'Perfect.'
'See you in thirty?'
'Fine.'
Alf lowered his voice. 'Give me an idea what you after?'
'A copper.'
The fishmonger didn't seem surprised by this. It couldn't have been any old bogey though, because he knew Bruce was on nodding terms with a few of them down at the Marlborough in Chelsea. But then, Bruce was clever enough not to shit on his own doorstep. 'What kind of copper?'
'The kind who likes a flutter at Crockford's or the Pair of Shoes. Preferably one from AD.'
Alf smiled, as if certain this was unlikely to be a taxing assignment. 'I'll see you over there. Order me the FEB.'
'One Full English Breakfast coming up.'
It was Roy and Buster who made the drop. Buster chose Postman's Park, the churchyard of St Botolph's-Without- Aldersgate, famous for its monument to ordinary men and women who turned out to be heroes and heroines. The tiny space was just behind St Bart's Hospital, next to the GPO Headquarters.
There was snow in the air, small flurries presaging a full shower to come. While Roy paced back and forth in front of the park's narrow entrance, looking for suspicious activity and trying to keep warm, Buster put down the Derry & Tom's bag and read the glazed porcelain plaques in the little cloister.
He stopped before a plaque that commemorated a brave cozzer.
George Stephen FUNNELL
Police Constable
December 22nd, 1899.
In a fire at the Elephant and Castle,
Wick Road, Hackney Wick, after rescuing
2 lives, went back into the flames, saving
a barmaid at the risk of his own life.
Good man, thought Buster. He knew a few barmaids he'd like to save. Not that he would run into a burning pub for them – although doubtless this one was very grateful to
Constable Funnel. He wondered if the Elephant and Castle public house was still there.
A piercing whistle from Roy reached him and he turned around. A figure was heading towards him – a man in his thirties, with thinning blond hair, trailing clouds of cigarette smoke as if he was steam-powered. Buster waited for him to approach then turned back to the plaques.
'Look at this,' he said, reading from one of the other commemorations. '"Frederick Mills, A. Rutter, Robert Durrant and F.D. Jones who lost their lives in bravely striving to save a comrade who had fallen into the sewage pumping works. East Ham, July the eighteenth, 1895".'
The detective kept mute.
'Now that's what I call being in the shit,' Buster growled. 'Know what I mean?'
The policeman looked down at the carrier bag. 'That it?'
Buster indicated it was. He looked for Roy, but he had gone. Fetching the car, he hoped. 'You know what to do?'
'You want to go over it again?' the copper asked.
Buster suddenly felt nervous. 'No, I fuckin' don't.' He seized the man's overcoat and started pulling it open.
'Hey, hey, what the fuck-'
Buster grabbed the man's face, squeezing the cheeks together. He had little respect for coppers anyway, zero for bent ones. 'What's your game?' Buster hissed.
'Relax. Jesus, I was just winding you up. I know what to do.'
Buster let him go and the man readjusted his clothing. Buster felt a sour taste rise in his mouth as he said, 'It's all in there – the item and the money. If it goes right…'
'Look, I've got no say in that.'
'If it goes right, there's a bonus, as agreed. Now fuck off and piss it away at some spieler.'
Buster turned and strode off, hands in pockets, head down, alert for any lurking strangers. He reached the ornate gates and Roy pulled up in front of him, leaned over and opened the door of the Mini. Buster jumped in, banging his head as he did so. Roy gunned the little engine, releasing a satisfyingly deep note from the stainless-steel sports exhaust and they pulled away. Roy navigated them down to Fleet Street, past the Black Lubyanka – the Daily Express building – and onto the Strand, heading west and keeping one eye on the mirror.
He took a last-minute, tyre-squealing left turn onto Waterloo Bridge, towards the Festival Hall and the remnants of the Festival of Britain, now being reworked into some concrete monstrosity. Once on the bridge, he checked the wing mirrors. At the far end, he took the roundabout and drove back north again. Nobody followed. 'Where to?' he asked.
'The Marlborough,' Buster said, needing a drink and knowing Bruce would be there. He banged the dashboard of the diminutive machine. 'And don't spare the fuckin' ponies.'
Twenty-two
From The Times, 26 March 1963
For his part in the £62,599 wages robbery at London Airport last November, Michael John Ball, aged 26, credit agent, of Lambrook Terrace, Fulham, S.W., was sentenced at the Criminal Crown Court yesterday to five years' imprisonment.
Ball had changed his plea from Not Guilty to Guilty of robbing Arthur Henry Gray and John Anthony Doyle of boxes containing £62,500, the property of BOAC, while armed with offensive weapons.
The jury was unable to agree on their verdict in the case of Douglas Gordon Goody, aged 32, hairdresser, of Commondale, Putney, S.W., who had pleaded Not Guilty to the same charge. After the foreman had said there was no prospect of reaching a decision so far as Goody was concerned, Sir Anthony Hawke, the Recorder, discharged the jury from giving a verdict. Goody was then released on £15,000 bail pending a retrial.
Twenty-three
Old Bailey, London, April 1963
Sir Donald Harris, the prosecution counsel, approached the witness, one of the men who had transferred the strongboxes at the airport. A fresh trial needed a fresh approach. But the security guard who had seen Goody, who had originally picked him out in an identity parade, was now wavering even more than the last time. Sir Donald wondered if he had been nobbled.
'So, is the man who coshed you the man in this court or not?'
'I think so.'
'You think so?' He let a sneer play around the word 'think'.
'I can't be sure, sir.'
'Can't be sure?' Sir Donald barked.
The security guard swallowed hard. 'No, sir.'
'Yet you were sure in an identity parade.'
'They had hats on then, sir.'
'Hats?' asked the judge. 'What kind of hats?'
The witness looked over and addressed the judge directly. ' Bowler hats, like they wore in the robbery, Your Honour.'
'I see,' came the reply.
'It so happens we have a bowler hat recovered from Mr Goody's premises,' Sir Donald said affably. 'A steel hat, no less. Is this the type of hat he was wearing?'
'I believe so.'
The heavy metal bowler was passed to the witness, then the judge, and finally displayed to the jury. 'And if you saw him in this hat, do you think your memory might suddenly improve?'
'Objection!'
Sir Donald inclined his head and rephrased. 'Excuse me, do you think it might aid in identification?'
'I am sure it would, sir.'
'Very well. If the defence has no objection, I would like to invite Mr Goody to place this bowler hat on his head.'
'No objection, m'lud.'
Gordon Goody leaned over and took the bowler by the brim, spinning it round and round, as if selecting the correct alignment.
He stared over at the witness, an accommodating smile on his face, while he raised his arms above his head. He brought the hat down to the crown and hesitated, as if pausing for effect. When he let go, the oversized bowler – at least three hat-sizes too large – fell down around his ears, swallowing them and covering his eyes. 'Hold on,' he said. 'The lights have gone out. Someone got a shilling for the meter?'
The courtroom dissolved into laughter and Sir Donald's jowly face sagged further. He could hear the verdict already: Not Guilty.
'Did you see that cocky cunt?' Len Haslam spat beer and phlegm across the bar of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub in Fleet Street.