Law & Order Page 11

  Winning the toss, he let Harding break and watched him put white against the pyramid of reds, trying not to split it. He didn’t succeed. Lynn followed on, managing to nick a red, then black.

  As the game progressed, he relaxed his guard, became less wary of the gaunt, stooping figure prowling around the table as if the fiver at stake made some difference to his life. Harding talked and acted no different from the way he had done the last time they had met, and when he asked, ‘What are you up to these days, Jack? Got anything in the pipeline?’ Lynn wasn’t even thinking that he might be a grass. He was still thinking about Billy Braden letting him down, and whether Harding would do instead.

  ‘A little taste across the Water ’it comes off,’ he replied. ‘A bit iffy still. I’m punting around, you know?’ He leaned across the table and potted the blue. ‘Right now I’m getting a lot of stick from my old lady to get a job. I have to say, I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘What’s her problem? Change of life?’ Harding reached the blue ball out of the pocket and respotted it.

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought so,’ Lynn said.

  ‘I might have a bit of work soon. I got a JCB lined up to rip out a cash machine at Hounslow. Could be worth about nine or ten grand, ’you fancy some of it.’

  Lynn looked at him, feeling prickles of embarrassment on his skin that he had thought this man a grass. Instinct told him this proposition was straight. There was no reason he’d put himself on offer if he wasn’t on the level.

  ‘I’ll keep it in mind, Cliff. I want to see how this one I got down at Catford goes. There might be something there for you.’

  ‘When’s it going?’

  ‘Soon, I’d say.’

  ‘Well, there’s no rush on my one,’ Harding said.

  Lynn nodded and stooped to his shot, deciding Harding was as good as gold. He would square his coming on with Bobby Shaw. It was Shaw who had recommended the no-show Billy Braden!

  He played a decisive stroke. The ball rattled around the table, striking a red which he didn’t make. He looked up at Clifford Harding, and felt good about offering him a bit of work.

  16

  BACK IN THE OFFICE FOLLOWING four days’ leave since changing from the night to the day shift, Fred Pyle was drafting a legal aid report for the CPS. The purpose of this was to help twelve fuckwits to decide whether some villains could be prosecuted with a result. It irked him that the Crown Prosecution Service wanted a better than fifty-one per cent chance of conviction before they would proceed. Every investigation he was involved with had waited for his return, so his desk was littered with reports to which he now had to attend. Some of the hated paperwork had become urgent. Even so, at that moment he would have welcomed any reasonable excuse to leave it.

  Other detectives around the office were less than atten­tive to their paperwork: two of the dcs were discussing a policewoman both knew and one was stiffing, while another was talking on the telephone about a robbery that might be going off. As a rule he let none of this affect him. Today it did. His fingers expressed his aggression as they dropped onto the keyboard.

  ‘Trying to break it?’ dci Watson said, stopping at the desk with more reports.

  ‘If that would get me out of this, guv,’ Pyle said, continuing to type. ‘S’bout time we had word processors in here. Let those lazy tarts along the corridors shift some of this rubbish.’ He was referring to the civilian typists.

  ‘You make it look like you’re winning, Fred,’ the dci said.

  ‘I’d like to believe it.’ He finished typing the paragraph.

  ‘That was a bit of a result Eric got, wasn’t it?’ Watson commented. The investigation into the complaint against him had collapsed.

  ‘I had my doubts for a time, guv,’ Pyle said. ‘Mind you, the Rubber Heels were well out of order in the first place.’ Nothing would change his low opinion of the Bureau.

  ‘It did sound a bit swift, Fred. The magistrates’ clerk obviously thought Eric was at it with that grass.’

  Pyle looked at the dci. ‘He might have thought so, guv. Doing a bit of trading, I s’pect,’ he offered, not wishing to say too much. ‘S’worth a try. Unless you’re let alone to do the job you won’t get anywhere.’

  ‘Try telling that to the Commissioner. Still, Eric got his result.’ He laid some reports on the desk. ‘Bit more for you, Fred. Have your lads go through those again. The spelling’s atrocious. I can’t put them up to the governor like that.’

  Pyle glanced over the reports. Uninterested. ‘They must have slipped past.’

