Marion 's face relaxed. She pulled one more pint and went out back. Frank appeared when Charlie was halfway through his drink. He was a squat, red-faced little fucker who only came up to Marion 's shoulders. Both cheeks sported a flower of broken capillaries and one eye was AWOL, darting all over the shop. He could only assume he provided for Marion in departments other than looks.
His wife nodded over to indicate Charlie, and Frank positioned himself behind the pumps. 'Charlie, is it?'
'Yeah.' They shook hands. 'Andy said I could have a word.'
'Did he?'
'Said you could get me a motor.'
Frank blew his florid cheeks out. This wasn't the time or the place. 'It's fuckin' Sunday, mate. Day of rest.'
Charlie took a sup of his pint. 'No rest for the wicked.'
'Yeah, well, there is for this one.' Frank turned to go. Charlie looked at the clock. It was quarter past. He reached over and grabbed the landlord's shirtsleeve. There was a tearing sound from the shoulder and the man swore.
'Don't go, Frank,' Charlie beseeched him. 'You'll miss the show.'
The landlord glanced over at the stage, but the girl was still sitting at the table next to it, talking to her minder.
'Not that one.'
Charlie was aware of the character next to him taking an interest in what was occurring, but ignored him. The landlord pulled away. 'What the fuck is your game?'
'That your Jaguar in the street?'
Frank's brow furrowed like a ploughed field. 'Yeah-'
The Q &A's frame shook as the timer detonated the gelignite, which had been placed inside condoms, in a cut-open Duckhams tin filled with petrol. Every face turned jaundiced as a wall of yellow flame engulfed the Jaguar parked outside and the frosted window cracked with the sound of a whip snapping. There was a second blast as the petrol tank ignited and now all those nearest the street stampeded away as the inferno pumped heat through glass and brick into the pub.
Marion screamed, a noise that threatened to take out the rest of the windows.
Frank looked open-mouthed at Charlie. Then he pointed a loaded finger at him. 'You are dead, mate. You don't know who you are messin' with.'
As Frank leaned forward, his face like a bulldog with a boot up its arse, Charlie punched him. Then, just to be certain, he smacked the bloke next to him who had taken far too great an interest in his bit of business. The man staggered back, giving Charlie a bit of space to contemplate his predicament.
There was a dull thud that shook the floorboards under his feet and a long whooshing sound outside as the interior of the car began to burn. The pub's customers were recovering from their shock now, and he felt all eyes turn towards him. Most of them were nothing, no threat, but there were a couple of lads who might cause him trouble. Of course, even they wouldn't be sure what they might be getting into.
The Queen and Artichoke was within the Twins' sphere of influence. It would be a madman who didn't take that into account before mixing things up. Charlie was lots of things, but he wasn't insane. He wouldn't have fried the car or hit Frank unless he had taken tea with Reggie at Vallance Road. Frank, apparently, hadn't been telling the Kray brothers about all his activities. They knew nothing about his sideline in nicked motors, on which they had been due a little something. So it was fine by them if Charlie taught him a lesson on their behalf. They would sweep by and mop
As Charlie stepped away from the bar, Marion finally ran out of puff and, as her piercing racket subsided, he sensed the mood of the crowd change. Bewilderment turned to anger, not least because their Sunday session had been so comprehensively disrupted. The stripper certainly didn't look in the mood to disrobe any more. The crowd shuffled a step closer. 'Oi!'
Gordon Goody pushed himself to his full height at the rear of the pub, knocking one of the tables over as he rose up like Reptilicus. He waited until he had everyone's full attention then, from beneath his trademark full-length coat, he pulled a baseball bat and stepped towards the group, brandishing it in his right fist. The crowd couldn't have parted faster if he'd been Charlton Heston.
'Time to go,' Gordy said, pointing with his free hand towards the rear as he poked one of the customers in the chest with the bat. Gordy had been in place for thirty minutes before Charlie's arrival, and had already ascertained that the rear exit he had cased the day before was clear. This way they could make good their escape without being toasted by a burning Jag.
Charlie pushed through to Gordy's side and the two slowly backed out towards the pub's yard and the Rover waiting in the alley with Roy behind the wheel. Charlie wanted Roy driving, just in case there was any pursuit, but it looked like the lad had earned himself an easy drink.
The flames out in the street were angrier now, turning the interior of the Q &A a deep crimson. Frank had staggered to his feet, but he remained behind the bar, holding his shattered nose. Another pane of glass cracked, causing the customers to start, as if a pistol had gone off. Charlie knew then they didn't have the bottle to come at them.
'Fuck me,' said Gordy as they bundled out, a roar of ineffectual outrage at their heels. 'I hope that was worth it.'
Charlie laughed as he yanked open the wooden gate that accessed the rear alley. 'Well, those cunts won't be nickin' Jags off us again, will they?'
'Morning, sir. It's Detective Constable Rennie here, from the Stolen Car Squad. Yes. I have some good news for you. We have recovered your Jaguar. Yes, I know. We were surprised as well. Don't get to make too many of these calls, to be honest. No, it appears to be relatively unharmed. Perhaps a slight scratch on one wing, but that will T-Cut out. Not today, I am afraid. We just want to check it for fingerprints and fibres, but that will only take a day or two. You should have it back by the weekend. Where did we find it? Well, there's the strange thing. It was left outside a police station in Romford, with the keys in the ignition. No, I can't imagine why. Maybe some villain had a sudden attack of conscience, saw the error of his ways. Stranger things have happened. Although not many. You are very welcome, sir, nice to have a result. Good day.'
Bruce Reynolds didn't have time for distractions and favours. He had a fucking great train robbery to plan. His brain was revving like one of Roy 's racing engines, a jumble of possibilities, all centred on the TPO that left Glasgow every night.
But, after some horizontal persuasion in the Grand at Brighton, he had promised Janie he would take the meeting, answer a few stupid questions. The guy had suggested a meet in the Colony Rooms, but although he had drunk there – George Melly had taken him a couple of times – Bruce had never felt particularly comfortable there. Rude bastards, he thought, and not half as clever as they clearly thought they were. Being called 'cunty' a lot was not his idea of entertainment.
Bruce had originally chosen the New Crown Club at the Elephant and Castle, which was home turf, but knew just how intimidating that crowd could be, so he had switched to the
Star, a flower-decked pub tucked down a mews in Belgravia. It covered all bases from lords to layabouts. Roy popped in now and then for a soda water because it had been Mike Hawthorn's boozer and it still pulled a crowd of racing drivers and their acolytes. It was also home to a hardcore of very genuine criminals.
It was Friday lunchtime, with that fuck-it one-more-pint- and-a-fag end of the working week feel. Although very few of the patrons of the Star actually had a conventional working week, apart from the odd copper who wandered in. They caused no problem. You saw it on Zoo Quest, when herds of antelope allowed lions to stroll among them without getting too spooked. The animals sensed when the predator was on the hunt, otherwise they ignored them. So it was with the police who liked to think that getting pissed in places like the Star was all part of vital detective work.
Bruce had given a rough description of himself – tall, glasses, a copy of the Daily Express, light-blue shirt and navy-blue suit. There was a horseshoe-shaped bar on the right as you entered the pub, the rougher clientele nearest the door, toffs at the far side. To the left, through an arch, were the seats, and Bruce had taken himself through this and to the far corner, past the fireplace, against the wooden wainscot. That nook, beneath the portraits of Regency jockeys and Punch cartoons, was as close to a 'snug' as the Star got.