Signal Red Page 29

  'Before we start, I would just like to remind you that this

  is a briefing for concerned parties. I shall explain what we know so far at this very early stage, and then invite questions. But what is discussed in this room should go no further. The press are not necessarily our allies on this one.' Fewtrell took a sip of water. 'Do you think we could open a window? Thank you.'

  He held up a newspaper. 'My local, page one. For those at the back, the headline is: "The Great Train Robbery".' There were some sniggers. 'Just in case you are not familiar with silent flicks, that was the tide of a very old film. A Western. One of the first, I believe, if not the first. So, straight away this sounds like something romantic, daring, dashing. It isn't. I am certain we all recognise this for what it is. A sordid crime, committed purely for gain. We are fortunate that only one man was injured, the driver. I am sure the gang would not have hesitated to use force on anyone else who put up too much of a fight. The driver, Jack Mills, has been seen by a doctor and is doing reasonably well. As to the estimate of the amount taken, it has now passed two million.' There were some low whistles. 'And the bad news is, we have recorded serial numbers for a tiny proportion of that.'

  A significant amount of the notes had been designated as too worn to remain in circulation and been scheduled for destruction. Nobody recorded the numbers of those sacks. And the scruffy oncers and fivers would be a lot easier for the thieves to spend without attracting suspicion than crisp new notes.

  'What proportion, Chief Superintendent?' someone asked.

  Fewtrell looked irritated. 'Could we save the questions until the end, please? Otherwise we'll never get through. We do have a press conference to give later. But to answer that one question – less than two thousand pounds.'

  There were audible gasps and Fewtrell nodded to signal his agreement. It seemed inconceivable that the gang could have got away with so much untraceable cash.

  Fewtrell then went through the mechanics of how the train was stopped and the timetable of activities. He read partial statements from each of the witnesses. Then he said something that was music to Hatherill's ears.

  'We will, of course, need the assistance of Scotland Yard in this matter. I find it hard to imagine that these are first- time criminals. It is likely we have come across them before, which is why the coaches and signals are still being worked on by the fingerprint boys. I don't need to tell my colleagues in the police force of the criminals' common modus operandi in these cases. The haul would have weighed between one- and-a-half and two tons. Tyre-tracks at the scene suggest at least one lorry. Such vehicles are normally dumped within a few miles and transferred to smaller, faster cars. But one of the robbers said something curious. "Don't leave for thirty minutes." Now, I think that is a psychological slip-up. Don't worry, I am not going all Herbert Lom on you. But let us say it would take them half an hour to get to their hideout and under cover. Might that not dictate what he says to the poor GPO men. "Lie down, don't move for thirty minutes, by which time we will be underground." Which means that we are looking for a changeover site at a distance of not more than thirty miles. We also have unconfirmed reports of a hitchhiker passed by an Army convoy in the early hours. Exact location not known, but to the west of where the robbery took place. At the moment, we are checking with the Army as to whether any official convoys were on the road at that time. As you can appreciate, it is a large undertaking. However, at least some of the robbers wore Army uniforms, so it is

  looking as if the two may be connected.' He took a deep breath. 'Now, any questions?'

  Hatherill's hand shot up. Fewtrell pointed to him and he gave his rank and name to the audience. 'Were there any clues to identities? Names used in the heat of the moment?'

  'No. As I said, they were careful not to mention any names, but one of the thieves called another "Colonel", although Frank Dewhurst is fairly sure the man was a Major. Or, at least, pretending to be one. Mind you, we can be sure that these layabouts wouldn't know much about Army ranks – probably spent their whole National Service in the glasshouse.'

  Hatherill thanked Fewtrell and the questions continued. Hatherill meanwhile wrote a single line on his pad.

  Any criminals nicknamed the Colonel??

  Forty-nine

  Leatherslade Farm, 10 August 1963

  It seemed as if there was no other subject on the radio. Every news bulletin was about the 'Crime of the Century' or 'The Great Train Robbery' and each time, the amount stolen crept upwards. It was as if the GPO thought the public couldn't take the shock of the revelation of the final sum all in one go and had to be fed it incrementally.

