The council of war was held at the Trat – the Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street – on another bitterly cold day. A series of angry storms had lashed the British Isles and there had been four days of fog in London. Now the temperature was down in the basement. So the men who entered the Italian restaurant were bundled up in coats, scarves, gloves and hats and took several minutes to disrobe as Alvaro, the manager, fussed around them, ordering vino rosso before they had even sat down, and listing the day's specials.
Alvaro had selected a circular table at the rear of the room. There was Bruce, back from the South of France where he had gone immediately after the identity parade. He was in the clear now. Fifteen hundred pounds, spread around liberally, meant his name was no longer associated with the Heathrow job. Roy was present, as were Gordy, Buster and a young solicitor, Brian Field.
Gordy was only there because of Brian, who had secured him bail, which had been refused for Charlie and Mickey.
Bruce, a tanned and relaxed figure among wan winter-struck faces, ordered some antipasto for the table and said: 'Well, gentlemen, who is going fill me in? How's Charlie?'
'Quiet,' said Buster, who had visited him on remand. 'But calm.'
'What do they have on him?'
'The lavatory attendant,' said Brian. 'Good ID.'
'Is that all?' Bruce asked. 'Can we get to him?'
The solicitor shook his head. 'No.'
'Is he solid?'
'He's an old bloke. A good brief 11 make him wobble,' said Buster.
'And Brian has an idea,' said Gordy with something close to admiration. Theirs was not a normal client-counsel relationship. In fact, Bruce sometimes thought the angel-faced Brian, with his short hair, neat suits and sensible shirts, was the most bent out of all of them. He had, after all, a glamorous German wife with expensive tastes to support.
Bruce turned to look at the young man, not yet out of his twenties. He could almost pass for a teenager, albeit a particularly harmless, suburban one, apart from the flinty eyes. Bruce glimpsed a greedy venality in there.
'Well, there is a lad works at the airport – has done for two years. Never been on a plane, even though he has to watch them all day. That kid would love to catch a jet to New York or Rio.'
'Yeah? Go on.'
Brian hesitated as a large platter of ham, artichokes, olives and tomatoes was placed in the centre of the table, along with I stack of hot, crisp bread. 'So he'll say that he saw Charlie at exactly the same time as the robbery was taking place – but over with the plane-spotters.'
'Plane-spotters?' Bruce asked incredulously. 'Charlie? He can't tell a 707 from the hole in his arse.'
'I'll slip him a copy of the Observer's Book of Jet Airliners,' said Brian with a smirk. 'Come the trial, he'll be an expert.'
Buster took a sliver of translucent ham and folded it into his mouth. 'OK, fair enough, that's confusing the attendant's evidence – can't be in two places at once,' he said eventually. 'But is that enough?'
Roy waved away the offer of wine and asked for lemonade. 'What about a juror?'
Brian nodded. 'Likely we can get us one. We'll have to wait on that, obviously.'
'How much for the kid at the airport?' Bruce asked.
'Two grand should do it.'
Two grand. The money from the score was dwindling fast. 'I'll get it to you,' said Bruce. 'What about Mickey?'
What he really meant was: would he go QE? 'He's holding up,' said Roy, knowing Mickey would never take the Queen's Evidence route. 'Saw him last week.'
'And what do they have on him?'
'Two witnesses who put him in Comet House.'
'What?' He looked at Brian. 'He wasn't inside.'
'They think it's me,' said Buster. 'Same sort of height, you see.'
'Bollocks,' said Bruce.
Brian supped his wine. 'He could cop a plea. If they do him for the violence inside, he could be looking at a cockle, maybe more.'
'And Mickey can't do ten years standing,' said Roy glumly. They all appreciated that Mickey wasn't made of the same stuff as Charlie, Gordy or Bruce.
They finished the antipasto in silence. Bruce indicated that the table be cleared.
'What if he does cop a plea?'
Brian sniffed. 'A handful, maybe.' Five years. 'They have the chauffeur's trousers from his drum, so it isn't hard to convince them he wasn't inside but behind the wheel. He might even get away with a lagging. Three and out in two.'
'But he won't roll over?' asked Buster, suddenly concerned for his own skin.
'Mickey? Nah,' insisted Roy. 'He knows which side his bread is buttered on.' He also knew what would happen if he did give them Charlie or any of the others. Life inside wouldn't be safe. 'I'll have a word. See if I can get him to change his mind and do a Not Guilty.'
A small bowl of ravioli each – on the house, the waiter informed them – was set before them and more wine taken by all but Roy. Then Bruce turned to Gordy. 'What about you?'
Brian answered for him, mischievousness in his voice. Bruce was reminded yet again that the solicitor often treated all this as a game. Brian v the Bogeys. 'Now Gordon has an idea.'
Gordy quickly outlined his plan, which clearly appealed to his sense of humour. Bruce wasn't so sure.
'That's it? Bit Tommy Cooper, isn't it?'
'And a juror or two, of course,' said Brian reassuringly. 'And we can get to the bolt-cutter man, I'm certain. There's the security guard, but I'm not sure he's enough on his own. It all happened so fast.'
Bruce still wasn't sure about the wisdom of the whole setup, which had elements of farce about it. There was a time and place for clowning around, and the Central Criminal
Court wasn't it. However, the others seemed up for it. 'OK, give it a whirl. But you'll need someone on the inside at AD.' This was the police slang for Alpha Delta, Cannon Row's designation, a term that had been picked up by the other side.
'I could ask the Twins,' said Gordy.
Bruce shook his head vigorously at the thought of involving the heavy-handed Krays. 'No. Keep it tight. And you best stay out of it, too, Gordy. Me and Buster, we'll see what we can do.' He signalled to Alvaro. 'Ready for the mains now.'
Alvaro put on his most flamboyant act, waving his arms and gesticulating, as if a time bomb was about to go off. 'Si, of course, Signor Reynolds. Gilberto, cinque secundipiatti, tavola uno, presto, presto.'
He might be an old ham, thought Bruce, but Alvaro was the best host in London, excepting perhaps Mario at Tiberio, the sister restaurant in Queen Street, who had the edge when it came to the ladies. Mario made them all feel like Gina Lollobrigida.
Brian glanced at his watch and stood up. 'Not for me, chaps, sorry. Got work to do. Believe it or not, some of my clients are actually innocent.'
The young solicitor left them laughing at that one.
Nineteen
London, March 1963
Charlie knew enough to wear a royal-blue shirt to the Old Bailey, rather than a white one. The public areas of the Central Criminal Court might have been vacuumed, washed, polished and waxed daily, but downstairs some of the grime dated from the eighteenth century. He'd seen too many in the dock with smudged white shirts, looking like they'd just delivered a hundredweight of coal. Dark colours, they were best.
Charlie was led by one of the Brixton screws who did turns at the Bailey, past the squalid and crowded 'on bail' cells. One of the steel doors was open, a guard bellowing a name. Charlie glanced in, hoping for a glimpse of Gordy, but couldn't see beyond the swaying youth blocking the doorway. He'd worn a white shirt and tie, like a good boy. The effect was rather spoiled by a nose that had been split like a ripe tomato. Charlie shook his head. That would make a good impression on the jury. Still, the kid might be a nonce or a rapist and deserved it. The young offender glanced over his shoulder, back into the cell. He wasn't more than nineteen and his legs bowed and shook as he was pulled towards his moment in the dock. Nah, thought Charlie, he probably just looked at someone the wrong way.