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  Brian Finch was square-jawed, with close cropped, sand-coloured hair, a villain in his late thirties whose eyes were too close-set and whose mouth was too small for him to have been considered good-looking. He jumped up, like he was ready to fight, as Pyle entered. With a nod Pyle ordered the uniformed constable to leave.

  ‘What’s this then,’ Finch wanted to know, ‘the treat­ment?’

  Pyle recognised the arrogance of someone who believed himself innocent and knew it was just a matter of time before the police released him.

  ‘We’ll see how you shape, son.’

  ‘You’re jumping the gun a bit. I’m not saying nothing until I’ve seen my brief.’

  Pyle laughed. ‘What the fuck d’you think he can do? You’re bang to rights.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Should be dead easy for you then, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Like taking a leak, you see.’ He found himself judging this man as Libby Howard’s former lover, wondering how good he was, if she enjoyed being with Finch more than him. ‘You might as well put your hands up right now, Brian.’

  ‘That’s what you reckon, is it?’

  ‘It’s the sensible move, son. Gets you some help. You were grassed. Cliff Harding put you right in it. That’s why he’s out, and you’re nicked.’

  ‘Never heard of the man,’ Finch said. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A villain who puts his liberty above yours. Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘What am I supposed to do now, then? Grass a few I don’t know, and go and get myself some kind of deal? S’that what this is about?’

  The di shook his head.

  ‘S’no value to us, son. We can’t go on forever trading villain for villain. We’ve got one in the book that someone has to go for.’ He stabbed his thick index finger at Finch. ‘You’ve been elected.’

  That caused Finch to step back and change his approach. ‘You’ll think differently when my brief has a pop at you.’

  ‘A little kid with a whispy moustache?’ he said. ‘He’s here. Flapping around like a penguin with a hernia.’

  ‘I want to see him. I’ve been asking to see him for the last two hours.’

  ‘You’ll see him, Brian, when I’m good and ready. That’ll depend on what you give me. If you put up as much as Terry Clark did, we’ll get on all right.’ He smiled. ‘So sit down, make yourself comfortable, son.’

  Finch looked at him, then sat. Pyle drew up a chair.

  ‘Right, let’s have a little chat about blags and blaggers.’

  This interrogation took him no further forward than the two witnesses did. The villain blocked every tack, and Pyle refrained from putting pressure on him. Rather he conveyed the impression that it didn’t much matter one way or the other what Finch offered, the result would be the same. The fact that he wasn’t trying very hard seemed to confirm this.

  ‘It’s going to be a long wait, Mr Gladwell,’ Pyle informed the solicitor, who was still waiting. ‘He’s well stitched up.’ Other possibilities were entering his mind, things to benefit him.

  ‘Are you going to allow me access to my client, inspector?’ the brief said.

  ‘You’ll see him at Bromley Magistrates’ Court tomorrow.’

  This surprised the solicitor, whose atti­tude changed. ‘Your case is that good, Fred, is it?’

  ‘Both you and Finch know it – s’why you’re here,’ Pyle bluffed.

  The solicitor pursed his bright red lips. Then glanced about the reception area, as if to make sure no one else was within earshot. ‘Is there any possibility of some latitude here, Fred?’

  A smile started in Pyle’s brain. It didn’t reach his face. That was what he wanted from this young man. He looked at him and waited.

  ‘It might be to our mutual advantage,’ the brief suggested.

  ‘What d’you have in mind, Alex?’ Pyle asked.

  Again Gladwell checked about him. ‘Can we talk some­where less public?’

  They went into another interview room, which differed little from the one Finch was in.

  Despite having done business on a previous occasion over another client, each proceeded with caution, sounding the other out as though what they were doing was legal.

  ‘My client might be interested in a lesser charge,’ Gladwell said.

  Pyle nodded. ‘I’m sure. Pleading to it?’

  The solicitor shook his head. ‘He would be more interested in an alternative arrangement…’ he hesitated.

