A Hanging Job

  Jack sighed. ‘He’s right, Alfie. We’re all guilty, and being as it was a rozzer there ain’t a cat’s chance in hell of a reprieve: they always hang cop killers.’ He shook his head mournfully and fingered his neck thoughtfully, before continuing in a monotone voice. ‘I was doing a stretch in Strangeways when they hung Geordie Jameson. Geordie was a peterman, one of the best safe crackers in the business, a real craftsman and as gentle as a lamb, hated violence. The Blaine brothers had a nice little number lined up, this big factory that always kept the wages in a safe overnight. Geordie weren’t too keen at first, but they offered to split fifty/fifty with him, so he agreed. He was nearly a half a mile away when the night-watchman snuffed it, but it made no difference, they still hung him. If three blokes does a robbery together and some poor sod gets topped, that’s it: you’re all guilty under the law.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re gonna have to catch us first,’ murmured Foxy as he took a right turn. ‘At least they won’t be looking for this car…’

  Bert Claridge was eying the wall mounted telephone thoughtfully. He’d always wanted to do it, but now he wasn’t sure. He picked up the earpiece, put it to his ear and dialled the first digit … then, hesitated. Replacing the earpiece on the hook, he went to the door, stood on the threshold of his shop and looked back down the street. The Wolseley was still parked there. Going back inside, he was about to pick up the phone but changed his mind and picked up an apple instead. Finally, after taking two bites of the apple, he made his decision. Marching purposefully over to the telephone, he dialled nine-nine-nine.

  A calm female voice answered. ‘Emergency: which service do you require?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘One moment please.’

  ‘Scotland Yard,’ a male voice, ‘can I help you?’

  Bert hesitated. He hadn’t been expecting to speak to Scotland Yard in person. Recovering his composure, he gulped in a lungful of air, stood to attention and announced, ‘I wish to report a suspicious car.’

  ‘I see, sir, and what is it that makes you think that this car is suspicious?’

  ‘It’s parked in the street. Just down the road from my shop.’

  ‘Is it a jeweller’s shop, sir?’

  ‘No, it’s a greengrocer’s. It’s on the corner of Watford Road and Hester Street.’

  ‘I see, sir, a greengrocer’s... Well, sir, if anybody reports a missing car we’ll let them know where it is.’

  ‘It’s a Wolseley 8.’

  ‘Did you say a Wolseley 8, sir?’ The voice remained flat and unemotional but there was a slight change of tone.

  ‘Yes, a black one. It was parked by three men who drove off in a Riley seventeen minutes ago.’

  ‘You’re very exact, sir.’

  ‘I should be: I was an observer in the Royal Flying Corps during the war.’

  ‘I see, sir. Would you happen to know the registration number?

  ‘Of course I do. It is BHJ 812.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I take it then that you know the registration number of the Riley?’

  ‘I most certainly do. It was a black Riley Continental, and its registration number is RUS 728. It turned left and headed north up Watford Road.’

  ‘Are you sure that it headed north, sir?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I told you I used to be an observer. You don’t make mistakes in a war. It costs lives, you know.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. You have been most helpful. We will be sending somebody round to take a full statement from you.’

  ‘I suppose you know where your going, Foxy?’ Jack peered suspiciously at the fields and hedgerows. He didn’t like the country. He sniffed the fresh air through the open window. He didn’t like that either: it smelt funny.

  ‘Well, since you ask, I reckon the best thing to do would be to make for Potters Bar, dump the car and take the train back to London. We’re in Hertfordshire and the local coppers are a bunch of swede-bashers. So we shouldn’t be getting any shit from them. And look on the bright side, thanks to Alfie we won’t have to waste any time sharing out the money.’

  ‘It weren’t my fault,’ Alfie moaned. ‘I thought that–’

  ‘Don’t make no difference, mate, once you topped that copper the stuff was more bloody trouble than it was worth. There ain’t a fence in the country that’d touch it, even at tuppence in the pound. And if you were daft enough to try and spend it, sooner or later they’d trace one of the serial numbers back to you. Anyway, so long as you remember to keep your gloves on we–’

  ‘You never said nuffing about keeping our gloves on after we changed cars!’ Alfie looked confused.

