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  ‘That’s ’cos you’re a grass; Micky,’ Pyle said. Fielder didn’t like the joke. ‘Who’s involved apart from Lynn?’

  ‘The only other name I got so far was Bobby Shaw.’

  ‘Shaw?’ The name was meaningless. ‘What’s down to him? Anything?’

  ‘A bit of violence. He done some for GBH.’

  ‘About right.’ Pyle nodded, preferring to think the worst of Lynn and his helpers. Putting them away, by whatever means, was right.

  ‘I heard they were going in with shooters… s’what I heard.’

  ‘That’s not surprising, Micky.’

  Pyle looked away at the girls. One of them leapt up, putting the ball in the net, her blouse parting from her waistband with the jump, showing her bare midriff. The teacher blew the whistle and the two teams came back to the line. A well-ordered game, with all the players obeying the rules. Running parallel in his thoughts was the robbery planned to take place at Catford. It would be anything but well-ordered.

  Ignoring the statement about the guns, he said, ‘Look at that, will you?’ as the girl tucked her blouse into her skirt as she walked back to the line. ‘It’s enough to get you nicked.’

  Fielder chuckled. ‘I’d take a chance, guv.’

  ‘All the time you’ve got someone to pull you out of trouble.’

  There was a pause. The di turned to the grass with a steady, measured look. ‘How you fixed, Micky?’

  Often such questions caused the informer embarrassment. It was as if he saw their relationship as being that of equals, or two friends, and questions of payment denied this.

  ‘Ain’t too clever, guv. That filth who felt m’ collar nicked most of what I had – thought I’d be able to borrow some.’

  Reaching into his coat pocket, Pyle produced five neatly folded twenty pound notes, which he gave to Fielder. ‘S’only a oner, Micky. If we have it off down at Catford, we get to split a nice earner from the insurance.’

  ‘Be handy.’

  ‘Give us a shout if you need another taste.’ He could get him another hundred pounds from the Fund without problems. For a moment or two he continued to watch the girls leaping around, then nodded to himself. ‘Think you’re right, son. Probably would be worth getting nicked for.’ Thoughts returned to the robbery. ‘Definitely going in with shooters, are they?’

  ‘S’what I heard. You know?’

  ‘Still, that’s the way it goes. You did well, Micky. Just mind how you go, all right?’ He meant it.

  ‘I’ll give you a bell if I hear anything else,’ the grass said as he rose from the bench. ‘Don’t get your collar felt here, will you?’

  ‘Take care, son.’

  Pyle watched as he slithered away along the path, adjusting the leather coat on his shoulders.

  26

  NO FURTHER INFORMATION ON THE proposed blag was forthcoming. No more was needed for the Squad to take action. It would have been useful to know just how many villains were involved, and who they were. Extensive searches, plus some speculation about the known associates of both Bobby Shaw and Jack Lynn, gave the police little more than possible suspects.

  Detectives from Pyle’s squad, and some from the current night-duty squad, mustered in the dcis’ room. That was by consensus rather than design – Pyle had been in the office discussing the blag with dci Simmons and ds Lethridge, when other detectives began drifting in. There was no point in moving the briefing elsewhere.

  With the sixteen detectives present, half of whom were armed, Simmons was saying, ‘They’re planning the blag for after the last race. That means they have to wait for the money to be collected from around the track. That’s what we reckon will happen – unless they plan to shut the Tote and not pay out on the last race and scoop up all the money – that would cause them too much attention. The bad lads will try and blag all the takings once they’ve collected in from all the different Tote offices around the track, and then slip away in the crowd. As we don’t know the entire team this might present a few problems. The problem is chummy no longer goes around with “blagger” written on his shirt,’ he added with a grin. ‘Fred?’

  ‘Right,’ Pyle said, standing off the edge of a desk. ‘Most of you already know, we’ve only identified Lynn and Bobby Shaw. Their CRO photos are well out of date, and the ones Criminal Intelligence supplied aren’t much better. There could be as many as four more in the team. My snout didn’t know.’