  The di waited. He saw the brief wanted something from him. ‘That might be possible. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘We’re both practical men, Fred.’

  ‘It still depends on what you’re looking for,’ Pyle said. ‘I’m sure something beneficial could be worked out.’

  ‘I’d need to talk to my client.’

  After a moment, Pyle nodded. ‘That’s not difficult, Alex.’

  He knew the solicitor needed to consult with Finch to ascertain what he could afford, rather than what his involvement may or may not have been. Gladwell wasn’t long in coming back with an offer of fifteen hundred pounds to have his man dropped out. That struck Pyle as unreasonable, and told him Finch could plead guilty to a lesser charge for fifteen hundred, or could walk for three grand – never mentioning that his evidence was too flimsy to charge this villain with the Lewisham blag, otherwise he might have blanked the offer on account of the beating the security guard took. He wanted to see someone go for that job, alas not Brian Finch. However, his not being nicked for the Lewisham robbery was all this earner would guarantee. Finch was at it somewhere. What Pyle would do, once his money was safe, was give Criminal Intelligence the word that Finch was plotting something and see what they could sniff out. That was the price of being a villain and having a bent brief.

  22

  THE DCI WORRIED HIM SEVERAL times about Harding, wanting to know what was happening, if there were any developments. For his part Pyle would have let the situation run to see what the villain came up with. Met oversight forced his hand, so he got on Clifford Harding’s case.

  The meeting place was safe enough, a makeshift community playground where Harding took his kids. It was fenced off from the street – more kids went through holes in the fence than the gate. Empty oil drums painted in bright stripes, an old timber-and-doors climbing frame, and tyres on ropes were the only apparatus. Kids swarmed over the ramshackle collection in noisy, reckless abandon, watched with apparent casual concern by leather-clad mothers resembling pub bouncers, or fathers who were out of work. Clifford Harding had three of his kids there, aged four, five and six. The fourth was only six months old.

  ‘They look like nice kids, Clifford,’ Pyle remarked, standing inside the playground, away from other parents. ‘S’this all they have to play in?’ Having spent his own childhood in the city he moved to the suburbs where his kids had green parks and a few trees to climb. Environments like this bred villains, he was convinced of it. But then there were policemen to nick them and prisons to lock them in…

  ‘The council keep promising to put something proper here,’ Harding was saying.

  ‘The kids seem happy enough.’ He looked around the playground and saw a young mother sitting on a box smoking. His own wife came into his thoughts – still not sweetened. ‘You’ll miss them, I daresay – the kids – when I pick you up again.’ He shrugged, suggesting this was inevitable as Harding turned and looked at him. ‘It’s got to be done. I expected word on Jack Lynn by now.’

  Harding shook his head. ‘I have been punting around. I mean, you don’t just go up to the man and start asking questions. You have to suss things out. It takes time.’

  ‘I’ll have fucking well retired before I hear from you. You haven’t got time, son.’ His anger flared and vanished. ‘You’ve had your chance. Now you’ve got to be nicked again.’

  At this Harding’s eyes darted arou
nd the playground as if considering running. Pyle knew it was his children who were stopping him.

  ‘What?’ The question came out of Harding like a breathless punch. ‘What are you talking about? I’m working for you.’

  Pyle shook his head, with a feeling of power, of satisfaction. ‘There’ll be new charges involving a security van blag out at Penge. Two days ago. A lad called Brian Finch lollied you.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Harding said. ‘Who’s he then?’

  ‘S’worth a try, Clifford,’ Pyle said. ‘He’s given us enough.’

  ‘Look, you found the shooter at my place. I mean, I’m bang to rights. But that’s all there is. That’s straight.’

  ‘About as straight as a dog’s dick. Penge was what that shooter was for. It won’t be difficult finding someone to id you.’

  Anxiety gnawed at Harding, as if understanding how Pyle could make this happen.

