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  'But-'

  Len gripped his arm, tight. 'If you're going to mention the new bloody guidelines, I'll beat you to death with this gear- stick. Now get in there. Public Bar. Pick you up in an hour.'

  'What will you do?'

  Len growled. 'Pick you up in an hour.'

  Billy opened the door and got out of the car. The DS winked at him, restarted the engine and left him standing on the South Circular. He looked over at the pub – or 'tavern' as it styled itself – and took a deep breath. Time to meet their new snout.

  His legs wobbled slightly as he crossed the two lanes of sluggish traffic. Just like when he went up on stage on school prize day to collect his reward. Why was he so nervous? This was what he had wanted from day one at Hendon. And it was hardly his first snitch. But it was his first as a Squad man. So, bizarrely, he felt like that young man shaking hands with the headmaster as the man handed over the award for most original English essay. It had been The Boy's Book of Modern Marvels, full of cutaways like the ones that appeared in the Eagle comic. Billy still had it, was still fascinated by the detail exposed when you stripped the skin off a Lancaster Bomber or a Hawker Hunter or a nuclear power station.

  Inside the pub, he clocked the nark immediately. Young, spotty, cocky from the way he flexed his shoulders, as if trying to get the chip on it to shift. He was indeed reading the Sporting Life, but then so were half the other customers. The walls of the tavern were covered in sporting pictures: a few boxers, the odd golfer, but the rest was heavy on the gee- gees, with portraits of Scobie Breasley and Lester Piggott dominating.

  There was, he had noted, a Jack Swift bookmakers next door. A year ago, no doubt, bets would have been taken in this very bar. Now, with close to fifty new betting shops opening each week across the country, the tradition of the pub bookie and his runners would probably die out.

  Billy bought himself a pint of Guinness, moved to the snout's table and sat down. He held out his hand. 'Billy Naughton.'

  The young man didn't move to take it. 'Yeah?'

  His sort hated the police even when they were going to deal with them. Billy was used to it. He had lost half of his schoolmates when he told them about Hendon. They all had older brothers or sisters who had had run-ins with the law, usually during the dance-hall fights that had flashed across Britain in an epidemic from the late 1940s onwards. None of them had any respect for coppers. Their heroes were Niven Craig – The Velvet Kid – and later his brother Christopher, who famously told Derek Bentley to 'Let him have it'. For months his former chums had hummed the theme from the radio series The Adventures of PC 49 at him. He was only grateful that he had left school before that irritating whistling from Dixon of Dock Green became popular. 'Mr Haslam sent me.'

  'Did he now?' Several pair of eyes had glanced over, so the nark took Billy's hand and gave it a perfunctory shake.

  Billy looked the youngster up and down. He had a scarf wrapped round his throat, but it couldn't quite hide the yellowing of old bruising. Duke had said that the lad had a grudge. He had turned him up after Yul had admitted that Charlie Wilson had expressed some interest in acquiring stolen Jags. 'Said you was interested in a bit of work. Digging.'

  'Might be.'

  'Can I get you a drink?'

  The kid pointed at his glass, which was still a third full. 'Double Diamond.'

  'Coming right up.'

  'And a Teacher's,' the lad added quickly.

  Another one with a sudden attack of nerves, Billy thought. No doubt his throat was drying and his palms sweating as he realised what he was about to do. The enormity of it. The finality. Billy didn't blame him. No matter what he had done to him, it took some balls to grass up Charlie Wilson.

  'All right, Derek,' Billy said, as if granting a condemned man his last wishes. 'Whatever you want.'

  Ten

  Red Lion pub, Derby Gate, November 1962

  'There's something going down at the airport!' Billy Naughton wanted to yell as he walked into the Red Lion. 'And we're fuckin' on to it!'

  The Lion was the Squad's designated pub, an act of apartheid that was respected by lesser coppers, who tended to use the Gate or the King Edward. It was also acknowledged by Squad chief Ernest Millen, who might come in to celebrate a good collar with a half, but generally left the Lion as somewhere for his team to let off a bit of steam.

