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  Tony thought for a moment. It might just assuage the guilt and frustration he felt at missing out on the job. And the cash would certainly help placate Marie. She had left a deposit on a Silver Cross, just like the Queen used. He could be in and out before anyone saw him. 'What do you want me to do at the farm?'

  Brian signalled for his bacon sandwich. 'At this stage of the game? Don't fuck about, Tony. Torch the lot.'

  'Hello, is that Aylesbury police? Yes. My name is John Marris. Like the potato, yes, but with two "rs". I'm a farm labourer, a herdsman. I live on Oakley Road, and I thought you might be interested in

  what I have just seen. I was woken last night, in the early hours, by lots of comings and goings. Cars and the like. I knew they must be coming from this farm, you see. So today I just had a peek, a bit of a nosey, wondering what the new owners were up to. It looked deserted, but all the curtains were drawn, like. In the middle of the morning. Thought that was odd. Except that each one had a corner turned up. As if someone wanted to spy on anyone coming up the lane. I nearly left then, because it was a little creepy, but I went to one of the outbuildings. There was a lorry in there. A yellow one. Yes, yellow. Just been painted, though. Still wet. Then next door there was a locked garage. And round the back, a pit where things had been burned. Clothes, mostly, I think. Well, I haven't got a phone so I am calling from my employer's house. The number? OAK five seven four nine. I heard on the radio there was a reward? All right, I'll wait until someone gets back in touch. Oh, you'll want the name of the place. It's called Leatherslade Farm. Righty-o, thank you.'

  Even the Verve Cliquot tasted sour to Bruce. He and Fran were holed up in a flat in Queensway. Mary Manson was looking after their son, Nick, just in case they had to move quickly. The place was in someone else's name, so he was quite happy to have champagne and smoked salmon sent over from Fortnum's. And they weren't the kind of company surprised by payment in cash.

  So they drank champagne and decent claret and ate well, but Bruce found he could hardly move from the chair in front of the TV, the news bulletins came so thick and fast. On each one he expected to see a shot of the farm, those outhouses, the kitchen with its supplies, and grinning among them Fewtrell and Butler, the two coppers vying for the limelight. They were like Arthur Lucan and Kitty McShane, or Jewell

  and Warris, those two – a double act you suspected hated each other away from the public gaze.

  Bruce went over and over what could tie him into the robbery. The farm; the purchase had been handled by Brian Field's firm, mainly his associate Leonard Field and his boss John Wheater. They had met Bruce and Gordy. Weak link. So had the previous owners of Leatherslade. Stupid. He had also stashed his whack in a garage rented in his own name. Careless. It was time to put those things right.

  Late afternoon, fifteen minutes before the 5.55 news, he grabbed his coat.

  'Where you going?' Fran asked.

  'Make a call.'

  She didn't ask any more, simply refilled her glass and carried on watching Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School. Bruce was worried, but then that was his job. They would be all right.

  He went to the call box and dialled Brian's number. He let it ring, put the receiver down and called again. He did this four times in total. No pick-up.

  Bruce put the phone down for the last time, his anxiety heightened by the worms in his stomach.

  A new plan was needed. Step one, move the money somewhere safe, perhaps away from London. Step two, start planning for a proper safe house. Oh, and step three, make sure the farm was sterilised.

  Janie Riley had waited patiently for the phone call from Bruce. Just to let her know he was all right. That they could meet sometime. To thank her for her help. To give her a night out. Just like the old days. Smoking, drinking, jazz and sex. Four things she rarely got at home.

  Nothing.

  But the papers were full of his exploits, even if his name hadn't been put to them. Clearly, he had taken the cash and gone without so much as a by-your-leave. Off with Franny or Mary or even some other woman. Not a thought for Janie. Sent her to buy the grub, that's all she was good for. She should have been there to see it, to revel in the whole caper. She deserved that.

  'Bastard,' she said to herself as she left the house and walked down the pathway towards the elaborate gates depicting rampant peacocks. Hideous. But her husband liked them. And it was his money. Besides, they didn't look out of place in this part of Surrey.