  ‘Leave it out, will you?’ Harding said, closing his eyes.

  ‘My governor’s making noises about locking you up, Clifford. I can’t justify keeping you clear any longer, not unless you give me something.’

  ‘I will. I will. I said I’d get something.’

  ‘We’re all becoming old men waiting, son.’

  ‘Look, I heard Jack Lynn is making one,’ Harding tried, like the words were choking him. ‘Soon now. I mean, it’s what I heard.’

  ‘Tell me something I already know!’

  It was plain to see this villain was resisting giving him whatever information he had on Lynn. Crossing the line to start grassing would be anathema to Harding, Pyle knew that. He raised the pressure on him with a long glance over at his children.

  ‘They could be in their twenties before you walk in free air with them again.’

  He watched Harding close his eyes once more, this time in prayer perhaps. ‘I heard it was the Tote at Catford dog track.’ A muscle around his left eye twitched. ‘It’s what I heard. That’s straight.’

  Pyle nodded. The information alone didn’t put him ahead of what he had from Micky Fielder, but it did indicate that Harding was trying, if reluctant to go there.

  ‘About right,’ Pyle said. ‘What I want from you is when, and who’s involved.’

  The villain said he didn’t know.

  ‘Make it your business to find out, Clifford. Unless of course you want to go the other way.’ He glanced at the children once more, leaving him in no doubt about the alternative.

  #

  ‘Might be worth giving it to Criminal Intelligence, have them go on watch down at Catford,’ dci Simmons said, turning into his office. He was more relaxed now. Pyle followed him. Both in overcoats and carrying briefcases, having just come on duty.

  ‘They might get lucky and see something, guv. I don’t think they have anyone spare.’

  Simmons removed his coat and hung it up by the door, then switched off the desk lamps that were still burning in the deserted office. ‘What’s the alternative?’

  ‘I’d rather not give this one to them.’ If he did he might not be able to keep control, which could present problems if he needed to nick Jack Lynn by means of a swift ’un. ‘I think it’s too close anyway.’

  ‘D’you have anyone to spare to put down there?’

  ‘That’s a problem.’

  His squad was stretched, and he didn’t think there would be any benefit to having detectives on watch at the racetrack anyway. There would be nothing to see until the blag was going off. Then, without his entire squad there and a few more besides, there’d be little chance of nicking anyone.

  ‘Well, borrow a couple,’ Simmons suggested.

  A detective sergeant looked in through the door. ‘Guv. The super was looking for you.’ Simmons nodded. ‘Did you get to look at that CRO file yet, guv?’

  ‘Give me a look back later on it,’ he said, and turned to the computer on his desk. He hit some keys to get a screen with the manpower availability on each of the ten squads. ‘Is Sampson still off sick?’

  ‘S’posed to be coming back Monday,’ Pyle said. It was a sore point. ‘I’d better have a replacement for him, guv. He can go back on division, or back in uniform.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘The usual. He’s lazy.’ Although by no means inexperienced, this detective seemed forever in awe of the strokes they pulled. Pyle didn’t trust him, believing he was a potential whistleblower.

  Simmons nodded. ‘Make the recommendation, Fred. I’ll push it through.’ He turned back to the screen. ‘Take Troy, Kennedy and Martin from number six. The rest are in court all this week, and most of the following week I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having someone taking seconds at Lynn’s place,’ Pyle said. ‘We might frighten him off, but I’d take a chance.’

  ‘You think it’s that close to going, Fred?’

  He shrugged. ‘According to Harding. My other snout seemed to think that was about right. I’m waiting to see if he can get anything else.’ He put a lot of trust in Micky Fielder.

  ‘I’d like Harding back inside just as soon as.’