  ‘I bloody well did! Don’t tell me you took the bloody things off?’

  ‘I had to when I was trying to clean the shit off. I didn’t want it on me gloves.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, you’re gonna have a load more shit in your pants when they hang you – but don’t worry you’ll die with nice clean gloves.’

  ‘Stuff you, Foxy, you and your stupid jokes!’

  ‘It’s being cheerful that keeps me going, mate. If I’m gonna die, I’ll die laughing. But if they wanna hang me they’re gonna have to catch me. That’s why I’m taking charge.’

  ‘No you’re bloody well not!’ Alfie looked indignant.

  ‘Yes I bloody well am! And if you don’t like it you can bloody well lump it. It’s not just your arse on the line, it’s ours, and I for one ain’t taking no eight o’clock walk.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’ve got the gun!’

  ‘Oh you do surprise me. I didn’t happen to notice – and here was me thinking that copper dropped dead from a heart attack.’

  ‘Fuck you, Foxy!’ Alfie pointed the pistol.

  ‘So what are you going to do, smartarse, shoot me? Neither of you can drive. Why not ask Jack what he thinks about it?’

  Jack, who had been chewing gum, stopped chewing and swung round in his seat to face Alfie. ‘What do I think?’ he growled. ‘I think it was thanks to me that you waltzed out of the Scrubs with your lilywhite arse intact, but if you don’t put that shooter away I’m going to shove it right up your lilywhite. So shut the fuck up and leave it to Foxy. He’s got education: he went to grammar school.’

  Alfie wilted and descended into a sulky silence, Jack resumed his gum-chewing and Foxy pondered his new found position...

  Blimey, this is a turn up for the books. I’ve been promoted to gang leader; that’s if you can call this lot a gang. Jack’s got some potential but Alfie… Yeah, less said the better. So what am I supposed do about this car? I can’t just dump it. Not now that Alfie’s gone and left his shitty dabs all over the bloody thing. I could never be sure of wiping it completely clean, and if the coppers find it you can bet they’ll go over it with a fine tooth comb. Only one thing for it, it’s gonna have to disappear – and I only know one person who can make a car vanish: Lil. So I’m gonna have to pay her a little visit and be nice to her. Meantime, as long as I drive nice and careful we shouldn’t get pulled in by the local coppers.

  In 1939 not all British police forces were equipped with radio patrol cars. The technology was still evolving and the wave bands used did not work well in built up areas. However, the Hertfordshire constabulary were justifiably proud of their radio communication system, from the tall mast mounted on the roof of police headquarters to the state of the art communications room with its massive transmitters packed with glass valves.

  PC Rodgers was on duty. He’d spent the war in the signal corps and was happy to be back plying his old trade. It was a quiet day, and he was relaxing with a nice cup of tea when a young constable entered with a message. Rodgers glanced at what was written on the sheet of paper before grabbing the microphone and flicking a switch.

  ‘Calling all cars, calling all cars, be on the lookout for a black Riley Continental, registration number RUS 728, containing three males. Approach with caution: they are armed and dangerous.’

  Chapter 3

  ‘Do you have to drive so bleeding sl
ow?’ Alfie lit a cigarette and offered the packet to the other two. They both shook their heads: they knew where Alfie’s hands had been.

  Foxy sighed. ‘Use your loaf, Alfie. The last thing we need is the local swede-force pulling us in for speeding. I don’t want to go down in history as the only bloke who got hung for exceeding the limit. Relax mate, once we’re clear of this dump I’ll speed up a bit. Though not too much – always keep a low profile that’s my motto.’

  Dropping down to second gear, he drove along the main street of the small town. The afternoon sun shone on a sign hanging from the blackened oak beams of a timber framed building. The words The Kings Head and Whitbread Ales were painted above and below a portrait of Henry VIII. Outside the pub, a farmer was leaning up against a cart smoking a pipe while his horse quenched its thirst in a stone horse-trough.

  Foxy felt an urgent need for a pint but settled for a cigarette. He was just lighting it when – ‘Shit!’ – he spotted something in his rear-view mirror.

  ‘What’s up?’ Jack squinted at the road ahead. Alfie said nothing, but his eyes were darting about like frantic ferrets.

