Signal Red Page 9

  Tiny Dave gave Roy and Mickey the thumbs-up.

  The two Jags swung around the police cars and reversed up to the entrance in a cloud of exhaust smoke, slotting neatly either side of the Bedford armoured car.

  The apron outside Comet House was quickly full of men, some of them carrying strongboxes.

  'Get the doors!' yelled Bruce.

  The rear doors of the Jaguars were yanked open.

  They had rehearsed this dozens of times, but Bruce knew amnesia could strike even the most well-prepared team. So he carried on with the instructions. 'Put the boxes where the back seats were.'

  The strongboxes, two per Jaguar, were slotted in to form new rear seats.

  'Blankets.'

  A cover was thrown over the boxes.

  'Get in. Move it.'

  Three men clambered in and sat on top of each of them. The doors were pulled shut.

  Mickey was first away, tyres squealing and smoking, heading west away from Comet House towards the exit gate.

  Please God, let them not have replaced the chain, thought Roy as he accelerated after him.

  The young receptionist, sure that the robbers had fled, reached over and pressed the alarm button with his undamaged but unsteady hand. A siren screeched around the hallway; he knew a similar sound would be torturing the ears of those down in the strongroom and at the local police station. Then he slumped back down and cupped his good hand over his nose as his palms filled with the blood streaming out of his nostrils. Fear had burst the vessels in his nose.

  The felled driver of the police car, his vision still blurred from the blow, managed to crawl back inside the Wolseley and grab his handset. He pressed the transmit button. When he spoke, his voice was thick, the words slurred. It was as if brain and jaw muscles were no longer in sync. But he was certain he could make himself understood. 'Hello, control. Hello, control. This is Romeo Romeo Alpha. Robbery in progress…'

  Mickey slithered the Jag to a halt next to the exit gate in the perimeter fence. Gordy, primed for action, was out of the car while it was still rolling. He ran to the gate, lifted the chain and pulled at the phony link.

  Nothing happened. The chain held.

  Roy heard his anguished shout of 'Fuck!' even over the idling engine. As he braked to a full stop, he wondered how long it would take before Gordy abandoned the trick linkage and fetched the cutters. Time was ticking away.

  But Gordy held his ground, tugging at another link, then a third and finally, on the fourth, it pulled apart. He turned, a grin slapped across his face, like he was a turn on Sunday Night at the London Palladium.

  'Fuck's sake,' yelled Roy to nobody in particular. 'Get a move on.'

  He checked the mirrors. All was still quiet behind them, although he had no doubt the alarm had been raised. They were still in the stunned phase of the blag, when the victims couldn't quite believe what had befallen them, but that wouldn't last much longer.

  Gordy pulled open the left-hand gate fully and pushed the right one partly back, giving just enough room for the cars. Mickey took the Jag through, pausing only for Gordy, who had reconnected the phony chain-link, to throw himself into the rear. Roy ducktailed out into the Bath Road traffic after them. He floored the accelerator, feeling the wheels spin. Careful, he reminded himself. Wheelspin was a sign of nerves, of too much right foot, not enough finesse.

  The little Austin A40 came from nowhere, reversing with speed and precision, powering at him like a tiny green rocket, ready to cut off his escape.

  Roy used the little drift he had got into with the wheelspin and allowed the back to come round, blipping the throttle and going onto opposite lock. He could see the face of the other driver, flat cap, a mask of hate beneath it. Some do-gooder hero, no doubt, out for a headline.

  The cars made contact, the Mk 2's rear panel smacking into the A40, but side on, lessening the impact. Both cars rocked to a halt, engines still burbling. Roy hoped the wheel arches had held. He didn't want torn metal to shred a tyre on the A4.

  In the rear, Bruce raised his brolly like a rifle at the Good Samaritan. The man ducked. Roy gave the Jag a tentative press of the throttle and snapped the light embrace of the Austin. With one last wiggle as the power went down, the Jag, its pride only slightly crumpled, leaped away from the encounter and weaved its way through the traffic, heading for Hounslow.

  As Roy dropped the car's speed to blend in with the regular folk, a whoop of joy and relief came from the rear. Janie lurched across at him. Roy felt the wetness of her mouth on his cheek and allowed himself a little smile of victory. Done it.

  10.45 a.m. Billy gave his call sign and waited for a reply. There was just a stream of profanity, spat out over the airwaves. 'Say again?'

