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  LAW & ORDER

  A seminal series about the criminal justice system, examining endemic corruption from the perspectives of the police, the criminal and the solicitor. The novels in this omnibus edition became the basis of the groundbreaking and controversial television series Law & Order.

  In the wake of a bungled armed robbery, the series focuses on Jack Lynn, a villain already known to the police; Inspector Fred Pyle, a cynical Scotland Yard Detective determined to nick him, and Alex Gladwell, a cunning lawyer who’s perverting the system in order to get him off. As we are told the story from three different perspectives – The Detective’s Tale, The Villain’s Tale and The Brief’s Tale – shocking questions begin to gather force: was Lynn even at the robbery? Do the police have any real evidence? Do the courts really want justice done? Do prisons change or simply reinforce criminal behaviour?

  ‘GF Newman secured himself a place in television history… a brutal assault on the police and the manner in which some of them operate’ – Daily Express

  About the author

  GF Newman has written more than a dozen novels; 27 feature-length teleplays for the show he created and produced, Judge John Deed; the award-winning two-part drama The Healer; stage plays for the Royal Court Theatre; and a feature film, Number One. His 60-part radio drama, The Corrupted, is BBC Radio 4’s biggest ever drama commission, and returns to BBC Radio 4 in June.

  ‘The ultimate expression of law

  is not order, it is prison.’

  Prologue

  ‘OF COURSE, THE RAMPS AND fit-ups, and trade-offs,’ he said over the rim of his glass, ‘are something decent coppers deplore. But without them you’d never nick anyone worthwhile.’

  Fred Pyle, a detective with the Metropolitan Police for nearly fifteen years, knew how to control his face muscles so gave nothing away in his expression and there was no irony in his voice.

  The only problem with those kind of deals was when they drew a complaint and you got your collar felt. To say so would be to state the obvious.

  #

  The man at the bar drinking with him nodded, and finished the gin and tonic. He was a detective chief inspector, subject to the same conditioning, with similar thought patterns which helped him do the job. The dci wasn’t a deep thinker – the job didn’t need that. Keeping your numbers up and giving the impression you were winning was all that was required.

  At one time living by such a simple philosophy was easy. These days there were obstacles to the faith: some juries no longer believed policemen; the Complaints Investigation Bureau impeded them; a commissioner favouring the uniform and decimating the cid, while expressing in public that autonomy made detectives too much of a law unto themselves.

  Action by the CIB was causing the cid aggravation and taking up many detective man-hours. There were outstanding complaints against eighteen of one hundred and ten Squad officers, four of whom were under suspension, the legacy of a massive operation which brought Avon and Somerset policemen to London to investigate wrongdoing. The irony was when the ‘Turnip Squad’ returned home its officers faced an investigation by the Yorkshire cid.

  Detective Inspector Fred Pyle was under investigation. Tony Simmons, the dci drinking with him, bore the brunt of senior officers’ irritation at this state of affairs. Each new complaint gave the Commissioner ammunition.

  ‘The investigation will run its course, Fred.’

  ‘They already interviewed me once this week.’

  The dci gave a grim smile. ‘That was for your own lot.’ The latest complaint was against the senior detective sergeant on Pyle’s squad.

  ‘A waste of time,’ he said. ‘No wonder so many villains keep their liberty.’

  ‘Maybe it’s too many cid earning, Fred.’

  ‘I wish I was,’ Pyle replied, sharing the joke. ‘I keep getting missed out, Tony.’ He smeared brown sauce on his onion bhaji and pushed it into his mouth, chewing it twice and washing it down with scotch. ‘Another one before I shoot off?’

  ‘I got one to meet, Fred.’ The dci looked at his watch. He was night-duty officer and should remain at the Yard, but was visiting a woman off the manor. ‘Make it a quick ’un.’

