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  ‘Nothing else there,’ he said, ‘apart from these.’ He produced a plastic bag which contained six bullets. ‘Up behind the sink, they were.’

  ‘Good hit, Jack.’ Pyle took the bullets. ‘The right size, are they?’ They were. Had they not been then he might have found some that were. His thoughts moved on. ‘No bent gear at the house? Not even a telly or video player?’ The more pressure he could put on Harding the better.

  ‘Nothing worth a look, guv. His old woman went berserk after you left. Her screaming, set the kids off. They thought they weren’t going to see their Dad ever again. A right upset.’

  That fact lodged in Pyle’s brain. ‘She tell them that?’

  ‘She really wound them up about their Dad.’

  ‘Did she telephone anyone, Jack?’

  ‘She tried calling a solicitor, got his answerphone.’ Then, as if anticipating his governor’s next question, he added, ‘Wasn’t any of the outfits likely to cause problems, guv. Just a local brief.’

  Stepping back into the interview room, Pyle said in a concerned tone, ‘My ds just came from your place. Your kids were well upset.’ He watched Harding, knowing he had found a pressure point. Villains were often sentimental about their kids.

  ‘What? What’s wrong with them? – fucking upsetting them like that. You were out of order.’

  ‘Missing their Dad, that’s what’s wrong, son. Villains are the same. Don’t ever think of your kids when you’re at it, do you?’ The words were affecting Harding. ‘They’re gonna miss you for a long while, they could even forget you altogether.’

  That gave Harding no comfort and he lowered his head as if to hide the emotion he had no control over.

  ‘What about the gun?’ he asked. ‘What did you have in mind for it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Harding said. ‘I was just minding it for someone.’

  ‘Someone you just happened to meet in a pub! S’always the way, son. What about these, then?’ he said, dumping the bullets on the table in front of Harding.

  Pyle’s manner during interrogation switched back and forth and without warning, often leaving villains confused. ‘You’d better come up with some answers, Cliff, if you want a deal. Good answers, the sort I want to hear. Otherwise you’ll be a long time away from your family.’ There was a pause, another change of tack. ‘Right, where d’you get the shooter?’

  Harding hesitated, and said, ‘Can we have some sort of deal?’

  ‘Depends on what you give me,’ he replied, suggesting nothing could be easier.

  ‘The gun dropped right out?’

  ‘My governor might agree to that – you put the right sort of stuff on offer, Clifford. S’up to you. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.’

  Still Harding resisted. ‘I don’t know about that Lewisham blag. I mean, those fuckers pulled a right stroke there. They deserve nicking for hurting that guard…’ He hesitated again. ‘Jack Lynn, if that’s who you want… if he’s at it, that is, I guess I find out what he’s having for you.’

  ‘That means you’d have to be let loose before I get a result,’ Pyle said. Knowing how Harding felt about his family, he wasn’t likely to go on the trot and they could pick him up again if he didn’t come through.

  With an apparent sense of desperation now, Harding said, ‘I won’t have it away, I can’t. I mean, I can’t, can I? What about my family?’

  ‘Family ties might impress a magistrate when granting bail.’

  Harding’s breathing was growing shallow with anxiety. ‘How could I have it away? I mean, I couldn’t take m’ family on the trot. I just want to get myself out of trouble.’

  ‘Oh, I believe you, Clifford, then I’m very trusting. It isn’t down to me. My governor’s the one who has to be convinced.’ He paused and considered Harding who saw another impediment to his freedom. ‘As a gesture of faith, give me the dealer you got the gun from.’

  This was the tipping point after which there would be no going back. Harding hesitated again and for a moment Pyle thought he was going to back off.

  ‘Wally Marks…’ The words almost didn’t emerge.

  ‘Who?’ Pyle said, wanting him to give the name like he meant it.

  ‘I’m not a grass.’

  ‘’Course you’re not, Clifford. You think the gun dealer wouldn’t have traded you had your situation been reversed? That name again?’

  ‘Wally Marks. He’s got a greengrocery business out at Charlton. He does a bit of dabbling.’

