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  His audience exploded with laughter. The four detec­tive constables, aged from mid-twenties to late-thirties, were around the desk where one of them, Ray Jenkins, had stopped halfway through typing a report. They were part of the night relief, which was one of the ten separate squads, each employing ten men under a detective inspector.

  The Squad office was forty feet long by twenty wide and crowded with furniture. The desks, belonging to no particular detective, were littered with typewriters and computer screens, plastic filing trays, some spilling Styrofoam cups. Chained to the desk nearest the door was the huge duty book, into which were entered all investigations and movements of detectives. On other tables at the side of the room were telephones; eight more phones hung on the wall under acoustic canopies with filing cabinets jammed against walls. These still got a lot of traffic as detectives kept their paperwork moving, even though most searches these days were done on the computer. The whole area wore an impersonal look, with neon lighting bleaching the life from everything.

  A telephone started ringing. Often phones were answered fast as it could mean a job away from the hated paperwork. Now no one jumped. Lethridge told himself it was because his story gripped them, but not even the dc who was typing nearest to the ringing phone bothered, nor the detective with his feet on the next desk. Tonight they were waiting to go on raids and didn’t want to get involved elsewhere.

  When the laughter died, Lethridge smiled and went to answer the phone himself.

  Glancing at the dc, he said, ‘You lazy bastard, Warren, couldn’t you answer this?’

  dc Warren Slater, the only one doing any work, glanced up as he continued hitting computer keys, swearing when he made a mistake.

  ‘Robbery Squad,’ Lethridge said into the phone, ‘Sergeant Lethridge.’ The voice down the line asked for his governor. ‘You’ve got the wrong office. You want the dis’ office. I don’t think he’s in.’

  ‘’Course he ain’t,’ the voice said, ‘we was supposed to have a meet.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, I’ll check.’ Lethridge laid the phone down and went out, hitching up his trousers.

  He was forty-four years old, and overweight. Tiredness hung over him like a pall on account of his pursuing women with the same obsession he went after villains. His appetite was huge, and he enjoyed the reputation: if it moved Eric Lethridge would stiff it. Despite edicts to the contrary he freely associated with villains, which was how he kept his ear to the ground and his numbers up. His fleshy face wore a disdainful look, having been a policeman a long while and a detective sergeant for six years, with no expectation of making di. To do that he would have had to go back into uniform then re-apply for cid. Returning to uniform, at whatever rank, wasn’t a promotion as far as he was concerned – few detectives chose to go back into uniform. His dark, sleeked-down hair with its high, off-centre parting made him look like a 50s Brylcream ad, and his clothes had an outdated appearance, like he was waiting for that particular fashion to come round again. Separated from his wife, he often found himself at a loose end, while during his marriage he rarely got home for dinner. There had always been reasons not to, there still were, only now excuses weren’t necessary.

  Detective inspectors on the Squad worked out of a single office, smaller than the main squad room, with four desks between the ten dcs who worked there at various times during the twenty-four hours – rare indeed was the time when all the dcs were in the office together. Like all the offices on the fourth floor, it was cluttered with filing cabinets and screens, and had a familiar impersonal look.

  Detective Inspector John Redvers was the only person there. Lethridge knew he should have been at home trying to sleep in readiness for the raid their two squads were joining forces to make later on. Instead he was seated at his desk in his overcoat, like he was on the point of leaving, but the pile of reports he was checking said different. Scotch in a Styrofoam cup stood on the desk, the bottle tucked away in the bottom drawer out of sight. None of the governors objected to the drinking that went on, but they would have objected to an open bottle of Johnnie Walker advertising the fact.

  ‘Fred around, guv?’ Lethridge asked. ‘Guv’ was how most detectives addressed more senior officers.

  ‘Had one to meet, didn’t he? A snout, I think,’ Redvers said, lifting his eyes from the report.

  ‘He’s on the phone now. I thought he might have popped back.’

  ‘Stuck up one somewhere,’ Redvers surmised. He finished the scotch in the cup. ‘You want one down­stairs, Eric?’

  ‘Aren’t you going home?’

  Redvers glanced at his watch. ‘’S hardly worth it.’

  ‘Let me get a number from chummy. S’not exactly hectic in there.’ Spending an hour in the Tank, their bar on the ground floor, would help relieve the monotony.

  Rising with a dismissive laugh, Redvers said, ‘The time the night tour find anything more than their pricks to pull, Eric…’ It was said without rancour. There was rivalry between the individual squads, but not animosity. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’

  When Lethridge got back to the phone, whoever had made the call was gone. He dropped the handset back on the rest, and put the call from his mind.

  4

  UNDERGROUND TRAIN MEETS WITH GRASSES were favoured by Fred Pyle. They were casual and anonymous and almost always safe. People never noticed their fellow passengers on the underground, and avoided eye contact, even though the seats were arranged opposite one another. Here people might have epileptic fits, break a leg, get raped, while other passengers would look away to avoid getting involved.

