Signal Red Page 37

  He let the chill breeze clear his airways, enjoying even the scent of the molasses factory by the Blackwall Tunnel which it carried. It reminded him of a brewery, rich and hoppy. The wind whipped at his hair and he leaned forward and looked down at the dirty old river churning beneath the hull.

  The freighter steamed away from St Katharine's Docks, vibrating its way downriver, passing the first saw-toothed outline of the still-derelict warehouses of Wapping. Buster watched Tower Bridge shrink and then disappear as the ship

  rounded a bend in the river. Would he ever look upon that bridge, or any other Thames crossing, again?

  He had seriously considered giving himself up, but such was the frenzy about the Train, he was certain they would get double-digit sentences. He trusted Frank Williams, as much as he trusted any copper, but there was only so much the man could deliver on any promise. So, there had been no real choice. Buster could wait for them to come and get him or he could leave.

  It had meant abandoning June, which pained him, but she would be all right. She had instructions to go to Williams once he was clear and tell him he had gone and to leave her alone. He was sure Frank would. None of the Squad cared much for prosecuting wives.

  He had also left Bruce in London, still planning the details of his own escape and waiting for his fake documents. Buster was bound for Antwerp and then Germany.

  'Mr Miller.' It was the captain, a hawk-faced Dutchman with a scraggly blond beard, standing behind him. 'You should go below. Stay out of sight. I'll call you for meals.'

  'In a second. Just saying goodbye.'

  'Don't be long. The crew get curious about passengers who carry their cases with them everywhere. If you understand me.'

  Buster looked down at the cash between his feet. 'Thanks. Yeah.'

  Mr Miller. He had to remember that he was no longer Buster Edwards, he was Jack Miller. Different name, then different face – Brian Field had friends of friends in Germany who could arrange plastic surgery. Then he would send for June and they would settle somewhere in the world, far away from Butler and Co. Mexico, Bruce had said

  he fancied. Mexico sounded pretty good, Buster thought. And then a little voice in his head said, But not as good as London.

  The weather was changing; the wind strengthened, moving from chilly to biting, and the sky darkened ominously, but Buster waited until they were level with Greenwich, and he admired the lines of the Cutty Sark and the beauty of Sir Christopher Wren's Naval College one last time, before he went below to his temporary prison, feeling dark clouds of his own gathering.

  Tony Fortune was under a TR4, fitting a new clutch without the benefit of an aligning tool – Paddy seeming to have either hidden it or taken it – when he became aware of someone standing next to the car.

  'Be with you in a mo'.'

  'Take your time, Tony. No rush. We put the Closed sign up for you.'

  Tony pushed himself out from beneath the chassis using the wheeled trolley underneath him. He was looking up at a grinning Len Haslam. He could hear car doors being opened and shut, out in the showroom. 'What's this?'

  Len flipped open a piece of paper. 'I have here a search warrant to execute.'

  Tony jumped to his feet, wiping his hands on his overalls. 'For what, exactly?'

  'We have reason to believe that proceeds from the Sears Crossing Train Robbery-'

  Tony grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the last of the grease from his fingers as he walked to the front of his premises. Three uniformed police officers were examining each car in turn.

  'They won't find anything.'

  Len folded his arms, the smirk still on his face. 'Let's see.'

  He watched as the three coppers gave the little Goggomohil bubble car the once over and came up clean. Len's smile began to fade. 'Do it again.'

  After ten more minutes, the copper shook his head. 'Shall we rip out the seats and panels?'

  'You could,' said Tony. 'Then you'd have to pay me for the damage. There's nothing to find.'

  Len took a deep breath. His skin had turned mottled, aflame with patches of red. 'Well, Mr Fortune.'

  'Well, Mr Haslam.'

  'Come on, lads. We'll be back.'

  As he walked by the tiny German car he gave it a hefty kick, and the door dented. 'Built of tinfoil, these things,' he muttered.

  A breathless Billy Naughton was waiting for him outside. Len sent the uniforms back to the cars and turned to Billy, a scowl where the smile had been minutes before. 'You fuckin' little pissbag of a shit cunt.'

  'No luck, Len?'