  Finally Pyle nodded like the deal was final, but it was just the start. He didn’t despise Harding for grassing any more than he would have admired him for holding out. As far as he was concerned all this villain represented was a means to an end, the end being to capture a few more like him. His information would have some bearing on his final result, but not much. He was active and the shooter suggested he had something plotted. Harding would go down for that at some stage. There was no more loyalty between detectives and felons than there was between felons. Pyle knew if you put enough pressure on any criminal, then offered him a way out, almost always every one of them would meet your expectation.

  9

  BY THE TIME HE GOT back to the office it had turned nine o’clock, three hours beyond the end of his tour. He wanted to go home and sleep. There was little chance of that before his court appearance with a lad he had nicked for robbery. Pyle felt soiled and unshaven, and at such times regretted being on the Squad. Out on division running a cid office he could have a comfortable nine-to-five routine. Despite himself he didn’t consider looking for a transfer. Few detectives ever seemed to do more than two or three years on the Squad and he would doubtless have regrets when his time came to move. There was a possibility that he’d get moved sooner as a result of the current complaint against him, and maybe even back into uniform. Even though there was substance to the complaint about him altering contemporaneous notes taken during an unrecorded interview with a villain, he was expecting it not to be upheld. The villain complained that he was stitching him up. Pyle had done only what he deemed necessary to ensure the blagger went to prison. The complaint didn’t cause him to regret, and wouldn’t stop him doing similar again. For now it was just another problem to deal with.

  There was a lot of activity on the fourth floor with detectives and uniform policemen and civilian personnel getting their day started. Some of the detectives were trying to find papers and gather reports for court. Most of the movement came from the paper-carriers, shifting the bumf from one office to another.

  ‘Morning Fred,’ said a detective in a neat short-sleeved shirt. His face looked less than fresh, with huge, sagging ribbons beneath his eyes.

  ‘Have it in last night?’ Pyle asked on passing.

  ‘Not even in my hand!’

  Pyle turned back and called, ‘Graham!’ causing the detective to stop at a door along the corridor. He was di Graham McHale, one of the few detectives from Criminal Intelligence who wasn’t possessive about his information.

  ‘D’you have anything on a villain called Lynn? Jack Lynn? Out of Kentish Town.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. What’s his line?’

  Pyle gave a precis of the villain’s CRO file. This rang no bells with McHale either.

  ‘I’ll have a look for you, Fred. You around later?’

  ‘Looks like it. Good luck.’

  Four dcs in the communal office were bending to their hated paperwork, but each glanced up and greeted Pyle as he moved along to the desk he used. The least active, Alan Welch, was typing a report on the opposite side of the double desk. Pyle’s arrival provided an excuse to stop.

  Welch took out his tobacco bag and made a cigarette. ‘You had it off last night?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ Pyle said. With his arrests rate he could afford to be modest. ‘One looks halfway prom­ising.’

  Welch le
aned back in his chair, waiting for something more. Despite having the lowest arrest quota he was well-regarded because he dealt in workmanlike fashion with all his paperwork. His presence was less of an inspiration to the other detectives than a vindication. He was proof of what most knew anyway: detectives burdened with paperwork didn’t capture villains. Although Pyle coped with his own reports he foresaw the possibility that one day he might be doing nothing else.

  He remained standing at his desk in his overcoat as he sorted through the work piled in his ‘posts’ trays. Reports for his attention, memos for his information; his own reports returned because there was inadequate information, others with the marks of approval from more senior ranks and for him now to take on to a further stage. None of it was so important it wouldn’t keep until he came on duty that evening. He had no plan to come back from court to clear it. He slid the papers back and reached into one of the drawers for his electric razor. The batteries were running low and the blades seemed to grind at his stubble, giving him an indifferent shave as the wasp-like buzz added to the general noise of conversation, printers and telephone bells filling the room.

  ‘Some brief called Gladwell rang for you, Fred. Alex Gladwell. Wanting a word about his client you nicked. Clark.’ This information pleased Pyle. When villains’ solicitors were that quick off the mark it meant their clients were active, and when the solicitor was Alex Gladwell it meant they were for sure.

  ‘D’he say what he wanted?’ –appearing surprised.