  The Circle line was his preference, as the train passed through St James’s Park station, across from the Yard. Like so many of his contemporaries, he avoided unnecessary expenditure of energy, otherwise he’d never have got through the sort of day he often had to put in. The only trouble with these meets was their unreliability. Again he checked the time before glancing along the platform to the opening of the tunnel. The signal showed green but there was no sign of an approaching train. He looked at the other people on the platform, registering their details: two Asians; a female secretary who, he decided, had worked late for her boss, then turned down his subsequent offer, and a young couple wearing leather jackets. His gaze moved on across the tracks. The prospects were no better there. He was feeling impatient.

  At forty-three Fred Pyle inclined towards heaviness, too much scotch and snacking at irregular hours was the cause. He didn’t mind what or when he ate. His height of five-ten didn’t help to disguise his extra weight, nor his fleshy face and thickening jowls. He still had his own hair, which pleased him – it was a grey-sand colour and cut short. He wasn’t a follower of fashion, unlike two of his detectives who sported ponytails. Pyle wore a small knot in his Squad tie on a blue button-down collar – his navy blue suit his wife bought for him from M&S. He never dressed as well as he had on division, when he and another detective nicked some villains breaking Austin Reeds, the men’s outfitters. They had helped themselves to half a dozen suits each and twice as many shirts. He never talked about what he earned or blagged, but kept his own counsel… having learnt to detach himself from emotion he was able to control the muscles around his mouth and eyes so his face was often expressionless and gave nothing away. Eyes were the most revealing part of the face, and Pyle avoided betraying his thoughts by developing a cold glaze. The fact that he often worked long, exhausting hours helped in this. The most revealing thing about Detective Inspector Fred Pyle was that he revealed nothing of himself. He rarely smiled, apart from at the odd joke, or dropped his guard. If he showed anything resembling feelings it was often to gain some advantage. He got married as a young constable to a wpc and had stayed married despite the strains the job put on their relationship. Their two children, both in their early teens, kept them together. If asked, he would say he was neither unhappy in his marriage nor happy. Family always came second. Work was hi
s priority.

  Checking his watch as the west-bound train burst out of the tunnel, he felt annoyed at his long wait and decided if his grass wasn’t on this train he’d give him a miss.

  Pyle gave no sign of seeing his contact as he boarded the carriage and walked its length, checking out the other passengers. None of them showed any interest in him, not even when he took a seat next to Micky Fielder in the near-empty carriage. His grass was flamboyant in his choice of clothes, like he had a need to be noticed – he was 40 with thick dark hair which was well-cut and he wore an expensive three-quarter black leather coat, which looked as though it had just been nicked. His lamp-tanned face was mobile and his eyes darted around the whole time.

  ‘Did you miss one, Micky?’ Pyle asked. This meet had been set for as near ten o’clock as a train passing through St James’s Park station could be.

  ‘They cancelled a bastard train, didn’t they? Try’na save money, the Underground.’

  ‘I thought you’d blanked me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, guv. I tried giving you a bell.’

  Pyle said nothing, but Fielder needed little prompting to tell all he knew about any crime going off. He was a compulsive grass. Some needed all sorts of promises before they would impart their information, and sometimes only with a direct threat to their liberty. Most grasses responded to threats; that was how Fielder had fallen under his spell: nicked for a break-in Pyle had let him bargain for his liberty. He always listened to such propositions as it made no difference to him whether a villain like Fielder went down or not. All the while the grass offered him information he’d get whatever immunity Pyle could give him.

  ‘Picked up a nice little whisper, didn’t I? Very nice.’ Fielder waited, as if expecting him to acknowledge this. Pyle was better at waiting. ‘Ever heard of Jack Lynn? Outta Kentish Town.’

  Even though he kept a catalogue of villains, some going back years, that particular name meant nothing to him. ‘What’s he do, Micky?’

  ‘Blags is what I hear – s’posed to be one or two nice little tucks down to him. He’s well active. He’s putting one together now. He’s short-handed, looking to get another couple, he is.’

  ‘You in line?’ It was a perverse compliment.

  ‘Me, guv? Leave off. Robbery’s not my game, is it?’ He flexed his shoulders, adjusting his coat. ‘A bit of screwing does me. You go pulling blags with other villains you wind up grassed, know what I mean?’ Fielder seemed unaware of the irony in this.

  ‘What’s he putting together? Did you find out?’

  ‘Course, that’s why I called you. The Tote down at Catford dog track. S’what I heard.’

  ‘Ambitious, Micky. Be a nice earner they have that off.’ He glanced round as the train slowed in the tunnel for a signal, then picked up speed again.

  ‘He’s a bit near the mark, this one, guv…’ Fielder gave an anxious look. ‘I’d say so. He could get it done all right, this blagger. You any idea what that’d come to, guv? That Tote? It was done just last year, it was. It was worth about thirty grand then.’

  Pyle remained unimpressed. That way he extracted maximum information from this particular grass. ‘I know it was, Micky, but they were only banking their takings once a week. Securicor collect it now after each meet.’

  ‘It’s still got to come to a nice few quid.’

  ‘When’s it supposed to go off?’

  That question discomforted Fielder and he shifted in his seat. It was obvious he hadn’t got the information needed to capture the blaggers bang to rights.

