Free Signal Red by Robert Ryan Page A

grin at the baffled audience and walked off.
    Ronnie nodded to Bruce as he strolled by and climbed the rickety stairs. Ronnie liked to gamble, which meant he knew some of the same Soho faces as Bruce. 'There's a lot in common between jazz and what you do,' the guv'nor often said. 'Insecurity, never knowing where the next payday is coming from and the hours are bleedin' awful.'
    Roy got himself a Heineken from the bar and sat down as the drums of Art Blakey snapped out from the PA. 'All right, gents?' He gestured back up the stairs. 'I had to join to get in.'
    'Apparendy it's all in a good cause,' said Charlie, pointing at Ronnie's back. 'They're saving up to buy the owner a joke book.'
    Roy looked around at the dingy basement. 'I was talking to Dave Hill at the Steering Wheel Club up Shepherds Market. Dave bloody Hill, eh.' He was clearly disappointed to be pulled away from a chat with a Ferrari driver to a subterranean dive in Soho playing jittery bebop.
    'Steve there?' Bruce said casually. They had seen McQueen take a credible third, behind Christabel Carlisle, in a Mini at Brands Hatch. No doubt the American was annoyed to be beaten by a woman, albeit one that Roy considered a great driver regardless of sex. The actor had spun out in the next race, although he had shown great control not flipping the tiny car. Unfortunately, despite Roy pulling a few strings, he hadn't managed to engineer a meeting between Bruce and the actor. The thief had hidden his disappointment, although not well.
    'Nah, he's gone back over to Germany. He's filming some prisoner-of-war movie.'
    'How'd it go with the gates?' Bruce asked, getting down to business.
    'Gordy has bought the biggest pair of bolt-cutters I have ever seen. Honest. He could slice through Tower Bridge with them. He's going to cut the chain the night before. By the look of it, nobody ever goes near it, so it should be all right.'
    Bruce didn't like that. In his experience 'should be all right' often came back to bite you on the arse. 'I'll have a word with him.'
    'How is it with you two?' Roy asked, looking from one to the other.
    'All in hand,' said Bruce. 'Harry, Ian and Tiny Dave are coming along as muscle.' Dave's nickname was ironic; he was an ex-weighlifter who looked as if he had accidentally left a set of barbells in the sleeves of his jacket. 'They'll be on a drink.' Which meant the heavies would get a fixed fee, not a share.
    'Good.' Roy drank his beer, wondering why Bruce had called the meet. There didn't seem much to discuss. Especially as there was no Gordy or Buster. He felt a little trickle of fear and ran back over the last few weeks. Had he done anything wrong? Upset somebody? 'Is everything all right, Bruce?'
    Bruce moved his head from side to side and sucked air through his teeth. He then rubbed one side of his mouth, as if he was suffering from a bad attack of nerves, something he was usually immune to. Charlie took a swig from his bottle and shot Roy a quizzical glance. With relief, Roy realised that Charlie Wilson had no idea what was coming either.
    'I got a favour to ask, Roy.' He turned to Charlie. 'And as the tickle was your find, I thought you ought to hear it.'
    Charlie nodded to show he appreciated the respect.
    'What is it?' asked Roy
    'Bit late in the day, I know, but I want to bring someone new in. Not part of any of our firms.'
    Roy began to peel the label off the Heineken. 'Well, that's down to you, Bruce, isn't it?'
    'Thing is, I'd like them to ride with you. In the Jag.'
    Roy tore another strip from the gummed label and rolled it into a ball. Someone to keep an eye on him, perhaps? Had they lost faith in him - or in Mickey Ball? 'Who is it?'
    Bruce looked up and snapped his fingers to get her attention above Wayne Shorter's tenor sax. Janie Riley slid off her stool and walked over towards the three men, a mischievous smile plastered over her pretty face.

Eleven
    Headley, Surrey, May 1992
    The police had brought in one of those long white