  'What did you do?'

  'I asked Tony if he had had a break-in recently. He said he had. Nothing taken but a radio. No log books or MOTs or other stuff a real criminal might take. What was it you planted? A skim from the phone-box money? Because that didn't quite add up, did it? When the bankers counted it, it was light a few grand.'

  'I tell you, Goody-two-shoes, Hatherill won't save you this time. When Tommy Butler hears what you did-'

  'What, stopped you fabricating evidence? I should have shopped you for Goody.'

  'What's stoppin' you?'

  Billy shrugged. 'It's not the way it should be.'

  The punch surprised him, a sharp uppercut that clashed his teeth together and sent him bouncing off the showroom window. He slithered down to a crouching position, waiting for the stars he was seeing to fade. A powerful kick to the ribs finished him off, and through sparking tunnel vision, he watched Duke stride off, still muttering obscenities.

  He must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew Tony was feeding him sweet tea and he was sitting in the workshop.

  'You all right?'

  Billy touched his jaw and winced. When he spoke, his tongue felt too big for his mouth, as if he'd traded places with an ox. 'Think I need a dentist.'

  'And a new opo.'

  'That, too. Where's the money?'

  'Safe, well away from here. You'll want it back, I assume.'

  Billy shook his head, then regretted it. 'Right now, I can't explain where it came from. It hasn't been missed. It might be more trouble than it's worth. How much was there?'

  Tony sipped his own tea. 'I didn't stop to count it. You called to say the cossers were coming with a warrant and that you suspected something incriminating had been planted. I was lucky it was in the second car I searched. The Goggomobil. Under the wheel arch.'

  Billy looked around at the workshop, the faded calendars on the wall, the half-empty tins of oil, the mounds of spare or discarded parts. 'You got anything keeping you here?'

  ' London? No. Just the stock out there.'

  'Will the train money cover it?'

  'A good part.'

  'Shut the place up then. Go and lie low till the scream dies down.'

  Tony's eyes narrowed, his voice full of suspicion. 'Why would you do that? Let me walk away – again?'

  'Did you do the train, Tony?'

  'No,' he was able to answer truthfully.

  'I thought not. But they aren't going to care about details. They're building a bloody great steamroller and everyone in its path is going to get flattened.'

  'I would've though,' the other man said softly. 'I bloody would have.'

  'And where would you be now?'

  Tony ran a hand through his hair. 'Is that your crime- doesn't-pay-speech?'

  'Perhaps. The closest to one you're going to get, anyway.'

  Tony stood and went over to the pegboard where the keys for the cars dangled from hooks. He picked off a set and tossed them to Billy. 'If you were a certain kind of copper, I would recommend the Ace. Best motor in the shop. I straightened the chassis. It'll need bushes on the back axle within six months, is all. Log book is in the desk drawer. Signal Red, very eye-catching.'

  Billy stared at the ignition key in his hand, imagining driving down through country lanes, to a pub in Kent perhaps, with Patti at his side. And he wondered how he would explain to Patti – or Hatherill, for that matter – how he came by such a
racy machine. 'If I was that kind of copper I'd take it.' He sighed and threw the keys back to Tony.

  Tony snatched them from the air. 'And you're not?'

  'Apparently,' Billy said, as if he were baffled himself.

  'I don't understand.'

  'No. I expect you don't. Thanks for the offer of the car anyway. I'd best get back.'

  'You said something about a steamroller. What do you think they'll do? To the ones they've caught?'

  Tony finished the tea and placed the mug on the bench. 'The Train Robbers? They'll throw the book at them.'

  Fifty-eight

  From The Times, 17 April 1964

  GREAT PUNISHMENT FOR TRAIN ROBBERS

  OBVIOUS MOTIVE OF GREED

  SEVEN SENTENCED TO 30 YEARS' IMPRISONMENT

  The heaviest series of sentences in modern British criminal history were imposed at Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire, yesterday on the 12 men guilty of being involved in last August's £2,600,000 mail train robbery. The effective total amounts to 307 years. Seven of the accused were each sentenced to 30 years' imprisonment. Earlier in the trial one of the defendants, John Daly, was found to have 'no case to answer', despite his fingerprints being found on a Monopoly board at the gang's hideout. Daly claimed to have played with his brother-in-law, Bruce Reynolds, still wanted in connection with the crime, some weeks before the robbery.

