Civvies

Jenkins pushed himself up. Unhurriedly he removed the cigarette from his lips, blew out a plume of smoke, and made the slightest of shaking movements of the head. This was almost going to be too easy.

There were footsteps in the corridor and Detective Inspector Briggs came briskly in carrying a document file. Jenkins took a deep drag, holding out his hand. 'That from their statements?' He opened the file on the corner of the table and fanned out the reports so he could refer back and forth.

Riggs stood by Jenkins' shoulder, trying to avoid the cloud of smoke. He might at least open a window. The place stank. Jenkins skimmed through. 'Dillon's been held before, you read this?' He sucked in another satisfying lungful. 'Let off with a warning! Wrecked a patrol car… he still refusing to talk? Well, we got 'em bang to rights on this caper.'

'You see who owned the car he and…' Riggs craned forward. 'Driven by Steve Harris, but the motor they were driving was owned by…' He tapped the report.

'One Barry Newman.' Jenkins read on, nodding, flakes of grey ash drifting down. 'No charges. What about bringing in this Steve Harris, see what he has to say?'

'Be pushed, he's dead. I've already checked.'

Jenkins leaned across to stub out his cigarette. He braced both arms on the table, head sunk between his shoulders, gazing down at the documents. 'Dillon and Travers won't budge, let's go for the black bastard… somethin' stinks.' His eyes roved up to the ski hoods, money, gun. 'None of 'em'll get bail this time! Not with that lot…'

Not gloating exactly, but with the deepest satisfaction.

Dillon was wiping up bacon fat with a piece of bread when a small, round-shouldered man with thinning sandy hair pushed open the door of the holding cell. Clutching a rather tatty briefcase in pale, freckled hands, he blinked at Dillon through a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with thick, distorting lenses. In other circumstances he might have been taken for someone trying to flog an endowment policy or double glazing on the never-never.

'Mr Dillon? I'm Arthur Crook. I've already spoken to Mr Travers and Mr Morgan.'

Dillon pushed the tin tray further along the bed and made space for him to sit on the grey blanket.

'I've been appointed to represent you.' The voice was bland and diffident, as colourless as he was. 'Is this acceptable to you?'

'I have an alternative?' said Dillon, testily.

'If you don't wish me to represent you, that is your prerogative, I can ask for someone else. But I am experienced in criminal -'

'They got no right to hold me here!'

Dillon's outburst set the little man to blinking once again. Almost in a tone of apology, he said, 'Mr Dillon, they have some very tough evidence against you.'

'An' I explained how we came to have it. I told them…' Dillon stared at Crook, his mouth suddenly dry. 'There's nothin' else, is there?'

'I've read your statement, Mr Dillon.' Either Crook didn't understand the question or had chosen to ignore it; Dillon couldn't decide which, and he was frantic to know. 'Unless you are prepared to name the man who you say instigated the robbery, well -' A small shrug of the rounded shoulders. 'If you name him, then we can check out your story.'

Dillon rested his elbows on his knees, hands working restlessly, gazing at the wall opposite. 'I got two kids,' he said in a low, harsh voice. 'I start naming names while I'm in here, who's gonna protect them? You get me bail, then I'll talk.' He swung his head at Crook. 'But I need to take care of my family first!'

Crook opened his briefcase and took out several typed sheets. Dillon watched with hooded eyes as the solicitor looked through them, and then he tried again. 'They're not chargin' me with any thin' else, are they? Just the robbery…?'

'I'd think seriously about giving the name of this man,' Crook advised in his bland legal tone. 'If he's a suspect, the police will protect you…' He had the typewritten sheets in order, placed neatly on the briefcase resting flat on his knees. He cleared his throat. 'Now, I have been asked to tell you that there have been three robberies, all carried out in a similar way, and – the police believe -with military precision.' The pale blue eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, bulged up at him. 'Mr Dillon, they are ail very aware that you and those arrested with you are ex-Parachute Regiment soldiers.'

It was Dillon's turn to blink. He'd been worrying himself sick about the Irishman in the derelict house and suddenly he was being dumped on from a different direction entirely. What the hell was happening?

'Now, these robberies took place in Surrey, Brighton, and Whitechapel.' Crook held out the top sheet. 'I will need to know where you were on these dates.'

Dillon looked at them blankly. He shook his head, thoughts in a whirl, unable to take this in.

'Look, check my diary. We've been runnin' a business. I dunno where I was right off, but the diary gives all the jobs we done.'

Crook took the sheet back. 'They have also found a weapon at your office.' He looked gravely at Dillon. 'You have anything to say about that?'

'You mean the gun used in the hold-up?'

Crook gave a slight nod.

'I can explain that,' Dillon said, starting to feel very sick again.

'Mr Travers, they have the sub-machine gun used in the robbery,' Crook said. 'The same gun had been determined as the one used to damage your security wagon. They have black hoods, they have the wage packets you insist were stolen -'

'I'm not sayin another word. Frank will tell you what went down. Ask Frank Dillon.'

The line-up was already in position, Harry the second man along, as Dillon was led in. His handcuffs were removed and the officer indicated he could stand where he wished. Dillon chose roughly midway and faced the darkened viewing window which reflected the twelve men under the spotlights. Some wore jackets, some were in shirtsleeves like him, but only Harry and himself were unshaven, he noticed. Perm any two from twelve, so long as they got five o'clock shadows, Dillon thought sourly.

'We're in the clear, they don't know nothin',' Harry called to him, and then louder, 'How ya doin', Frank!'

'No talking! Look straight in front, eyes to the front!'

Behind the window, a uniformed inspector ushered in a portly middle-aged man in a smart pinstripe suit.

'Just take your time, sir. You say you got a good look at the man as he approached the bank tellers. If you seen him, want him to turn right or left, just say so.'

The portly man nodded and took his time, studying each face for several seconds. Twice he leaned forward, his gaze lingering, before passing on. He came to the end of the line, and after a brief pause, shook his head.

The inspector spoke into the microphone. 'Thank you, gentlemen. You can go!'

That was the only time he'd seen Harry since their arrest, and he hadn't seen Cliff at all. Obviously, Dillon thought, they were grilling each of them separately, cross-checking their stories, trying to break each of them down. But if the other two said nothing, left it to him, what was there to fear? He could explain everything, given the chance. As for the other robberies, the evidence was purely circumstantial. Wasn't it?

He was taken out to the Black Maria and handcuffed to the iron guard rail which ran along the side of the van above the slatted wooden seat. Two teenage boys, who looked comatosed on drugs or glue or something, sat huddled together in the corner next to the cab. A uniformed officer, a bear of a man with no neck, climbed in and sat opposite Dillon. He pulled the door shut, so the only light came from the two narrow slits in the rear doors.

'How many more line-ups you bastards want me in?' Dillon asked, not expecting a reply, and not receiving one. The officer sat back, folded his arms, and contemplated eternity, or maybe his pension.