‘I see.’
‘It’s all for authenticity. Your old man still lives where you grew up, 214 Rutland Street, Hanley, right in the middle of the five towns.’
‘Six.’ Yewdall smiled. ‘There are six towns; Tunstall, Burslem, Hanley, Stoke, Fenton and Longton. It was Arnold Bennett who wrote a book called Anna of the Five Towns, which gave rise to the belief that there are five towns in the Potteries.’
‘But there’s six?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Well, I have learned something, and that sort of thing will help your credibility. The address I gave you exists. You’ll be going back to your roots.’
‘How did you find out? Why did you choose it?’
‘It chose us in a sense. It was up for sale, so we rented it from the outgoing owner for a few weeks. It wasn’t selling so it gave him a bit of money. It is his late mother’s house so no one is living there. We put some furnishings in. . and your dad is a retired detective sergeant from the Staffordshire constabulary.’
‘You don’t miss a trick.’
‘Can’t afford to, Curtis Yates is no fool; he won’t take you on as even a gofer unless you’re fully vetted by his heavies, or his gofers, or his females. You left home some years ago and he won’t have a good word to say about you. He’ll say, “I don’t know where the devil she is. . broke her mother’s heart leaving like that”. .’
‘Wow.’
‘Do you have a photograph of yourself about five years old? I mean taken five years ago?’
‘I could dig one out.’
‘Do so, today. Post it to the Finchley address.’
‘The photo studios?’
‘Yes. Address it to the manager, and write “Penny” on the rear.’
‘I keep my name?’
‘Your Christian name, yes. What is your grandmother’s name?’
‘Which one?’
‘Maternal.’
‘Smith.’
‘Paternal?’
‘Lawrence.’
‘OK, we’ll use that, it’s more obscure. Pleased to meet you, Penny Lawrence. We’ll get a DSS signing card in that name. Tomorrow you go up to Staffordshire.’
‘I do?’
‘You do.’
‘Walk around the area of your “dad’s” house, get to know Rutland Street, the bus routes that service it, the pubs, the schools, the shops.’
‘Understood.’
‘And polish up your Staffordshire accent. Spend two days up there. . live rough. . buy an old coat from a charity shop, leave all police ID and any jewellery behind in London — carry anything like that and it will be fatal. . and I don’t mean fatal. . I mean. .’
‘You mean fatal. I get the message.’
‘Return to the Smoke three days from now and start panhandling in Piccadilly.’
‘How will I contact you?’
‘I will give you some coins now and also some coins will be given to you by a passing stranger. . he’ll be a cop. It’s to ensure you have enough money to make a phone call to the photographic studio. You can also write.’
‘Write?’
‘Why not? Just a postcard with a cryptic message sent to the photographic studio, but it is essential that you write the card and address it the instant before you post it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Carry around one or two pre-stamped postcards but don’t pre-address them.’
‘Alright.’
‘It’s another means of contacting us if all else fails. . but we won’t receive the card for twenty-four hours.’
‘I realize that.’
‘Forty-eight hours if you post it on Saturday.’
‘Got you.’
‘If you sense that you are in even the slightest danger then come in, find a phone box and dial three nines, or walk into a police station. . or stop a police car or a foot patrol.’
‘Alright.’
‘Always remember just who it is that you are dealing with.’ The man paused as a heavily laden goods train rumbled along the railway line that ran behind the crematorium. ‘These people don’t need proof beyond a reasonable doubt to off you. All they need is the slightest whiff of suspicion. For them life is cheap anyway, unless it’s their own, in which case they all start to scream about their rights.’
‘Yes, I’ve met that type before.’
‘Bet you have. . and often. Anyway, here’s a couple of hundred quid.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘Buy a train ticket to Stoke-on-Trent. . go and familiarize yourself with the locality. Remember to get a coat from a charity shop and rough it up, tear a button off and roll it in the gutter a bit.’ The man stood, and looked to Penny Yewdall to be every inch an ex-con, a real hard nose; someone you didn’t want to give grief to.
‘Understood, sir.’
‘And get out of police-speak.’
‘Sorry, chief, mate, darlin’. .’
‘Better. Be like a good actor, don’t just go through the motion and say the lines, think yourself into the part. Be the character in question, don’t pretend to be a young female dosser. . actually become one.’
‘Understood.’
‘And it starts now. When you get to Hanley, walk round all night, stay up all night, huddle in a doorway if you get really tired.’
‘Yes, mate.’
‘Get real. Stay out two nights running, get to be that no one wants to sit next to you on the bus or train back to London. . but it’s all grist to the mill. Get an early bus or train back. . bus is better, it’s cheaper, but get rid of the ticket as soon as. Short of money, coming to London, you’ll take the bus.’ He handed her a coin-bag containing twenty pence pieces. ‘That’s for the phone calls to the photographic studio. Keep it separate from any other cash you have. If you’re asked about it, say you nipped a geezer for change who was screwing parking meters.’
‘If I say that, they’ll want me to work King’s Cross.’
‘So say the geezer was a personal friend, so you didn’t sell yourself to a stranger.’
‘Good idea.’
‘So we’ll have to hope Yates will take you as a gofer.’
‘Yes, mate.’
The man grinned. ‘Don’t ask questions. Very important. Remember — be the part, don’t pretend, and a dosser who accepts a roof in return for gofering does not ask questions.’
‘Got you.’
‘Start smoking roll-ups and roll them thin. And look at the ground when you walk down the street.’
‘The ground.’
‘Yes, scan it, the ground is where you find half-smoked fags and dropped coins, half-eaten sandwiches. . especially round bus stops. If you ask questions and walk looking around you like a cop on the beat, you’ll be clocked as an undercover officer and then. . well, then it’s goodnight Vienna for you, princess. Frightened?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, that’ll keep you on your toes. Get light-fingered, and if you are invited to take part in petty crime, go along with it, and get used to calling the police “pigs”, “filth”, etc.’
‘OK.’
‘You won’t be staying there long enough to get confused about your identity, which can happen if you stay undercover for long enough.’
‘So I have heard. Have you been under long?’
‘Don’t ask questions,’ the man growled.
‘Sorry.’
‘When you return to London find a pitch in the Dilly Lady subway. I’ll find you. Don’t show any sign of recognition. Spend any money you collect on food. Find a doss and pick up dirty habits.’
‘Like rubbing fag ash into my jeans?’
‘Yes, like that. . and use bad language, all you can muster, but let it be natural. People can tell when it’s forced.’
‘How long do I keep it up?’
‘A few days; someone will tell you when to walk into WLM Rents saying that you heard they had drums in return for work.’
‘We can’t find Rusher — he’s gone to ground.’
‘He does that,’ Clive Sherwin replied casually. ‘He plays the mole when he wants to play the mole. If he don’t want to be found, he won’t be found.’ Sherwin glanced to his left at the tape recording machine. The light was off, the spools stationary. ‘This is not being recorded?’