  ‘They are using shooters, guv?’ a dc asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet against it,’ Pyle said.

  When detectives went after villains without foreknow­ledge of their being armed they thought little about steaming in and making arrests. Having information that the blaggers would be armed dredged up thoughts he would prefer not to think, and he knew everyone in the room felt the same.

  Simmons said, ‘Remember what dog tracks are like on a Saturday night. There’ll be lots of people about. A lot of pushing and shoving. I don’t need to warn you about how much paperwork will be involved if one of you shoots a bystander. Shoot a villain with a gun in his hand, if you have to shoot anyone.’ Shooting an innocent member of the public was something most of them feared would one day happen to them, and so they were often relieved when the Armed Response Unit was called in.

  With a glance at the dci, Pyle resumed the briefing.

  ‘Blagging the money from the office here or from Securicor when it’s collected means these exits here are their only way out.’ He pointed to the diagram on the blackboard brought in from the di’s office. ‘They open these gates here to help get the punters away. Securicor comes in the same way, up this ramp and parks on the brow. From there two of the guards walk down to the main office. That might be a good place for them to try and have it, as they return.’

  ‘There are windows on the back of that building, guv,’ a dc put in. ‘They open onto that service road. They could stick the bags through to someone on the outside.’

  ‘Be handy, if they do. That might mean they stick their guns out too. That would give you a nice target, Eric, if we get that lucky.’

  ‘You can never tell, guv,’ Lethridge said.

  ‘Jack. Your team will be in this enclosure here,’ he told ds Barcy, indicating his diagram. ‘Ted and Alan, here and here,’ he informed the two dcs from the night-duty squad. ‘If you spot them, don’t challenge them until they’ve got the money, otherwise we’re going to wind up with fuck all for our trouble. Let them get what they’re there for. Let’s nick them bang to rights.’ He paused and considered the assembly, who still looked too much like detectives, despite dressing in a variety of styles to enable them to blend with Saturday night punters at Catford.

  ‘They’re only old mugs,’ he said. ‘Should be a doddle, with a bit of luck.’ He glanced at Simmons, expecting him to add something. He didn’t. ‘Any questions?’

  The silence that followed was punctuated by telephones ringing in other offices. One was persistent, but no one answered it. There was tension in the room, a sense of apprehension. Most of the detectives harboured similar anxiety, none wanting to raise it and acknowledge their fears.

  When dc Jenkins said, ‘All right if I shoot off home now, guv? My mother-in-law’s coming over,’ the tension was broken and they laughed more than the joke was worth.

  ‘And I’d better not go, guv,’ another said. ‘I’ve got one to meet.’

  ‘I suppose we could send Mr Lynn a note asking him to surrender himself here after they’ve had it off,’ Pyle said. The atmosphere was becoming more relaxed.

  ‘Well, that’s it, then,’ dci Simmons said. ‘Good luck.’

  #

  The car park at Catford dog track filled to capacity soon after the Squad got their six cars in position. Another two were parked outside in the road which ran alongside Catford Bridge Station, which was the only vehicular exit from the greyhound racetrack. The
wait was long and tedious, during which Pyle’s thoughts twice turned to the possibility of getting shot. Their tedium was relieved by him letting detectives slip into the stadium to have a bet or a drink at the bar. This was breaking the rules, but Pyle knew that relaxed detectives were of more use than those tensed like a spring ready to snap. He made sure all were back in their positions long before the last race.

  The detectives became expectant as that approached, as if each had everything running in it. It was over in minutes, and nothing was expected to happen straightaway. They were positioned close enough to both the main exit and the main Tote office to know at once when the blag went off. The stadium began to empty, along with the car park, where confusion reigned, with few willing to give way to other drivers. Pyle sat watching this momentary madness, wondering what was happening in the stadium. They couldn’t risk using their radios in case the blaggers were listening in. This added to his frustration.