  1

  ‘THE THING IS,’ HE SAID with didactic force, ‘what chance you got with the filth? No chance. Them slippery bastards’ll cop a nice earner and still go and nick you, they want you.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t want me very much, Jack. You think that’s right?’

  ‘I wouldn’t make a book on it.’

  The man at the bar told him how, having been picked up by the cid with stolen bearer bonds, he bunged the di to pull himself clear. It sounded reasonable, but Jack Lynn felt something wasn’t quite kosher, like this villain was pumping him. He tried to remember what he’d heard about him having been picked up and then released. He’d never worked with him, but knew he was a reliable thief. That guaranteed nothing. He could be looking for a body to trade for his own liberty.

  Lynn motioned to the woman behind the bar.

  ‘I’ll get this, Jack – when you’re ready, Sal.’ He turned back to Lynn. ‘Maybe you’re right. I dunno. You gotta take a chance. Know what I mean?’

  Lynn glanced away, his gaze circling the smoke-filled club. A card game was in progress at a table in the corner and he wondered about having a few hands before going to his meet.

  ‘I mean, what can you do about it anyway?’ he said without looking at the man. ‘Fuck all, they come back and nick you. You go to court and scream about them fitting you or about the filth nicking your bit of dough, but you’re up before a wrong sort of judge, you see what good it does. Old Bill make sure you go up in front of a wrong ’un, ’specially if their case is a bit iffy.’

  He reached round for the new glass of Pils that was placed in front of him, deciding this man was looking to grass him for his own liberty. The skin on Lynn’s face prickled with indignation.

  ‘They give you your bit of liberty, them cunning bastards done it for a reason,’ he said, winding him up. ‘Not just for the earner you bunged ’em.’

  ‘Leave off, Jack. That’d mean I’d have to go on the trot.’

  ‘I would,’ Lynn advised. ‘I wouldn’t even go home.’

  ‘T’rific. My missus and kids would love that. I might as well be away doing bird.’

  ‘’Talk like a mug,’ Lynn said. With a wife and two children whom he thought the world of, he knew he’d sooner be dodging Old Bill than having family visits in prison.

  ‘You know Ray Turner – tucking up banks with a Visa card he was, having a right good earner. Done about six grand’s worth then coming out of a bank in Hammersmith, zoomp! A car pulls in front of his, bang tight,’ – demonstrating with his hands. ‘He was ready to have a fight but the geezer who gets out of the car is a ds on the Squad. Driving along off-duty he spots Ray – just instinct.’

  ‘He didn’t know him? Fucking poxy luck!’

  ‘S’not the best of it,’ Lynn said. ‘This Old Bill nicked every penny off him. Well, you expect that – he did leave him the Visa card so he could go again for himself. What the dirty cunny done was give Ray to the Fraud Squad. When they nicked him, he hadn’t done enough to give them an earner too!’

  ‘Is that right, Jack? Snaky, no-good bastards.’

  ‘You should to go on the trot, my son,’ he advised, his attention going back to the card table. Someone got up to leave. Lynn slid his cuff off his Rolex with its eighteen carat gold expanding bracelet, deciding he wouldn’t have time to get involved in the game.

  #

  ‘What did I tell you? Regular as clockwork,’ the balding man said from the passenger seat. />
  Light from lamps around the perimeter of the car park spilled over the few cars that remained. One of them was the Jaguar XJ6 belonging to Jack Lynn. He spent a lot of time looking after the car; believing there was no point having a nice car unless it was kept near the mark. He was watching the main entrance to the dog track as the last of the luckless punters left on foot, his attention on a security truck approaching the stadium. The gates were opened by a white-coated attendant as the heavy van veered left up the ramp towards the enclosure. Two guards with night sticks and wearing helmets climbed out with secure boxes and disappeared through the stadium.

  ‘Sometimes we’re not quite ready for them,’ his passenger said. ‘Depends how much we took. Cash has to be collected from around the stadium, counted and sorted.’

  Lynn knew these details so well he could recite them in his sleep.

