‘Shit, I forgot to put a new film in before I went to the snooker hall,’ he said, hurriedly opening the back and removing the film.
‘Hurry up, he’s hailing a taxi.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can.’ He fumbled the new film as he tried to fit it to the winder teeth. ‘Right, I’ve got it.’
‘Too late, he’s gone.’
‘OP1 to Central 888, are you tailing Camel Hair Coat Man?’
‘No, we’re on Target 1 and 4,’ Kingston replied.
‘Murphy’s going to kill us,’ Dabs said forlornly.
Murphy called everyone back to the office after the Ripleys returned home. The atmosphere was highly charged as he spoke about the suspects meeting at the snooker hall and George Ripley strategically placing the snooker balls on the table.
‘How long will it take to get the photos developed at the lab?’ Murphy asked Dabs.
‘There was a slight problem, sir. The shutter jammed when I tried to take a picture of Camel Hair Coat Man. By the time I got it working he’d got in a taxi and left.’
He waited for a rollicking from Murphy.
‘Shit happens. At least you and Bax have seen his face. Pity he didn’t turn up in the Jensen as we might have got an address for him. If you see the car tomorrow, Jane, make sure you clock the registration. And take plenty of film with you,’ he added with a shake of his head.
Murphy looked in his pocket notebook.
‘Colonel and Stanley, I want you to take the OBO van out in the morning and see if you can get some pics of who Ripley’s playing golf with. If it’s too risky then don’t bother. Teflon, you pick up Jane from her flat at 1:30 in the undercover black cab, then take her to the wedding. The rest of you can have the day off.’
‘What about Sunday and Monday?’ Bax asked.
‘Sunday, they’ll all be hung-over from the night before,’ Stanley remarked.
‘And the banks will be closed until Tuesday,’ Cam added, hoping they could have at least one day off.
Murphy laughed. ‘All right, all right, you all deserve a bit of R and R. Sort it out among yourselves, but I want at least three of you in the office both days — the rest of you, be near your home phone in case I need to call you in. Otherwise it’s six a.m. Tuesday and noses to the grindstone.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Royal Epping Forest Golf Club was in Forest Approach, Chingford. It was 6:30 a.m., and the Colonel and Stanley sat in the back of the OBO van, which had JB Plumbers written on the side, spy holes and a one-way rear-view window. They were parked at the rear of Chingford Masonic Hall, opposite the club entrance, and had a good view, with binoculars, of the first tee and the eighteenth green by the club house.
‘I’ll bet the Ripleys are Freemasons,’ the Colonel remarked.
Stanley agreed. ‘And so are a few senior detectives. But thankfully none of them are on our squad. The rubber heelers and Countryman think any officer who’s a Freemason must be corrupt.’
‘Anybody that says I’m corrupt can kiss my Porsche!’ the Colonel joked.
Stanley had to put his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter from being heard outside the van. He nudged the Colonel.
‘Look up, here comes George in the Merc... He’s got someone with him.’ Stanley took a photograph.
‘It looked like Tommy,’ the Colonel said, looking out of the rear window.
Five minutes later Stanley saw a dark blue Mark 3 Capri Ghia approaching the golf club.
‘I don’t bloody believe this — the Ripleys are playing golf with Smith and O’Reilly.’
The Colonel looked out of the window. ‘Jesus, I thought you were taking the piss. I’ll call it in.’
‘They might just be having a meeting in the car park. Let’s wait until we see who George actually tees off with.’
Just before 7 a.m. the four men approached the first tee, two men carrying a set of golf clubs each, the others pulling theirs along on trollies.
‘Do you reckon they’re just socializing or discussing a robbery again?’ the Colonel asked.
‘How the hell should I know? I’m not Rachel Wilson, I can’t bloody lip-read.’
They watched as George teed off and hit a decent drive down the middle of the fairway, as did his brother Tommy. Aidan O’Reilly was next to tee off.
‘Gold from KG, receiving... over?’
‘Yes, go ahead, over,’ Bax replied.
The Colonel told him who was playing golf and asked how long a round took, as he’d never played the game.
‘Depends if it’s nine or eighteen holes they’re playing, how good they are and if there’s any hold-ups by the golfers in front of them.’
‘There’s no one in front of them.’
The Colonel watched O’Reilly hit the ball hard but slice it into the rough on the left.
‘You’re looking at about four hours then.’
Graham Smith made two air shots, missing the ball completely, and on his third attempt the ball scooted about fifty meters along the ground.
Stanley sighed. ‘This could take all fucking day the way Smith plays.’
‘I’ll nip out when the coast is clear and get some coffee and sandwiches.’
‘Get some newspapers and magazines as well.’
‘Hustler or Penthouse?’ the Colonel quipped as he got out of the van.
Jane woke early after a restless night thinking about her undercover role at the wedding. She felt nervous, not just about what she was doing, but also at the thought of seeing Carl again. Although part of her looked forward to it, she felt she was prolonging the agony for herself — and Carl — before she walked out of his life. She wondered if, after the Ripleys were arrested, she should tell him the truth, and that although she had lied to him she genuinely thought he was a nice man. It was all too much. As she sat in the kitchen eating her breakfast, she began to wonder if she should have told Murphy that she didn’t want to go to the wedding.
After a lot of indecision going through her wardrobe, she finally decided what to wear. She chose a knee-length pleated floral print dress in shades of pink, blue and yellow, with ruched shoulder straps that could be worn on or off the shoulder. To go with the dress, she chose some pink flat-soled shoes with a matching ribbon on them, and a beige wide-brimmed hat with an organza flower bow.
Before ironing her dress, she had a bath and washed her hair, then blow-dried it and put in some sponge curlers. Looking at the clock, she realized she still had five hours before Teflon would be picking her up. She put on her dressing gown, lay on the sofa and went back to reading Medea.
The day shift guard got out of his car with the engine running and pressed the intercom of the gated entrance to the Security Express depot in Curtain Road, Shoreditch.
‘It’s me, Harry. Open the gates, will ya?’ Archie said. ‘And stick the kettle on.’ Harry checked the TV screen linked to the front gate camera and, satisfied it was his work colleague, pressed the button to open the large electric gates. Archie drove in, then parked his car in the corner of the yard and heard an Irish voice call out.
‘Excuse me, my son, I was wondering if ya can help me.’
Archie saw an elderly, grey-haired, bearded man with stooped shoulders shuffling towards him as the gates closed. He was dressed in a black suit and shirt, and wore thick-rimmed brown glasses and black leather gloves.
‘You can’t come in here, mate,’ Archie said, warily holding his hand up.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, my son, it’s just that I’m a bit lost and can’t find the church. I’m the stand-in priest and supposed to be taking the service in fifteen minutes.’