Free Signal Red by Robert Ryan Page B

squared-off caravans to use as an incident room and parked it up at the gates to the driveway that led to Roy's house. It was an impressive pile, 1930s by the look of it, the front door boastfully porticoed, the green tiles of the roof glowing verdigris in the moonlight. I couldn't help wondering who, or what, had paid for it. This was the stockbroker belt, but Roy was no stockbroker or rock star, the other cashed-up profession that had moved into the area.
    Neither of the two coppers in the front of the Panda car had spoken during the trip, which was fine by me. I needed time to get my brain into some kind of gear.
    I stepped out and examined the road. It was the kind lined with high walls and hedges, and the driveways came with solid wooden gates to deter prying eyes; this was an area where an Englishman's home was his castle, and the residents wished they still came with moats. And boiling oil.
    Bill Naughton was waiting for me outside the caravan, older, stouter, greyer, a cigarette in his mouth, rubbing his hands against the chill of the small hours. As I stepped out, I wished I'd brought more than a thin jacket. It was heading for 3 a.m. Wasn't that meant to be the hour when your metabolism was at its lowest, the perfect time for Gestapo raids and interrogations?
    'Tony, thanks for coming. Cup of tea?'
    'Why not?' We went inside the caravan. There were three uniforms and two detectives already in there, plus one bloke in black fatigues with body armour and a soft cap on his head. He also had a pistol on his belt. That would be PT 17.
    'This is Tony Fortune - he's come to help us out. Get him a brew will you, Dave?' He turned to the Milk Fray Man. 'Give us five minutes, eh, John?' When John had gone, he explained to Tony, 'They've got their own van down the street. For the moment, they're staying in it. We want to keep it that way.' He indicated one of the plainclothes. 'This is Detective Inspector Reed. It's his situation.'
    'Can we speak to him?' I asked. 'Have you got the GPO in?'
    'BT, Tony, BT,' said Naughton. 'Got to move with the times. Jesus, hasn't been GPO since ...' He furrowed his brow, trying to remember when the Post Office lost the phones, but gave up. 'Anyway, yes, we have a line to him.'
    'Want to tell me what happened?'
    DI Reed took my tea from the Constable and passed it to me. The Inspector looked tired. Perhaps we all did in that stark over-white light.
    'Roy had the two kids for a long weekend—' Reed began.
    'Hold on. You said on the phone about a wife. When did Roy get married?'
    'A while back,' Reed said. 'You didn't hear?'
    'No.'
    Billy turned to Reed. 'Tony here runs a BMW franchise near Blackheath. Doesn't mix with the old crowd much.'
    'Well,' continued Reed. 'Married, yes. Much younger girl.'
    That was no surprise. They all liked their girls young. Franny was barely sixteen when Bruce proposed. Most of the hostesses they tapped in Soho had just turned eighteen. But Roy had never really been part of that back then. For him, the racing was the thing; he didn't seem attracted to the girls in the clubs. Not queer, just not interested.
    'It didn't last. His wife was picking the daughters up last night. With her father. Once they had the kids in the car they announced that they would be taking them to Spain for the summer, so Roy wouldn't see them for six weeks or more. Thing is, he loves those girls. He tried to get the kids back in the house, as a bargaining tool. The wife and father-in- law went to stop him. That's when it all went off. At least, the gun did.'
    'What do you want me to do?'
    'He's still in the excitable phase of the proceedings. Hyper. Bring him down, Tony. Talk about the old days. Make him see some sense, eh?'
    'I don't know,' I said. 'We weren't that close.'
    Billy gave a small grunt of disbelief.
    'OK, for a few months maybe.'
    'Look, PT Seventeen is itching to kick the door down and go in with the flashbangs like it's the bleedin' Iranian Embassy,' Bill said. He pointed at