  She turned left and walked into the village, past the green where the cricket club was setting up. A few looked over at her, in her bright floral summer dress and oversized sunglasses, and she let her hips sway a little more than usual. They'll be polishing their balls on their whites a little more vigorously than usual now, she thought.

  She slipped into the red phone box outside the Post Office. Best not use the line at home, just in case. Afterwards she would go into the Cricketers and have a quick gin and tonic, even if it was only lunchtime.

  She dialled the number written on a scrap of paper. She wouldn't tell them everything. She would just give them one or two. Bruce. Oh, and that smug git Tony Fortune. He had pissed her off that day when they were shopping. She could tell what he thought of her. He deserved to go down, too.

  'Hello,' she said in her roughest voice. 'Is that Scotland Yard?'

  The police Rover pulled Tony before he had even left London en route to the farm. He watched the light in the rearview mirror of his two-tone powder-blue Ford Capri coupe that he had taken from his showroom. The Capri was nifty, but there was no way he could outrun the Rover.

  He slowed, changed down using the column gearshift, and pulled over, then studied the rearview mirror, watching the two uniforms approach.

  A knuckle on the window. 'Step out of the car, sir.'

  He wound the window down. 'Why, Officer? Was I committing an offence?'

  The man crouched down. He had a bruiser's face, square and solid-looking with a five-o'clock shadow you could tell no razor could banish completely. 'Mr Anthony Fortune?'

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. 'Yes.'

  'Can you step out of the vehicle?'

  Tony opened the door and did as he was told.

  'Thank you, sir. Could you tell me what is in the boot, sir?'

  'Jack. Spare wheel.'

  'Mind if we take a look?' The policeman smiled. They were going to take a look come what may.

  Tony reached in, pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them to him. 'Be my guest.'

  The copper tossed them to his colleague.

  'How did you know it was me?' asked Tony.

  'Oh, an all-car message, sir. Quite distinctive, this vehicle. Bit of a lady's colour though, blue and white.'

  'Bloody hell!' the other policeman yelled.

  Tony sighed.

  'Derek. Look at this.'

  He followed Derek around to the rear and the three of them stared into the gaping boot and its eight cans of petrol and rags. Thank God he'd parked the cash Field had given

  him with old Paddy his mechanic before picking up the Capri.

  'What's this?' Derek asked, as he picked up a can and shook it.

  'Petrol.'

  He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. 'I can see that. You going somewhere?'

  Tony sighed again. 'On a very long trip, I should imagine.'

  'Hello, is that Brill police station? Who am I speaking to? Sergeant Blackman. Look, Sergeant, it's John Marris here. I called Aylesbury the other day and they never got back to me. I know they are busy, that's what I am talking about. The robbery. There is a farm here with a suspicious vehicle in it. And nobody has been around for days. I checked. Leatherslade. You know it? Yes, sold a few months ago. Never seen the owners. You'll send a man down, will you? Good. Because something funny has gone on there. Will you come yourself? Right. Constable Woolley. Tell him I'll meet him at the end of the lane in an hour. How's that?'

  Fifty-one

  New Scotland Yard, 11 August 1963

  Georg
e Hatherill lit a cigarette and offered them around to Len Haslam and Billy Naughton. They were looking very pleased with themselves as they took one each. He wasn't so sure they had any right to be smug, not yet.

  'So what have you got on this Tony Fortune?'

  'Nothing yet,' said Duke. 'We're still questioning him.'

  'But you are sure he is in the frame?'

  'Tangentially.'

  'Tangentially? Big word for you, Len. Did Billy here teach you that?' Hatherill wagged his cigarette at Duke. 'Expand on that.'

  'We have two reasons to believe he was involved. One we'll explain in a moment, another from an anonymous tip-off. A woman.'

  Hatherill snorted. Anonymous tip-offs didn't count for much, as far as he was concerned. They were often more about setttling scores than the truth. There had been lots of them so far, many no doubt naming the actual villains, but with no proof offered.

  'ABC, lads. ABC.' It stood for Assume nothing, Believe nobody, Check everything. 'She give you anyone else?'

  'Bruce Reynolds. But we already have him down as a person of interest.'