  The VHF, too, hummed with information about what the police were up to: fingerprints, helicopters, motorbike patrols. It was odd, thought Bruce. He had imagined them lying low, relaxing, till the scream blew over. But this wasn't a scream, it was the howl of a wounded animal, thrashing around, looking for revenge.

  The atmosphere in the farm was tense. The money had been slacked, pending the final division of the spoils. Although the conversations still revolved around what they would do with such a windfall, the topic was kicked around in a desultory fashion. Each man knew they had to get the money somewhere

  safe and then hang onto it before they could do anything as mundane as spend it.

  That evening, Brian turned up to collect his own whack, the Jock's and various other 'drinks' he had laid out. The new arrival stood in the kitchen with Charlie, Bruce, Ronnie and Roy.

  'I got a call from Tony Fortune,' said Brian.

  'Yeah?' said Bruce. 'Where was he?'

  'In a call box. He says well done. Turns out his brother-in- law pulled some stunt. They came to question Tony about the motors and his wife started to drop the kid. He couldn't get back up here.'

  'I suppose he still wants a whack?' asked Charlie, who had taken a keen interest in the division of the money.

  'Bollocks to that,' said Ronnie.

  'He deserves something,' Roy retorted. 'As much as your bloody driver. And you'd have been more pissed off if he had come back with the Old Bill on his tail.'

  Brian nodded his agreement. 'I told him he could earn the rest by acting as dustman.'

  Bruce watched Charlie make a salt-beef sandwich, adding more salt from the cylinder of Saxo. The gloves were still being worn, but after all the manhandling of sacks and money, they were falling apart.

  'Fair enough. Long as the coppers have lost interest in him.'

  Brian Field waved his arms to indicate the farm around them. 'The police have lost interest in everything else but this. They want to know where you are holed up. We're top of the bill at the London Palladium. The star turn. Numero uno attraction now.'

  Bruce's stomach contracted at that. He didn't want to be a star. Not in that sense. Not Public Enemy Number One. It was

  hard to face up to, but as he had feared when he heard the total, it was possible there was just too much money. The authorities couldn't turn a blind eye to £2.6 million. It was like having a target painted on your back.

  Buster entered the kitchen, frowning.

  'What is it?'

  'On the VHF. The order has just gone out to search all isolated buildings for Army-type vehicles.'

  'Where?' asked Brian Field.

  'Within a thirty-mile radius of the robbery. They have also appealed to the public to check any suspicious properties. There are roadblocks to stop and search any large vehicles.'

  'Shit,' said Charlie through a mouthful of sandwich. 'There goes using the horsebox. Not unless we can get a horse to put in it.'

  'No bloody room for the cash then,' said Buster. 'Use your loaf, Charlie. Have to take it out in dribs and drabs.'

  'Riskier, in some ways,' said Bruce.

  He scanned Brian's face for signs of alarm. The rest of the people at the farm – Stan and perhaps Ralph excepted – were pro villains. No matter what the police had on them, they'd stay calm and dumb. Bruce would make sure Ralph played it right, but Brian Field was a
mere solicitor. However, there was no sign of panic in his eyes, which was good.

  Ralph spoke up. 'How far are we from the train?'

  'We're about twenty-seven miles away,' said Bruce. 'Give or take.'

  They all understood at once. The idea of lying low for a week was shot. They would have to start pulling out. Charlie was thinking the same as Bruce. 'We'll have to have it on our toes. And any of us with form, we'd better have a fuckin' good story to tell.'

  'And if we aren't at home when they come looking…' said Roy letting it tail off. Like the others, he was well aware that the London Airport robbery was similar enough in planning and execution for the Yard to make connections.

  'Brian, remind me, what do you need?'

  'A whack for the man in Glasgow. The cash for the HVP coach boys. The finder's fee for Mark who introduced me to Jock. We can put the last two together. Mark says he will see the railwayman all right. And my share, of course.'

  A lot of money, thought Bruce, then stopped himself. There was enough to go round. Even for this Mark, who had done fuck-all apart from make the intros.