  It was Duke on the radio, his voice full of anger and fear in equal measure. 'Fuckin' hell, Billy, there's been a wages snatch.'

  Billy's mind couldn't quite grasp what was being said, distracted by the failure of protocol. 'Over?'

  'Fuck "over", you silly cunt. A wages snatch at Comet House. At the airport.'

  Billy felt a surge of acid into his windpipe and his bowels loosened. 'I don't-'

  ' London Central Airport. At Heathrow.' Billy stared up at the sign that said Gatwick Airport: Authorised Personnel Only. 'Don't you get it, Billy?' The voice was almost a falsetto now. 'You've been sold a pup. We're at the wrong bloody airport. O-fuckin'-ver.'

  Fourteen

  From the Daily Sketch, 28 November 1962

  In a daring raid yesterday, members of a gang wearing bowler hats, false moustaches and carrying briefcases to make it appear they were businessmen carried out a cosh raid on wages clerks at Comet House, London Airport, and stole in excess of £50,000. The money had been transported from a nearby Barclays Bank and was destined for the BOAC pay-roll.

  The robbers fled the scene in two high-powered Jaguar saloon cars, later found abandoned. Detective-Inspector Hugh Jarvis who will be leading the investigation said yesterday that they were looking for a criminal gang of: 'At least six men and one woman. We are appealing to any witnesses who saw the cars being driven to the airport or anyone who saw suspicious activity there in recent weeks. This a well-organised gang, and the raid took careful planning, but I would remind the public these are dangerous men.'

  Police believe that very few criminals in the capital have the audacity and skill to carry out such a raid. 'It is only a matter of time before we learn their names,' a Scotland Yard spokesman said, although he did not dismiss the conjecture that there might have been 'foreign elements' involved completely. 'Crime is an international business now,' he added.

  All airports and ports are being watched. DI Jarvis said anyone with information should not approach the men, but call Whitehall 1212. A reward is expected to be offered.

  Fifteen

  London, December 1962

  The highlight of the week following the airport job was its appearance on Shaw Taylor's Police 5, which Roy watched in his flat above the Battersea garage. The police had discovered the Jags eventually, abandoned in Hounslow. They had also found the BSA motorbike, because the little bastard machine had failed to start for Roy. He had been forced to leave the area by bus, while Tiny Dave had driven the Co-operative furniture van to Norbury with the cashboxes and Mickey and Buster in the rear. The others had taken Tubes, trains and taxis.

  Still, finding the cars had yielded nothing, because everything had been very well wiped down. Roy had used T-Cut abrasive cream on the doors and handles of the Jags to take off the top layer of paint, turpentine and thinner elsewhere. Those handling brollies and hats had been careful to wear gloves. So there were no latent dabs there. If there had been, they wouldn't all have been sitting in their respective homes or hangouts, watching Police 5.

  'And did anyone see these two cars? Very smart Jaguars. Both stolen a few weeks before their use as getaway vehicles. They must have been stored somewhere.' Shaw Taylor adjusted his trademark thick-framed black glasses as he stared at the camera. 'Perhaps in
that lock-up down the road? That disused factory? Were there any strange comings and goings in the middle of the night? If so, call the number I shall give you at the end of the show.'

  Shaw Taylor moved to the rear of the Jaguar, hands in his sheepskin jacket, breath clouding the air in front of his face. Must have filmed this early in the morning, thought Roy. Taylor fished out one of the steel umbrellas and the metal bowlers from the boot. 'And look at this.'' He clashed them together. 'Solid metal, painted to look like the real thing and used to inflict – he shuddered – 'horrible injuries on innocent men. Make no mistake, these are not Robin Hoods or William Tells, fighting the Sheriff of Nottingham or Landburgher Gessler. These are vicious greedy crooks who have stolen the wages of hard-working men and women.'

  Yeah, yeah, thought Roy as he turned off the TV and watched the image implode to a white dot. Not that many wages. When they had opened the cashboxes it was found that each contained around £15,000, rather than the £150,000 they had hoped for. Once the expenses were covered, Tiny Dave, Ian and Harry bunged a few grand, The Frenchman – one of the underworld's financiers who had laid out a few grand to help with set-up expenses – reimbursed and given his whack, there was only a pittance left each. And Bruce had insisted on 'taxing' that, creaming off enough to create a fund for the next job. The next 'Big One'.