  Billy began to push through to the bar, where it looked as if a session was beginning. A fug of blue smoke hovered over the three-deep crowd. Someone was singing 'Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend' in a terrible falsetto. There was a television, tuned to a Brian London fight, but nobody seemed to be watching. The rough-edged but brave heavyweight had lost his crown as British boxing's favourite son to the more polished Henry Cooper. London, though, was staking his resurrection on a forthcoming bout with Ingemar Johansson. By the look of it the contest on the television was a warm-up for that, because London was hammering an opponent who seemed unable to come back at him, despite London 's famously lax defence. Cannon fodder, Billy decided, and looked away.

  'How's it going, son?' someone asked.

  Billy turned. It was DI Jack Slipper, a tall, erect, military- looking man who had come through a similar path to Billy – Hendon then the suburbs, then CID – a decade earlier. He was known as a diligent detective who, belying his clipped, stuffy appearance, was prepared to bend rules and take the odd risk. Although, like Butler, not strictly part of the Squad, he had been given a floating role by the Yard's chief, Commander George Hatherill, which was why he was tolerated in the Red Lion. 'Fine, Skip.'

  Slipper's moustache twitched, like some insect's antenna. 'Have you got something on the boil?'

  How could he know that? 'I might have.'

  Slipper nudged him and Billy caught a clove-heavy whiff of Bay Rum cologne. 'Now, now. I bumped into Duke. He said you'd been busy. Wouldn't tell me what. Said it's your shout.'

  Nothing got past Slipper. What they had gleaned from Derek Anderson meant putting a team together to watch the airport. It was a big number, tying up a lot of manpower, and calling on many elements of C Division. Soon it would be Billy's baby no more, but orchestrated by Commander Hatherill and Tommy Butler with someone, perhaps even Jack Slipper, in charge on the ground. He might as well enjoy the feeling of power while he could. 'Once I write it up.'

  'Please y'self, son. What you having?' Slipper asked. Well past the six-foot mark, the DI towered over the crush at the bar and could easily attract the barmaid's attention. He fetched

  Billy a pint of bitter and they moved to the side of the melee, up against the panelled wall, beneath the old Punch cartoon of Churchill clinging to Big Ben, swatting Messerschmitts from the sky, like King Kong on the Empire State.

  Billy raised his dimpled glass. 'Thanks, Skip.'

  'How's Duke?'

  'Yeah,' Billy said. 'Magic.'

  'Be careful, son. Good copper is Duke,' Slipper said, 'but not perfect.'

  Billy supped his pint. 'Who is, Skip? Apart from you?'

  Slipper grinned. 'Tommy Butler.'

  'Oh yeah.'

  'Although even he…' Slipper stopped, as if talking out of turn. Then he lowered his voice. 'The word is Tommy might be moving into Millen's seat. He's a different animal. He'd rather a verbal than a fingerprint. Old-fashioned, methodical police- work, that's what he likes. Nothing involving a microscope or men with little brushes. Not sure he even trusts something as modern as photographs.' They both laughed. Buder was certainly an odd one. Still lived with his mum. But he could catch a thief, that was for sure. 'So what is it you've got?'

  Billy decided he could afford to give Slipper a taster. 'It's just a snout with a score to settle.'

  Slipper downed his whisky. 'Promising. I like it when thieves fall out. Right – got to get back. I'm on SPECRIMS.' This meant he had to return to the Yard and check the Serious Crime reports on the internal police communication system before he could call it a night. If he found anything important enough he might well return to c
lear the pubs with an all-hands-to-the-pumps order. 'You come and see me tomorrow, eh? We'll tidy up whatever you've got before we pass it along to your Guv'nor.'

  CID helping a green Flying Squad boy write his report? Unheard of. But he would be a fool to turn it down. 'Right, Skip, thanks. I will.'

  Another singer started up with 'I Wanna Be Loved By You'. The drinkers at the bar joined in the boo-boo-be-doo chorus.

  Billy looked up at Jack, puzzled.

  'Haven't you heard, son?' the older man said. 'Roy Foster is starting the Marilyn Monroe Memorial Drinking Club.'

  At Ronnie Scott's Club in the basement of 39 Gerrard Street, Stan Tracey and the band were mining a piece by Thelonious Monk, excavating the quirky chord sequences with a dogged invention that had Scott himself – the co-owner – nodding from his place at the bar. The club being the size it was – it had been a bolthole for gypsy cabbies to have coffee and cigarettes between fares – this meant Ronnie was virtually on the stage with the players.

