by Robert Ryan
An ID parade. But who was going to eyeball him? The lavatory attendant? Surely he had seen Buster more times than Bruce. The security guards? The receptionist? None had got a decent look at him.
The young copper came back with an Evening Standard. Bruce flicked through it after he had gone, but the City gent gang was already old news. Kennedy had declared a blockade on Cuba, because he believed nuclear missiles were there. Four hundred people had been killed by a flash flood in Barcelona. China and India were going to war over a border dispute. What was a few grand lifted at Heathrow compared with that lot?
'OK, Mr Reynolds. I'm DS Haslam.' The young copper had been replaced by a plainclothes, older, rougher, baggier about the eyes. They were Flying Squad eyes, reddened and veined from booze and smoke. 'You know the score, I'm sure.' Bruce didn't bother disputing that it wasn't his first parade. 'Would you mind putting these on?'
It was a pinstriped jacket and a bowler hat. Bruce did as he was asked, irritated that the jacket was a size too big and came down to his knuckles and the hat-band was tight. 'If you'll come this way.'
As he left, Bruce grabbed the Standard, rolled it up and slotted it into the jacket pocket. 'Let's get it over with. My mum is expecting me for tea.'
Len 'Duke' Haslam smiled. 'I hope she hasn't baked special, Mr Reynolds.'
'Oh, she will have. My mum makes the best scones.'
'Let's hope you don't let her down then,' the detective said, in a tone that hoped for just that.
There were seven others in the open yard at the rear of the station. This less than magnificent group were already in a loose line, all in dark suits and hats, ready for the few bob they would pick up as concerned citizens doing their bit. They ranged from five-eight to six-four, with Bruce somewhere in the middle, and half had moustaches. The outside air stung, needle-sharp on his face, only just above zero. Bruce shivered, hoping this wouldn't take long. 'It's freezing out here,' he said.
'Shut it.'
'Why do you always have to do these things in midwinter?' he asked.
'We're hoping your bollocks drop off.'
Haslam positioned Bruce third from the end – he felt those bookending him move away slightly – and inspected the group, like an RSM on parade. He swapped a couple around and straightened the line, making sure the gap between Bruce and the others was closed up. Then he produced four fake moustaches, and pressed them onto the cleanshaven faces. He stepped back, then adjusted Bruce's 'tache. 'That tickles, DS Haslam,' he complained. 'I hope I don't sneeze.'
Duke Haslam said nothing.
When he was satisfied with his charges, he clicked his fingers and out came another detective, younger, with the witness. Bruce kept his face impassive as he recognised him. It was the old bastard from the Austin A40, the one who had backed across the gates to try and block them in. The one Bruce had taken careful aim at with his fake umbrella.
'Take your time now, sir,' the new copper said to the witness.
You could usually smell the nerves and fear on the poor sod who had to walk the line-up. It was no small thing, to face the suspected villain head-on and place the incriminating hand on the shoulder. He had seen plenty bottle it before. Not this one.
The old man – in truth he was probably no more than fifty, flat cap, bad dentures – strode down the line, pausing before each of the potential robbers, looking him up and down and peering into the eyes. 'Can you ask this man to squint?'
'Squint, sir?'
'Yes. Screw up his eyes.'
'Number three, would you mind screwing up your eyes? Thanking you.'
A shake of the head and the witness moved on, until he came level with Bruce. Stay impassive. No smiles. No attempt to either ingratiate or intimidate. Neutral. Bored. Want to get back to your desk.
He watched as the eyes flicked down to the newspaper in his pocket. His brain would be processing that little prop. Why would a prisoner have a newly rolled-up newspaper in his jacket? Surely this was more likely to be one of the makeweights, pulled off the street, who had hastily pocketed his Standard.
Go on, you old bastard, put two and two together.
The witness moved on and Bruce saw a flash of irritation cloud Haslam's face. Bruce Reynolds didn't move a muscle, just let a slow stream of air – an extended sigh of relief – bleed from the corner of his mouth.
He would have warm scones for tea after all.