  'And some drinks for the boys in the estate agent's office maybe,' Brian continued. 'Few grand. Just in case they tumble this place. We want to make sure our stories tally and that nobody can remember what you look like, Bruce.'

  It occurred to Bruce that perhaps Brian wasn't padding his total. It didn't matter: he had brought in Mark and the Jock in the first place.

  'Charlie will help you count it out. Won't you, Charlie?'

  'With pleasure.'

  'You've got cases with you?' Bruce asked. 'We're running short.'

  'In the car,' said Brian.

  'Start counting it out then. Charlie will show you which piles you can use. We'll leave in the morning. Staggered. We do this co-ordinated, we stick together, and we stay in contact. It's all for one and that crap. We are a unit, a good one, let's stay that way.'

  'What about the farm?' asked Charlie.

  'We clean it till it sparkles. Then we clean it again. Then

  we get Tony to come up and do it again. And anything we can't clean, we burn.'

  Charlie Wilson was just parking up his Rover outside the Ten Bells, opposite Spitalfields Market, early on Friday morning, when he heard. He had dropped off Gordy at the Tube, so he could go back to Putney, then Charlie had driven to East London to kick-start his alibi: that he had been 'on The Fruit' every morning that week from 5.30 a.m. There were a dozen porters and a couple of traders who would swear to it, no problem.

  It had been dark when he had left the farm, now his eyes felt tired and gritty in the grey light of an East London dawn. The others would be scattering, too. Bruce had announced he was going off to buy a couple of Austin Healeys, Roger that he would buy a car in Oxford, and most of the others would be ferried by Brian to hole up at his place for a night or two.

  Roy, sensibly in Charlie's mind, had opted to travel back to London by train rather than join Brian's party. Tiny Dave Thompson, too. It was a mistake to have too many people in one place. Too much cash to be able to explain away.

  In the boot of Charlie's Rover was his share of the haul, £150,000, plus Roy and Tiny Dave's whacks and a big drink for Frenchie who had stumped up some of the investment cash when the funds ran low. It was a lot to get rid of. He felt as if he could sense the heat from the bundles of notes bleeding from the boot. What was that song? 'Too Hot to Handle'. Bloody right.

  He was about to turn off the ignition when the news came on the radio. The robbery was, of course, the first item. A special unit had been put together at Scotland Yard to run

  down the Great Train Robbers. It was to be headed by – he knew what was coming even before the announcer said the name – Tommy Butler.

  Tommy Butler. A right attention-seeking humourless weirdo, who lived with his dear old mum and, therefore, only had the job to occupy his time. The Grey Fox. The Sad Bastard, more like. If he was bent, he was Bent for the Job, but although Charlie had heard rumours about bungs and backhanders, they needed to be taken with a large pinch of Saxo. Still, a special unit at the Yard – that sounded serious.

  The bulletin continued with news about the train driver. He was out of danger and out of hospital, but still very poorly. The driver, the driver, the driver. They pushed it forward every time, just in case people should get the wrong idea about the job. Just in case someone felt like saying, 'Good on ya, son.' There it was, the shadow of – what was the old cunt's name? – Jack Mills. He would be on TV soon: bandaged head, black eye, hangdog look, blinking into press flashbulbs. Fifty- eight years old. Coshed mercilessly. What sort of men are these? Hunt them down, now.

  The firm was caught between Butler and Mills and a ten- grand reward. They were fucked now. No matter what Bruce had said, this was no time for musketeering. It was every man for himself.

  Fifty

  Scotland Yard, August 1963

  There was only one show in town now for any self-respecting copper. If you weren't in it, you weren't just second division, you weren't even in the league. You were a kick-around Sunday side. The Train Squad, on the other hand, was Liverpool, Man U and Spurs combined.

  An uncharacteristic gloom had settled over the Flying Squad room. They weren't used to thinking of themselves as second- best. Yet every other case paled beside THE GREAT TRAIN ROBBERY as everyone called it. Always said in CAPITALS. Len Haslam took his exclusion from the inner core particularly poorly, although Billy Naughton had half-expected Hatherill to bring him along and couldn't help feeling a little snubbed too.

