Bruce ignored his newspaper and played with a beer mat while he waited. He had called together the entire crew – his boys and those with a Brighton connection – for a meeting in four days, and they were going to expect a plan. He was the Colonel, after all. Not quite Jack Hawkins – the meeting would be at Roy 's place, rather than the Cafe Royal – but he was expected to lay it all out.
Timing, he was certain, was the key, not just the application of mindless brute force – although that, or the implied threat of it, would play its part. A timetable was needed, a realistic one that should be adhered to, no matter what. It helped that everything, right down to the schedule of the trains, was just as this 'Jock' character had said.
Except maybe he wasn't a Jock.
Gordy claimed he could hear Belfast in there. Was he an Ulsterman? No matter, the man clearly knew what he was talking about. Did he know too much too well, though? Was this a set-up by the cops? A bit of fishing with a very, very juicy worm? After all, he was sure the Squad had a hard-on for them now.
But no, it felt right, like the genuine article. It was all too elaborate for the Old Bill, anyway; he doubted they had the nous to set up such an operation, just to pull in a team of blaggers. And anyway, a million quid was worth circling the hook for. It was a little tinge of paranoia making him think the cosspots were behind it. But he shouldn't disregard the feeling. It kept you sharp, kept you out of some stinking flowery for ten years.
'Mr Allen, is it?'
Bruce looked up at the tall, slightly cadaverous-looking man who had addressed him. Just those few well-rounded words marked him out as posh, a man who would be right at home with the Lucky Lucans and Maxwell-Smiths who gathered under the Star's Smiths clock each evening. His suit was of a good pedigree, too, although it looked as if he had slept in it. It was his face that was remarkable – as if all the blood had been drained from it: deathly white, with thin bloodless lips and remarkably pale eyes. He was close to albino.
'Colin Thirkell.' He held out a hand and Bruce took it.
Thirkell looked around as if he approved. 'I don't much care for pubs. They are like banks – never open when you need them. But I enjoy this one. Used to drink here… oh, must be ten years ago. With poor Tommy Carstairs.'
Bruce laughed. Poor Tommy Carstairs was doing a long one for murder. 'You aren't an ordinary journalist, are you?'
'No. And you, I hope, are no ordinary crook. Now, that lovely Godfrey Smith, my editor, was foolish enough to advance me some expenses. Would you care for a drink?'
Bruce examined his half-full glass of mild and bitter and said, 'A scotch would be very nice.'
'Very well.'
Bruce watched him walk away. Something in his manner suggested he batted and bowled, or at the very least fielded for the other side when they were a man short. Posh and a poof. Not that he minded either. Without posh there would be no Madame Prunier or Connaught Grill. As for poofs, well, they were on the wrong side of the law, too, poor buggers. He smiled at his choice of phrase. Where did Janie find this bloke? He knew she was a woman of many parts, but had never had her down for a literary type. A writer, she had said. Needs someone… what was the word she used? Erudite? 'Most of your mates can grunt and scratch their balls,' she said, 'and that's about it. And rarely both things at the same time.' Had a waspish streak, that Janie.
Thirkell came back with a scotch and a gin and tonic for himself. Bruce was impressed with how he had handled himself up there. It was a cliquey crowd; the writer, though, had an ease about him that suggested he was perfectly at home in any company.
'There.' He slid in opposite Bruce and raised his glass. 'Did Jane tell you what this was for?'
'You are writing an article.'
'For the Sunday Times, yes. About what you might call the underworld. Well, I'm sure you wouldn't, but my editor does. It is to be a plain man's guide to crime and criminals. No names, no direct quotes. Just a few thoughts. You see, I was lamenting to Jane – Janie as you call her – that my own contacts tend towards the pugilistic sort of criminal. Gangsters, should we say. I needed some light with that shade.'
Bruce looked at the table in front of them, empty but for the drinks. 'You take notes?'
'No, Mr Allen-'
'Bruce.' He had used Franny's maiden name just to be on the safe side. He had checked with Janie about what she had called him to the writer. 'My friend Bruce,' she had said. No surname. So it did no harm to invent one. And there were lots of Braces around.
'It's all very impressionistic, if you know what I mean, Bruce. And, as I say, no names, no sly references that might establish who you are. You might be referred to as "an informant" or "a professional".'
'Fair enough. Fire away.'
Thirkell took a large mouthful of his G &T and leaned forward, elbows on the table. When the questions started, the man's voice took on a brittle tone. Sparring was over, this was somehow combative, needling even. 'Do you consider yourself a criminal?'
'Yes. Very much so.'
'And would you say that is a result of your upbringing?'
Bruce shook his head. 'Not in my case. My parents were straight. And I never said, "When I grow up I want to be a train driver, a fireman or a robber." It just happened. I was in the Army for a while, found it didn't suit me. Had a job,
didn't like it. Met some blokes who showed me a different path, you might say. But that's me. I can't deny that certain conditions do breed criminals.'
'Such as?'
'Take a look around,' Bruce said, pointing through the archway to a group consisting of Little Caesar, Lance Kirby, Dickie M and Honest John Perry, together one of the Star's pair of dog-doping syndicates. 'Those four grew up within three streets of each other. Not here, not Belgravia. Those are Deptford boys, born and bred. And that's why they are at it.'
'So you mean specific areas of London create the environment? Like the Elephant?'
'Parts of every city. Liverpool, Manchester, Glasgow. Wherever there are poor people, I suppose, who aren't happy to stay where they've been put. The only way out has always been the military, sport – football or boxing, probably – and crime.'
'Or pop music. Look at Tommy Steele, Bermondsey lad made good.'
Bruce nodded. 'True. So now the kids are stealing guitars and amplifiers.'
'And do you consider yourself a particular type of criminal?'
He gave a shrug. 'A thief. That's what I am.'
'And would you ever go straight? I mean, are you a criminal for life?'
Bruce considered this. If you got a decent chunk of one million quid, pumped the cash into a business, had you gone straight? Or would the old Bruce Reynolds always be there, ear to the ground, his heart going all jittery when he heard of a nice tickle? 'You might drop out of the life for a while, but the instinct is still there. I'm pretty sure it's a case of once a villain…'
'And how much would you say you earn? On average?'
'I don't know,' he replied honestly. The money rarely hung around long enough to be counted. 'Straight up. If you are looking for an average, you have to take off any time inside, don't you? Unproductive years, we might say. I am guessing about the same as a bank clerk.'
'A bank clerk?' Thirkell's expression was disbelieving.
'Well, a bank manager then,' Bruce said with a smile. 'In a West End branch. Look around you. Every one of these blokes has been up for the big score at some time or another. Some of them been grafting at it for forty or fifty years. Still here though, aren't they, rather than Surrey or Spain? So, you make a living. If not an honest one.'