  Passing sentence, the Judge, Mr Justice Edmund-Davies, said it would be positively evil if leniency were exercised. A great crime called for great punishment, not for mere retribution but to show others that crime did not pay – that the game was not worth even the most alluring candle.

  FIRST AND LAST

  As well as the seven who received sentences of 30 years, two more men were sent to prison for 25 years, one for 24, another to 20 and the twelfth man received 3 years.

  Passing judgement on the twelve men, the Judge said that the crime, in its enormity, was the first of its kind in this country. 'I propose to do all within my power to ensure it will also be the last of its kind.

  'Your outrageous conduct constitutes an intolerable menace to the well-being of society. Let us clear out of the way any romantic notion. This is nothing less than a sordid crime of violence, which was inspired by vast greed.

  'The motive of greed is obvious. As to violence, anybody who has seen that nerve-shattered engine driver can have no doubt of the terrifying effect on law-abiding citizens of a concerted assault by armed robbers.'

  All with the exception of Wheater (see table below) were found Guilty of conspiring together with other persons not in custody to stop the mail train with intent to rob the mail. All with the exception of Wheater, Cordrey and the two Fields (who are not related) were found Guilty of being armed with offensive weapons, robbing Frank Dewhurst, Post Office official on the train, of 120 mail bags.

  Cordrey pleaded Guilty to three charges of receiving £78,983, £56,047 and £5,901.

  Wheater and the two Fields were found Guilty of conspiring together to conceal the identity of the person who agreed to purchase Leatherslade Farm by making false statements to police officers, and thereby obstructing the course of justice.

  In a separate trial, which ended on Wednesday, Ronald Arthur Biggs was found Guilty of conspiring to stop the train to rob it,

  and also of taking part in the armed robbery. Like the majority of the defendants, he had pleaded Not Guilty.

  Police still wish to interview Bruce Reynolds, Ronald Edwards and James White in connection with the robbery.

  THE MEN AND THE SENTENCES

  The men sentenced to 30 years were:

  Ronald Arthur Biggs, aged 34, carpenter, of Alpine Road, Redhill, Surrey;

  Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 34, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W.;

  Charles Frederick Wilson, aged 31, market trader, of Crescent Lane, Clapham, S.W.;

  Thomas William Wisbey, aged 33, bookmaker, of Ayton House, Camberwell, S.E.;

  Robert Welch, aged 34, club proprietor, of Benyon Rd, Islington, N.; James Hussey, aged 34, painter, of Eridge House, Dog Kennel Hill, East Dulwich, S.E.;

  Roy John James, aged 28, racing motorist and silversmith, of Nell Gwynn House, Sloane Avenue, S.W.

  The other sentences were:

  William Boal, aged 50, engineer, of Burnthwaite Road, Fulham, S.W. – 24 years

  Roger John Cordrey, aged 42, florist, of Hurst Road, East Molesey, Surrey – 20 years

  Brian Arthur Field, aged 29, solicitor's managing clerk, of Kabri, Bridge Road, Whitchurch Hill, Oxfordshire – 25 years

  Leonard Denis Field, aged 31, merchant seaman, of Green Lanes, Haringay, N. – 25 years

  John Denby Wheater, aged 41, solicitor, of Otways Lane, Ashtead, Surrey – three years

  Fifty-nine

  Surrey, May 1992

  Our feet crunched on the gravel as we opened the gate and I started my second journey up the drive to the house. Above us the moon was sagging in the sky, as if tired of the effort of staying aloft. I knew how it felt.

  'How is he?' Bill Naughton asked, huffing slightly, his cheeks glowing from the cold night air.

  ' Roy? Up and down.'

  'Personally, I don't think he was ever the same once he came out. I think that thirty-year jolt disturbed the balance of his mind,' Naughton said. 'Roy's, I mean. Even though none of them served the full whack, it must've been a psychological blow.'