  ‘What happens if you’re not ready?’ He already knew the answer but wanted to hear it again.

  ‘The guards make themselves a cup of coffee and wait. The money can’t stay there overnight.’ He hesitated. ‘You know we was robbed once before?’

  ‘Not recently though,’ Lynn said.

  ‘A year ago, the safe was cut open. Now they won’t leave the money overnight. Before the takings got left from the Thursday and Saturday meetings and banked the following Monday.’ Again his passenger told him about his job, how having started work at the Tote not long after the war, the injustices he had suffered, getting passed over for promotion.

  ‘There’s no prob’ if the guards don’t appear again within a couple of minutes?’ Lynn said, bringing the conversation back to the present. ‘Their mate in the van don’t ring Catford nick?’

  ‘No. Sometimes they’re in there twenty minutes – when we’ve had a big night.’

  ‘What’s the best night you’ve seen, Andy?’

  ‘About seventy grand, it was. On the Saturday before the last bank holiday money kept pouring in. No one could pick a winner. The Tote jackpot was seven grand, even that didn’t go. They’d like a few more like that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be bad, seventy grand for a night’s work.’ There was expectation in Lynn’s voice.

  ‘The average is nearer forty-five thousand, though.’ He glanced at Lynn as if afraid that figure might cause him to lose interest.

  ‘In nice used notes what you don’t have to go again on,’ Lynn said. ‘How bad’s that? No problem spending them; no hungry placer grabbing the lion’s share.’

  This wasn’t something his passenger knew anything about, and Lynn chose not to explain the pros and cons of selling stolen money.

  ‘Look, I’d best get back,’ the man said and glanced at his watch by the light slanting through the windscreen. ‘They might start wondering.’

  ‘Yeah, don’t make yourself sussy, Andy, ’n fuck it up.’

  ‘The thing is, when’s it likely to happen? You got any idea?’

  Lynn held back, not wanting him to have such information and getting over-anxious on the chosen night. ‘’S hard to say. The sooner the better.’

  ‘I’d make sure I’m off sick that week.’ He gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘Be nice to get a look at the office where the money’s counted, ’fore I decide definite, like,’ Lynn said. The office was where he was planning to have it.

  ‘Be a bit difficult.’ He seemed embarrassed at not being able to lay this on. ‘Getting a job as a cleaner or something is the only thing I can suggest.’

  Lynn wasn’t happy about this man seeing his face; letting everyone in the office clock him too would make him a million for a pull by Old Bill.

  As if attempting to redeem himself, Andy said, ‘I could get impressions of the key to that door from the corridor.’

  ‘Good. Do them in cuttlebone, not soap, so you don’t leave traces on the key. Forensic scientists can detect soap weeks later. They’d know right off it was an inside job. S’not bolted, that door, while they’re in there?’

  ‘I’ve never known it.’ He checked his watch again. ‘Look, I’d really best get back. You’ll pop down Saturday night, will you?’

  ‘I’ll take another look.’ He smiled again. ‘We’ll have a nice little earner here.’

  ‘I could certainly use it. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘I’ll give you a bell, Andy. Mind how you go.’

  Lynn watched him hurry across the car park, amused at how this law-abiding geezer at the age of sixty-two turned to crime and the grievances that brought him to this. How many other people must there be like him with information about money their employers handled, people who’d never get such an opportunity, instead would retire with the company’s thanks and only a bundle of resentments? Mugs.

  The two security guards reappeared, each with a cash container. Lynn knew their routine, not just from this operation, but watching others like it. He was a blagger and plotting for weeks, noting every detail, however small, was part of what he did. He was lucky, but how long that might last wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on. Despite the risks he could contemplate no other line of work as he loved the life, the freedom, the money.

  One of the guards rapped the van with his nightstick and the small hatch slid open. The money containers went in and the door closed again before they unlocked the cab of the van and climbed in. The glow from a match illuminated the interior as one lit a cigarette while the other filled out his log.

