Law & Order Page 14

  It was the usual story. Pyle smiled.

  ‘You weren’t looking for a taste, guv?’ the grass asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t earn much by the sound of it, Micky. Not even enough for flowers to sweeten the old lady.’ He looked him over, wondering why Fielder pursued the life he did. Perhaps his few moments of what must have seemed like intimacy with the cid were worth all the aggravation. ‘Keep an eye on Jack Lynn, Micky. It’s his turn.’

  Pyle rose to get off at Sloane Square to catch the first train back. There was a stack of work awaiting him in the office.

  #

  ‘Malcolm!’ dc Slater shouted across the squad office as a uniformed pc whom Pyle knew was from TO13 came in.

  Dept 13 of Territorial Operations dealt with obscene publications which used to be handled by the cid’s Dirty Squad – until too many of them were caught at it. The uniform branch didn’t make it any straighter, and Pyle knew what Warren Slater was after: porno videos for a colleague’s stag night he was organising. It irritated him that such business was conducted in the open, like no one even pretended it mattered.

  ‘They’ll have to be good ’uns, though. No rubbish.’

  ‘We nicked a lad last night with some terrific stuff. It even gave my governor a hard-on.’

  ‘They’ll do.’

  ‘Warren!’ Pyle said at the tail end of the conversation. Having been invited to the party, he wasn’t sure if he dare go with the way his old woman was. ‘See what you can find out on Gerry or Gerald Davis. There might be something in the computer.’

  Criminal Intelligence held nothing more than unconfirmed rumours about him and his connection with the bearer-bonds, nothing that would justify a visit.

  Pyle stepped out and along to the dcis’ office. Trevor Watson was there with a di, giving him pedantic advice about a prospective charge. Pyle waited his turn.

  ‘In my opinion, those plates won’t be enough, Mark,’ Watson was saying. ‘His brief’ll stick up a fanny about you planting them.’ He glanced at Pyle.

  ‘The age-old problem,’ he said. ‘S’Tony about, guv?’

  ‘He’s still out investigating complaints.’

  ‘He ought to join the Complaints Bureau.’

  ‘We’ll all be working for them before much longer.’

  ‘At least we’ll know who not to nick, guv – those doing a bit of work!’

  ‘Daresay that would be handy.’

  ‘You want to look at what I’ve got, guv?’ Pyle offered.

  ‘I’m not exactly scratching, Fred,’ Watson said. ‘Get the dcs to have a look.’

  With their current volume of work, a lot of which wouldn’t be followed up, Pyle wondered why he was bothering with this. Davis looked half-respectable, even if it was only a front. He knew he would need to proceed with caution.

  Knowing how cautious Chief Superintendent Jeymer was, Pyle decided to try and firm up his info before sharing it with him. Back in his office he made a phone call. ‘Inspector Pyle… it’s about some bearer-bonds that went missing out of a car on your manor last year… ’s a man called Davis I’m interested in… cheers.’

  He replaced the phone and watched dc Slater slide into the office.

  ‘No trace, guv, nothing on the computer on Gerry or Gerald Davis.’

  ‘If it was that easy, Warren, I’d’ve got it from the fucking computer. Dig around, son.’

  Instinct told him there was something here. His problem would be with dcs Jeymer. Anyone wearing a suit costing more than two hundred quid, and with an accent that wasn’t thick working-class, Jeymer called ‘sir’ and treated with deference. He was a copper who liked his villains in striped jerseys, and Pyle couldn’t make out how he came to be running the Squad. He didn’t seem capable of comprehending that those of middle- and upper-class backgrounds were, if more genteel, also more venal with so many opportunities.

  Leaning on a filing cabinet in the dcs’s office, Pyle watched his governor consider the proposition about Davis. He could almost hear the questions being raised in his mind. Sure, it was a bit thin, but worth a visit.

  Jeymer pulled his well-trimmed beard between his thumb and forefinger, then said, ‘Rumours that he may or may not have placed those bearer-bonds; that he may have been running long firms a few years ago. They don’t amount to much, Fred.’

  ‘I don’t know, guv. They might.’