  It was a crying shame. It had been slick, daring and fast, and nobody got hurt. Well, a few headaches, but not much more. Certainly not the 'horrible injuries' Taylor had mentioned. No thanks to Buster though, who complained he never got to use his homemade cosh in real anger.

  Still, with the sale of his kart and his share he had enough, just, for that Brabham. Let Bruce and Charlie spunk their share away on bespoke suits and tarts, Buster on that Sunbeam Alpine he claimed he'd always fancied and Gordy on… nobody was sure what Gordy spent his money on. Bigger and better hair-crimpers and driers, maybe. Or a new salon. Perhaps he wanted to be the new Mr Teasy Weasy demonstrating modern hairstyles to Cliff Michelmore on telly.

  Roy picked up the current issue of Autosport, which had a Mark X Jaguar on the cover. He flicked through the technical articles on gas flow and came upon a beautiful cutaway drawing of the F1 Brabham, the one in which Jack Brabham himself, no less, had come fourth in the US Grand Prix, the first ever GP driver to score points in a car of his own design. It was built by Brabham and fellow Aussie Ron Tauranac at their workshops in Byfleet. This was the goal: Coventry- Climax powered, sitting on fat 13-inch front and 15-inch rears, twin Lukey Muffler exhausts, 174bhp at 8,300rpm. But that was walking before he could run. Karts to F1 in a single bound was unheard of. He'd have to prove himself in Formula Junior first.

  The phone rang and he tossed the magazine aside. He knew who it would be. One of the lads to wind him up about Shaw Taylor. Roy 'Vicious Crook' James they would call him from now on. Made a change from Le Furet, the nickname his crimes in France had earned him. Les Flics had announced that the thief was able to scale drainpipes as if he had run up inside them, like Le Furet. Funny, it sounded better in French. 'The Ferret' didn't have quite the same ring.

  He picked up the receiver. 'Yeah?'

  ' Roy?' It was Bruce.

  'Yup. I saw it-'

  Bruce cut him dead. 'They've picked up Mickey Ball.'

  It was at that moment the doorbell rang.

  Tony Fortune watched the two policemen enter the Warren Street showroom and start appraising his stock. The younger one clearly didn't know much, but the older guy, he went straight to an MGA that had the wrong grill on it. This was one of the Chalk Farmies, Tony thought, an MVE – Motor Vehicle Examiner – from the Stolen Car Squad. They were good, as he knew to his cost. Sharp enough to know when mileage and condition didn't match.

  Paddy emerged from the workshop at the rear, an oily rag in his hands. He moved phlegm around his throat at the sight of the coppers, as if he was going to hawk over them but merely glared at the pair instead as they circled the MGA like carrion, and went back to cleaning spark plugs.

  'I couldn't match the right year to that one,' Tony said to the MVE, explaining why the style of grill – it had too many vertical bars – didn't quite sit right with the body. 'Well I could, but you know how much they want for a new one?'

  The younger man flashed his warrant card. 'Mr Fortune?' When Tony nodded, he carried on. 'Detective Constable Naughton. Flying Squad.'

  Maybe, said a voice inside Billy's head, but for how much longer? After Gatwick, he had been savaged by Ernie Millen and Frank Williams, the heads of Flying Squad. It reminded him of the way you saw the lions at London Zoo tucking into a leg of lamb – with him playing the role of the dead sheep. Then the piss-taking had started, about him being in the wrong place at the right time. Every time he gave a destination or address someone would tell him to make sure that wasn't Oxford Street, Aberdeen. Ha-fucking-ha. Unless he got a result on the City gents, his days at the Squad were numbered and his copybook permanently covered in blue- black Quink.

  'This is Constable Rowe, of the Stolen Car Squad.'

  'How can I help you gentlemen?' Tony asked. Rowe was examining the sticker on the MGA. It was up for £375, not a bad price. 'It's not an insurance write-off,' Tony assured him. 'Legitimate repair. Just you know what some people are like. Once they scratch their pride and joy…'

  'It's not about that,' said Billy Naughton. 'It's about Mark Two Jags.'

  Tony sighed. 'I'm right out, I'm afraid. Can't help you. Lot of demand for them, but we don't see many of them at this end of the market.'

