A cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth,
DCI
Jenkins leaned against the window sill, arms folded, squinting through the smoke at the tagged evidence arranged on the table, some of it still bearing traces of fingerprint powder. Item: Black ski hood, slits cut through for eyes. Item: Black ski hood, identical, also with slits. Item: Blue plastic bag with zip. No markings. Item: Wage packets marked ‘Roche Laundry Services’, sealed. Item: Sub-machine-gun with magazine, classified by ballistics as a 9mm L2A2 Sterling, as used by the British Army in Northern Ireland and elsewhere. Recently fired. Four cartridges missing from the 34-round magazine capacity. Jenkins pushed himself up. Unhurriedly he removed the cigarette from his lips, blew out a plume of smoke, and made the slightest of shaking movements of the head. This was almost going to be too easy. There were footsteps in the corridor and Detective Inspector Briggs came briskly in carrying a document file. Jenkins took a deep drag, holding out his hand. ‘That from their statements?’ He opened the file on the corner of the table and fanned out the reports so he could refer back and forth. Riggs stood by Jenkins’ shoulder, trying to avoid the cloud of smoke. He might at least open a window. The place stank. Jenkins skimmed through. ‘Dillon’s been held before, you read this?’ He sucked in another satisfying lungful. ‘Let off with a warning! Wrecked a patrol car… he still refusing to talk? Well, we got ‘em bang to rights on this caper.’ ‘You see who owned the car he and…’ Riggs craned forward. ‘Driven by Steve Harris, but the motor they were driving was owned by…’ He tapped the report. ‘One Barry Newman.’ Jenkins read on, nodding, flakes of grey ash drifting down. ‘No charges. What about bringing in this Steve Harris, see what he has to say?’ ‘Be pushed, he’s dead. I’ve already checked.’ Jenkins leaned across to stub out his cigarette. He braced both arms on the table, head sunk between his shoulders, gazing down at the documents. ‘Dillon and Travers won’t budge, let’s go for the black bastard… somethin’ stinks.’ His eyes roved up to the ski hoods, money, gun. ‘None of ‘em’ll get bail this time! Not with that lot…’ Not gloating exactly, but with the deepest satisfaction.
Dillon was wiping up bacon fat with a piece of bread when a small, round-shouldered man with thinning sandy hair pushed open the door of the holding cell. Clutching a rather tatty briefcase in pale, freckled hands, he blinked at Dillon through a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with thick, distorting lenses. In other circumstances he might have been taken for someone trying to flog an endowment policy or double glazing on the never-never. ‘Mr Dillon? I’m Arthur Crook. I’ve already spoken to Mr Travers and Mr Morgan.’ Dillon pushed the tin tray further along the bed and made space for him to sit on the grey blanket. ‘I’ve been appointed to represent you.’ The voice was bland and diffident, as colourless as he was. ‘Is this acceptable to you?’ ‘I have an alternative?’ said Dillon, testily. ‘If you don’t wish me to represent you, that is your prerogative, I can ask for someone else. But I am experienced in criminal —’ ‘They got no right to hold me here!’ Dillon’s outburst set the little man to blinking once again. Almost in a tone of apology, he said, ‘Mr Dillon, they have some very tough evidence against you.’ ‘An’ I explained how we came to have it. I told them…’ Dillon stared at Crook, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘There’s nothin’ else, is there?’ ‘I’ve read your statement, Mr Dillon.’ Either Crook didn’t understand the question or had chosen to ignore it; Dillon couldn’t decide which, and he was frantic to know. ‘Unless you are prepared to name the man who you say instigated the robbery, well —’ A small shrug of the rounded shoulders. ‘If you name him, then we can check out your story.’ Dillon rested his elbows on his knees, hands working restlessly, gazing at the wall opposite. ‘I got two kids,’ he said in a low, harsh voice. ‘I start naming names while I’m in here, who’s gonna protect them? You get me bail, then I’ll talk.’ He swung his head at Crook. ‘But I need to take care of my family first!’ Crook opened his briefcase and took out several typed sheets. Dillon watched with hooded eyes as the solicitor looked through them, and then he tried again. ‘They’re not chargin’ me with any thin’ else, are they? Just the robbery…?’ ‘I’d think seriously about giving the name of this man,’ Crook advised in his bland legal tone. ‘If he’s a suspect, the police will protect you…’ He had the typewritten sheets in order, placed neatly on the briefcase resting flat on his knees. He cleared his throat. ‘Now, I have been asked to tell you that there have been three robberies, all carried out in a similar way, and — the police believe —with military precision.’ The pale blue eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, bulged up at him. ‘Mr Dillon, they are ail very aware that you and those arrested with you are ex-Parachute Regiment soldiers.’ It was Dillon’s turn to blink. He’d been worrying himself sick about the Irishman in the derelict house and suddenly he was being dumped on from a different direction entirely. What the hell was happening? ‘Now, these robberies took place in Surrey, Brighton, and Whitechapel.’ Crook held out the top sheet. ‘I will need to know where you were on these dates.’ Dillon looked at them blankly. He shook his head, thoughts in a whirl, unable to take this in. ‘Look, check my diary. We’ve been runnin’ a business. I dunno where I was right off, but the diary gives all the jobs we done.’ Crook took the sheet back. ‘They have also found a weapon at your office.’ He looked gravely at Dillon. ‘You have anything to say about that?’ ‘You mean the gun used in the hold-up?’ Crook gave a slight nod. ‘I can explain that,’ Dillon said, starting to feel very sick again.
