.'

  Well, he wasn't alone, there were several in the group who described themselves as 'bookmakers' but who were, in reality, more punter than bookie. If they did get the haul, Roy daren't think how much would eventually go on gee-gees or at the Sportsman or similar establishments. He spoke into the walkie-talkie. 'Bruce? We're in place. Over.'

  'Good. Nothing yet. I'm going to flash my torch, three long signals. See it?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's the back-up in case the walkie-talkies fail, so keep your eyes open. How's Roger?'

  Roger was now rubbing his hands together nervously. A twitch had appeared at the corner of his mouth. When he smiled, he looked slightly demented.

  'A-One,' said Roy. Roger flashed him a thumbs-up.

  'OK, over and out.'

  Another train came from the south, a diesel this time, its engine thumping lazily. It passed under Bridego, its blazing

  lights raking the track ahead. Roy hoped everyone was well tucked away.

  Then he heard the grinding of brakes and the falling note of an engine losing power. The train was stopping.

  'Shit,' he said.

  Roger stirred himself. 'Signals are on green. Silly buggers shouldn't stop.'

  The locomotive came to a halt beneath them. Even above the rumble of the idling engine, they could hear muffled voices from the cab. The walkie-talkie gave a squawk and Roy switched it off.

  He saw movement in the darkness to his left, where some of the heavies were. He could imagine what they were thinking. We'd best take this train out, too.

  There was the sound of hearty laughter at a shared joke from the cab. They wouldn't be chortling if they knew the kind of blokes who were concealed a few yards away from them, thought Roy.

  Then, the sound of running water – a heavy stream, slowly weakening. One of them was taking a piss.

  As soon as it had finished the diesel note changed to something more urgent; there was a jerk, a clank and the train moved off.

  'I should report them for that,' said Roger with genuine exasperation.

  Roy switched the walkie-talkie back on.

  Silence descended once more over the silver-washed scene. The moon appeared to have grown brighter, the night warmer. Roy was sure the latter was from the burst of adrenaline when the loco had stopped. He was well aware now how easily it could all go wrong. There must be simpler ways to earn a Formula One car, he thought to himself.

  'It's coming. This is it.' For a second the words seemed to make no sense. What did he say? Was that Bruce? Roy looked at the walkie-talkie in disbelief. 'Repeat, this is it, chaps,' the voice said again. 'The real thing.'

  Fuck.

  Roy poked Roger into action and switched on the torch. The beam wavered slightly, but he had to admire Roger's steady hand as he slipped the glove into place, positioned the battery and connected the clips. No sign of nerves or twitches this time. 'Done!' he exclaimed.

  There was now a red light at Sears Crossing.

  Forty-six

  Sears Crossing, 8 August 1963

  Driver Jack Mills swore when he saw the dwarf signal glowing amber. They were on the final run into Euston. No more mail to pick up or coaches to be added – his engine was pulling twelve carriages now – no more swapping of GPO personnel as shifts changed. Once the train was into Euston, then he could sign off. There would be the rigmarole of transferring the HVP sacks to the East Central District Post Office and distributing it to various banks, including the Bank of England, but that was no concern of his. He would be well into his second mug of tea, having polished off a decent breakfast, by the time the train was emptied.

  Odd, Mills thought. The dwarf signal's rail magnets normally triggered an AWS, an Automatic Warning Signal, in the cab and a horn sounded when the light was at 'caution'. But neither had kicked in. He would have to report a malfunction.

  'Red,' said David Whitby, his young fireman.

  'I can see that, son,' he said, although Whitby was only showing his driver that he was paying attention, that he could see the main signal was on red, demanding that they halt. Mills applied more braking and the massive engine shuddered as its power was curtailed, like a great stallion pulled up too soon.

  Whitby moved to the door of the loco, ready to jump down and make the call to determine how long they would be stuck at Sears Crossing.

  Inside the HVP carriage, Assistant GPO Inspector Thomas Kett was only vaguely aware of the train slowing. He, Frank Dewhurst and Leslie Penn were busy sorting the last of the letters, the ones with such appalling writing that they had been set aside so that all three men could work on interpreting the scrawl. They had also picked up two junior sorters, John O'Connor and Joe Ware along the route.

  'Is that Cheltenham or Chelmsford?' he asked Frank. 'There's no bloody county.'

  'Chester-le-Street.'

  'You sure? Les, what does that say?'

  'Stopping again,' said Les absentmindedly. He glanced out of the grimy, barred windows, but that told him very little. He looked at his watch. Almost a quarter after three.

  'Never mind that. What do you reckon it says?'

  'Chesterfield.'

  'Oh, for cryin' out loud.' They had stopped completely now. Thomas placed the troublesome letter aside for a fourth opinion. 'Put the kettle on, will you, Joe? Be in here another hour at least at this rate.'

  'For fuck's sake,' said David Whitby loudly as he put the phone to his ear. The line was dead – which meant a walk to

  a signal box or to another phone. And that would be down to him.

  He looked back up the train at the cab, wondering if he should tell Millsy that the phone was useless before wandering off. The light was still red, but he should go and consult with his driver. He gave the phone one last go, but there was still not so much as a crackle on the line. He replaced the receiver and began the walk back to the front of the train, when he saw someone ahead. No doubt an engineer come to fix the phone.

  'What's up, mate?' he asked the dark figure. He could see others behind the worker, although they appeared to be ducking under one of the coaches. 'Something wrong?'

  The man stepped forward and Whitby could see he was wearing a woollen balaclava. Just his eyes and mouth were visible. He looked like a Black and White Minstrel. Why would he have that on? It was summer now. Those nights were past.

  There was, however, no mistaking the purpose of the implement waved in front of his face as the man – shorter than Whitby, but a lot bulkier – grabbed his arm. It was a powerful grip.

  Then he felt other hands on him, pinning his arms, and sour breath washed over his face.

  'Say a word and you are fucking dead,' hissed the little man with the evil-looking cosh.
/>   Whitby 's mouth went dry and his brain tried to make sense of the fragmented thoughts crowding into it. 'Yeah, all right mate,' he managed to say. 'I'm with you.'

  'Go with him, then, and keep quiet.'

  Buster watched Bobby Welch lead the cowering boy away and headed for the cab. Let's hope the driver rolls over that easily, he thought.

  Thomas Kett accepted the mug of steaming tea from Les, grateful at that moment that they had halted. It would make a change to have a drink without all that rolling about. Although you got used to it – old GPO hands rarely spilled a drop – it was nice to sit down and not have to make all those compensatory muscle movements.

  Just then, he heard the hiss of escaping air from the rear of the HVP and cocked an ear. The coach was connected to the rest of the train by a fat umbilical that carried the vacuum. 'What's that?'

  Leslie listened as he drank his own tea. There was the faintest of metallic sounds.

  'It's Chelveston.'

  The other two looked at Frank who was leaning against the cage that held the red High Value sacks. He was holding up the envelope with the disputed destination.

  'Chelveston?' Thomas asked. 'You sure?'

  'Chelveston, Northamptonshire,' Frank said with certainty in his voice. He scribbled the county onto the envelope with a chinagraph pencil and tossed it into the appropriate bin.

  Thomas listened once more but the hissing, whatever it was, had stopped. He drained his tea. 'Come on, Millsy, let's get a move on.'

  The uncoupling of the buckeye link and vacuum tube complete, Roy straightened and stepped back from the train. As he did so, an unexpected roar suddenly engulfed him and the punch of compressed air threw him back against one of the coaches. The train on the other track blasted by like a roaring fireball, all wild noise and lights. Winded, he looked up at the locomotive. He could see someone hanging from