  ‘Have them do them again,’ – like it was five minutes’ work. ‘Especially that one Shields wrote. He always struck me as the literate sort.’

  ‘I’ll go through them, guv.’ The prospect didn’t inspire him.

  ‘It’s diary day tomorrow. Make sure they’ve all got their details corresponding – Alec!’ The dci saw one of the dcs slipping out.

  Pyle pushed the keyboard away and glanced over the top report. There probably wasn’t too much wrong with it, only Trevor Watson tried to have all reports perfect.

  The telephone on Pyle’s desk rang and he snatched it up, hoping for something to drag him away from this.

  ‘Oh, good morning. How are you?’ he said, sounding cheerful when the man on the line identified himself. He was an insurance loss adjuster, and Pyle was always pleased to hear from such people.

  With the help of one of his grasses he nicked a little firm about eight months ago and recovered most of the money they blagged. Having been convicted, and having appealed, their sentences were upheld, which seemed unusual these days. True to form the insurance company hung on to their money as long as possible. Now it was weigh on time. The grass would have to go to their offices in the City for the reward money.

  ‘This afternoon?’ Pyle said. ‘It’s a bit short notice. It depends whether I can get in touch with my informant. Four o’clock.’ There was no real point in debating the matter until he had tried reaching Billy Little, the grass. He replaced the phone feeling cheerful. All he needed to do now was find Little.

  Sometimes he didn’t bother with putting the actual grass up to collect the money. Some wouldn’t allow themselves to be put up anyway, even though it was a harmless process. For their part the insurance company needed someone other than the detective to sign the receipt. Pyle would try to contact this petty thief, who was due some of the reward. If he wasn’t about he would put someone else up. Billy Little answered when he rang his number. Pyle told him about the reward and arranged to meet him later. Replacing the phone he turned back to his paperwork with renewed interest.

  ‘If you spent less time playing with your prick, Tony, and bent a little more to this,’ he told dc Shields when he passed back the reports the dci had returned, ‘you might make fewer mistakes.’

  ‘What d’you mean, guv?’ the dc said. He looked over the paperwork. ‘What have I done, left a comma out? He’s a pedantic sod.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Trevor Watson,’ Pyle said, out of a sense of loyalty to a senior officer. ‘He’s still a practical copper.’ Not wishing to discuss the matter, he wheeled around on Peter Fenton, who came along the busy Squad office to a free desk. ‘Peter. Did you get a statement from that witness yet?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t in when I went down this morning, guv. She’s coming in this evening.’

  ‘Well, keep on at her. It’s been over a week now.’ He moved on to ds Lethridge, who was at one of the sergeants’ desks at the top of the room. ‘Have the typists do these again, Eric,’ he said, depositing the rest of the report on the desk. ‘He wouldn’t sign them.’

  ‘He does go on a bit about a few fucking mistakes.’

  ‘You know what he’s like. Don’t forget it’s diary day tomorrow. Make sure they get all their details correspond­ing. I don’t want him screaming about discrepancies over joint actions or stat
ements. Go through them yourself.’

  Once a week all detectives’ diaries were handed in for checking by the dci. Inaccurate records detailing their actions was a disciplinary offence. Despite diaries never being contemporaneous, oversights and discrepancies were the constant that got detectives into trouble.

  The firm of insurance loss adjusters were at London Wall, in a labyrinthine building that covered the entire block: The building housed mostly accountants and firms of solicitors. Several times Pyle got lost on visits along those endless corridors.

  Fred Pyle glanced at his grass as they stepped through the lobby towards the lifts. The furtive-looking Billy Little lived up to his name, being only five-feet-four in his heeled cowboy boots. He looked decidedly unsteady in them and would have had no chance if he had to leg it. For a man who needed to be inconspicuous, the grass had an odd choice of clothes. Someone half his age might have escaped unnoticed among the fashion-conscious youth, but Little, who was pushing fifty, tended to stand out in his Megadeath T-shirt and earrings.

  ‘Don’t look like that, Billy. You won’t have any problems,’ Pyle assured him, noticing Little’s eyes darting about as they waited for the lift. ‘He’ll just ask your name, get your signature and give you the reward money. Stick up a wrong ’un, if you like, it makes no difference.’ He unhooked Little’s jacket collar which was turned in. ‘Terrific,’ he said with mock approval as he ushered him into the lift.

