As they approached the 'kennels' one of the prison officers unlocked the closest door and bowed, as if welcoming him to his hotel suite. Charlie remained impassive. Fuck them. The kennels – cells reserved for those on remand brought from prisons – were often worse than the 'on bails' – scorching in summer, cold in winter, no windows, just a series of holes drilled high in the wall for ventilation. No lavatory, of course, just a bucket. One shower on request, should your day drag on and your clothes and hair and skin grow rank as they absorbed the stench of your own, and everyone else's, sweat. But one shower for sixty or seventy meant you might not get a turn and if you did, the slimy, mould-tinged cubicle was hardly inviting.
'Mr Wilson,' said the screw with exaggerated politeness. 'We'll be calling you shortly.'
Charlie gave the man a thin smile, and imagined punching him hard, right between the eyes. He preferred it when they didn't speak to him. He did them that courtesy, why couldn't they just return it and keep their mouths shut? They all knew what this was: a rick of the life he had chosen. As such, he- thought of it now more like an athlete thought of a pulled tendon or a pilot his plane crashing. It can happen. It had happened.
The cell held only six other people, and one chair, occupied. The others sat on the filthy floor, cross-legged. He scanned the faces as they looked up at him. No sign of Mickey. He didn't recognise any of them. No friends here. Not much warmth either, with the winter that still ruled the country bleeding in through the ventilation holes.
The door closed behind him with a resounding clang and Charlie looked around at walls covered in graffiti and food slops and not a little blood. There was no way on God's earth he was going to lean against that. And the floor was covered in a film of dirt and piss. He looked at the man in the chair. Forty-ish, with the pallor of a life in pokey about him. Flabby upper arms, crude, homemade tattoos. Not in shape at all. Charlie had a hand on his own biceps. They were good and hard. He'd done push-ups and sit-ups morning and evening, hundreds of them, a way of numbing the pain of being separated from Pat. That was the only hard thing about being inside. Everything else was easy. The thought of five or ten years away from the family, though… but that wasn't the problem right now.
The man in the chair was reading a paper. Charlie scanned the second lead story. A 'freelance model' called Christine Keeler had failed to appear in court as a witness to a shooting by a 'coloured' man, John Arthur Edgecombe. Charlie knew Christine, vaguely, from the clubs. Hard-faced but softhearted. He wondered how long before the hacks really joined up the dots. Everyone knew who else hung out at Murray 's Cabaret, and that the group treated Cliveden as its country branch.
But the man in the chair wasn't reading that. He was groaning about how the West Indies had beaten England by ten wickets in Barbados. 'Can you believe those nig-nogs?'
Those nig-nogs included players like Sobers and Gibbs, the best off-spinner in the game, thought Charlie. Ignorant cunt. He took a step forward and sniffed loudly.
In the confined space, it sounded like a bull snorting. The long-termer in the chair looked up, then returned to his paper. Charlie took a step closer, folding his arms, feeling his worked muscles press against the fabric of his clothes. The man put down his Mirror once more. He opened his mouth to speak, saw the expression in Charlie's eyes and the honed shape of his torso, and thought better of it. He stood and stepped aside.
Charlie shot his trousers from the knee as he sat, then nodded his thanks as he held out his hand. The man hesitated and passed over the newspaper. Charlie snapped it open at an article claiming that the police needed an extra £25 million a year to fight the underworld. A White Paper called Crime in the Sixties was claiming that every aspect of law enforcement, from the probation service to the courts, was 'clearly inadequately funded' with the ever-present risk of 'crime going unpunished'.
Charlie laughed to himself. That's handy, he thought. Crime going unpunished. Maybe the day would work out all right, after all.
Twenty
From The Times, 12 March 1963
MAN ACQUITTED ON £62,000 CHARGE
At the close of the case for the prosecution at the trial of the three men accused of being concerned in a £62,000 wages robbery at London Airport last November, Sir Anthony Hawke, the Recorder at the Central Criminal Court, directed the jury yesterday to acquit one of the accused on the grounds that there was insufficient evidence to justify proceeding further against him. A witness who placed the accused at the site was deemed 'unreliable', especially as another witness had insisted he was elsewhere at the time.
Charles Frederick Wilson, aged 30, bookmaker of Crescent Lane, S.W., was then found Not Guilty of robbing Arthur Henry Grey and Donald William Harris of boxes containing £62,599, the property of BOAC, while armed with offensive weapons. Wilson was formally discharged.
CONFESSION DENIED
Addressing the jury, the Judge said that the evidence against Wilson was of such doubtful character that it did not justify proceeding against him further.
The trial then proceeded against Michael John Ball, aged 26, credit agent of Lambrook Terrace, Fulham, S.W., and Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 32, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W. Mr Ball denied that he originally admitted his role in the robbery in a verbal confession and said that he intended to plead Not Guilty. The trial was adjourned for two weeks.
Twenty-one
London, March 1963
As happened every weekday except holidays, at six that morning the Billingsgate bell gave its sonorous clang, echoing around Fish Hill and Pudding Lane. Within the great hall and its satellite lock-ups, the market roared into life. Prices were shouted between buyers and sellers in an impenetrable piscine argot. As deals were made, the wooden-hatted porters stacked boxes of lobsters from Whitby, eels from Holland, mackerel from Newlyn or whiting from Fleetwood on their heads. The market's chimney began to belch its plume of black smoke into the slowly lightening sky.
Bruce took in the scene from the edge of the pandemonium, outside the entrance to the market hall, his etiolated form positioned under a street-light as he waited to be noticed. He was wearing a thick Aquascutum overcoat and a Hermes scarf, but still felt the bitter early-morning chill. The place, of course, also stank. It was a fish market, after all.
Alf Flowers was busy instructing his lads when he caught sight of Bruce. Like Charlie, who had a stake in a Covent Garden firm, Alf had a history – was 'known to the police', as they said. He had been up the steps a few times, although after the last stretch he had sworn to the missus that the only fishy business he would do was at the market. Which was mostly true. Except his chosen business now was not blowing peters but trading information and contacts. For half the villains in London, Alf was like dialling Directory Enquiries. One advantage of using Alf's services was you could get a nice Dungerness crab or two while you were at it. You never got that from the GPO.
'All right, Bruce? Sparrowfart's a bit early for you, isn't it?'
Bruce stifled a yawn. 'Hello, Alf.'
'Got some lovely halibut if you're interested.'
'Fancy a drink?'
Alf knew full well this wasn't about that night's supper. 'Rum and coffee over at the Wheatsheaf?' he asked, throwing a thumb to indicate across the river towards Borough Market. The pub opened at six, serving the porters from the local vicinity. Billingsgate had its own early licensed boozers, but Alf clearly wanted to do business away from under the gaze of his co-workers. Very wise.