  'And you can't pull him just on some mad bint's word. Got to be better than that. And if Fortune does put his hands up for it, before you charge him in connection with the train you'll have to take him to Aylesbury.'

  'We appreciate that, sir,' Billy said.

  'And why aren't you taking this to Mr Butler or Mr Millen?'

  Because you are the kingmaker in this, Len thought. The Big Cheese.

  'Well, as Len says, apart from the tip-off, it's tangential at the moment. Thought we'd run it by you first. You might make connections we can't.'

  Hatherill shook his head, well aware he was being flattered. 'I'm not sure why you are wasting my time with this, lads. We've pulled in almost every lowlife. What makes Tony Fortune so special?'

  'His wife.'

  'I thought you said she had just given birth? I don't recall a pregnant woman being involved at Sears Crossing.'

  Len and Billy exchanged glances, confirming to each other that it was time to come clean. Knowing he had Hatherill's ear, Len let Billy do the talking.

  'The wife is speaking partly in riddles and nods and winks.'

  'That's women for you,' smiled Hatherill. 'Especially after they've had a baby.'

  'We think Tony Fortune was offered the job but for some reason turned it down. Yes, I know half the villains in London are claiming that. We also think that the wife's brother knew about it.'

  'Where is the brother?'

  'Norwich.'

  'The prison?'

  Billy nodded vigorously. 'Sir. He was the driver on an armed robbery last week. Grafton Street?'

  Hatherill waved him on with an impatient gesture of his hand. 'I know about it, yes.'

  'Geoff, the brother, is up to his eyes in debt. When the train didn't come off for him, he went with the Clarence Brothers. Big mistake. Now he is looking at ten years.'

  'But?'

  'Marie Fortune reckons that if Geoff's charge were dropped to being an accessory – just driving, in other words – he might give us some names.'

  'But Tony Fortune won't?'

  They both shook their heads.

  'Tony Fortune isn't stupid.'

  'But this Geoff is?'

  Len gave a grunt that might have been a laugh. 'He'd have to be, to drive for the Clarences. They make the Richardsons look like The Brains Trust.'

  'Does Fortune know you have spoken to the wife?'

  Again, they shook their heads in unison. 'He hasn't put anything together yet,' said Billy. 'He's not even sure why he was pulled. We're certain of it.'

  'Good. Keep it like that. Wife might come in handy later as a bit of leverage.' Hatherill smoked on, thinking for a moment. 'I am assuming you lads would like to be attached to the Train Squad for this. Should it pan out, I mean.'

  Neither of them denied it.

  'In which case, I think you can leave this matter to Ernie Millen and me.'

  'Sir?' Len asked incredulously. 'What do you mean?'

  'Mr Millen and I will travel to Norwich. I'm sorry, but if you are right, this is too important to…' His words tailed off.

  'Leave to junior officers?' Billy suggested.

  'In a word, yes. You keep quiet about this. It has to be approached carefully. We also have to make sure no word of this gets out, certainly not into the prison population.' He could see disappointment in both their faces. 'In the meantime, drop everything else, report to Jack Slipper, see if he has anything needs chasing up.'

  It took a moment for the last sentence to sink in. Slipper was one of the Train Squad. And if they were working for him, they were too.

  'Sir.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Go on, piss off. Go and catch some train robbers, make me happy.' As they were almost out the door, he spoke again, softly. 'And boys, this better be right. I have many ambitions for what little time I have left in the Force. Going to Norwich isn't one of them.'

  Ten minutes later the phone rang. It was Brigadier John Cheney, Chief Constable of Buckinghamshire, and what he told him put a big smile on Hatherill's face. He put down the receiver and then called the operator. 'Get me the Forensic Science laboratory. We've found the hideout.'

  'Mrs Clark, is it?'

  The fifty-year-old woman who had opened the door looked Roger Cordrey up and down and seemed relieved, probably because he wasn't Irish, black or a dog. 'You've come about the garage?'

  'I have.' Sitting in the little Austin van behind him was his old pal Bill Boal, who had come along to help with the next stage of the job, stashing the money and starting a legitimate enterprise to account for it. For which they needed a garage. 'Yes. I telephoned.'