  #

  The insurance loss adjuster was large, pink-faced, striped-shirted, in his late twenties. He showed them into a tiny, steel-partitioned office with a small desk, two wooden chairs and a calendar on the wall. It was the sort of office where job applicants filled out personnel forms.

  ‘Just the usual formalities, inspector,’ the adjuster said, laying a thick folder on the desk and removing forms from it. ‘Won’t take a few moments.’ He had a speedy manner and shot a glance at the grass as if trying not to give offence by letting his gaze linger on him. ‘Is this the gentleman who supplied the information leading to the arrest and conviction of David and Laurence James?’ he asked in a formal tone.

  ‘It is, sir,’ Pyle replied in a similar way.

  ‘If I could just have a few particulars, then – for the record, nothing more,’ he assured the grass. ‘Your name and address is all.’

  Billy Little hesitated. He looked at Pyle as if uncertain whether to proceed, then blurted out, ‘It’s Smith. It’s Billy Smith. 600 Old Kent Road’s where I live.’

  The young man smiled as he committed the fiction to paper. ‘That’s SE15.’ He wrote in a small, round hand. ‘Well, Mr Smith, £28,000 was recovered as a result of your information. There were also two convictions, of course. Under the Insurance Reward Agreement you are due ten per cent, £2,800, along with the company’s thanks.’ His round, pink face smiled again. I need two signatures from you, Mr Smith, if you’d be so kind. One there, another here.’ He indicated the place on two separate forms. And as Little scribbled the name, the loss adjuster drew out an envelope from the folder. ‘They are notes of mixed denomination. It’s for you to count it if you wish. I’m sure you’ll find no discrepancy.’

  ‘I’ll take your word, squire,’ Little said, stuffing the envelope into his pocket.

  Back on the street, Pyle said, ‘That was easy enough, Billy.’

  ‘Fuck I! All it wants is me to get seen with you, guv.’

  Pyle smiled. He knew that wasn’t Billy Little’s reason for now wanting to part company and fast. There was a chance he might get away with all the money.

  Pyle searched around the street and caught the eye of a taxi driver. Then he glanced at the grass and shook his head. ‘Billy Smith. S’that the best you could come up with?’

  ‘I couldn’t think, I always go blank when I get put under that sort of pressure. I mean, it did, didn’t it?’

  ‘For all the dif’ it makes. Wasn’t a bad day’s work.’

  The initial effort on Little’s part hadn’t involved a great deal, he recalled. Along with Lethridge and Jack Barcy, he copped an earner out of the original sum of money recovered and let it be assumed that the two villains had knocked out the shortfall.

  ‘Nice little touch, guv,’ the grass said. He hesitated, ‘Eh, was you looking for something out of it, guv?’

  Pyle gave him a blank stare. ‘We agreed half, Billy. I wouldn’t say the figure was now open to negotiation.’ He held the door of the cab for the grass, and told the driver to take them to Charing Cross.

  In the back of the cab he took the envelope and divided the money. The fourteen hundred and twenty pounds in safe notes improved his day. His grass wasn’t at all put out, and would still want to do business in future even if he had nicked all of the reward money. Pyle wasn’t so inept at handling people as to close off that possibility.

  17

  BOTH LIFTS IN THE BLOCK of council flats were out of order. That was a million, Tully thought, as he started through the graffiti-scrawled hallway and up the stairs. Cole Coleman, the man he was visiting, lived on the second floor. Living in a block of flats himself, Tully’s instinct was to try the lifts first.

  Glancing over the graffiti he assumed the kids on the estate must have nicked a truckload of aerosol paint. Whoever it was had no concern about ozone depletion! There was a blaze of squiggles and writing up the stairs and along the wall on the second floor, cutting right across windows and doors. He considered for a moment what, as a kid, he had done instead of aerosol graffiti. Something just as destructive.

  He rang the bell and turned to lean on the walkway parapet to watch some pre-teenagers kicking a large cardboard box around on the bald patch of grass imprisoned by the flat blocks.

