Signal Red Page 4

  After Roy had left, Bruce said, 'I told you he was particular. There's one other thing he doesn't know about though, another mod.'

  'What's that?' asked Gordy. 'A gun turret?'

  Bruce stroked his chin as if he were actually considering it before breaking into a grin. 'No, more's the pity.' He turned to Tony. 'Just make sure you lose the back seats.'

  Six

  From the Daily Sketch, 16 October 1962

  ACTOR LAMENTS LOSS OF 'PRIDE AND JOY'

  TV's Peter Gunn, the American actor Craig Stevens, last night appealed for the return of his metallic-blue 3.4 Mk 2 Jaguar. The luxury saloon was taken from outside his home on Eaton Square, where he is renting a house with his wife Alexis, on Tuesday night. 'The car was a welcome-to-London present from Lew Grade,' said the actor. 'I have only had it a few weeks and it is my pride and joy.' Mr Stevens, who played private detective Peter Gunn for a hundred episodes of the series, is in England to film Man of the World, his new thriller programme, for Mr Grade. A reward of a hundred pounds has been offered for the safe recovery of the Jaguar.

  Seven

  New Scotland Yard, Central London, October 1962

  Detective Constable William Naughton never did discover who put his name in the Flying Squad's 'book' at Scotland Yard. Whenever their peripatetic approach to crime took them to an outlying district, the Squad detectives were encouraged to keep an eye out for any likely prospects among the officers there. Names were logged back at New Scodand Yard – The Big House – and enquiries then made of DIs as to the subject's suitability for moving up a league.

  Billy Naughton, like every other plainclothes copper, knew this. So whenever a unit of the Squad came to his station at Lucan Place, Chelsea, the young DC made sure he helped wherever he could, from taking fingerprints to pointing the blokes to the right pub for an after-hours drink. He'd been stuck as an Aide to CID for two years when he was called in to see his DI. 'Whose arse have you had your tongue up?' the latter had enquired with a grin. 'Some fucking blind and deaf idiot on the Flying Squad has asked for you.'

  Whoever had written in the book that he 'showed promise', Naughton thanked him every time he walked into the shabby Squad room at New Scotland Yard on the Embankment. The rectangular space was dominated by the rows of desks where the eight teams did their paperwork. Along one wall was a bank of telephone booths. The air was rich with cigarette smoke, stale sweat, foul language and jokes in questionable taste. But to Billy it smelled sweeter than roses.

  Naughton's first task was to check in with the Duty Sergeant, see what was in the message book and which outstanding warrants needed typing up. But there was always a small pause after he entered where he looked around the smoke-filled room – much of it Old Holborn generated by a couple of dedicated pipe-puffers – at the group of men, The Big House's finest, and almost pinched himself, unable to believe he was one of the elite. The tricky part, he knew, was staying in it.

  DS Len 'Duke' Haslam, his face all sharp lines and widow's peak, threw a thumbs-up in greeting. He'd earned his nickname from his spot-on impersonation of John Wayne. He was able to nail it all, from the lazy drawl to the rolling gait, and he claimed to have seen The Alamo six times. Duke was the senior partner in their two-man team, assigned to show Billy the ropes. Unlike many others clobbered with a rookie, Duke didn't mind having a fledgling to nurse. Although only in his early thirties, Len believed in traditional coppering – and that included being free with your knowledge.

  'DC Naughton! Line Four.'

  The operator's deep baritone boomed over the hubbub of conversation. Naughton raised a hand in acknowledgement and crossed to the battered booth. Like all of them, its walls were defaced by hastily scribbled numbers and names, some of them going back twenty years, and the cubicle not only stank of fags, but there seemed to be lingering undertones of whisky-breath too. He wondered if Bill Cunningham, a DS notorious for his DTs, had been using the telephone before him.

  'Naughton, Flying Squad.'

  'You love saying that, don't you, you smug cunt? Naughton, Flying Squad, oh and possessor of the biggest cock in Scotland Yard. And the biggest head.'

  Naughton laughed. 'Hello, Stanley, what got your goat?'