  Lynn dismissed the possibility of hitting it here, knowing the guards would, for the few quid they earned, try all sorts to protect it. He could not understand that mentality. It wasn’t their money, why should they care? The other disadvantage was it would be in full view and might attract have-a-go Joes. All it needed was for someone to slam those gates shut, or block the exit with a couple of cars, with the third guard inside the truck on the radio calling for help. Legging it with cash containers wouldn’t be easy, and some boxes dumped dye on their contents. Going after the money in the Tote office was the surest bet.

  The car engine started with a satisfying surge of power. High-performance cars were a part of his lifestyle and having a new one was important, even though the finance company owned a large chunk of it. Pushing the stick to drive, he let off the brake. The Jaguar purred out of the car park after the security truck. He wasn’t planning on following it, but was heading north, back across the Water.

  The grey XJ6 came through the junction at the bottom of Oxford Street and into Tottenham Court Road just as the lights changed. A reflex made him glance through the driver’s mirror for any lurking policemen. He didn’t take chances when driving, preferring not to give the police any kind of opportunity. Making a left-hand signal, he parked on a yellow line, knowing at that time of night he was safe from the clampers. Climbing out, he locked the door then walked around the car checking the other doors were locked, even though it was within sight of the police station. He had no faith in the police to recover any stolen car. Reassured, Lynn checked in the direction of Goodge Street, then towards Oxford Street, uncertain what he was checking for. Habit.

  Just turned forty and having got there without seeing it as a watershed, he saw no reason to change his way of life. He was earning plenty from his trade and believed he could continue until he had earned enough to retire to Spain. His earnings gave him a comfortable lifestyle. He both dressed and lived well, with hand-stitched suits to cover his well-built frame, his choice being conservative on account of his wife going with him when he chose them. He considered himself a sharp dresser and, unless out doing a bit of work, he preferred being suited and booted. He wore large gold links in French cuffs and Fabergé Hero deodorant. His dark, wavy hair was beginning to recede and he wore it short, getting it cut about every three or four weeks. There was little about his appearance that identified him for what he was. He had a flattish face, and someone once said his eyes were a little too close-set, but there was nothing he c
ould do about that. His face wasn’t stark or memory-jogging. Like many villains, he believed in the individual and free enterprise, and had voted Conservative at the last three elections.

  Satisfied that he wasn’t being watched, he eased the camel-hair coat off his shoulders, as though taking some rucks out of the back, and stepped into the unlit doorway of the after-hours drinker where he had been earlier that night. There was no doubt now about making the one at Catford, so he needed to put a firm together.

  No light appeared behind the door in answer to the bell, but he heard a board creak and knew someone was there. The door cracked open on the narrow entrance hall. ‘Hello, Chas,’ he said in a familiar manner to the man who then opened the door. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘There’s one or two Old Bill in, Jack,’ the doorman warned. ‘Thought I’d mark your card, you know what I mean?’

  ‘They must have an office here, I think,’ Lynn said.

  ‘They’re just knocking out some bent scotch, s’all.’

  Beyond the darkened hallway was a small reception area where coats could be deposited. There was a door which led to the lavatory shared by both men and women, and a payphone fixed to the wall beneath which crates of empty beer bottles were stacked. At one time there had been a book for signing in guests. The room beyond, which comprised the main club, was L-shaped, with little more than the bar and a makeshift proscenium arch where sometimes a stripper or an off-key singer would perform. The whole works including the seating couldn’t have cost the owner more than a grand to set up.

  Often any number of what he’d call reliable people could be found here drinking, but the filth weren’t shy about frequenting the place, as the booze was free to them. At the bar two detectives were drinking with the owner. Lynn went to the opposite end. For the low-rent card games and bit of off-track betting that went on the proprietor was obliged to entertain the local Old Bill when they were in. The alternative would be to shut up and find another manor. Ache.