  Although Zoot Sims, Dexter Gordon and a talented but cantankerous sax-player called Lucky Thompson had all graced the tiny venue in the past few months, there were no big names on the bill that night, just homegrown talent. This meant the club was relatively quiet, which suited Bruce, who had called the meet, just fine.

  He sat at the rear, at one of only two rough tables, alternating watching the band with admiring the woman sitting on a stool next to Ronnie in her black, sleeveless and mostly backless dress, smoking a cigarette as if it were an erotic act. Actually, the way Janie Riley smoked a Sobranie was an erotic act. She could get a slot at Raymond's Revue Bar, just by lighting up and blowing smoke, any night of the week.

  Charlie Wilson came and sat down next to Bruce and ordered a beer. He listened to the band for a few moments with his face screwed into concentration. 'When does the tune start?'

  'About one a.m. usually,' said Bruce. The club was only licensed until eleven – for the first few months of its life the strongest drinks on offer were coffee or a lemon tea – but musicians often gathered after-hours, especially tyros looking for impromptu tuition and false-fingering tips from Ronnie.

  'I had to join to get in,' Charlie complained. 'Never had to join a club in me life.'

  'It's in a good cause.' Bruce had often spoken to the guv'nor, as they called Ronnie, and knew how precarious it was running a jazz club. Ronnie claimed he and his partner got together on Sunday afternoon every week and decided whether they could afford to reopen on Monday or if they should just hand back the keys. Their hunger for cash meant that getting past Pete King on the door without shelling out for membership was a feat in itself, even for a hard man like Charlie. 'Besides, there's one thing you never get in here.'

  Charlie cocked an ear to the spiky runs coming from the stage. 'Melody?' he offered.

  Bruce had to smile. 'Old Bill.'

  Charlie grunted. It was true that most of the clip joints, strip clubs and drinking dens in Soho were subject to random visits by coppers, either looking for information or a few quid. Some of the West End Central boys were regulars at the Flamingo, Murray 's Cabaret and the Kismet. So were various politicians, judges, hacks, and even members of the clergy, the hypocritical bastards. But the kind of real jazz played at Ronnie's kept most of them away.

  'Where've you been?' Bruce asked.

  There was no reply. Charlie had clocked Janie Riley and was craning his neck. Bruce was well aware that Charlie was a fervent family man, doting on Pat and his daughters, but once in Soho he would take a run at anything that didn't have a dick between its legs.

  'Oi. Get your eyes off her. Where've you been?'

  'Geisha Club.'

  That was round the corner in Old Compton Street, a mix of a cabaret and a hostess bar that, like Murray 's, turned a blind eye to how the girls earned a little extra on the side. Charlie, of course, never paid for any of the 'specials'.

  'Anything happening?'

  'New act called Ding Dong Belle,' said Charlie, taking a slug of his drink. 'Covered in these little bells. She lets you ring them as they come off. Ends up with just three. You can guess where.' He was looking at Janie Riley again, his eyes glistening with lust. 'She's really nice. Classy. Looks like Audrey Hepburn – only after a good feed-up.'

  Roy was the last of the three to enter the club, just as Stan Tracey gave his final two-fisted flurry of Monk. Ronnie grabbed the microphone and waited for the applause to fade. 'That was Stan Tracey, the thinking man's Winifred Atwell, with Tony Crombie on drums and Mr Jeff Clyne on bass. There will be a short break now while we give the piano the kiss of life. We'll be back in fifteen minutes when we will be auditioning a young saxophone-player called Ronnie Scott. Please treat him kindly as he only got his horn out of hock today. If any of you blokes want something to eat after the show I can recommend a Chinese place called Yung Poon Tang along the street. If you want food, try our sandwiches. After all, a million flies can't be wrong.' He flashed a lopsided grin at the baffled audience and walked off.

  Ronnie nodded to Bruce as he strolled by and climbed the rickety stairs. Ronnie liked to gamble, which meant he knew some of the same Soho faces as Bruce. 'There's a lot in common between jazz and what you do,' the guv'nor often said. 'Insecurity, never knowing where the next payday is coming from and the hours are bleedin' awful.'

  Roy got himself a Heineken from the bar and sat down as the drums of Art Blakey snapped out from the PA. 'All right, gents?' He gestured back up the stairs. 'I had to join to get in.'

  'Apparendy it's all in a good cause,' said Charlie, pointing at Ronnie's back. 'They're saving up to buy the owner a joke book.'

