George patted Carl on the shoulder.
After a few minutes, George walked into the study, smiled at Carl, then closed the door behind him and quietly locked it. He got a key out of his pocket and opened the desk drawer, which was filled with bundles of cash. He took a few out and placed them on the table. He picked up the nine-inch letter opener by the point, and flipped it up and over so the wooden handle was in the palm of his hand.
‘There’s two grand for you, son.’
‘I don’t know what to say, George,’ Carl said as he went to pick up the money.
Before he knew it, George had grabbed him around the back of the neck and slammed his head down hard onto the desk. He turned Carl’s head sideways and pressed the tip of the letter opener against the skin by the side of his eye.
‘Your fucking tart’s a copper.’
‘She’s not, she’s a secretary,’ Carl said, his voice trembling with fear.
George slowly applied more pressure on the letter opener.
‘Well, whatever she is, you’ll never be able to see her again if I take your eyes out.’
‘She never asked me anything about you or Tommy,’ Carl said, realizing he made it sound as if she had.
‘You dumb shit! Don’t fucking lie to me!’
George lifted Carl off the table and punched him hard in the stomach. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath. George stood over him.
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing... I didn’t tell her nothing,’ he pleaded.
George slapped him hard across the face.
‘Your precious Jane doesn’t give a toss about you — she even asked me if you were a retard.’
Carl looked at up at him. ‘I don’t believe you.’
George slapped him again. ‘She used you to watch me and Tommy because she thinks we’re criminals.’
‘You’re not going to hurt Jane, are you?’ Carl wept.
‘Not as much as I’m going to hurt you.’
He removed his thick leather belt, then held it so the metal buckle end was dangling over Carl.
‘Please, no, don’t,’ he begged.
‘Don’t you dare scream.’
George raised the belt and brought it down hard on Carl’s back. He let out a muffled scream, then fell to the floor and curled up in a ball. George whipped him again and again across his back and legs, leaving him shaking and sobbing. When he’d finished, he looked down at Carl and sneered.
‘Take the money and get out of my flat. If I ever see your face again, I’ll kill you.’
He put his belt on and kicked Carl in the stomach, then ran his hands through his hair, brushed himself down and left the room.
George was at the bar speaking to Tommy and Smudge when Maureen came over.
‘I just seen Carl leavin’ in ’is car,’ she said, looking concerned.
‘That tart he brought to the wedding gave him the boot and he’s gone running after her.’
‘Fuckin’ bitch. Wait till I get me ’ands on ’er!’ Maureen snapped, her eyes filled with rage.
Teflon parked up outside Jane’s block of flats and got in the back of the cab with her.
‘Come on, stop beating yourself up about Carl.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Are you sure you’ve never seen Tony Nichols before?’
‘Nowhere I can think of.’
‘Like you said, he might be mistaken, but it does sound like he sussed you were Old Bill. You’re going to have to tell Murphy.’
‘I know.’
‘Granted he’ll be pissed off, but at the end of the day he chose to send you in there. What you did took a lot of guts.’
‘I feel like shit about what I’ve done to Carl. George Ripley’s used him as a punchbag for years. If he so much as thinks I’m a police officer, I dread to imagine what he might do to Carl.’
‘Look, I know it’s tough, but sometimes when you’re doing UC work, people on both sides get hurt. At the end of the day you were doing your job.’
‘That’s easy to say.’
‘You have to forget about Carl; think about why we’re doing this. We’re trying to put away some violent criminals. There’s going to be a few tears along the way.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jane tossed and turned in her sleep, dreaming that she was walking through London Fields late at night, when suddenly a man in a stocking mask jumped down from a tree with a knife in his hand, and held it to her throat.
‘Don’t scream or I’ll cut your throat,’ he said, unzipping his trousers.
Terrified she was about to be raped, Jane kicked as hard as she could towards his groin, and the sudden jerking of her foot woke her up. Her heart was beating fast as she switched the light on, then went to the living room, picked up the phone and called Paul Lawrence.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Paul...’
‘For Christ’s sake, it’s four o’clock.’
‘I know, but this is really important.’
He let out a deep sigh. ‘Go on then.’
‘You remember years ago when I was a decoy and arrested that rapist Peter Allard?’
‘Yeah, he got off the rape but pleaded guilty to assaulting you.’
‘That’s right, then we nicked him for the murder of Susie Luna.’
‘I’m not really in the mood for war stories—’
‘Was his barrister a guy called Tony Nichols?’
‘Let me think... Yeah, he was Queen’s Counsel, but got disbarred about three years ago for false legal aid claims.’
‘Do you know what he’s doing now?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘Thanks. Sorry to bother you.’
‘Wait a minute... What frying pan have you got yourself into now?’
‘It’s a long story, but Nichols is tied up with the Ripleys and our other suspects.’
‘Did you get the message I left for you yesterday afternoon?’
‘No, I was at a wedding.’
‘The RUC got a match on the Chubb key to a Patrick O’Dwyer. He’s got a criminal record for violence and was in the same UDA unit as Aidan O’Reilly. Looks like you were right about Fiona Simpson’s death being linked to your investigation.’
‘I’ll let Murphy know. Thanks again, Paul.’
She put the phone down.
Jane thought about why she had failed to recognize Tony Nichols. She had only seen him once before the wedding, when he had cross-examined her for half an hour at the Old Bailey. Although it was six years ago, she now remembered he was chubby-faced, had greying dark hair with a side parting, and wore thick-rimmed gold glasses. Since then he had undoubtedly lost weight, dyed his hair black and, she assumed, replaced his glasses with contact lenses. It didn’t seem to her to be a deliberate effort to disguise himself, more the act of a vain man who wanted to look younger.
Jane arrived at the office just after 9 a.m. Bax was the only one there, working at a desk catching up on his reports.
‘How was the wedding?’
‘A right den of thieves. I saw the Jensen — a disbarred barrister called Anthony Nichols owns it.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘I’ve got the registration for the Jensen. Can you do an owner check, please?’ She gave him the details. ‘Is Murphy in yet?’
‘He was, but he got called out. There was an armed robbery at the Security Express depot in Shoreditch yesterday morning. The security guards were tied up and no one found them until this morning.’
‘I didn’t hear anything on the radio about it.’
‘That’s because the press haven’t been informed yet.’
‘What? Does Murphy think it’s the Ripleys?’ Jane asked with alarm.
Bax laughed. ‘If it is, the whole squad will be back pounding the beat. Luckily Stanley and the Colonel were watching our four suspects play golf when it went down.’
‘That’s a relief. What happened at the depot?’
‘All I know so far is four tooled-up blokes with dodgy Irish accents forced their way in there, tied up the guards and stole the money from the vault.’
‘How much?’
‘Four or five million, they reckon — in non-traceable notes.’
Jane let out a whistle of surprise. ‘That’s twice as much as they got away with in the Great Train Robbery. Is anyone with Murphy?’
‘Just Teflon,’ Bax said.
‘Do you think they’ll need some help?’
‘I wouldn’t bother. It happened on our patch, but Murphy said he’s going to hand the job over to the Tower Bridge team since we’re tucked up with the Ripleys.’
‘I may as well catch up with my paperwork, then.’
Jane went to her desk while Bax did the vehicle check.
‘The Jensen’s registered to Nichols. The address is fourteen Westbury Lane, Buckhurst Hill, which isn’t far from George Ripley’s house.’