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  ‘So you can ponce a living. You’re not helping me get my living, Micky. I mean, what you’ve given me doesn’t amount to a pratful. A whisper about something that might be going off. What else have you got?’ His demand made Fielder fidget. ‘Nothing! You been too fucking busy getting yourself nicked. You’ve been a good ’un in the past, Micky. Don’t tell me I’m going to have to drop you out.’ He made it sound as if that was a painful decision for him. He paused and looked at Fielder before adopting a concerned attitude. ‘You having trouble at home, son? Problems getting your indoor money?’

  ‘No, I’m all right there, guv,’ Fielder said. ‘I was unlucky s’all. I ought to have known better.’

  ‘How much did that ds nick off you?’ Not for a moment did he imagine Linkup was helping him out of the goodness of his heart.

  ‘A twoer,’ Fielder replied.

  ‘S’cheap,’ Pyle said. ‘So what’s the word on Jack Lynn? Did you hear anything more?’

  ‘No, not yet. I’m supposed to see a geezer for a drink.’

  That was information Pyle was pleased to hear. ‘You’d be handy, nicked! You’d better make the meet, Micky. Get busy. I’ll be most upset if you don’t help me nick Jack Lynn.’

  Now the grass owed him and Pyle knew he would try hard to redeem himself.

  23

  POST-LUNCH INERTIA SETTLED OVER the Squad office and it would need a reasonable shout to get going again, to get them away from the paperwork that resulted from various visits to court that morning. Fred Pyle felt like tiptoeing through the place so as not to disturb anyone.

  In the corridor he ran into a detective inspector from Criminal Intelligence carrying the standard folder. Anyone who ever moved about the Yard, unless coming in or going out, seemed to be transporting paperwork, despite all the computer technology.

  ‘I was just about to look for you,’ the di said. ‘Weren’t you on those Method Index raids for the Lewisham blag?’

  ‘Along with John Redvers’ squad,’ Pyle said. ‘Is some­one making complaints?’

  ‘Probably, Fred – you’ve gone a long time without one now!’ He grinned. ‘You spun a villain called Harding. Clifford Harding. We’ve picked up a whisper that he’s supposed to be making one. He’s putting it about that he has a di on the Squad straightened.’

  ‘Maybe he has, Reg,’ Pyle said. ‘Not too bright telling everyone about it. I’d best have a word with him.’

  If he had been earning off Cliff Harding he might have been more concerned about the rumours. He wasn’t worried, just annoyed at apparently backing a wrong ’un. Harding putting one together – he guessed the one the gun was for – while he was supposed to be punting around for him only served to make Pyle look foolish. Nothing much was changed by this information, only his own determination that Harding would go away, regardless of what he came up with on Jack Lynn.

  ‘Eric,’ he said, summoning the ds into his office. ‘Harding’s putting it about that he’s bunging me.’

  ‘Well, it could look that way, guv.’ The ds grinned. ‘Any chance he’s making that one with Lynn?’

  ‘Be ironical, wouldn’t it? Let’s have another look at Harding. Turn him over again.’ He sat back in his chair and watched the ds settle against a filing cabinet. ‘Any word from Erith, Eric?’

  ‘I talked to that di. He reckons they came close to nicking Gerry Davis. He thinks he’s well active with plastic. He wanted to take a chance on doing him over those stolen bonds. The dpp blanked it. Said there wasn’t enough to charge him.’

  ‘Ernie Jeymer’s probably right then about giving Davis a miss,’ Pyle commented.

  ‘They’re sending over all he’s got. The di reckons not being able to go after Davis stopped him nicking Jack Lynn. Might be true – it sounded like a load of bollocks to me.’

  ‘Maybe we should keep Davis in our sights,’ he said. ‘I can’t see him coming easily. I could have a word with the Serious Fraud Office, let them take a crack at him. Other than that about the only chance would be to fit him. Finding Davis involved in robbery might be a bit of a stretch, Eric.’ He grinned. It wasn’t impossible.