  'Just that I've had some very strange people ringing. It's only around the corner. Would you like to see it?'

  'Yes, please,' Roger said politely. 'But I am sure it will be fine. Just as long as it's dry.'

  'Oh, very dry. My husband was a stickler for keeping it clean and dry. There are no oil stains and you could eat your dinner off that floor. Come in, I'll get you the keys and the rental agreement. Would your friend like to come in?'

  Roger looked back over his shoulder. 'No, he'll be fine. We are going into business together.'

  'Locally?'

  'Wimborne. But we'll base ourselves in Bournemouth.'

  'Well, come in, come in.'

  Roger stepped inside a house crammed full of china ornaments. He kept his hands pressed to his sides in case he inadvertently sent a windmill or a doe-eyed flower-seller crashing to the floor. 'What line of work are you in?'

  'Flowers.'

  'Lovely. Come through to the kitchen.'

  Roger walked down the hallway. The kitchen wasn't any less hazardous, as every inch of the wall seemed to have decorative plates hanging on it.

  'If you'll just put your name, address and telephone number down here. And I'll need a month's refundable deposit and a month in advance. There are two keys. I'll keep one. Don't worry, I won't go in. It's just in case you lose yours.'

  Roger hesitated. 'Two of us will be using the garage, so

  we'll need both keys. My friend outside in the car, Bill – we share the car.'

  Mrs Clark's face seemed to fold in on itself. She wasn't happy.

  'It's unlikely we would both lose them, but we'll copy the serial numbers just in case. And pay for any replacement.'

  She looked partially mollified. 'Very well.'

  'And I can give you the deposit plus three months' rent now. In cash.'

  Her face unfurled. 'Oh, well. How rude of me – would you like a cup of tea while you count the money out?'

  'Yes, that would be very nice.'

  'Then I'll walk you round and show you which one it is. Nice blue door, only just painted before…' She put a hand to her throat. 'Sorry, before my husband passed away.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that.'

  'It's why I don't need the garage, you see.'

  'We'll t
ake good care of it.'

  'I'm sure you will.'

  She watched while he counted out the rent in one-pound notes. She looked at the tower of cash sitting on her kitchen table, and at the impressive roll he had peeled them from. (lash. Bundles of it.

  As her husband used to say after a few pints, 'If it looks like shit, smells like shit and feels like shit… it's probably shit.' She hated the crudity, but William hadn't risen to Sergeant in the police force without a good nose for a wrong 'un. And he would say this one stank to high heaven.

  'Here are the keys. Why don't you walk round, take a look and we'll have the tea when you get back and sign if you are happy?'

  'Very well.'

  'Fourth one in. Blue door.'

  As soon as he had gone, Mrs Clark went to the telephone in her hall. She didn't pick it up until she heard the engine of the van they had arrived in start up. She watched its blurred image through the glass of the front door as it pulled away and executed a U-turn.

  Picking up the receiver, she was about to dial, then she hesitated. She was probably imagining things. Bucks was a long way from Bournemouth, after all. Still, 'report anything suspicious' they had said. She dialled.

  'Hello, operator? Can you get me the Desk Sergeant at Poole police station?' This was her husband's old station. She would get a sympathetic hearing there. And wouldn't it raise a smile in his former canteen if William Clark's widow were responsible for capturing the Great Train Robbers?

  Bruce was the first to arrive. He parked his Austin Healey in the gravel car park of the cafe, just off the North Circular Road. It was five days since the robbery, and the news was still full of bluster and exaggeration.

  Roy pulled in next in his Mini Cooper, with a scowling Charlie in the seat beside him. Just Buster now and they had the quartet who would travel back to the farm. Charlie hoped Buster would bring a larger motor so they could all fit inside in comfort. He wished he'd used the big Rover.

  Bruce stepped out, careful not to scuff his new elastic-sided boots. When he saw the other two he had to laugh. 'Christ, we look like a bloody Freeman's catalogue.'

  Roy looked down at his new clothes, the roll-neck and cardigan combo and dark blue slacks. 'Speak for yourself. This lot cost some serious dough.'