  ‘Davis is very respectable. He’s always on the financial pages. I’ve got a few shares, Fred – I read the financial pages – you have to unless you want to get taken for a complete ride.’

  Pyle shrugged. ‘He’d have plenty of chances.’

  ‘You know yourself, Fred, what he is as much as what we’ve got determines whether we go after him. And what we’ve got doesn’t amount to much, does it? We can’t just pull him down the road and give him the treatment like regular villains.’

  ‘Wish we could,’ Pyle said. ‘He is worth a visit. I s’pose I’ve less faith in the financial Establishment, guv. I’ve only got a few British Telecom shares.’

  Jeymer gave him a pitying look. ‘How good is your snout?’

  ‘He’s reliable. He gave me the stuff on Jack Lynn.’

  That caused him to pull at his beard again. ‘Give Davis a miss. Concentrate on Lynn.’

  Pyle shifted off the filing cabinet and collected the folder from the dcs’s desk. ‘He’s more of a prospect, I daresay.’

  He wasn’t disappointed. Maybe he’d find a way to connect Davis with Lynn. If there was more time he might have taken a chance and pursued Davis anyway.

  ‘Are you going to Beckenham to give a hand?’ Jeymer asked.

  That visit he was reluctant to take on. ‘I don’t know when, guv,’ Pyle said, hoping it would get passed to someone else.

  ‘Make it soon, Fred. They’ve been on again.’

  #

  ‘Where the fuck was I last Monday?’ dc Ray Jenkins asked, leaning round from the desk in the squad office. Such inquiries were common to detectives who hadn’t kept their diaries up to date but relied on the collective memory. Diaries were due to be handed in for the dci to check.

  ‘I expect that was when you was stuck up that old tart.’

  ‘Wasn’t it when we nicked chummy?’

  ‘No. That was on the Saturday. That’s when I put down. The Duty Book just shows “obo” both days.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Peter. I’ll check in Jack’s diary.’

  This was all too familiar to Pyle as he came along the office to Eric Lethridge’s desk. Some of the squad’s diaries were in, awaiting collection.

  ‘You should fucking well write it as you do it, Peter,’ Lethridge said. That was the required response of a ds.

  Pyle waited at the desk to talk to the ds about Davis and was unconcerned about his detectives corroborating their diary details in this way.

  ‘As long as they get them about right,’ he said to Lethridge as he passed him the slim folder. ‘Davis. Not worth too much attention after all. Too respectable – might spoil his image on the financial pages.’ He smiled, trying to remain philosophical about their priorities. ‘Check through his known associates anyway, Eric. Might give us something useful for when we get around to nicking Lynn. And ring Inspector Allen out at Ealing about those missing bearer-bonds. He was going to phone me back.’

  ‘Any hurry, Fred? I’m up to my ears.’

  ‘When you can,’ Pyle said. ‘I don’t suppose it’ll help much.’ He searched around the office. ‘Where’s Jack Barcy? I want him to go out to Beckenham.’

  ‘Will you get away with sending him?’ Lethridge asked.

  ‘He can take the seconds. Tell him I want a word.’ He lifted the diaries from the desk.

  ‘D’you see that new civilian typist along the corridor? She’s got some form!’ Lethridge said. ‘Wouldn’t mind a taste.’

&
nbsp; ‘You got some chance, you fat bastard. I heard Tony Simmons was looking to get into her.’

  ‘How does he find the time?’

  ‘Fred!’ a di called across the Squad office. ‘You’re wanted on the phone.’

  Paddington cid informed him they had picked up Brian Finch.

  ‘Good luck,’ Pyle said into the telephone. ‘I’ll come over and have a word with him. It’ll be a couple of hours before I’m through here. The wait’ll do him good – the chasing around he’s caused. Don’t let him make any phone calls or see anyone, especially not his brief. Cheers.’ He replaced the phone and sat at his desk with the pile of diaries.

  dc Shields came in with his diary. ‘Want to have a look at this one, guv?’

  ‘Up to date, Tony, is it?’

