“Why didn’t you use Fred the Stitch? Best tailor in London.” Von Joel fingered the material and frowned at the way the shoulders hung. His critical tone was light, but even so it annoyed Larry. “Fred makes all the suits for the Royals. I gave you his number, he’d have given you a good price...” He touched the material again. “How much?”
Larry turned away sharply. Von Joel looked surprised.
“What’s the matter with you?”
Larry didn’t reply.
“Aah,” Von Joel winked. “Didn’t get laid, is that it? Well, nor did I!”
Larry jerked open the door.
“I got laid all right, Eddie,” he said petulantly, slamming the door behind him.
The following morning DCI McKinnes and the Superintendent had a policy-and-progress meeting in the Superintendent’s office, facing each other across the cluttered desk. It wasn’t yet noon, but both men drank whisky, bowing to a departmental tradition that equated bold maneuvering with strong drink.
“We’re moving a hell of a lot faster than we anticipated,” the Superintendent said, summarizing the first half hour of their meeting. “Out of eighteen arrested, we’ve got eleven who are going to plead guilty. And the rest — they know we’ve got them dead to rights, it’ll just be a matter of time.”
“We don’t have it,” McKinnes said, swirling his Scotch, “not with this Minton on the loose. It wasn’t me that let the bugger walk...” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “He knows we’ve got Myers, so the sooner we get him picked up for good, the better.”
“Of course.” The Superintendent’s thin features seemed to narrow a little further. “I don’t like taking Myers outside, Mac. But maybe we’ll have to.” He sighed. “I can’t budget dragging the whole bloody river.”
McKinnes nodded sympathetically.
“Myers could be bullshitting us — anything to get out and about. But he reckons if he sees the location it’ll jog his memory. And we need that shooter to get Minton.”
McKinnes took a measured swallow of whisky, drumming his fingers on the desk as it warmed its way to his stomach.
“What if we do it at dawn, cut down the risks? Can you arrange that?”
The Super thought about it, then nodded.
“Okay. I’ll get the river mob sorted. Now, I’m not pushing, Jimmy, but as matters are moving at a good lick, we’re going to have to start questioning Myers about that body found in Italy.”
“That’s got to be a complete and separate investigation,” McKinnes said, speaking with the firmness of a man who had thought the matter over thoroughly. “I’m taking it in three stages.” He watched the light sparkle golden in his glass. “One — get the lot of them ready for trial. Soon as we’ve drained Eddie Myers dry, we start to push him for the whereabouts of that one million cash he got away with...” He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “And I’ll squeeze him till he talks, because he knows he’s looking at fifteen straight. As a prosecution witness, he could get away with as little as five.”
McKinnes sat back, swirled his whisky once, then knocked it all back in one gulp. He gasped, his eyes moistening.
“I want him on trial,” he said, almost smiling. “I want to hear his sentence, want him to think he might even walk. Then, just as he’s going down to the cells” — he put his empty glass carefully on the desk — “I’m going to charge him with murder.” He smiled tightly. “I dream about that. Seeing that son of a bitch’s face. Lovely. What a retirement bonus.”
The Superintendent said nothing. He sipped his Scotch, showing no outward sign that McKinnes was beginning to worry him.
13
At six o’clock on Tuesday morning Larry was dressed and ready to leave. He waited in the hallway outside Von Joel’s room with DI Shrapnel leaning on the wall beside him, smoking pensively, his eyes puffy from sleep. At five past six Shrapnel jerked his thumb toward the bedroom door and asked Larry if he thought Von Joel was on the level. Larry did not comprehend.
“He gave me these folicacid capsules...” Shrapnel took a small brown bottle from his pocket. “Said they induce hair growth. That’s what they’re for, apparently. Healthy hair...” He patted the sparse covering on his scalp. “You think it’s okay if I take them?”
Larry shrugged. He didn’t feel like talking.
“Last night,” Shrapnel went on, “he gave me vitamin B6. Supposed to induce dreaming. I went out like a light.”
He put the bottle back in his pocket and looked at his watch. Suddenly he was in his customary mode, edgy, impatient. “What the hell is he doing?” He folded his arms and began tapping his foot. “We have him between us going out,” he reminded Larry. “Cuff him to you.”
The bedroom door opened and Von Joel came out. He wore a track suit, a donkey jacket, and a black woolen hat. He held his hands out in front of him for the handcuffs.
“Ready when you are,” he said, yawning. “Early for a trip upriver, isn’t it?”
They left the safe house, walked ten yards along the passageway to the external door and came out at the back of the station. A Granada waited with its doors open. They walked across to it smartly, Shrapnel in front, shielding Von Joel who was cuffed on Larry’s left side. When they reached the car Shrapnel got in beside the driver; Larry and Von Joel slid into the back.
The car moved off at once, entering the courtyard where McKinnes waited, seated in an unmarked car beside the driver. The main gates opened and McKinnes’s car turned out onto the narrow lane behind the station. The Granada followed closely. A third car moved out from an underground car park as they passed and slipped in tight behind the Granada. As the convoy picked up speed there was a movement at a window in a building overlooking the back of the station.
“There’s something going down,” a voice announced over a radio link. “Shit! It’s him! They’re moving him, it’s Myers... They’ve got McKinnes in a car up front, patrol car at the back. Our man is sandwiched between them. Steve! You on them? Steve?”
Sudden loud static crackled across the frequency. It took several seconds to die down.
“Can you hear me? HB to base. Hello?”
The crackle came back, rising and falling in waves. Then, abruptly, it faded almost to nothing.
“Are you receiving me? They’re heading out to the Edgware Road. Keep your eyes on the center car, a red Ford Granada... Did you get that?”
“I’m on him.” The reply came from a motorcyclist on a courier bike, heading into the narrow lane just as the convoy disappeared at the other end. “Looks like they’re going toward Marylebone Road.”
There was an immediate response at George Minton’s yard, where “Big” Jack pulled back the gates and ran as fast as he could to the blue Transit van, a walkie-talkie clutched tightly in his hand. He leapt into the van, started the engine, and put the walkie-talkie to his mouth, thumbing the switch.
“Where are you now?” He threw the engine in gear and accelerated one-handed to the gates. “I’m on my way...”
Inside the Granada, Shrapnel was growing tense. He turned to Larry.
“Just remember, now — we wait for the signal, then go straight to the jetty. No dawdling.” He looked at Von Joel. “Pull your collar up. Here, wear these...” He handed back a pair of dark glasses. “Pull your bloody hat further down...”
“Doesn’t suit me, luwie,” Von Joel lisped.
Shrapnel wasn’t amused.
The convoy reached Covent Garden, staying on the back streets, the motorcyclist still behind them, keeping his distance.
“They’re heading past Bow Street,” he reported. “Did you pick that up? Where the hell are you? They just passed Essex Street...”
At that moment George Minton was shutting the gates of the yard from the inside. Securing them, he hurried off, weaving his way toward the rear of the sprawling piles of scrap. A minute later a car started up on a street behind the yard. It drove off fast.