  #

  An extra heavy workload which would keep him at the Yard until quite late is what he told his wife. She didn’t expect him home for supper. Pyle was now seeing Libby Howard on a regular basis, and in case anyone came looking for him – grasses and such – he left a number where he could be reached with the duty officer. He wasn’t going to risk a repeat of the situation when Micky Fielder tried to get in touch and rang his wife.

  Familiarity crept into their love-making, with none of the desperation of lovers needing to impress the other, or prove anything. There was little enough excitement because there was little enough pain. Libby liked being tied up, but didn’t struggle against her restraints. He wanted her to struggle, wanted to see fear and uncertainty in her eyes, panic even. He didn’t know how far to go without hurting her and maybe getting himself into trouble. She wasn’t someone he could claim resisted arrest, and there was no common consent to assault, no matter what the tone of the sexual relationship. He saw the possibility of another complaint looming, the result of what he was thinking of doing to her.

  He rolled off her, feeling less than satisfied, and reached over and untied her, noticing how the cord had cut into her wrists. He didn’t look at her ankles, suspecting they bore the impression of the rope as well. Libby leaned forward and untied her feet and massaged her ankles. He reached round to look at his watch on the night table. Time to think about leaving. She sat unmoving now with her trunk arched forward over her thighs. What was there to keep him? If he stayed and went again he might have to hurt her. Her silence irritated him. He sensed she was dissatisfied. The more he thought about it the more angry he became.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, breaking the oppressive silence.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘Should there be?’

  He reached out, and caught a handful of hair to pull her back down onto the bed. She tensed her body to resist him. He pulled harder against the hair, when she arched her head forward. Knowing this must be causing her pain, he began to grow harder.

  ‘Fred! You’re hurting me.’

  Still he didn’t let her go, the idea he had was mesmerising him until she cried out, breaking his reverie. There was a long silence. He knew it was time to leave before this went further, but still he didn’t stir himself.

  ‘Will Brian Finch go to prison?’ she asked. The question surprised him, and he remembered now that she had called him Brian during their love-making. He felt angry.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ he said. He hadn’t told her Finch was now free. ‘He’s going away for ever, I’d say.’

  She didn’t rise to this. Instead she said, ‘Why do you always answer with a question, Fred? You nearly always do.’

  ‘Do I?’ He knew he did, but despite the fact said, ‘I don’t think so, Libby.’ And when she didn’t give him an argument, ‘It’s a technique to draw out the person I’m interrogating,’ – this wasn’t a slip of the tongue on his part.

  She raised her head off the pillow and looked at him. ‘I’m not a suspect, am I?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ he said. ‘Everyone is at it some way or other. You’ve probably got something you could go for.’ He smiled like he was joking and waited for an amused response. When he didn’t get it he changed tack, having no intention of letting her get away with her remark about Brian Finch.

  ‘He’ll go all right – Brian Finch. He’s a villain. Prison’s where all villains belong.’ He paused, but there was no reaction from her. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘You said he was nicked –’

  ‘You warned him I was looking for him.’

  ‘I didn’t. I swear.’

  ‘You care a bit too much about that rascal still.’ He grabbed her by the hair again. ‘Don�
��t you?’

  ‘Fred, please.’

  He released her.

  ‘Are you sure he was involved?’ she asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I nicked him.’ He looked at her, reading more in her mask of apparent unconcern than he was sure she intended. His attitude hardened, while his gestures towards her became more intimate. He palmed her breasts, looking to hurt rather than showing her affection. ‘Even if that one wasn’t down to him, others were. What difference does it make what he goes for? He’s a professional thief. I’m a thief catcher. That simple. The idea is to stay out in front. Get a result. You sometimes do the job the only way it can be done. That sometimes means nicking villains for other people’s villainy, if they won’t come for their own. Even fitting them, when you know they’re at it.’ He paused and looked at her, not ceasing in his painful caresses. He could see her eyes begin to water. ‘What member of the public, all those who do nothing worse than fiddle their tax or cheat on their employers, what one of them wouldn’t find that acceptable? After all, we do it in their name, to make them safe. It helps to keep a sort of balance. Can you imagine what life would be like if all those villains kept their liberty? Rubbish like Finch? Be fucking murder. No one’s claiming chummy off the street – oh, it’s been done, but what’s the value? A possible conviction entered in the back of your diary, against a lot of aggravation when he complains or gets a result on appeal? But the Brian Finches of this world getting put away for ever, that makes a difference. That’s a result.’ He smiled, not liking himself for what he was doing, but not stopping because of it.