‘Mr Travers, they have the sub-machine gun used in the robbery,’ Crook said. ‘The same gun had been determined as the one used to damage your security wagon. They have black hoods, they have the wage packets you insist were stolen —’ ‘I’m not sayin another word. Frank will tell you what went down. Ask Frank Dillon.’
The line-up was already in position, Harry the second man along, as Dillon was led in. His handcuffs were removed and the officer indicated he could stand where he wished. Dillon chose roughly midway and faced the darkened viewing window which reflected the twelve men under the spotlights. Some wore jackets, some were in shirtsleeves like him, but only Harry and himself were unshaven, he noticed. Perm any two from twelve, so long as they got five o’clock shadows, Dillon thought sourly. ‘We’re in the clear, they don’t know nothin’,’ Harry called to him, and then louder, ‘How ya doin’, Frank!’ ‘No talking! Look straight in front, eyes to the front!’ Behind the window, a uniformed inspector ushered in a portly middle-aged man in a smart pinstripe suit. ‘Just take your time, sir. You say you got a good look at the man as he approached the bank tellers. If you seen him, want him to turn right or left, just say so.’ The portly man nodded and took his time, studying each face for several seconds. Twice he leaned forward, his gaze lingering, before passing on. He came to the end of the line, and after a brief pause, shook his head. The inspector spoke into the microphone. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. You can go!’
That was the only time he’d seen Harry since their arrest, and he hadn’t seen Cliff at all. Obviously, Dillon thought, they were grilling each of them separately, cross-checking their stories, trying to break each of them down. But if the other two said nothing, left it to him, what was there to fear? He could explain everything, given the chance. As for the other robberies, the evidence was purely circumstantial. Wasn’t it? He was taken out to the Black Maria and handcuffed to the iron guard rail which ran along the side of the van above the slatted wooden seat. Two teenage boys, who looked comatosed on drugs or glue or something, sat huddled together in the corner next to the cab. A uniformed officer, a bear of a man with no neck, climbed in and sat opposite Dillon. He pulled the door shut, so the only light came from the two narrow slits in the rear doors. ‘How many more line-ups you bastards want me in?’ Dillon asked, not expecting a reply, and not receiving one. The officer sat back, folded his arms, and contemplated eternity, or maybe his pension. By raising himself slightly off the seat, Dillon could see through the slit. Another Black Maria had pulled up in the yard, and Cliff was stepping down, handcuffed to an officer. He seemed more bewildered than frightened, and Dillon wanted to yell out, tell him to keep stum. If the kid lost his nerve, did something stupid, he could land them all in it. ‘Sit down,’ the bear with no neck said. ‘Sit — down!” Dillon slowly sank back, but then leaned forward sharply. At the wheel of his black Jaguar Sovereign, Newman was rolling to a halt. He slid the window down and reached out his hand, a faint smile on his thin lips. Detective Chief Inspector Jenkins strolled forward. Dillon stared as the two men shook hands. He pressed himself closer to the slit, feeling the flesh of his face tight to bursting, and a large hand shoved him roughly back onto the bench. ‘Sit! You deaf?’ Dillon slumped down, his heart trip-hammering in his chest. The door opened and a sheaf of folded release papers was thrust in. The door was closed, the handle locked, and the officer banged on the side to indicate all present and correct. The van jerked forward, dragging Dillon by his handcuffed wrist against the guard rail, and moved off. Dillon hardly felt it. What he did feel was a crawling panic in his bowels. Barry Newman and the cops, all mates together. Was he being fitted up? What was Newman telling them? What the fuck was going on?