  ‘He said to call him the moment you get in.’

  ‘Some chance!’

  He wouldn’t be in any hurry to talk to the brief and would keep him away from his client for as long as he could. ‘Perhaps he wants to go into you, Fred.’

  ‘That would be handy. I could use it.’

  He continued shaving, picking up the phone with his free hand and punching out his home number. As he waited for his wife to answer he noticed another detective enter the office. He was Maurice Head, a di who was under suspension, having been named in allegations of fabricating evidence. The villain who made the allegation ran a couple of clubs in the West End. At the time of his arrest he had threatened to take a lot of detectives down with him and subsequently carried out his threat, causing all kinds of problems. Maurice Head was one of twenty detectives named, and one of fourteen to be suspended, two of whom resigned. The consensus was that the final result wouldn’t favour the cid in general, or the detectives under investigation. Head wasn’t supposed to enter the building while under suspension, but getting around this rule wasn’t difficult. Pyle watched him stop and speak to the di sitting nearest the door. The exchange of words was conducted as if Head was now a beggar, and Pyle almost felt sorry for him rather than dismissing him because he had come on top, but thought him a fool for hanging on in like this instead of turning in his papers. Head put a lot of villains away in his time – even if some were swift – and Pyle knew how much he liked being a detective. The cid was a way of life and not easy to walk away from. Pyle was sure he would try to hold on in similar circumstances.

  When his wife answered the phone he said, ‘Edith, s’me. Still here.’ They had little to say to each other and he didn’t tell her specifics of his job. She asked how he was and where. ‘Be back later this morning,’ he told her. ‘I’m not sure when. Depends when I finish in court. Shouldn’t be long…’ He acknowledged di Head with a nod as he stopped at the desk to speak to Alan Welch. Pyle’s wife was telling him how she might be out shopping. ‘I’ll see you later… bye, love.’ He replaced the phone. ‘How’s it going, Maurice?’ The black cloud hanging over him was almost visible.

  ‘Pissed off waiting around, not hearing.’ His thick hands pulled on the ends of the patterned scarf he was wearing. ‘Just nutted in to see if there was any word.’

  Pyle knew the real reason would have been because he was feeling lost, out of touch, even lonely. He doubted if Maurice Head would ever admit it.

  Welch said, ‘I’ve not heard a thing, Fred. You?’

  If anyone was going to hear anything it would have been di Welch, whose ear was closest to the ground around the Yard.

  ‘Not a whisper,’ Pyle said. He finished with his shaver and blew it clean, put it away and removed his black briefcase from a drawer of the desk. He met Head’s eyes briefly and glanced away. Despite what he felt for his predicament, Pyle said, ‘Maurice, that investigation going on this long, there’s a good chance you’re going to wind up nicked.’

  ‘Oh, good fucking luck, Fred!’ Head snapped. ‘That’s what I need to hear.’

  ‘You know as well as anyone the smart move. Sorry, but it stands to reason…’ He wasn’t about to debate the matter. It was familiar ground. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  He went along the corridor to the dcis’ office. ‘Is Tony still around, guv?’ he said to Trevor Watson, the dci who had the day relief. The third dci on the Squad was currently on sick leave, and hadn’t been replaced.

  Trevor Watson only just made minimum height for- service in the Met and looked more like a bank manager in his neat three-piece suit and semi-starched collars. He wore a fob on his waistcoat with a silver Omega he claimed belonged to his grandfather, but which Pyle suspected he blagged from somewhere. His sharp, pointed features complemented his pedantic manner that wasn’t popular with the lower ranks as too often he returned their reports for redrafting or retyping if there was the slightest error.

  ‘You just missed him, Fred.’ Watson marked his place in the report he was reading. ‘He’s gone out to Barnes on that complaints inquiry.’ Despite the ever-increasing size of the Complaints Investigation Bureau, senior detectives were from time to time called upon to investigate complaints. Most were reluctant to do so, any who were willing were often seconded to CIB.

  ‘Was it urgent, Fred?’

  ‘Just a development with one of the bodies from this morning’s raid’s all.’