  Foxy spoke slowly and carefully. ‘Don’t either of you two turn around, but we’ve got the busies up our bottoms.’

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ squawked Alfie. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

  ‘I fully intend to, mate, which is why I ain’t put my foot down. Cos what you don’t know, and I do, is that there’s a ruddy great radio aerial stuck on the roof of that car. I didn’t know the local swede-force was that technologically advanced – I thought they were still using carrier pigeons.’

  ‘I don’t see why–’

  ‘I’ll tell you why: there’s no reason for those woodentops to be interested in us. As far as they’re concerned we’re just three law abiding blokes tootling along minding our own business, but if we were to draw attention to ourselves by racing off they could end up radioing headquarters. So, just as long as they don’t start taking an unhealthy interest in us, I’m gonna sweat it out and hope they piss off.’

  ‘What if they don’t?’ Alfie waved his pistol.

  ‘Then I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it – and you can stop waving that bloody gun about. Are you sure the safety catch is on?’

  ‘Course it is.’

  ‘You’re so bloody stupid I don’t know whether to believe you.’

  Jack said nothing during the exchange. He sat silently chewing gum before picking up his shotgun and slipping two cartridges into the breach. ‘Sorry, Foxy,’ he grunted, ‘they’re live ones. They can only hang me once, no matter how many rozzers I kill.’

  ‘Take it easy, Jack. We don’t even know for sure if that copper’s dead.’

  ‘He’s dead: saw the way he went down. Seen it before.’

  ‘Yeah, but still–’

  ‘You got the brains, Foxy; I got the muscle. Your job’s to get us out of here; mine’s to sort things out if you don’t, okay?’

  ‘Okay, but in the meantime I’m in charge, agreed?’

  ‘Agreed…’

  Nobody asked Alfie for his opinion.

  Foxy checked the mirror. The patrol car was still there, unhurried and at exactly the same distance. He glanced at the speedometer, just over twenty. Once out into open countryside, he increased the speed to forty; the gap between the two cars remained unchanged. He eased up to fifty; so did the police. He slowed down; they slowed down. It was as if the two cars were linked by an invisible force.

  Having given the appropriate hand signal, Foxy turned left – and the patrol car followed. At the next opportunity he turned right; the police did likewise.

  ‘Are the rozzers still there?’ Jack’s voice was grim. The afternoon sun lit up the scars on his face and glinted on the shotgun resting on his lap. Alfie said nothing. He just sat huddled up on the back seat clutching the revolver to his chest.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ Foxy sighed.

  ‘So what’re you going to do then?’

  ‘There’s only one thing for it, I’m gonna have to find a convenient place to stop and… What was that?’

  ‘I think Alfie’s just shit himself again.’

  ‘Erm … yeah, well, as I was saying, the only way to find out if the busies means business is to pull in somewhere and see what they get up to. Look on the bright side, this car can knock the spots off an Austin 10 in a chase. I’ll pull in just past the next crossroads.’

  ‘Why crossroads?’

  ‘Cos, if they pull up in front of us and block the road ahead, I just reverse round the corner, put my foot down and bugger off back the way we came. By the time the boys in blue have finished doing a three point turn we’ll be half way to Essex.’

  ‘Look, crossroads.’ Jack pointed ahead.

  Foxy slowed down. So did the patrol car. The signpost read Waltham Abbey eighteen miles. In an adjoining field a reaping machine was cutting a swath through the ripe wheat, and neatly stacked corn sheaths covered half the field.

  Foxy surveyed the scene. ‘Can’t stop here, Jack.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Cos, in case you ain’t noticed there are kids in that field. They’re helping with the harvest – and the last thing we want is kids in the firing line.’ He turned right, followed by the police.

  ‘Oi, what’s the big idea?’ Jack glared at Foxy. ‘We’re going the wrong way.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, what’s the game?’

  ‘Tactics, mate, tactics, you’ll see.’

  As the car negotiated a series of hairpin bends, Foxy slowed down after entering each bend, forcing the police car to brake suddenly when it came round the curve. By the third bend the police were reducing speed in advance so as to maintain distance. The fourth bend was exactly what Foxy was looking for: it ran through a wood.