  ‘Ain’t got that for you yet, guv. My party didn’t give me it.’

  ‘S’not a lot of value then, son, is it?’ Pyle didn’t conceal his disappointment. ‘What d’you think the chances are?’

  Taking up the challenge, Fielder said, ‘Oh, should be a doddle. Just means punting around a bit more. I should be able to get it all right.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, Micky. Be a nice earner off the insurance for you if we nick them.’

  The train ran into Victoria Station. Both of them watched the doors slide open, saying nothing as passengers climbed in at their end of the carriage. Some walked along the aisle away from them. When underway again with the rattle of the wheels almost drowning their conversation, Pyle said, ‘You okay for a bit of dough?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Fielder replied, like he was eager to impress. ‘I had it off the other night.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it, Micky,’ he said as if not interested in the details, and then slipped in with, ‘Anything worthwhile?’

  ‘I tucked up this office in Putney.’ He gave the location of the break-in. ‘A bit of cash and some blank Amex – it was a doddle. They could have put a notice out, know what I mean? When I get those travellers’ cheques placed it’ll have been a right good ’un.’ He hesitated and glanced at the detective. ‘The thing is, guv, could you do anything with them?’

  Pyle considered the question. At one time he would have taken them, but nowadays American Express travellers’ cheques were too much aggravation. Or maybe it was the thought of his current trouble with the Complaints Investigation Bureau that made him hesitate. Still he went through the motions to encourage his grass. ‘What do they come to?’

  ‘There’s just over two grand’s worth.’

  ‘What were you expecting? A monkey?’ That was an optimistic figure. A twoer would be a more reasonable expectation.

  ‘Wouldn’t be bad, would it?’

  ‘I’d say. I’ll have a word with someone,’ Pyle said, extending hope. ‘Mind how you go, Micky, if you knock them out yourself. I don’t want to have to spring you from some local nick. Specially if you haven’t dug up anything more on this Catford blag.’

  Fielder gave a sheepish grin, as if believing he was joking. He had a lot to learn, Pyle thought. His grass would never grow old enough to know the half of it.

  5

  THE FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR OF the main block at Scotland Yard was like an endless neon-lit square tube with sectional offices off it. Those along the left-hand side belonged to the Robbery Squad, and most of their doors remained open as if to invite anyone in. On occasions the dcs’s door was shut if he was having a meeting, and sometimes the two Squad superintendents would close their door for the same reason. It was rare for the dcis’ door to be closed. The doors on the opposite side of the corridor to offices used by Criminal Intelligence were always shut. They guarded information with obsessive fervour as their inquiries often went on for months, sometimes years, before they came up with enough target villains. After that amount of collar it was disheartening to have the suspect given prior warning of a raid. It happened. Pyle had done it himself.

  Stepping from the lift, he shuffled along the corridor feeling tired. Perhaps it was his age, or too much scotch, but more and more night-duty was leaving him weary. His kids had woken him too early and now he’d struggle to stay awake through the night shift. Since leaving his grass he hadn’t thought about his information, instead he had been in an after-hours club, hoping to meet another villain. Now back at the Yard Jack Lynn occupied him.

  The dcis’ office was deserted, with all the lights burning. He needed to talk to Tony Simmons about the blag at Catford. This office was the same size as that he shared, but with only three desks. There was more noticeboard area, all of it filled both with announcements about vacancies in various constabularies and papal-like edicts from the Commissioner; there were angry memos from different departments about reports or forms or tests not returned in the correct fashion, along with ‘Wanted’ posters and circulars – it was a week’s reading.

  What he had would keep but as he started out one of the telephones rang. He answered it. ‘Chief Inspectors’ office.’

  A man down the line asked for the dci by name. ‘He’s just stepped out. Can I take a message?’ The caller wanted to know how long he would be. ‘Can�
�t say,’ Pyle told him, and wondered if this was a grass. He doubted it as dcis weren’t that active. ‘Tell him Terry called.’ Pyle replaced the phone and scribbled the message on the pad along with the time, two-twenty.

  In the Squad office there were a dozen or more detectives hanging around like lads on an outing waiting for the coach to arrive. Men from John Redvers’ squad were creeping back to assist the night-duty squad with their Method Index raids. Only three of the detectives so far present were busy, taking the oppor­tunity during this lull to catch up on their paperwork. At any given moment all would have paperwork outstanding. The ‘hated’ was something to put off until necessity dictated.

  ‘Haven’t any of you got homes to go to?’ he said as he passed a group of detectives.

  ‘Chance’d be a nice thing, guv,’ dc Ray Jenkins replied – a familiar complaint.

  ‘Well, you’d only sleep, or give the old lady some,’ – regardless of the female detective present. He got away with such remarks because whatever was their lot was his too.

  He continued along the office to find Jack Barcy, the number two ds on his squad, at a desk hammering out a report on a typewriter. He knew Barcy would rather have been hammering a statement out of a suspect. He was tall, lean and hungry-looking, with cold, emotionless eyes. There was no doubt about his role on the squad: violence specialist, ever ready to give stick. Paperwork for him was hated more than by any other detective on the Squad.