  Roy looked around at the dingy basement. 'I was talking to Dave Hill at the Steering Wheel Club up Shepherds Market. Dave bloody Hill, eh.' He was clearly disappointed to be pulled away from a chat with a Ferrari driver to a subterranean dive in Soho playing jittery bebop.

  'Steve there?' Bruce said casually. They had seen McQueen take a credible third, behind Christabel Carlisle, in a Mini at Brands Hatch. No doubt the American was annoyed to be beaten by a woman, albeit one that Roy considered a great driver regardless of sex. The actor had spun out in the next race, although he had shown great control not flipping the tiny car. Unfortunately, despite Roy pulling a few strings, he hadn't managed to engineer a meeting between Bruce and the actor. The thief had hidden his disappointment, although not well.

  'Nah, he's gone back over to Germany. He's filming some prisoner-of-war movie.'

  'How'd it go with the gates?' Bruce asked, getting down to business.

  'Gordy has bought the biggest pair of bolt-cutters I have ever seen. Honest. He could slice through Tower Bridge with them. He's going to cut the chain the night before. By the look of it, nobody ever goes near it, so it should be all right.'

  Bruce didn't like that. In his experience 'should be all right' often came back to bite you on the arse. 'I'll have a word with him.'

  'How is it with you two?' Roy asked, looking from one to the other.

  'All in hand,' said Bruce. 'Harry, Ian and Tiny Dave are coming along as muscle.' Dave's nickname was ironic; he was an ex-weighlifter who looked as if he had accidentally left a set of barbells in the sleeves of his jacket. 'They'll be on a drink.' Which meant the heavies would get a fixed fee, not a share.

  'Good.' Roy drank his beer, wondering why Bruce had called the meet. There didn't seem much to discuss. Especially as there was no Gordy or Buster. He felt a little trickle of fear and ran back over the last few weeks. Had he done anything wrong? Upset somebody? 'Is everything all right, Bruce?'

  Bruce moved his head from side to side and sucked air through his teeth. He then rubbed one side of his mouth, as if he was suffering from a bad attack of nerves, something he was usually immune to. Charlie took a swig from his bottle and shot Roy a quizzical glance. With relief, Roy realised that Charlie Wilson had no idea what was coming either.

  'I got a favour to ask, Roy.' He turned to Charlie. 'And as the tickle was your f
ind, I thought you ought to hear it.'

  Charlie nodded to show he appreciated the respect.

  'What is it?' asked Roy

  'Bit late in the day, I know, but I want to bring someone new in. Not part of any of our firms.'

  Roy began to peel the label off the Heineken. 'Well, that's down to you, Bruce, isn't it?'

  'Thing is, I'd like them to ride with you. In the Jag.'

  Roy tore another strip from the gummed label and rolled it into a ball. Someone to keep an eye on him, perhaps? Had they lost faith in him – or in Mickey Ball? 'Who is it?'

  Bruce looked up and snapped his fingers to get her attention above Wayne Shorter's tenor sax. Janie Riley slid off her stool and walked over towards the three men, a mischievous smile plastered over her pretty face.

  Eleven

  Headley, Surrey, May 1992

  The police had brought in one of those long white squared- off caravans to use as an incident room and parked it up at the gates to the driveway that led to Roy's house. It was an impressive pile, 1930s by the look of it, the front door boastfully porticoed, the green tiles of the roof glowing verdigris in the moonlight. I couldn't help wondering who, or what, had paid for it. This was the stockbroker belt, but Roy was no stockbroker or rock star, the other cashed-up profession that had moved into the area.

  Neither of the two coppers in the front of the Panda car had spoken during the trip, which was fine by me. I needed time to get my brain into some kind of gear.

  I stepped out and examined the road. It was the kind lined with high walls and hedges, and the driveways came with solid wooden gates to deter prying eyes; this was an area where an Englishman's home was his castle, and the residents wished they still came with moats. And boiling oil.

  Bill Naughton was waiting for me outside the caravan, older, stouter, greyer, a cigarette in his mouth, rubbing his hands against the chill of the small hours. As I stepped out, I wished I'd brought more than a thin jacket. It was heading for 3 a.m. Wasn't that meant to be the hour when your metabolism was at its lowest, the perfect time for Gestapo raids and interrogations?