“This Rodney Bingham,” Larry said, his throat dry now, “as far as I can make out, you’ve not mentioned his name in connection with answer number twelve on page forty — can we go back to that question?”
In the radio link room DI Shrapnel sat forward sharply, grabbed a file and thumbed through the lists of names. He found what he wanted and jotted a note: Number 8 — Rodney Bingham.
“Eighth man was Rodney Bingham,” Von Joel’s voice said over the tape monitor. “He fenced cash from the Security Express job. The money went over to Torremolinos... On the Wembley job I don’t know. Willy and Farmilow got carved up, I do know that.” There was a pause, then Von Joel said, “I’m hungry.”
In the radio link room Shrapnel rolled his eyes. “Hungry?” he muttered, staring at the tape machine. “Sold nine men down the nick, and the bastard’s hungry.” He leaned forward, pressed the intercom. “Call a break,” he said.
Larry and Von Joel went to the kitchen. Von Joel began putting together an elaborate salad. Larry poured a can of spaghetti into a bowl and stuck it in the microwave.
“So,” Von Joel said, chopping carrots at an impressive speed, “how does the first morning feel like it’s going, Larry? I put nine in the frame for you. That’s a man every half hour.”
“You tell me how it feels.”
“About as fit as your stomach after that.” Von Joel nodded at the spaghetti. “You want some salad? I’ve made enough for two.”
Larry declined. When the microwave pinged he scooped a stiff tangle of the spaghetti onto a plate, got a fork from the drawer and started eating.
“What about Sam Kellerman?” he said, keen to keep the talk on business lines. “You didn’t say anything about Kellerman on that last job, but he’s in Dartmoor, he admitted it.”
Von Joel didn’t appear to be listening. He had taken vinegar, lemon juice, and pepper from the cupboard and now he was searching along the shelves, pushing items aside, growing agitated as he failed to find what he was looking for. Finally he slammed the cupboard door shut.
“I specifically asked for Moutarde de Meaux,” he said, his teeth barely parting. “This” — he held up a small jar of Colman’s English — “is not French mustard.”
Larry blinked at him. “It’s mustard, isn’t it?”
Von Joel hit the cupboard so hard with the flat of his hand, the rim came away and crashed to the floor. He turned on Larry, his face twisted with rage.
“I can’t make my dressing...” he hissed. Larry almost choked. He couldn’t believe it, Von Joel going ape shit because of a jar of ruddy mustard. He was about to stand up, just in case Von Joel went for his throat.
DI Shrapnel sauntered into the kitchen. He looked at Larry, then at Von Joel. There was no response from either of them. He got a plate and put half the remaining spaghetti on it.
“Everything okay?” he said.
Von Joel walked to the door. He paused, looking at Larry. “When we break, no questions. And incidentally, Sam Kellerman was innocent, he wasn’t on that job.” ToShrapnel he said, “Fill our friend in, will you? Tell him everything’s got to be taped.”
He walked out. Shrapnel looked at Larry questioningly.
“He can’t make his salad dressing.”
Shrapnel went and closed the door.
“My heart bleeds,” he said. “What do you make of him?”
Larry shrugged. He tipped the bulk of his lunch into the waste disposal, then opened a carton of creme caramel.
“You taken a look at his gear?” Shrapnel said. “You don’t think he’s queer, do you?”
“Eh?” Larry froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “He had great-looking women in Spain.”
Shrapnel appeared to have forgotten the spaghetti. He opened the fridge, lighting one of his little cigars as he nosed around inside. Loud operatic music started suddenly. Shrapnel looked up, shaking his head.
“He’s playing that crap again. And I don’t know about you, but the stink of those joss sticks gets on my chest.”
Larry nodded absently, watching Shrapnel flick his ash on the floor.
At two-fifteen Larry went into the gym. Von Joel was there. He had on a pair of boxing gloves and was hammering a punching bag. Larry got himself into the line of vision and looked at his watch.
“Go again in about ten minutes,” he said.
Von Joel nodded and slammed a straight left into the bag. He stepped back, breathing through his mouth.
“You ever boxed?” he said. “Good exercise...”
Larry began to say something, then checked himself and walked out.
Foreground police activity, meantime, carried on at top speed. In the incident room the fax machine didn’t stop, the telephones rang continually, and the drafted-in clerical staff found themselves each doing the work of three people, instead of two as they had been led to expect. To one side of McKinnes’s desk a man sifted a mountain of files, on the other side two officers worked at computers. McKinnes was on the phone.
“We need more details,” he was saying, waving his free hand, making a smoke trail. “He’s a flash git in the city. We also need more information on the weapon they used, and more details on the fence. What? Okay!”
He threw the receiver down and looked around sharply, taking in the activity, checking for slack. Telephones warbled and jangled, data was steadily added to the corkboards, and keyboards clacked without a break. On the far wall was a collection of mug shots of men already named by Von Joel. McKinnes was staring at them, memory working, as a WPC came in with a stack of files and put them on a desk.
“Maureen...” McKinnes beckoned her with a curled finger. “Our boy was throwing a wobbly about some mustard. Have a word with Sergeant Jackson, sort it out...” He turned to the fax machine, stared at the output, then looked up and addressed the room at large: “Has anybody found out Minton’s address yet?”
The telephone on his desk rang. The WPC picked it up. Across the room, DC Summers waved to attract McKinnes’s attention.
“Mac...” The familiarity was tolerated at times of stress and high activity. “Willy Noakes is in Brighton. He’s in a wheelchair and his wife says he’s got a doctor’s letter to say he shouldn’t travel...” Summers checked his notes. “He had bypass surgery two years ago. What you want me to do?” Before McKinnes could say anything, Summers added, “I hear we didn’t get Minton.”
“Oh, you heard, did you?” McKinnes glared at him, scratching his beard. “Whole goddamned pack runnin’ around like blue-arsed flies and the prick’s moved! You bring in Noakes in his chair or his walking frame or whatever. Just get him locked up.” He turned, yelling at the whole room again. “Anyone raced Bloody George Minton’s residence? See if he’s on the polling lists! The bastard’s bound to vote Conservative!”“Guv?” The WPC held up the phone. “Sergeant Jackson.”
“Give me a minute,” McKinnes said to Summers, and grabbed the receiver. “Larry — get cracking. We want more details and fast. He gave us the wrong info on bloody Minton! We want an address! What?” He listened, frowning. His eyes widened. “Jesus! Yes! Yes! He’ll get his sodding mustard all right!”
Von Joel continued to talk late into the evening. By nine-thirty he was growing tired, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his head resting in his hands. By that time Larry was on the floor, too, with cushions propped behind him.
“Arnold French, Jimmy Sullivan, and George Minton were on the job. Minton organized the gig — he’s got a brother-in-law who works in the baggage terminal at Gatwick. The bag never went through customs, it went straight on the plane to New York.”