‘Believe me,’ Newman said, ‘if somebody had broken in here I’d know it. Besides, who’d want to nick this stuff, weighs a ton.’ Jenkins looked along the aisles, at the racks and racks of artifacts which to his eye were the kind of cheap trash you might see in a fairground, prizes for getting three double-tops in a row or potting clay pipes with a .22 that had had its sights doctored. Three of his uniforms were poking about, but probably they had less idea what they were looking for that he had. ‘What about the office?’ he asked, nodding towards the partitioned glass-panelled enclosure. ‘Follow me!’ Newman beckoned, the good citizen only too happy to co-operate with the law. ‘Watch your footing, I’ve had problems with the sprinklers.’ As they walked along he pointed up to the cables running along the walls. ‘Alarm system. Anyone trying to get in here and this baby would go off like a time-bomb.’ With an indulgent wave of the hand, Newman called across, ‘Any of you lads got kids, take what you want. Business is bad, I can’t give this gear away.’ A few paces behind, Jenkins said casually, ‘Your boy was a Para, wasn’t he? A soldier…’ And noted the stiffening of Newman’s spine. Newman stopped to face him, but he wasn’t angry or defensive, the inspector saw, he was proud, even a little defiant. ‘Yes. I got a medal to prove it! He was killed in a club, he wasn’t even on duty. Nineteen years old.’ Newman looked away, and in profile the hollow cheeks and scrawny neck made him look old and haggard, a distinguished roué long past his sell-by date. ‘His mother never got over it… his name was Billy.’ ‘So you know Dillon then?’ Newman walked on. ‘He was his sergeant! I met up with him when he first came to civvies, while back now.’ ‘Meet some of his pals too, did you?’ Newman paused at the office door. He turned slowly, gave Jenkins his full dead-eyed stare. Touched a spot there, Jenkins thought, half-expecting a flat denial, but didn’t expect what he got, an acid, withering bitterness, a raw open wound that had never healed and never would. ‘Look, this Dillon. I tried to give him a leg-up, know what I mean? The thanks was, he borrowed my motor and totalled it, an’ that’s been my only interaction with him. Maybe I should’ve tried to do somethin’ for him, but that was thirty grand’s worth! I reckoned whatever he’d done for my boy, we were quits — an’ I’m not a charity.’ Newman held up his thin hand, pointed a long skeletal finger. ‘I’ll tell you who should watch out for these lunatics, the ruddy government. Most of them need rehabilitation, they’re all screwed up.’ Whatever lies he might tell, whatever descriptions he might perpetrate, Newman was on the level with this, Jenkins thought. It came straight from the heart, no question. Newman gestured brusquely. ‘Here’s my office, come on through.’ Jenkins followed him inside.
She wouldn’t cry. Susie had made this promise to herself. She had to keep Frank’s spirits up. The last thing he wanted to see was a red-eyed bawling wife. But it took every ounce of self-control as the woman police officer led her into the interview room not to let the calm outer surface crack wide open. It was the sight of him sitting hunched in the chair, hands clasped on the bare table, shackled by handcuffs. He looked so lost and helpless. From somewhere Susie summoned up a pallid smile. She sat down opposite him, while the
WPC
took up a position behind her and a male officer stood with arms folded at the door, like a bouncer itching to sort out the troublemakers. ‘I’ve been here every day but they wouldn’t let me see you. Mr Crook arranged it in the end.’ Susie wore a plain dark skirt and a pale yellow blouse under her coat that she knew Frank liked, but he hadn’t even looked at her. She reached out, not quite touching the bunched hands, fingers squeezed tight. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘This is all a mistake.’ Dillon stared sullenly at the table. His cheeks were smooth and pale, freshly shaved, dark rings under his eyes. ‘I haven’t done anythin’ wrong. They can’t keep me here without chargin’ me.’ His lips thinned. ‘I haven’t done anythin’.’ ‘Mr Crook’s tried for bail, Frank, but it was turned down at the Magistrates Court. He said he’ll have to wait a few more weeks before he can apply again —’ ‘You think I don’t know?’ He raised his head sharply. His mouth twisted as the anger spilled out. ‘He’s a useless twat!’ Susie hesitated. ‘He says you’re not helping.’ T didn’t do anything wrong!’ said Dillon hoarsely. ‘You know Cliff told them about Newman?’ Dillon glared at her. ‘What are you protecting him for?’ Susie asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘You don’t understand.’ Dillon was nodding to himself, an ugly smile smearing his features. Tm gonna give you some names, friends, if that bastard shows his face—’ ‘Frank!’ Susie leaned towards him. ‘He said you never worked for him, he says his place was never broken into… that it was lies, all lies.’ ‘Marvellous innit — they believe that villain, but not me? I told Cliff to keep his bloody mouth shut. Typical. But what can you expect, he was only on transport, he’s never seen any action. They won’t get Harry to —’ Susie’s fist drummed impotently on the table. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing you right! Cliff was going to be married, don’t you care? He’s in a terrible state… Shirley’s pregnant.’ ‘You think I’m allowed to see him? See Harry?’ Dillon didn’t hear, didn’t care. His eyes were a bit wild, his brain locked on the single track it had been on, ceaselessly, every waking moment. ‘Bastards have segregated us. Four lineups they had me in — I been in four line-ups, for what? They’re tryin’ to pin every robbery pulled in England on us. It’s crazy, it’s all crazy…’ He calmed his breathing and looked at her from under his brows. ‘They not said anythin’ about anythin’ else?’ he asked uneasily. ‘Have they… Susie?’ A fist rapped on the door. The officer unfolded his arms. He waved to Dillon to stand. Susie pleaded, ‘Ah, not yet! Please, not yet…!’ The officer got Dillon on his feet. He opened the door. Dillon said desperately, ‘Are the kids all right?’ ‘Yes…’ And the promise she had made herself was broken as a sob came up, nearly choking her. Still she struggled to hold on. Dillon tried to turn back. The officer would have none of it. He had Dillon under the armpit, and the officer outside grabbed the other arm and he was bodily hauled away. Susie laid her head on her arms and had to let it all come out, promise or no promise.