I got three years for conspiracy to murder — in spite of claiming I didn’t know about the gun. Sadie was given six months. The Crown Prosecution Service didn’t press charges against some of the really frail ones. Oddly, nobody seemed interested in the hearing-aid heist and we were allowed to keep our stolen property.
The Never-Say-Die Retirement Home had to carry on without us. But there was to be one last squirt from Operation Syringe.
One morning three weeks after the trial, Briony decided to sort out her marmalade jars and store them better, using the bubble wrap the aids had been kept in. She was surrounding one of the jars with the stuff when there was a sudden popping sound. One of the little bubbles had burst under pressure. She pressed another and it made a satisfying sound. Highly amused, she started popping every one. She continued at this harmless pastime for over an hour. After tea break she went back and popped some more. It was all enormous fun until she damaged her fingernail and had to ask She-Who-Must-Be-Replaced to trim it.
“How did you do that?” Matron asked.
Briony showed her.
“Well, no wonder. There’s something hard inside the bubble. I do believe it’s glass. How wicked.”
But it didn’t turn out to be glass. It was an uncut diamond, and there were others secreted in the bubble wrap. A second police investigation was mounted into Operation Syringe. As a result, Buckfield, the manager of the Bay Tree Hotel, was arrested.
It seemed he had been working a racket with Marcus Haliburton, importing uncut diamonds stolen by workers in a South African diamond mine. The little rocks had been smuggled to Britain in the packing used for the hearing aids. Interpol took over the investigation on two continents.
It turned out that on the day of our heist Buckfield, the manager, suspected something was afoot, and decided Haliburton might be double-crossing him. When he checked Room 104 he found the Brigadier’s revolver on the bed and he was certain he was right. He took it straight to the suite. Haliburton denied everything and said he was only a go-between and offered to open the new box of aids in the manager’s presence. We know what it contained. Incensed, Buckfield pointed the gun and shot Haliburton dead.
After our release, we had a meeting to decide if we would sue the police for wrongful imprisonment. The Brigadier was all for it, but Sadie said we might be pushing our luck. We had a vote and decided she was right.
The good thing is that every one of us heard each word of the debate. I can recommend these new digital aids to anyone.
The Old Story
by Liza Cody
Copyright © 2007 by Liza Cody
Art by Mark Evan Walker
Liza Cody is not a prolific author, but the several novels she has produced over the past quarter of a century have all been significant books, starting with the first, Dupe, which won the John Creasey Award for Best First Novel. Her loyal fans will be glad to know that that first book was brought out in a new paperback edition in 2005 by Felony and Mayhem. The following story is the last of a trio of stories produced for a seminar with fellow authors Michael Z. Lewin and Peter Lovesey.
It was a sharp, clear autumn day, and as afternoon turned to evening Harold and I met by appointment outside Kwik Save. No sooner had we met than I had my first shock.
“Move yer wrinkly bum ’oles,” a kid yelled at us. And I moved, sharpish, pulling Harold with me. I was amazed at the kid’s good manners. Normally they skate right through us without warning, like we’re fallen leaves scattering in a high wind.
Harold took a swipe with the wrong end of his cane, trying to hook the board’s back wheels.
Three things about Harold: one, he’s hotheaded; two, he won’t admit he’s as deaf as a bathroom door; and I’ve forgotten number three.
The boy whooshed away unharmed and unaware he hadn’t even come close to being upended. He zigged and swerved and zagged and curved along the pavement scaring oldies, youngies, and in-betweenies.
Harold said, “Spotty little turd,” and banged his cane on the ground. “He doesn’t know how close he came.” Harold mimed the murder of a spotty little turd. “I could’ve done for him. He doesn’t know who he’s messing with.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” I said, taking Harold’s arm.
“Huh?” said Harold, and I gave his elbow a pacifying pat. Sometimes I think I’m only included on this enterprise to pacify hot-headed Harold. Because clearly it has been many, many years since I heated anyone’s head, and therefore my two old friends, The Gent and Wiggy, gave me the job of keeping him manageable. He boasts that when he was young he ran with one of those famous South London gangs, but neither Wiggy nor The Gent believe him. I’m uncertain. We don’t usually work with outsiders.
I kept walking and wondering why the three of us had fallen for Harold’s pitch. It isn’t as if he’s charming and clever like The Gent or clever and funny like Wiggy. And it wasn’t as if it were a particularly good plan. In fact, it was downright crude when you consider the slickness of our usual operations.
But when I say usual… I have to admit that nowadays we don’t plan much and the last operation was Wiggy’s — for nasal polyps.
Speaking entirely for myself, I wonder if my reluctance is due to the technicalities of modern banks and building societies. All the intelligent work is done with computers. Modern operators who want to rob a bank only have to flip a switch and rattle around on a keyboard; they don’t even have to visit the premises anymore. As Wiggy said, “You can rob without even leaving your own home. All you need is your own five-fingered girlfriend.”
“And a little more know-how than we possess,” confessed The Gent.
I kept my mouth shut: Technical stuff confuses me and I don’t even own a computer. My contributions to our joint enterprises used mainly to be in the planning stage, and as a distraction when the operation went live. I could scream or faint or suffer epi-fits better than any RADA-trained actress.
“Elsie’s scream is world-famous,” The Gent used to say. But it hasn’t been employed for nearly five years and my skill in planning is thwarted by security and surveillance I no longer understand.
Which explains why, on a sharp, clear autumn evening, I was calming Harold, and walking as fast as his hip would take us towards Preston’s betting shop at the corner of Grosvenor Road and High Street. My hand was firmly in the crook of Harold’s elbow. Our reflection in the coffee shop window showed me that we looked frighteningly like an old married couple.
We should be retired and living by the seaside, I thought. But how do you retire from a business like ours? There isn’t a company pension. Besides, The Gent is having to remortgage his house because his son’s in debt again. As is my daughter, but I try not to think about it. And early this month Wiggy was released from his last vacation at Her Majesty’s pleasure to find that his precious Airstream had been repossessed by the finance company. During his absence his sister, who should have been dealing with the payments, took a dippy turn and handed all his money to a donkey sanctuary. So often, in our insecure lives, the three of us have found ourselves starting from scratch. We are all, in our separate ways, dogged by the choices we made when we were young and thought we could always stay ahead of the game.
My recollections were interrupted by someone calling, “Mrs. Ivo. Hey, Mrs. Ivo!” I would have walked on, but Wiggy appeared from the Bell pub doorway, and said, “Oh, bloody hell, she’s forgotten her own code name. Elsie, you’d forget your family if you didn’t carry photos.”