  ‘Go and see what the fuck’s happening in there, Rog’,’ he told the dc in the car with him. ‘I’ve a feeling this is going to be a rubout,’ he commented, not inviting a response from his driver.

  Despite the beta-blockers he had swallowed earlier, Pyle wasn’t relaxed. He always popped a couple before a big raid. A lot of detectives did. The minutes ticked away no faster when he checked his watch. If it didn’t go it wouldn’t be the first time a blag he anticipated proved a non-starter, but it would be disappointing, nonetheless. What the basis was for these doubts about this not happening he wasn’t sure. The optimum moment for the blaggers to make their move had yet to arrive, but still doubts persisted. It could be Micky Fielder got one or two details wrong, he reasoned. Grasses were fallible, their information sometimes wrong. He would wait until there was no doubt about this not going before he abandoned it.

  The car park continued to empty, the process becoming less tortuous as the cars thinned out. Other punters left on foot, some with a bounce in their step, most with an air of resignation. He watched them go, puzzling at what they found here week after week. He didn’t gamble, not on anything as random as a dog chasing a mechanical hare.

  After a while the dc returned to the car.

  ‘Not much going on up there, guv,’ he said at the open window. ‘No one’s seen anything.’

  Pyle nodded. ‘Go and find ds Lethridge, check with him, Rog’.’

  Fifteen cars remained in the car park, four of them belonging to the Squad. Maybe some of the others were the blaggers’ cars, but more likely they belonged to people working in the stadium. The numbers and descriptions were noted and would get checked.

  When a Jaguar XJ6 came across the car park and through the main gates to the stadium, Pyle tensed. This was the first thing to look like anything.

  He reached inside his coat and touched the gun that rested in its holster. Two men climbed out of the car at the brow of the service road. Despite his good result in his last gun examination Pyle knew such results meant little when confronted with an armed blagger.

  The two men from the Jaguar weren’t on Jack Lynn’s firm, they were helping an old punter whom they brought to the car in his wheelchair. One of them lifted him into the front seat, while the other folded the chair. The car drove away, passing the security truck entering the stadium.

  Two guards armed with nightsticks climbed out and disappeared inside. They were gone for seven very slow minutes. Then they re-emerged and dropped the money containers into the hatch at the rear of the truck. They climbed back into the cab and drove away.

  That only left the Squad on watch.

  After a while ds Lethridge approached and leaned down to the car window.

  ‘Fucking waste of time,’ Pyle said.

  ‘Think they tumbled us, Fred?’

  Pyle shrugged. ‘We didn’t advertise… fuck it!’ The words burst out, his anger vanishing with them. ‘Fucking rubout.’ He could tell himself that a crime had been prevented, but that wasn’t what his being a policeman was about. ‘My snout could’ve got the day wrong. Maybe it’ll go next week.’ That thought did little to cheer him. ‘What pisses me off is Jack Lynn’s been at it too long. He is well overdue. We’ve put too much into this to let him keep his liberty, Eric. He ought to be behind bars; we know it, and so does he.’ This wasn’t personal, just a matter of principle. The villain having fallen within his field of interest made him due. ‘If this doesn’t go off, Eric, we might have to look elsewhere for Lynn. Maybe find something for him.’

  The ds glanced at the driver, who was staring -through the windscreen, then back at Pyle. He didn’t comment. He didn’t need to.

  ‘Checks and balances,’ Pyle said. ‘Checks and balances, son. He’s well overdue.’ He thought about that, then nodded to himself. ‘Get the lads back, Eric, I’ll buy them a drink.’ On the route back to the yard he knew of an after-hours drinking club where they could drown their disappointment.

  27

  MONDAY MORNING BROUGHT ICY RAIN that was trying to become snow. It helped no one’s problems, and few chose to be outside on such a December day, Fred Pyle being no exception, even though the alternative was his hated paperwork. He stepped into the dci’s office with the preliminary report he was obliged to write on another non-result on a robbery. His report ran to sixty pages, but by the time Simmons rewrote it, adding further negative details, all to justifying why there was no arrest nor money recovered, the report would probably run towards two hundred pages.