Jack Brabham's place was in Byfleet, Surrey. Although the racing cars with their Coventry-Climax engines bore Jack's name, the machines were principally designed by Ron Tauranac, and the company was officially Motor Racing Developments, MRD for short. It wasn't until the first race of one of the new cars in France that they realised a drawback with the initials, when the announcer introduced Team MRD and the crowd tittered. Team MRD. Team Merde. Team Shit. The cars were hastily rebadged as Brabhams.
Roy James discovered the workshops were shuttered and locked. Yet he could hear the sound of car builders at work inside, the clatter of tools, the hiss of hydraulic and airlines. It didn't surprise him. Formula One teams disliked casual visitors who might just be coming to see how the monocoque or the water-cooling was configured.
He found a side door, with a bell, and pressed it. A feeble ringing sounded somewhere deep within the unit.
As he waited, Roy put his case down and wondered how Mickey was doing. Mickey fucking idiot Ball. It was a few weeks since they had all been lifted. Both Roy and Mickey passed the ID parade, but Mickey had left part of his chauffeur's uniform at home. A pair of grey trousers. How stupid was it to go down for a pair of strides?
I hey earned Mickey a second ID parade and one of the harrier operators at Heathrow placed him at the scene.
On the positive side, Bruce had walked away, but Gordy was in trouble. False moustaches had been found in his flat, along with a bowler hat. Planted, of course, so Gordy said, although it was pointless saying that. He was going down the Fancy Dress Party defence route. Juries must think dressing up in silly costumes was an essential part of the villainous life. And there was an ID from the hardware-shop owner, saying it was Gordy who had bought the cutters, and another from a security guard. Charlie, too, had been fingered, in his case by the lavatory attendant.
The initial hearing was set for three weeks' time. It wasn't long to sort something out for the two lads. They wouldn't grass, that was for sure, which meant they were looking at a decent stretch.
'Yes?' The metal door swung open and a knotted face with hefty sideburns was staring at him.
'Ron in?' Roy asked.
'Busy.' From his accent, this was another Antipodean.
'Can you tell him Roy James is here?'
'What for?'
Roy suddenly put a name to the face. 'You're Denny Hulme, aren't you?'
The man relaxed a little. Belligerence softened into merely prickly. 'Yeah. That's right.'
'I saw you race at Aintree. A second. You picking up a car?'
He shook his head. 'No. I'm the Service Manager here now.'
Well, it was hardly service with a smile. 'You're not racing?'
A shrug. 'Can't afford it, mate.'
'Tell me about it,' said Roy sympathetically. 'Rich man's game.' Hulme nodded. 'Shame though. You're bloody good. Can I see Ron?'
'Really, he's under the cosh, working on the cars for South Africa.'
'Yeah, right. 'Course he is.'
The South African would be the final GP of the year and would decide whether Graham Hill or Jim Clark would be World Champion. Although Brabham weren't in contention for the top two places, with Stirling Moss out of action after a hideous crash, Bruce McLaren, who had won at Monaco, just had to be in the points to stay ahead of Surtees and take third. It would be a real boost for the Brabham-Climax team.
'Just that I want to order a car.'
'A car?'
'To race,' he added redundantly.
Hulme looked down at the case at Roy 's feet. 'You one of those rich men we were just talking about?'
'Had a bit of luck on the Spot-the-Ball competition.'
'Congratulations. What you after?'
'Formula Junior. A BT6.'
'You done much racing?'
'Karts. British team. Ron can vouch for me.' I know what I am doing, is what he really meant.
'A BT6 is five and a half thousand, including Purchase Tax. You must be good at spotting those balls.'
Roy picked up the case. It was most of what he had earned from the job. Affording the running costs for any car he bought was going to be tricky, but he would worry about that later. 'I am. Think Ron'll take cash?'
For the first time Denny Hulme smiled, and when Roy left two hours later, he had a single-seat racing car specced up, a delivery date and a chassis number: FJ-13-62. He was on his way.
Eighteen
London, January 1963
The council of war was held at the Trat – the Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street – on another bitterly cold day. A series of angry storms had lashed the British Isles and there had been four days of fog in London. Now the temperature was down in the basement. So the men who entered the Italian restaurant were bundled up in coats, scarves, gloves and hats and took several minutes to disrobe as Alvaro, the manager, fussed around them, ordering vino rosso before they had even sat down, and listing the day's specials.