  There was a long silence, during which Libby stared at the ceiling, tears spilling over her eyelids now. She made no sound, but he knew she was suffering.

  ‘The wicked bastard deserves all he gets,’ he said. He was squeezing her nipples hard between his finger and thumb.

  At last Libby managed to say, ‘Fred, stop, you’re hurting me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He would decide when to stop. Instead he reached down and placed one hand between her legs. She resisted. and kept her legs closed. He wasn’t deterred, but climbed on top of her and forced her legs apart with his feet. She struggled harder to keep them closed, not saying a word. Then he punched her. He didn’t know where that came from and it frightened him for a second or two, while at the same time exciting him. He hit her again and again until at last there was no struggle left in her. He made love to her again, without tying her up, having found something that excited him more.

  24

  MORE AND MORE OF HIS time seemed to be spent in the snooker hall. Handy for meets, and more convenient than pubs where you only sat around and drank. His missus was less concerned about his being at the hall than she was with him pubbing and clubbing. It was the knowledge of where he was that reassured her, and he felt no stab of conscience over deceiving her over what he was doing. Instead he anticipated how sweet she’d be when he had it off and they were spending again. Maybe they’d go to Spain for a month or so, out of the way.

  Stretching almost full length across the table, Jack Lynn played an awkward stroke on the green ball, kissing it with the white, then slid back off the table and watched the ball trickle away into the bottom corner pocket.

  His opponent, Micky Fielder, banged his cue on the floor in appreciation, even though that shot looked like costing him five pounds.

  Lynn chalked his cue, and screwed the brown into a side pocket with a decisive stroke.

  ‘Good hit, Jack.’

  The man who spoke approached the table, waited while he lined up the shot.

  Lynn glanced round at his brother-in-law, Tom. ‘How’s it going?’ he said, before turning to Fielder. ‘You want to swallow it, Micky?’

  ‘Do I fuck! You think you can make those three?’ The blue, pink and black balls were left on the table, with Lynn five points in front.

  ‘Couldn’t do us a favour Saturday, Jack, could you?’ Tom asked. ‘Do my mini-cabbing for me. I got a wedding to go to.’

  ‘As it happens, I can’t, Tom,’ he said, chalking his cue again. ‘I got something planned myself Saturday.’ He wondered if announcing that was wise, but guessed his brother-in-law wouldn’t mention it to Dolly. He glanced at Micky Fielder who sat against the edge of the adjacent table, kicking the base of his cue with his pointed-toed boots, not interested in the conversation. ‘Micky’ll help you out. He was looking for a bit of work.’

  ‘That’s too much like fucking work!’ Fielder said. ‘Anyway, I done my brief.’

  Lynn thought about Fielder now he was reminded he was looking for some work, but dismissed the idea, not seeing him as a blagger.

  ‘S’not a problem. I’ll get someone.’ Tom waited while Lynn lined up his shot. ‘S’just that Dolly said you was thinking about looking for a bit of regular work.’

  Lynn didn’t make the blue, but snookered Fielder behind the black. ‘I was thinking about it, Tom,’ he said. Taking the cabbing for Saturday night might be a good alibi. ‘I might be able to do it. Gimme a bell later in the week.’

  ‘Oh good. I’ll do that. Gotta shoot. One to pick up.’

  ‘Good luck, Tom.’ He watched him greet Bobby Shaw, who walked down between the tables with another man.

  ‘No wonder you’re such a fucking degenerate,’ Shaw said. ‘You’re always in here, s’what I hear.’

  ‘Gotta get my spends somehow, son.’