  ‘Just about, guv.’ Shields waited while he glanced over the entries. ‘I saw this snout earlier. I have him doing a bit for me – gave me a couple of nice things on division,’ he explained. He waited as if expecting some comment. Pyle waited too. ‘He’s put me onto a little ramp at the hi-fi factory out at Erith. There’s a regular touch each week apparently. Two or three compact disc players going missing.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like something for the Squad. What’s it come to so far? Any idea?

  ‘Not really, guv. A few grand, I s’pose.’

  ‘Reliable, is he?’

  ‘He tries, you know? Like I said, he’s put one or two nice things my way.’

  ‘You bunging him?’ Pyle wanted to know.

  ‘A few quid, guv.’

  ‘Unless we have it off you’ll lose that, Tony,’ he told him. Money was only available from the Informers’ Fund to detectives when it related to a job. Shields’s infor­mation didn’t amount to that. ‘It’s not worth pursuing, Tony, is it? A couple of cd players a week. Tell him to keep his ears open, though. If someone decides to have a lorry load…’ The Squad had to keep a sense of proportion. ‘You could pass it on to division.’

  ‘Erith wasn’t my manor, guv, was it?’

  Pyle nodded. ‘About right, son.’ He accepted the detec­tive’s need to protect his information, even when it meant a crime not being stopped. He not only condoned the prac­tice, he encouraged it. Such a state of affairs helped create in detectives a sense of independence which made them more efficient, despite what the hierarchy believed.

  This was one where, from experience, he was convinced he knew better than those in offices he would never attain. The priorities of the Squad were such that they couldn’t pursue every job they heard about, and the stereo equipment factory could write off the loss. If his handling of this became known, disciplinary action might result. That was a chance he was prepared to take to preserve his own independence.

  21

  D DIVISION WAS ONE OF THE busiest in the Met, and the divisional HQ at Paddington was, he knew, equipped with the most modem computer aids available. Despite all the technology, both building and division were still operated by police officers. They could be as helpful or unhelpful, efficient or inefficient, as circumstances dic­tated. Right now they were being unhelpful and perverse, and Alex Gladwell guessed this was on the instruction of Detective Inspector Pyle, whose arrival he was awaiting – for all he knew Pyle was already interviewing his client. He would be angry if that proved to be the case.

  Many times, during his short career as a criminal solicitor, Alex Gladwell encountered most negative traits that governed the behaviour of policemen. Sometimes these helped him achieve the desired result for his client, other times, like now, they hindered him. He was waiting on the public benches at Paddington Green police station to see Brian Finch. The hour of his time taken so far would have been a complete waste if he gave up and went away without seeing his client. With other appointments to get to he wasn’t sure he could wait much longer. He was hoping these local policemen would get embarrassed by his presence and would let him see Finch.

  At twenty-eight and with only four years in practice, his reputation for producing results was enviable. Villains came to him, not because they were innocent, rather because they were guilty. He made no moral judgements about what they did, instead took the view that anyone, no matter what their crime, was entitled to a defence. His clients deserved the best result he could get them. Some of the methods he employed to keep them their freedom could have got him struck off, even prosecuted. So far he had escaped unscathed.

  He was short and round, with a plump, boyish face. His hair was beginning to recede, and neither that nor his mousy-coloured moustache did anything to lessen his youthful appearance. The grey pinstriped double-breasted suits he always wore signalled his profession.

  Notwithstanding his irritation, not a moment of his time here was wasted, having read a number of reports that were necessary for him to brief counsel in a fraud case. With his reading note-taking completed, he rose from the wooden seat and strode across the terrazzo floor to the public desk, which was like a canteen serving hatch. The uniformed constable sitting at a desk in the area beyond looked up, embarrassed by his presence and increasing impatience. His blushing went almost unnoticed among the spots and boils peppering his face.

  ‘He’s on his way, sir,’ the constable said.

  Gladwell stared at him, suspecting a convenient lie, doubting they had even phoned Detective Inspector Pyle. Swivelling on the balls of his feet, he stepped back to the seat and lowered himself. He looked at his watch, then opened the briefcase, and took out a folder to check through the notes taken earlier from Mrs Finch.