Alvaro had selected a circular table at the rear of the room. There was Bruce, back from the South of France where he had gone immediately after the identity parade. He was in the clear now. Fifteen hundred pounds, spread around liberally, meant his name was no longer associated with the Heathrow job. Roy was present, as were Gordy, Buster and a young solicitor, Brian Field.
Gordy was only there because of Brian, who had secured him bail, which had been refused for Charlie and Mickey.
Bruce, a tanned and relaxed figure among wan winter-struck faces, ordered some antipasto for the table and said: 'Well, gentlemen, who is going fill me in? How's Charlie?'
'Quiet,' said Buster, who had visited him on remand. 'But calm.'
'What do they have on him?'
'The lavatory attendant,' said Brian. 'Good ID.'
'Is that all?' Bruce asked. 'Can we get to him?'
The solicitor shook his head. 'No.'
'Is he solid?'
'He's an old bloke. A good brief 11 make him wobble,' said Buster.
'And Brian has an idea,' said Gordy with something close to admiration. Theirs was not a normal client-counsel relationship. In fact, Bruce sometimes thought the angel-faced Brian, with his short hair, neat suits and sensible shirts, was the most bent out of all of them. He had, after all, a glamorous German wife with expensive tastes to support.
Bruce turned to look at the young man, not yet out of his twenties. He could almost pass for a teenager, albeit a particularly harmless, suburban one, apart from the flinty eyes. Bruce glimpsed a greedy venality in there.
'Well, there is a lad works at the airport – has done for two years. Never been on a plane, even though he has to watch them all day. That kid would love to catch a jet to New York or Rio.'
'Yeah? Go on.'
Brian hesitated as a large platter of ham, artichokes, olives and tomatoes was placed in the centre of the table, along with I stack of hot, crisp bread. 'So he'll say that he saw Charlie at exactly the same time as the robbery was taking place – but over with the plane-spotters.'
'Plane-spotters?' Bruce asked incredulously. 'Charlie? He can't tell a 707 from the hole in his arse.'
'I'll slip him a copy of the Observer's Book of Jet Airliners,' said Brian with a smirk. 'Come the trial, he'll be an expert.'
Buster took a sliver of translucent ham and folded it into his mouth. 'OK, fair enough, that's confusing the attendant's evidence – can't be in two places at once,' he said eventually. 'But is that enough?'
Roy waved away the offer of wine and asked for lemonade. 'What about a juror?'
Brian nodded. 'Likely we can get us one. We'll have to wait on that, obviously.'
'How much for the kid at the airport?' Bruce asked.
'Two grand should do it.'
Two grand. The money from the score was dwindling fast. 'I'll get it to you,' said Bruce. 'What about Mickey?'
What he really meant was: would he go QE? 'He's holding up,' said Roy, knowing Mickey would never take the Queen's Evidence route. 'Saw him last week.'
'And what do they have on him?'
'Two witnesses who put him in Comet House.'
'What?' He looked at Brian. 'He wasn't inside.'
'They think it's me,' said Buster. 'Same sort of height, you see.'
'Bollocks,' said Bruce.
Brian supped his wine. 'He could cop a plea. If they do him for the violence inside, he could be looking at a cockle, maybe more.'
'And Mickey can't do ten years standing,' said Roy glumly. They all appreciated that Mickey wasn't made of the same stuff as Charlie, Gordy or Bruce.
They finished the antipasto in silence. Bruce indicated that the table be cleared.
'What if he does cop a plea?'
Brian sniffed. 'A handful, maybe.' Five years. 'They have the chauffeur's trousers from his drum, so it isn't hard to convince them he wasn't inside but behind the wheel. He might even get away with a lagging. Three and out in two.'
'But he won't roll over?' asked Buster, suddenly concerned for his own skin.
'Mickey? Nah,' insisted Roy. 'He knows which side his bread is buttered on.' He also knew what would happen if he did give them Charlie or any of the others. Life inside wouldn't be safe. 'I'll have a word. See if I can get him to change his mind and do a Not Guilty.'