  The dci was still worrying about Harding, so when the grass delivered he’d have to be nicked again. If what he delivered got them the result he was after, Pyle would do what he could to keep him free of charges relating to the firearm found at his place. That was as much in his own interest as to reward the felon: once a villain started grassing the lever was forever under him. Most lived in terror of being known as an informer. Pyle would see how Harding shaped up, then maybe have another word with the dci.

  ‘He won’t go far, guv.’

  ‘What about the Tote?’

  ‘I left them out. There’s a better than even chance the blaggers have someone on the inside. They have to be getting their information from someone.’

  ‘They ought to be warned,’ Simmons said, and turned away to answer the phone on dci Watson’s desk.

  The disadvantages of warning the people working in the Tote would be obvious to the dci, that was why he didn’t order him to warn them. The decision was his. He wanted to nick Jack Lynn and his firm, rather than risk scaring them off to put together another one that the Squad maybe wouldn’t get to hear about.

  When he got to his own office the first thing he did before removing his coat was check his messages. He did this with the vague hope that something urgent would take him away from his paperwork. He read the scrawl across the pad.

  ‘When did this come in – from Deptford cid, Alan?’

  ‘Last night, I think.’

  ‘Fuck it! I wish someone had called me at home.’ He picked up the phone and began dialling. ‘Fucking grasses, they’re more trouble.’

  ‘One of them been nicked, Fred?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you know it… ds Linkup,’ he said into the phone. The inherent risk with letting grasses have their own little ramps as means of payment was them getting their collar felt. Now that it had happened he had to try and help. There was no question about that as Fielder was still trying to get essential information, like when the robbery was happening. ‘Sergeant Linkup?’ Pyle said when another voice came on the line. ‘Fred Pyle. You rang me about one of mine. What d’you pull him for?’ The ds explained how Micky Fielder was caught with stolen American Express travellers’ cheques.

  ‘Can anything be done?’ He was def­erential to the arresting officer, sure they could work something out or Linkup wouldn’t have phoned him. ‘I’ll come down. Won’t be before lunchtime though – we’ve a dis’ meeting here this morning.’ That suited Linkup.

  Maybe this was for the best, he thought, as he replaced the phone. This might make Micky Fielder work harder.

  During the lunch period the Deptford cid office was almost deserted. Pyle sat on the other side of the desk from ds Linkup at the top of the room. He was bulky, about 35, with a lot of da
rk bushy hair.

  ‘I nicked the fella your grass knocked out those Amex to,’ Linkup explained. ‘It didn’t take much before he stuck Fielder up. What does he do for you?’

  ‘He’s been a good ’un,’ Pyle told him. ‘How d’you come to nick the placer?’

  ‘He’s known here. He used to do a bit for me.’ Linkup grinned. ‘His usefulness is about over. He’ll have to stay nicked.’

  Pyle nodded, understanding the priority. ‘What about dropping Fielder out? That going to be a problem?’

  A telephone started ringing on a side table down by the door. Both detectives let it take their attention. No one answered it, and soon it stopped ringing.

  ‘Not too difficult,’ the ds said with a slow nod. ‘He hasn’t been charged. I left him out soon as he told me he was doing a bit for you. Leaves me light.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it, Dave –’ inti­mating he’d find something to help him keep his numbers up. ‘Least until he finds what he’s after for me. Then if you need him you can have him back.’

  The procedure for getting Micky Fielder set free entailed the ds going to the cells, getting the keys off the custody officer and unlocking the door. There were no other prisoners around to witness this. The overnight arrests were already at court. There was no paperwork to fix, as the grass hadn’t been charged. For the record he was a suspect helping the cid with inquiries.

  Pyle waited outside the station, shaking his head in dismay as Fielder emerged and came down the steps. Fielder was unshaven and looked crumpled in his three-quarter leather coat, his sculptured hair needing gel.

  ‘You fuckwit,’ Pyle said. ‘Don’t you have more sense than to do business with other grasses? I could have put myself on offer pulling you out. And for what?’

  The grass cringed, but Pyle wasn’t about to let him off the hook.