  #

  ‘Inspector Pyle,’ he said to the constable who opened the back door to him after twice ringing the bell. He didn’t bother to show his id.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the constable said. ‘Inspector Polden would like a word… and there’s a solicitor waiting in the front reception. A Mr Gladwell, sir.’

  Pyle smiled, having not long ago talked to Gladwell about another client, Terry Clark.

  The local di looked more like a gentleman farmer than a policeman with his crumpled tan wool suit and florid complexion. The standard bottle was brought out by way of greeting for Pyle’s visit. The dc who came with him went to get the witnesses organised.

  ‘Any trouble picking him up?’ Pyle asked.

  ‘Came as good as gold – a neighbour gave us a call.’ He passed Pyle a drink in a Styrofoam cup. ‘We turned his drum over – he had three grand there.’

  Pyle stayed silent, wondering if that was the amount the detectives found or said they found, having first dipped into it.

  ‘It’s down in the front office,’ Polden went on. ‘He stuck up some nonsense about winning it racing.’ He scoffed. ‘I wish my horses would run as well.’

  ‘The luck some villains do have,’ Pyle said, ‘you wonder why they ever go blagging.’

  ‘Was that one at Lewisham down to him?’

  ‘Be handy. Who called his brief? One of your lot?’

  ‘Probably. He showed up a while ago.’

  ‘He’s supposed to be well bent. I daresay one of your lads is earning a couple of quid. I’ve had the witnesses brought over. You got somewhere handy to put Finch, so they can have a look at him?’

  ‘Do you want to do an official id parade?’ Polden asked.

  ‘I wasn’t planning to.’

  ‘We’ll find you somewhere quiet. Do it a bit slippery – with his brief downstairs.’

  Identification parades should be con­ducted in a manner that wouldn’t prejudice the suspect, so they were held within the confines of both the police station and the precincts of the front office and conducted by the uniform branch. Practice was something else. Policemen never enjoyed parading suspects – it wasted the time of a lot of people, not least the police.

  Brian Finch was brought from the cells, put in an interview room and sat facing the door, with its fifteen-inch square wired glass window.

&nbs
p; In turn the two witnesses from Lewisham were ushered along the corridor by dc Fenton. Pyle reintroduced himself to them and explained what was happening.

  ‘There’s no doubt this is one of the rob­bers,’ he told the first witness, a man in his mid-fifties. Then, to show his lack of bias, he added, ‘I want you to make up your own mind. Okay?’

  The witness, who worked for the building society opposite where the money was being collected, gave a precise nod. ‘You want me to go into the room and see if it’s him.’

  ‘No. Just look in through the window. That’s all.’

  Offering an encouraging smile, he patted his shoulder and sent him towards the interview room. The witness paused outside the door and peered in with no immediate recognition.

  ‘What d’you say, Mr Higgins?’ Pyle asked.

  ‘Well,’ he began, unsure. ‘It could be him, I suppose. I’m not saying it is, mind.’

  ‘Perhaps if you had another look,’ Pyle suggested. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘I don’t think it would help, sir,’ Higgins said. ‘I couldn’t swear it was. I’m sorry I can’t be sure, inspector – when I think of what they did to that guard. I’d like to lock them up and throw away the key.’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to do here,’ Pyle told him.

  The man looked back towards the interview room with a pensive expression that made Pyle think he might get a result. Then he shook his head. ‘No, I can’t say as it’s him, sir.’

  Pyle nodded, conceal­ing his disappointment.

  The next witness, a customer of the bank that was robbed, proved just as disappointing after she went through the same motions. Pyle imagined what the villain’s brief would make of their testimony in court. There’d be more chance of a conviction without these witnesses.

  Now he faced the possibility that Finch wasn’t involved on the Lewisham blag. Even so it was odds-on that he was involved in something. His swift departure prior to his house being raided suggested as much. Though what villain, regardless of whether or not he was active, would wait around for a dawn visit from the Squad? There was the three grand the local cid found at his place. No way did he believe Finch won it betting. Although realistic enough to recognise that he might not be able to charge him with Lewisham, Pyle wasn’t yet about to put him out of the frame.