  ‘Did you talk to that brief who phoned?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Didn’t waste much time, did he? Is his client involved?’

  ‘S’odds on. I left Eric down there – I got one in court,’ he reminded him. ‘Did you see Maurice Head?’

  ‘He looked in,’ Watson said. ‘I told him he’ll hear when they’re good and ready. I’m going to have to tell him to stay away. I told him he should put his papers in. About the best advice he’ll get. Could save him being nicked, and save his pension. The Commissioner’d accept him ducking out now. He waits he might leave it too late.’

  That was the honourable way out as the hierarchy loathed the attendant bad publicity when policemen were arrested and sent for trial. Far better letting the likes of Maurice Head resign, pension intact, and an unspoken agreement that he wouldn’t be charged.

  ‘Maybe I ought to stick mine in,’ Pyle said, alluding to the complaint against him.

  Watson grinned as he turned away to answer the phone. ‘dci Watson… I drafted the report yesterday.’ His tone suggested he was talking to his boss. ‘Just being typed… doesn’t look like it’ll be much of a result, guv… soon as I get it back.’ He replaced the phone. ‘You’ll do all right with that complaint, Fred.’

  ‘They’re wasting their time. Chummy’ll get a result, and that’ll be that.’

  ‘The Rubber Heels like to make themselves busy, Fred. What’s happening with that lad you have going up this morning? Any chance he’ll plead to it?’

  ‘Save us a lot of time at court – especially as the witnesses aren’t all that. The CPS is far more confident about it going to court than I am.’ He didn’t consider the Crown Prosecution Service shrewd in its assessment of evidence, and having a case thrown out was less of a reflection on them than on the detective running it. ‘I suppose if it’s put to him right.’

  ‘Offer him something?’ Watson said. ‘Not too much.’

  ‘It’s his liberty he wa
nts, guv.’

  ‘Don’t they all? See what he says, Fred. Tell him how much we’d appreciate it.’

  10

  CELLS BELOW MAGISTRATES’ COURTS WERE little different from those at police stations, providing a bench-bed and no mattress, and no toilet, walls scarred with the names and legends of those gone before, and room for only about five paces, depending how tall the prisoner was.

  David Shepley wasn’t tall, and looked uncomfortable wearing a suit, doubtless bought on the advice of his solicitor to create the right impression in court. He was in jeans and a flying jacket when Pyle nicked him. From his agitated state Pyle guessed he didn’t like the proposal on offer.

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know, do I? The thought of pleading guilty guts me.’

  Pyle was unmoved. ‘Let’s be practical, David. You know you’ve got some coming, about eight years, at a guess – unless you get lucky. You can gum up the works and plead not guilty. That’s your right, David, but pisses everyone off. Meanwhile, you get remanded to Brixton. You could be there six months, maybe longer, waiting for a trial date.’ He paused to let that sink in. Sometimes the delays in getting prisoners up the steps from the magistrates’ courts were interminable as the lists in the Crown Courts got ever longer. ‘Going guilty here is your best bet, David – they’ll still have to send you upstairs for sentencing, but if you co-operate you can get bail – I won’t object. You could go and do a bit more villainy, provide for your family while you’re away.’

  ‘You make it sound easy, don’t you?’ Shepley said.

  ‘It’s not hard.’ He added a little sugar to help convince Shepley. ‘When you do go up, I can tell the court how co-operative you were, I’ll even leave out your previous. That alone will halve your sentence. The thing is, David, I need an answer now.’

  Still Shepley hesitated. ‘Jesus. The thought of pleading to it, it guts me. I mean I got no chance.’ He ceased pacing and looked at Pyle with hopeful eyes.

  ‘What chance d’you think you’d have with a brief on Legal Aid? I bet he advised you to plead not guilty.’ He saw from Shepley’s expression this was so. Getting a wedge between client and solicitor often helped the police. ‘They get a bigger fee for taking it all the way. It doesn’t make any difference to them if you go down. Be realistic, you can’t really expect the system to provide the best defence for those who offend against it. The system works for me, David, not you. Ask yourself what chance you’ve got going not guilty.’ He shook his head. ‘No chance, son.’