A small bowl of ravioli each – on the house, the waiter informed them – was set before them and more wine taken by all but Roy. Then Bruce turned to Gordy. 'What about you?'
Brian answered for him, mischievousness in his voice. Bruce was reminded yet again that the solicitor often treated all this as a game. Brian v the Bogeys. 'Now Gordon has an idea.'
Gordy quickly outlined his plan, which clearly appealed to his sense of humour. Bruce wasn't so sure.
'That's it? Bit Tommy Cooper, isn't it?'
'And a juror or two, of course,' said Brian reassuringly. 'And we can get to the bolt-cutter man, I'm certain. There's the security guard, but I'm not sure he's enough on his own. It all happened so fast.'
Bruce still wasn't sure about the wisdom of the whole setup, which had elements of farce about it. There was a time and place for clowning around, and the Central Criminal
Court wasn't it. However, the others seemed up for it. 'OK, give it a whirl. But you'll need someone on the inside at AD.' This was the police slang for Alpha Delta, Cannon Row's designation, a term that had been picked up by the other side.
'I could ask the Twins,' said Gordy.
Bruce shook his head vigorously at the thought of involving the heavy-handed Krays. 'No. Keep it tight. And you best stay out of it, too, Gordy. Me and Buster, we'll see what we can do.' He signalled to Alvaro. 'Ready for the mains now.'
Alvaro put on his most flamboyant act, waving his arms and gesticulating, as if a time bomb was about to go off. 'Si, of course, Signor Reynolds. Gilberto, cinque secundipiatti, tavola uno, presto, presto.'
He might be an old ham, thought Bruce, but Alvaro was the best host in London, excepting perhaps Mario at Tiberio, the sister restaurant in Queen Street, who had the edge when it came to the ladies. Mario made them all feel like Gina Lollobrigida.
Brian glanced at his watch and stood up. 'Not for me, chaps, sorry. Got work to do. Believe it or not, some of my clients are actually innocent.'
The young solicitor left them laughing at that one.
Nineteen
London, March 1963
Charlie knew enough to wear a royal-blue shirt to the Old Bailey, rather than a white one. The public areas of the Central Criminal Court might have been vacuumed, washed, polished and waxed daily, but downstairs some of the grime dated from the eighteenth century. He'd
seen too many in the dock with smudged white shirts, looking like they'd just delivered a hundredweight of coal. Dark colours, they were best.
Charlie was led by one of the Brixton screws who did turns at the Bailey, past the squalid and crowded 'on bail' cells. One of the steel doors was open, a guard bellowing a name. Charlie glanced in, hoping for a glimpse of Gordy, but couldn't see beyond the swaying youth blocking the doorway. He'd worn a white shirt and tie, like a good boy. The effect was rather spoiled by a nose that had been split like a ripe tomato. Charlie shook his head. That would make a good impression on the jury. Still, the kid might be a nonce or a rapist and deserved it. The young offender glanced over his shoulder, back into the cell. He wasn't more than nineteen and his legs bowed and shook as he was pulled towards his moment in the dock. Nah, thought Charlie, he probably just looked at someone the wrong way.
As they approached the 'kennels' one of the prison officers unlocked the closest door and bowed, as if welcoming him to his hotel suite. Charlie remained impassive. Fuck them. The kennels – cells reserved for those on remand brought from prisons – were often worse than the 'on bails' – scorching in summer, cold in winter, no windows, just a series of holes drilled high in the wall for ventilation. No lavatory, of course, just a bucket. One shower on request, should your day drag on and your clothes and hair and skin grow rank as they absorbed the stench of your own, and everyone else's, sweat. But one shower for sixty or seventy meant you might not get a turn and if you did, the slimy, mould-tinged cubicle was hardly inviting.
'Mr Wilson,' said the screw with exaggerated politeness. 'We'll be calling you shortly.'
Charlie gave the man a thin smile, and imagined punching him hard, right between the eyes. He preferred it when they didn't speak to him. He did them that courtesy, why couldn't they just return it and keep their mouths shut? They all knew what this was: a rick of the life he had chosen. As such, he- thought of it now more like an athlete thought of a pulled tendon or a pilot his plane crashing. It can happen. It had happened.