  He glanced, up at the man with him. He was fat and soft-looking and wore tinted glasses. Lynn didn’t know him but winked as if they were sharing a joke.

  ‘You fit, are you?’ Shaw asked.

  ‘Yeah, just let me nick a jack’s here first.’

  Shaw stooped to look under the light hood as Fielder played his stroke, putting a snooker on the pink. ‘Hello, Micky. Had it off lately?’

  ‘Scratching’s all.’ Fielder walked round the table and joined Shaw. ‘Not much about.’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Shaw agreed. He didn’t introduce his mate.

  Playing a careful shot, Lynn got the blue out of the snooker and potted it. ‘Fuck me!’ Fielder said.

  With a smile, Lynn said, ‘Just did, Micky. Didn’t I just?’

  Fielder pulled out his money, peeled off a fiver and threw it on the table. ‘You did well there, son,’ he said.

  ‘I was lucky,’ Lynn said. ‘See you around, Micky.’

  #

  Fielder watched them go, guessing this was the team Lynn was going blagging with down at Catford dog track. He would like to have followed them, but didn’t dare, even though his own liberty depended on getting more information on them. Nothing was more important to him. Punting around their familiar haunts, talking to some of the faces they knew and buying a few drinks would do it. The blag having advanced this far meant there would be enough rumours flying around.

  The first two stops after the hall were to pubs. There people he knew said the word was that Jack Lynn was doing a bit. Fielder got the same story when he ducked into the after-hours drinker in Tottenham Court Road.

  He stood at the bar on his own for about ten minutes when a man who had been playing cards came and joined him. He was in his mid-fifties, a once active villain who retired to run a flower stall.

  ‘Getting a living, Micky, are you?’ he asked, sliding his well-padded rump onto the bar stool.

  ‘Nothing worth a toss,’ Fielder complained. ‘Got hold of a bit the other night, didn’t come to fuck all. Why, you got something in mind?’

  The man shook his head: ‘Thought perhaps you could put me into something.’

  ‘Some chance! Maybe me and you ought to see about making one, a little taste for your retirement, Ronnie.’

  ‘Be handy. You got something in mind?’

  Fielder knew that each was kidding the other.

  ‘People whisper in your ear about things. You know-how it is, Ronnie. You gotta
to have a little firm.’ He emptied his glass and set it back on the bar, but didn’t signal the barmaid. ‘I heard Jack Lynn was putting one together. D’he get all the help he needs?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was your game. I heard they’re going shootered up.’

  ‘S’that right?’ He was surprised. He’d heard nothing about guns. ‘I wouldn’t have none of that. I gotta get me bit of Christmas money from somewhere. What’s that, scotch you’re drinking, Ronnie?’

  ‘Cheers.’ Ronnie finished his drink.

  Fielder signalled the barmaid. A couple of drinks with this man and he’d get every bit of information there was to have about Jack Lynn and his blag.

  25

  UNDERGROUND TRAIN MEETS WITH THE grass were more convenient if not as entertaining as this, Pyle decided, as he watched leggy fourteen-year-old schoolgirls prance around the netball court across from where he was sitting on the park seat with Micky Fielder. He doubted the grass knew the game was in progress, or perhaps he did, and this amounted to a peace offering for having dragged him down to Deptford to spring him the other day. The girls were in blue shorts and white blouses, and wearing either red or green bands. All gave value for money, even the teacher who charged around with them.

  Pale sunlight filtered through the trees, making sitting in the cold park possible, and without attracting attention. Casting his eyes over the people on other benches beyond the perimeter fence, he suspected some would have sat there in an icy north wind for such a spectacle.

  ‘It’s Saturday, guv. Last race, just after the finish,’ Fielder said.

  The information brought Pyle from his reverie. Their preliminary banter about the merits of those schoolgirls finished. He looked at the grass and waited.

  ‘That’s when it’s going off. That’s what I heard.’

  ‘Saturday? That’s definite, Micky, is it?’

  ‘You know me, guv.’ Fielder laughed. ‘I give it as straight as I get it, I.don’t tart it up. They didn’t invite me to make one with them.’