  ‘The idle bugger’s still in bed, John,’ Mrs Coleman said when she opened the door. She was thin and middle-aged and looked like she did a lot of fetching and carrying. She was fastening her coat, her handbag over her arm. ‘See if you can get him up, love. I’m fed up with trying. He was s’posed to be at the Social Security offices at ten.’

  She stepped out and let Tully into the flat.

  ‘And tell him not to eat all them eggs for his breakfast.’

  In the small back bedroom Tully found the woman’s favourite son curled in a foetal-like ball under two duvets. He considered ripping the covers off him but knew if he did he would have a fight on his hands. Cole Coleman went into blinding rages at the drop of a hat. So instead reached under the cover and grabbed his cock. ‘Caught you! Playing with yourself,’ he said.

  The young man in bed was startled. ‘Fuck off, you dirty bastard,’ he screamed.

  ‘Come on, get up. Your mum said you gotta see the Social. You won their long service award.’

  Once awake Coleman soon became reasonable. He stretched his arms out of the duvet and looked at the day, then grinned. ‘Ah, it’s a bit nippy, John,’ he said and withdrew his arms. ‘She getting my breakfast?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s on the table,’ Tully lied. ‘C’mon. It’s eleven’ o’clock; we got a day’s work to do.’

  Cole Coleman wasn’t pleased when he rose and discov­ered that not only wasn’t his breakfast waiting for him, but Mum wasn’t there to cook it. He went without.

  There was a minor setback to Tully’s plans after one of the villains who was going to work with him dropped out when his Mum had a massive stroke and wasn’t expected to live. He wasn’t too put out that this fellow wanted to be with her. There was another potential blagger to take his place, Phil Hayes.

  Sitting in the kitchen of Phil Hayes’s flat with Cole Coleman, Tully outlined the blag. Like Coleman, he was roused out of bed, only his wife was around to cook his breakfast.

  ‘What’s it come to, John?’ Hayes asked, pouring himself more tea.

  Coleman reached across the small table and helped himself to the food on Hayes’s plate.

  ‘About nine or ten grand, ’a bi
t of luck.’

  ‘Sounds nice enough, dun it? ’Ere, leave off, Cole! That’s my fucking breakfast.’ Hayes watched the younger man dip one of his pieces of toast in his eggs.

  ‘Ah, what I got, fucking germs or something?’ Coleman protested.

  ‘Fucking well cook yourself some, you wan’ it,’ Hayes offered.

  That didn’t seem to appeal to Coleman. ‘Can’t your wife do some for me –?’

  ‘Yeah, hang on a minute,’ Hayes said. ‘I’ll get her to go and sign on for you first!’ He looked at the young man and shook his head like he thought he was a waster.

  Somehow it was hard to resent the liberties Cole Coleman took, Tully thought. He had an easy, likeable way about him.

  ‘Who else is gonna be involved, John?’

  From habit Tully hesitated, even though he had already committed a lot of information to Hayes. He studied the man, who was in his late thirties. He looked older, even with his dark curly hair, his face was old, with deep lines around his eyes. ‘Only Cole here doing the driving,’ he said, ‘and Benny Isaacs. He’s got the shooters.’

  ‘Benny’s very reliable. As it happens, John, I do fancy it. When’s it going off?’

  ‘Sooner rather than later. The thing is, it’s there. It might as well be done. Know what I mean?’

  They both knew just what he meant.

  The plan was more or less set in Tully’s mind. There were arrangements still to make, minor details that he could do himself. It was important to make sure his little firm got it clear in their minds just how it was going to go. That meant visiting the proposed blag. This they did in a Ford Transit van that Isaacs borrowed from his father-in-law. Coleman drove over the getaway route, deciding where best to park the changeover car. Then they stopped in McLeod Road, a little away from the entrance to the offices of the Gas Board. Coleman remained in the driving seat while the other three climbed into the back of the van, from where they could plot this up without being seen themselves.

  The small office block was approached by three wide steps up to the main entrance, with iron railings protecting bare concrete flower tubs. A seven-foot wall to the left of the block extended forty feet or so to the works department gates beyond the offices. Glass doors off the main entrance let onto a small foyer with stairs that could be seen at the end of it.