  Harold ' Stanley ' Matthews had gone through police training at Hendon with Billy Naughton. They had boxed together and played football, later on opposing teams when they ended up in different districts. Naughton though, had slipped ahead in the promotion race, with Matthews trailing behind. Stanley was now an Aide to CID at Chelsea, his old job. Billy Naughton had never let on that he had recommended him to his DI before he left Chelsea, was the one who had got him out of uniform, away from the dullness of Brentford.

  'Been on Early Turn. Got here at five-thirty. You lads swan in at… what time is it? Bleedin' nine o'clock gone. You lot think villains punch-in those hours?'

  Naughton laughed. 'Most of the villains I know don't get up till midday – don't even know there are two eleven o'clocks in a day. How's Chelsea?'

  Stanley dropped the pretence of irritation. 'Good. I'm on the footie team already. And bagged a police flat off Holland Park. Hayley is well chuffed. Well, mostly.'

  Billy Naughton knew Hayley, Stanley 's young wife, and liked her, but like most non-Force wives, she didn't fully understand The Job. He was glad he hadn't been saddled with a missus yet. He had quickly discovered what a hindrance they were to ambitious Squad officers.

  'Hayley will have to get used to the fact that there's a bit more to do after-hours than Brentford,' he said. Whereas the suburbs had very little nightlife, Chelsea was full of pubs, clubs, not to mention celebrities. You couldn't throw a stone down the King's Road without hitting an actor or an artist or a pop star.

  'Just a little. And it's more interesting. We had this bird in yesterday,' Stanley went on. 'She was a bit of a looker, demanding we arrest her boyfriend for pulling out her pubic hair. To prove it-'

  Naughton laughed as he interrupted. 'She hoiked up her dress and showed you the evidence. They sent her to you, did they?'

  There was a heartbeat of a pause before realisation dawned at the other end of the line. 'Oh, fuck.'

  'Don't worry, she'll come round again and you can point some other green sod at her and snigger as he writes up the report.'

  There was a tap on his shoulder from Duke. He mouthed the words 'Boss wants to see you,' and Naughton felt his stomach cramp.

  Ernie Millen, the head of the Squad, always found time to keep an eye on the new lads. Rumour had it he gave you three months to show you had what it took – perseverance, an instinct for villainy and a decent sense of humour – to stay with the Squad. Millen and his trap-faced deputy Frank Williams were the ones who decided which new bloods should get a permanent place in the room. There was one trait that Williams prized above all else: the ability to 'bring in the work' by being proactive, using informants or dangling bait in front of suspected villains. And as it was common knowledge that Williams had the casting vote as to whether an apprentice had made his number and stayed in the Squad or was quietly transferred out, it was a good idea to 'get some in', as they said.

  'I gotta go, Stanley. Glad it's all tickety-boo.'

  'That's not why I called, mate. I remembered what you said, about keeping a note of villains' favourite wheels. Well, yesterday we went to Eaton Square. Car been nicked. We made a fuss 'cause of whose it was, this actor bloke. A Yank. But anyway, the car they took was a three point four Jag. Metallic blue. Only about a thousand miles on the clock. You always said to follow the motors, didn't you?'

  Naughton found himself nodding, even though he had borrowed the phrase from a DI at Acton.

  'Billy? You there?'

  'Yeah. Sorry, I was just thinking.' Just thinking that according to the OB – the Occurrences Book – another Jag had been taken in Savile Row, just down the road from West End Central police station, the cheeky buggers. Some poor bastard – well, not cash-poor obviously – being measured up at Anderson & Shepherd had come ou
t to find his wheels missing. A 3.4 Mark 2. Burgundy. Also showroom-fresh. 'Thanks, Stanley.'

  'Well, just returning the favour, mate.'

  'Yeah. Cheers.' What favour? He must have found out about him putting a word in. Maybe Stanley wanted Naughton to repeat the exercise at the Squad. Well, it was too early for that. Naughton hadn't got his own feet under the table yet, and here he was being summoned to see Millen. He rang off, thanked the operator in his cubbyhole, and threaded between the desks, thinking he might just have a bone for The Boss to chew on.

  Eight

  Fortess Road, North London, October 1962

  'What the fuckin' hell are these?'

  Tony Fortune looked up from his cornflakes, sucking a stray one off his lip as he did so. Marie was standing in the doorway to the kitchen of the flat they rented in Tufnell Park, dangling his set of twirlers.