  'That's not what we heard.' What they had heard were names: Ball and James, drivers. And the cars? Word was they definitely came from Warren Street. Six grand reward from BOAC, it jogged a lot of memories.

  For the next five minutes the two coppers walked around the showroom. Tony knew the game. They would find something pony and use it as leverage to prise him open. Except there was not a hooky or pony item in the showroom, apart from the odd wind-back on the mileage, and nothing there was too greedy. After the Mk 2s he had made sure of that, just in case a day like this came around. He had been over it dozens of times; there was zero to connect him to the stolen vehicles, no physical evidence. Only if someone grassed would they be able to pin him to them.

  'Can we see the log books for all these vehicles?'

  'Of course,' said Tony. 'All except the Goggomobil.' 'This was a German microcar, once fashionable but made redundant by the better-performing and more spacious Mini. 'That's in the post.'

  He went out the back and fetched the stack of documents from the safe and watched while they painstakingly matched car to book. He made himself a tea while they did so.

  'What do they want?' Paddy asked.

  'Routine.'

  Paddy shot him a look that conveyed his disbelief. 'You been doing something behind my back?'

  'No.'

  Paddy pointed his wire brush at him. 'You know I did some time once. Never again, Tony. It's not fun.'

  Tony poured his PG Tips and a second cup for Paddy. 'Don't worry, nobody is doing any time.'

  Back in the showroom, Rowe was still lifting bonnets to crosscheck numbers with documents.

  Tony sipped the tea. 'Doing this to everyone on the street, are you,' he asked, 'or did my number just come up?'

  They didn't answer, just carried on with their whispered deliberations.

  The phone rang. It was his wife Marie, sounding jittery and almost teary, so he didn't mention the police. She immediately sensed something was wrong from the stiffness of his replies and quickly signed off. More grief when he got home.

  As he came out of the office, Billy handed the fat pile of log books back. 'That all seems to be in order.'

  'Good. Is this about that airport job?'

  Billy pursed his lips and looked baffled. 'Can't say, sir. But what would make you think that?'

  'Shaw Taylor. He's interested in Mark Twos as well, as I recall.'

  Billy smiled. 'Oh yes.' He picked some fluff off his ove
rcoat. 'Well, as you brought it up, and just to avoid any confusion, can you tell me where you were on the morning of the seventeenth, the day of the robbery?'

  'At my sister's house in Reading. A christening. I'm the godfather. I'm pretty sure the vicar would remember.'

  Billy had to admit that, as alibis went, it wasn't bad. 'I'm sure he will. Well, sorry to trouble you.' Billy turned to go then hesitated. He took out a photograph and held it at eye- level, so Tony could see it. 'Ring any bells?'

  Tony looked at the picture of a young man leaning in a doorway, a cocky smile on his thin face. 'No. Who is it?'

  'Name's Derek Anderson.'

  'What you want him for?'

  To wring his bloody neck, thought Billy Naughton, then said, 'Just some routine questions.'

  Charlie Wilson counted out the five-pound notes in the snug bar of the Two Kings in Clapham. Colin, the barman, made sure the two men weren't disturbed. Charlie stopped when he got to £500. Then he put two more notes on top, and then a third, pushed them over the table, and took a gulp of his beer. 'There you go. That should keep you all right for a while. But I'd leave it for a year till you show your face in London again. So if you are short, let me know, eh?'

  'Yes, Mr Wilson.'

  'Charlie.'

  Derek Anderson beamed at him. 'Thanks, Charlie.'

  'You did well to come to me when they tapped you on the shoulder. A stupider person might have…' he hesitated, '… been tempted. But you'd never get that much from the police kitty.'

  'The money's not why I did it, Charlie.'

  'I know.' Charlie took another gulp of beer. Derek had been desperate to get back into the family fold, to make amends. That was why he had risked coming to Charlie with a story about the Robbery Squad trying to squeeze him. He should have been angry with the kid, because it was his initial loudmouth act about them doing a job at the airport that had drawn the Old Bill in the first place. That and his drunken, disgruntled sulks once he had been banished. But when Charlie had told Bruce the police had been sniffing about, the Colonel had come up with the brilliant idea of a diversion, a dummy job. 'Just like D-Day,' he'd said. 'Hitler thinks we are coming ashore at Calais, but no, wallop, we do the beaches at Normandy.'