  ‘Hang on to your hats, boys.’ Foxy spoke through gritted teeth as he hit the bend. Down went his foot, and the rear wheels griped the tarmac as he skilfully jiggled the accelerator peddle to maintain maximum possible speed without losing control. The car accelerated round the bend before rocketing along the hundred yard stretch to the next series of S shaped curves. As it screamed around the snaking bends, a rigid faced Jack gripped his seat and Alfie was thrown back and forth across the back seat: left, right, and left again.

  Once out into the straight, there was a shout of triumph from Foxy. ‘Our luck’s in, boys!’ In the distance a church tower rose high above a huddle of thatched cottages, but the object of Foxy’s interest was not the chocolate box English village but a collection of ramshackle corrugated iron constructions and rusting farm machinery situated on a piece of land adjoining the road. In a flash he was off the road and weaving his way past the assortment of old iron before tucking himself in behind one of the sheds. After a brief wait for the patrol car to drive past their hiding place, he was back on the road leading to Essex.

  PC Mills, the village Bobby, was sweating in his tunic as he stood among the moss covered gravestones discussing the details of the forthcoming church fete with the vicar. A passing car caught his eye. He frowned, pulled out his notebook and ruffled through the pages before interrupting the vicar in mid intonation.

  ‘Begging your pardon, vicar, Oi hopes you don’t mind me asking, but could Oi use your telephone?’

  ‘Is it important?’ The vicar sounded mildly irritated.

  ‘It is, sir, urgent police business.’

  ‘Oh very well then, follow me.’

  ‘I’m getting pissed off with thatched cottages,’ grunted Jack, as they left the village behind them. He sniffed the air. ‘And I’m getting pissed of with cow shit. How much further?’

  Foxy glanced at the signpost. ‘Not far to go. We should be in Essex in a jiffy. Look on the bright side, mate, at least it’s a nice sunny day.’

  Five minutes later it began to rain. A few drops at first, but after the first clap of thunder it came down by the bucketful. Foxy switched on the windscreen wipers and rummaged through his pock
ets.

  ‘Anyone got a fag?’

  ‘Here.’ Jack proffered a packet of Gold Flake.

  ‘Ta.’ Foxy took one, lit it and exhaled luxuriously.

  Jack spat his chewing gum out of the window, shoved a cigarette in his mouth and asked, ‘Where we heading for, Foxy?’

  ‘I reckon the best thing would be to drop you and Alfie off in Loughton. Being as it’s on the Central line, you can get the underground straight into town.’

  ‘What about you, where are you going?’

  ‘Me, I’ll be making for Southend.’

  ‘Blimey, we got half the bleeding Met looking for us, and Foxy’s going to the seaside,’ chortled Alfie.

  ‘Correction: after that cockup of yours, we’ve got the whole bleeding Met looking for us. And the reason I’ve gotta go to the seaside is cos you were too bloody thick to keep your gloves on. I can’t just dump this jam jar. It’s gonna have to have to disappear – and I happen to know someone in Southend who can make cars disappear. Got it?’

  ‘Why don’t yer set fire to it?’ Alfie sniffed.

  ‘Use your loaf, Alfie. If we find a nice quiet spot in the middle of nowhere to burn it, how we s’posed get home? I don’t fancy wandering around in the sticks in the pouring rain. And if we were to burn it outside the station we might just attract a bit of attention to… Oh, shit!’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Coppers ahead!’

  The Austin 10 was parked at the side of the road under the shelter of an ancient oak tree. The five foot aerial on the roof was the giveaway.

  As Foxy pondered the scene, he did his best to sound reassuring. ‘Hmm, at least it’s a different one. Could be a coincidence…’ He paused as he caught a flicker of movement on the seat behind him. ‘You ain’t taken the safety catch off have you, Alfie?’

  ‘Yeah, so what?’ Alfie sneered. ‘Like Jack said, they can’t hang me twice.’

  ‘Oh Gawd,’ Foxy groaned, ‘here we go again. Could you at least stop playing soldiers for a minute and pretend to be looking out of the other window – and make sure you’ve got your back to ’em as we drive past. You too, Jack, and get close to me. I don’t want the coppers clocking my boat race.’