  He shrugged. 'Just some bunch of keys from the garage.'

  She tossed them onto the pine table.

  'Oi. You'll scratch it.' He moved the keys onto the Daily Mirror, with its cover photograph of Oswald Mosley, who had caused a riot addressing his Union Movement. Nasty old fascist.

  Marie walked in and leaned over the table. She was dressed in the dark jacket and skirt she wore to work at the Midland Bank. She stabbed at the enormous ring of keys of various shapes and sizes.

  'Twirlers.'

  Well, it was true there were some skeleton keys among them, but most were legitimate. 'You know what it's like. People always losing their keys and need the car opening.'

  'And people always need cars "opening" when the owner's not about.' She blew out her cheeks, making the freckles stand out even more. Marie had long red hair and the palest of skins that betrayed her Irish roots. Her enormous, extended family was in the business – the ducking and diving business – working the north-west of England. She had deliberately distanced herself from them – apart from her brother Geoff, who turned up like a bad penny every few months for a handout – but she had been around enough car thieves to recognise a professional key-set when she saw one.

  When they had met, at a dance in Kilburn, she had known who Tony was and what he was. A ringer. A man who took stolen cars and turned them into something else: unrecognisable, untraceable stolen cars. In order to move the relationship on, he had been forced to renounce the ringing game. It was something he had never regretted, not really. But it had its moments, which you couldn't say about running a showroom in Warren Street.

  Marie had her hands on her hips, her 'fierce' pose. 'There are coppers who would arrest you just for having those things.'

  'There are coppers who will arrest you for being in possession of a tongue in your head,' Tony shot back. 'It's a regular tool of the trade.'

  'What are you up to, Tony?'

  'What do you think I'm up to?'

  'What am I supposed to think when you come home at all hours stinking of thinners?'

  He laughed at that. The splashes of cellulose thinners on him were legit. He'd been respraying a Standard van for a local joinery firm. 'I'm not at it,' he said with all the conviction he could muster.

  'Because I have a job in a bank now,' she reminded him. 'But how long do you think I'd keep it if they thought my old man had friends who were partial to the balaclava.' She rubbed her stomach. 'Look what you've done.'

  She walked over to the old-fashioned metal kitchen unit, pulled down the drawer and rummaged for some Alka- Seltzer. 'You give me indigestion. I shouldn't wonder if I've an ulcer.'

  He stood up, crossed over and put his arms around her. She let a hand rest on his crotch, saying, 'I swear if you go bogey on me I'll pull it off.'

  He turned away from her slightly, just in case she was considering a warning shot across the bollocks. 'You really know how to win a man's heart.' He kissed her neck.

  'I can still smell the thinners.'

  'I'll cover it up with a splash of Old Spice.'

  'Not now, Tony.' She moved his arms aside with that practised combination of sharp elbows and a quick wiggle that women perfected at an early age. 'One of us has a real job.'

  'So have I.'

  'How many cars you sold recently?'

  Tony bristled. 'As it goes…' He pulled the roll of notes from his pocket, undid the elastic band, and let the cash flutter onto the linoleum floor.

  'What's all this?' She knelt down and he could see her stocking-tops. He didn't bother to help as she gathered up the five-pound notes. She was laughing as she did so, until she realised how much there was. The laughter died and the smile faded soon after. 'What's this from, Tony? It's a-'

  He waited for her to make a joke on their surname. None came. This was no laughing matter.

  'A quick turnaround yesterday,' he lied. 'Car came in, gave him a ton for it. Customer walks in half an hour later. Cash on the nose.' 'What car?'

  He hesitated, sticking as close to the truth as he dared. 'Some nice old Jag.'

  She stood up and handed him the sheaf of notes. He wrapped the band around it again. 'Can't have been that old. There's a hundred and fifty quid profit there.' 'Give or take.'

  Her eyes flashed with amusement. 'A hundred and fifty dead. I count that stuff all day long, remember. You sure it's bona?'

  'As my dick is long.'

  She slapped his shoulder. 'Don't be crude.' He could see she was already thinking about what the cash could buy. A refrigerator. A decent television. A holiday.