  'Devastating.' I remembered the outrage at the sentences – including my own numb sense of shock, especially as I could so nearly have been in that dock – and the instinctive, widespread feeling that they were disproportionate to the crime, the coshed driver notwithstanding. The Judge had intended to show the public that the country wouldn't tolerate such

  banditry, that there was no room for Robin Hoods. But it had the opposite effect to the one intended: it created a wave of sympathy for the robbers that a ten- or fifteen-year term would not have generated. The thirty years made them martyrs.

  The Establishment, of course, must have felt besieged from all sides at that point in history, and the hefty sentences were part of it blindly lashing out at changes it couldn't understand. The ancien regime didn't know it, but the full force of the 1960s was about to burst over them. The robbery must have seemed just yet another worrying signifier – along with Peter Cook and the contraceptive Pill, Mick Jagger and miniskirts, Marlon Brando and Lenny Bruce – of a descent into anarchy. Baffled, out-of-touch authorities would make similar mistakes a few years later and over-react by busting the Rolling Stones and prosecuting gormless hippy magazines.

  'Of course,' Bill continued, 'those with wives or girlfriends who stood by them managed the best. Roy never had that.'

  'You ever get married, Mr Naughton?' I asked as we walked nearer the entrance.

  'Yes. To a WPC. Patti. She passed away last year.'

  'Sorry to hear that.'

  'Yeah. Good while it lasted, though. Very good. What about you? Your missus ever come back?'

  We reached the front door of Roy 's house, which I had left open. 'Only us. Don't shoot!' I shouted, only half-joking, then turned back to the copper who had once saved my bacon. 'No. She was disgusted that I couldn't even manage thieving properly. Divorced me. I've got a son out there somewhere who I last saw when he was just a couple of months old. Alfie.'

  'Must hurt.'

  It was a lot worse than that, but the pain had numbed over

  the years. It was a wicked thing to do though, to keep me away from my boy. I sometimes felt I'd been punished worse than the train robbers for not doing the crime. I had heard that Marie had recently moved to Dubai or some other Godforsaken sandbox.

  'Yeah, but I remarried,' I sighed. 'Did a Bruce and Roy. Chose a younger woman.'

  Naughton dropped his voice as we neared the kitchen. 'Bruce struck lucky with Franny, but I hope you made a better job of it than Roy.'

  I thought of Jane, still in bed at that hour, curled up, the echo of her perfume still on my skin. 'I did, I think.'
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  Bill walked ahead of me into the kitchen and sniffed the air. 'Ah, still a menace to society I see, gentlemen. Should I call the Drugs Squad?'

  'Not unless we need fresh supplies. Those bastards are the biggest dealers in London. You want some first?' Bruce asked, holding out the joint. He had moved to sit next to Roy, at the opposite side of the table from where I was standing with Bill Naughton.

  Bill shook his head. 'No, not for me. I'll have a drop of whisky, though.'

  I poured him one and handed it over. His eyes went to the gun on the table, still lying in front of Roy. 'Cheers.'

  'Bruce here wanted the griff on who grassed them up, Bill,' I said.

  'Well, as you know, lads, I never did get to see it through to the end. I was taken off the Flying Squad well before the trial and moved to CID Uxbridge. Didn't get back on the Sweeney for another – oh, twelve years.'

  'They shift you because you was too clean?' Bruce asked. 'Because you wouldn't bundle us up like the others?'

  Bill sighed. 'Not that old tune, Bruce. You were done fair and square.'

  'I was.' Bruce had been caught in Torquay, down on his luck and with the remaining money dwindling fast, after five years on the run following spells in the South of France and Mexico. Rumour had it he simply shrugged when "tommy Butler had turned up at the door, as if he had been expecting him, almost relieved it was over. He had just three grand to give back. He received twenty-five years.

  'But Bill Boal was just a mug who helped Roger out after the event and he died in prison, the poor sod. And Charlie never said anything about "poppy" when arrested. Buder made that up.'

  'I can't say,' said Bill, as if reluctant to speak ill of the Squad that had disowned him. I wondered if they had done so because he would have no part in fitting me up. 'It's Butler 's word against Wilson 's.'