Signal Red by Robert Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

The King and I and, even worse, after a drink or two, Flanagan and Allen. Underneath the fuckin' Arches, indeed.
    So once he arrived and shrugged off his coat, Bruce took charge of the Pye radiogram. June, as always, had made sandwiches and put out some sausage rolls. As far as she was concerned, this was a gathering of a betting syndicate, and she would never question that. It was best the girls knew as little as possible about what really went on at these meets. After all, the rule about grasses didn't apply to wives; they weren't expected to be able to hold up under pressure from people like Tommy Butler or the Flying Squad's Frank Williams. So it was best they kept their heads in the sand, emerging only to make the sarnies.
    It was just the core members of the team present, it being prudent to keep things tight in the early stages. All jobs bled information, it was inevitable. Who was doing what - and how much it was worth - was as much the fuel of conversation in the pubs, clubs and spielers such men frequented as the usual mix of football, cricket and the horses. It was essential to make sure that the leak, the whisper that something big was on, came late in the day, when the police were left with crumbs, not the whole cake.
    So today, it was just Bruce, Buster, Gordy, Charlie, Roy and Mickey. Only Mickey looked ill at ease, thought Bruce. Jittery. But he was all right, Mickey, he just got a lot of gyp from his mum about the sort of company he kept.
    Most of them were chatting, apart from Charlie, who was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Bruce noticed the tightness of his shirt over his chest. Charlie's bulked out, he thought.
    Bruce turned off Z Cars on the TV and selected Ahmad Jamal's But Not For Me from his stack of records. He ran a finger over the stylus and groaned.
    'Buster, when did you last change your needle? You've got enough fluff for Cyril Lord on the end of this.'
    '"This is luxury you can afford by Cyril Lord".' Buster sang the carpet ad as he handed out the beers. 'Dunno. You have to change them, do you?'
    'See you later, love. Off to Bingo.' It was June leaving. They all shouted their goodbyes.
    Bruce bent down and examined the end of the diamond-tipped stylus. It still looked good and sharp, not like some of the chisels he saw in people's homes. Probably all the muck had protected it. He plucked it clean then lowered it onto the record, listening to the familiar rhythm of the drummer's mallets as the beat began, soft yet insistent, with the accent from the hiss of the hi-hat. Beautiful.
    'I am using these to show the perimeter,' said Buster, waving a plastic cow at the group to get their attention. He pointed at the fencing that he had used to create a circle on the coffee table. It was from a Britain's farmyard animals set. 'This is my niece's birthday present, so be careful.'
    He placed a barn next to one of the lengths of plastic fence. 'This is Comet House.' Next he positioned the farmhouse down the road. 'Barclays Bank. I haven't got any aeroplanes. We'll take it you know they'll be taking off and landing in the middle there. We have the armoured car.' He produced a Massey Ferguson tractor.
    'Bloody hell, Buster, who's pulling this job?' murmured Charlie. 'The Archers?'
    Gordy nearly choked on his Shippam's fish-paste sandwich and it was a few moments before order was restored. Bruce put the record arm back to the beginning of the Jamal album. He loved the opening number, 'Poinciana'. The dynamic always made him think of the tempo of a good tickle. Soft and tentative at first, a theme stated, then developed, becoming more sure and intricate - but not too tricksy - building to a solid crescendo with an inventive climax, then the slow release, the feel of a job well done. Villainy or sex, 'Poinciana' stood as a fine metaphor for both.
    Buster had at least got a couple of Corgi diecasts to stand in as the getaway cars - neither of them Jags though - and the farmer and his various farmhands