  But the top guys wanted this for themselves. Glory and headlines beckoned for whoever nailed these blokes, and the big boys wanted their share of it, that much was certain. As someone said, such Big Guns hadn't been wheeled out together since the Somme. Sequestered in their room, festooned with the brown cables of extra phones hanging from the ceiling, were George

  Hatherill, Ernie Millen, Tommy Butler, Frank Williams, Peter Vibart, Gerald McArthur, Jack Slipper and Jim Nevill. They were sifting through what little evidence they had so far.

  The rest of the Squad was on donkey work, tapping snouts and sifting records of those most likely to have a finger in the GTR pie. Billy and Len had done both those things and presented their findings. Len had put Gordon Goody at the top of his list of those worth a tug, because of the London Central Airport job, but no snitches had mentioned his name, nor any of the known blaggers they had pulled in for it. But the airport job was not the only possibility: those behind the Finsbury Park wages snatch, the Hatton Garden ram-raid or the Bishopsgate vault would have the right kind of pedigree, too. Old case files were dusted off and reexamined to see what names had cropped up in the frame back then.

  But unless they could bring something concrete to the table, both Len and Billy knew they were out in the cold, shut out of the biggest investigation for years. What did you do during The Great Train Robbery, Daddy? their children would ask. 'Fuck-all,' would be the sullen reply.

  Still, they had been told that the information fund was temporarily bottomless and that they should start casting cash around, like chum bait on the surface of the sea. Sooner or later, they would get a nibble.

  'DC Naughton, line five!' the operator shouted.

  Billy closed the file on his desk and dragged himself over to take the call. He was barely gone two minutes and when he returned Len noticed there was a fresh spring in his step and a glint in his bloodshot eyes.

  'Who was that?'

  'Come on.' Billy scribbled a request chit for a driver and car and passed it to the Duty Sergeant.

  'What? Who was it?'

  'Just some old dear reporting suspicious activity behind a Post Office. We've got to check it out, though.'

  Len just about caught the fast wink that punctuated the sentence.

  'You coming?'

  Duke stood and stretched as if being dragged away from a session with Sophia Loren. 'Oh, OK.'

  As they hit the corridor, heading
for the garage, Len stopped Billy. 'Well? I know that was for the benefit of the big ears in there. Some old dear? Some old L.O.B., more like. What's really going on, Billy?'

  He was right; it had been a Load of Bollocks. 'It was Marie – Tony Fortune's wife.'

  'She out already?'

  'No, she's still in hospital. Wants to see us. You got some money for flowers?'

  'A few bob. What does she want to see us about? She's not putting the kid down for Hendon already? What's so urgent?'

  Billy let rip with a 200-watt grin. 'She wants to give us the Train Robbers.'

  Tony Fortune met Brian Field in a transport cafe off the A1. Brian looked bloody awful and his hands shook. At first Tony thought the stress had got to him, that he had cracked under the strain.

  'You OK?' he asked as Brian's spoon rattled in the mug.

  The other man gave a wry smile. 'Nothing a bacon sandwich won't cure. Me, Tommy Wisbey and Bobby Welch tied one on last night.'

  He didn't mention that they had tied one on the night before, too. He did explain how the gang had split up: Bruce

  and Ronnie Biggs had left in one of the Austin Healeys, Jimmy White and Ralph in the other. Charlie and Gordy had gone together, while Roger had a Wolseley he had paid £375 cash for in Oxford and had left in that. Roy and Tiny Dave had been dropped off at Thame. Brian had done the same for Stan the driver an hour later.

  Then the remaining crew had been ferried to the Fields' place and there had been a two-day celebration. It was quite raucous; at one point one of the neighbours had complained. But the robbers had gone now.

  'What did Bruce say?'

  'I've forty-eight grand in the van outside. He says you are owed that much.'

  Tony's throat went dry. 'Cheers.'

  'There's the same again if you take care of the farm.'

  That sounded unpromising work. 'It must be crawling with police up there.'

  'They haven't got that far out yet. You'd be OK if you take the A40 and approach it from the west. I'd come with you, but there's a lot to do my end. A fuck of a lot.'