  ‘Thanks, Fred,’ Simmons said without looking up. ‘Think they tumbled you?’

  Pyle knew he was referring to Saturday night.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. How can you tell? I had a word with my snout. He reckons he might have got the day mixed up.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what they’re like.’ It was convenient for him at that moment to slight all grasses as unreliable.

  The dci stopped typing. ‘I’d like to see them go for something. What about Harding?’

  ‘Didn’t come through, did he?’

  There was a pause. Pyle knew this man was worrying about Harding being loose.

  ‘Have another go at him. You can’t tell with villains like that. Put some pressure on him. If he’s not interested in helping…’ The dci raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s time we had him back anyway, a villain as active as that. Know what I mean, Fred?’

  He knew exactly what his governor meant.

  The rain had stopped by the time he had organised some of his squad to look for Clifford Harding.

  Oily water lay around the uneven tarmac surface of the battlefield-like community playground. Toddlers in coloured wellington boots skimmed through puddles, risking the wrath of parents dragged there on such a day. One threw a stone, splashing Pyle as he came through.

  ‘Don’t do that, there’s a good girl,’ he said, and kept walking, unsure whether she was going to cry or splash him again.

  Worry was evident on Harding’s face when he saw him. His eyes darted about as if seeking a way out. There was none. Pyle was between him and the gate, while at the hole in the fence another detective waited: others were positioned beyond the fence.

  ‘S’nice life, Clifford,’ he said, resting against the damp makeshift seat, where Harding sat with his second youngest son. ‘Sitting watching your kids, nothing in the world to worry about, except whether or not it’s going to rain again.’

  ‘How d’you know I was here?’ Harding wanted to know.

  ‘Your old lady grassed you, son – I called at your house. How old’s he?’ he asked, indicating the boy.

  ‘Soon be four, won’t you, Russ?’ the father said. His son didn’t comment but looked at Pyle, who avoided his eyes. ‘Go and play with Darren, Russ, there’s a good boy.’

  He was reluctant to go. ‘You come, Dad,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I gotta have a talk first. Go on.’ He pushed the boy away.

  ‘Tragic. That’s what it is,
Clifford. Fucking tragic. I mean, he’s going to be grown up ’fore he even gets a proper chance to know you.’

  ‘What?’ Harding seemed surprised.

  ‘Why do you think I’m here, to pass the time of day?’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, for Christsake.

  Pyle sighed. ‘A fact of life. You’ve got to go away, son. A tasty fifteen years, unless I’m mistaken.’ He nodded. ‘About right. You didn’t do that business for me.’

  Harding glanced around again, like he was thinking of running.

  ‘You knew from the start what you were letting yourself in for, Clifford. You were hoping that even if you didn’t produce the goods – which you haven’t – this moment somehow wouldn’t arrive. Now it has, son.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be seeing a man tonight,’ Harding tried.

  Pyle shook his head. ‘Sounds like bollocks to me, Clifford. You’re offering me the prick. I’m silly enough to take it again!’

  ‘That’s straight – it is. This fella’s been putting himself about, getting something for me.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any advance on the information you had earlier about Jack Lynn. What you got to support this claim? You think me a fuckwit? You’ve been too busy putting yourself about on your own blag to get that info’ for me.’

  ‘Fuck off, guv. I’ve been clubbing and pubbing, trying to help you nick Jack Lynn.’

  ‘No. A little blag of your own. A supermarket out at Sydenham.’ That was what Criminal Intelligence passed on, one that was going to cost Harding his liberty, regardless of whether or not he helped him out.

  Harding’s glance flashed around the playground. Maybe he was hoping the other detectives were mere phantoms. Anticipating him, Pyle shook his head, warning him not to try. ‘Let’s be sensible, Cliff, and not alarm the kids. We’ll get a policewoman to take them back to Mum.’

  Those words more than any others seemed to bring home to Harding the tragedy of the situation. He struggled against tears as he involved himself with his son, who wandered back to him.