  'Sure we can squeeze a meal at the Carousel out of it.' She smoothed down her skirt and straightened her jacket. In one deft movement she tied her hair back and became every inch the severe bank cashier. 'I have to go. Love you.' 'When I give you money.' A smirk. 'Take it or leave it.'

  The guilt at lying only kicked in after she had gone, while Tony made himself a fresh pot of tea. Well, it was a one-off. Just repaying a favour. There was no way on God's earth that Tony Fortune was going to get involved in any tickle for Bruce Reynolds, that was for sure.

  They had ringed the two Jags in part of a disused bus garage in Camden, not far from the Met's Stolen Car Squad at Chalk Farm. Tony didn't do much apart from changing the plates and swapping the vehicle ID plates over. He also put a Webasto sunroof in the burgundy model, which would throw anyone looking for the original car, and changed the wire wheels on the metallic-blue one for regular steel disc wheels. He could sell on the wires, no problem.

  Mickey Ball ventured up north to help drive the cars south from Camden to where Roy wanted them – in Battersea, within walking distance of his garage and the shop where he sold antique silverware. He and Tony took different routes. It didn't do to be going around in convoy, just in case some copper put Mk 2 and Mk 2 together and got a sniff of something.

  Tony went via Westminster Bridge and made it there first, and as he bumped down the track that punctured a scruffy row of terraced houses, he spotted Roy waiting at the garages, with the doors to both open. He chose the nearest one, waited until he had cleared the rutted access alley and accelerated. He roared past the lock-up, slammed on the brakes, engaged reverse and propelled the Jag into the dark interior, stopping it with an inch to spare before the bumper engaged with the tool rack at the rear.

  As Tony squeezed out of the driver's door Roy was making exaggerated waves in the air to clear the dirt the tyres had kicked up. 'Done that before, have you?' he smirked.

  'Once or twice.'

  'Wait till you see Mickey. He goes in like a mum trying to park her pram.' He closed the garage doors and engaged the clasp lock. 'You done any driving?'

  Tony knew what kind of driving he was talking about. 'Not the way you mean. Not serious.' A couple of high-speed chases after he had been spotted in a wrong 'un was the closest he had ever come to being a wheel-man. And that was six, seven years ago.

  'Stoppin' for a drink?' Roy asked.

  'Best get back,' said Tony.

  'Give you a lift somewhere?'

  'The Tube. Cheers.'

  'Just wait for Mickey.'

&
nbsp; 'Right.' He offered Roy one of the new Embassy Filters, which Marie had started buying, saying they were better for you than unfiltered.

  'Nah. I don't. Stopped the booze, too.'

  'Why?'

  'Slows you down. For the racetrack.'

  Well, Bruce had said he was serious about his racing. Tony lit his cigarette from a Colibri lighter. He smoked in silence for a while.

  'Bruce wondered if you wanted to stay on.'

  Tony looked down at Roy, who was a good four inches shorter than him. 'Stay on?'

  'Get involved, like. In the job. It needs a sizeable firm. Room for one more on top, as they say.'

  The next step was, he would have to ask what exactly the job was. That was as good as saying 'Yes, count me in.' You didn't tyre-kick with these lads. If you said you were interested, it meant you were interested. Not merely curious. Curious was bad.

  He was flattered. Roy would only have asked if both Bruce and Goody had given the say-so. But he could hear two things. One was the familiar thrum of a Jaguar 3.4 as it changed down a gear, ready to turn into the lock-ups. The second was his scream as Marie twisted his testicles off and toasted them on an open fire.

  'Tell Bruce thanks all the same, but I got a lot on at the moment. Wouldn't want to let you all down at the last minute.'

  Roy swung back the doors of the second garage to their full extent, ready to receive the Jag that was bouncing towards them. 'Sure. Don't worry. There's always a next time, eh?' 'Yeah,' said Tony. 'Maybe next time.'

  Nine

  Twickenham, West London, November 1962

  Bruce always supplied the music. Even if the meet was held at someone else's house, he would still turn up with a selection of his LPs. The first real gathering for this job was held in Buster's flat in St Margaret's Road, Twickenham. Bruce liked Buster, but he had a tendency to musicals: My Fair Lady and The King and I and, even worse, after a drink or two, Flanagan and Allen. Underneath the fuckin' Arches, indeed.