by Danny Miller
Frost took out his notebook, and then frisked himself for the biro that was supposed to go with it. Anthony Dorking plucked a marbleized Montblanc fountain pen from his real marble desk set and handed it to Frost, who winced as he leaned over to take it.
‘OK?’
‘Back’s playing up. Thank you, I must remember not to steal this by mistake.’
‘I’ll set the hounds on you if you do.’ Frost believed him, for it was hard to believe they were in a government building and not in Dorking’s country pile. ‘I used to suffer with my back, to do with my height. I represented my school in the high jump; lots of Fosbury flops and awkward landings.’
‘Sounds like my life.’ Frost wrote down the name. ‘Conrad Wild, you say?’
‘With an “e” on the end.’
Frost added the ‘e’. ‘That’s quite a name to conjure with.’
‘He was quite a character to conjure with, too.’
‘Like Ivan?’
‘The polar opposite. Yet they complemented each other perfectly. The yin to his yang, if one goes in for Eastern philosophies. To understand Ivan, you need to understand Conrad Wilde. Where Ivan was small, plump, balding and somewhat professorial-looking, Conrad Wilde was tall, athletic and handsome. A leading man. In fact, rumour has it he was offered a film contract by Lew Grade on his good looks alone, and he did actually do some acting. But what really set him apart is that he was one of the best cat burglars in the business. He could climb anything and get in anywhere. The gossip was that he ran away to the circus as a child and did a high wire and trapeze act. He was fearless; the roofs of Belgravia were his sandpit. One of these real adventurer types, real Boy’s Own material. I even heard a rumour he once—’
‘I think I’ve heard enough rumours, Anthony, if you don’t mind. Do you have any facts?’
Dorking stubbed out his barely smoked cigarette in the crystal ashtray and pulled a face like it would be his last one. Frost took a long draw and carried on smoking.
‘Fair enough, but with cases like this, it’s hard to separate fact from fiction.’ Dorking leaned back again and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘But I’ll give you their MO as far as I know it. Ivan used to set up the jobs and buyers for the goods, and Conrad used to steal the goods. Simple, really. And the jobs were always big. The grandest country houses. The finest collections. Home and abroad. France, Switzerland, Monaco, Italy. Ivan never used to send Conrad in to just grab whatever glittered before his eyes. Ivan would target the items, always knowing what he wanted. In fact … rumour has it … he told Conrad only to take what he’d earmarked to be stolen. Used to rebuke him if he filled his pockets with other trifles, said it wasted his time, distracted him from his real purpose, thus upping his chances of getting caught. Of course, Ivan had the items sold before Conrad had even scaled a drainpipe, slipped through a window or dropped down a skylight. They seemed to always get what they were after, professionals of the highest order.’
‘You sound like you admire him – the pair of them, for that matter.’
‘Well, it does all have a touch of the Raffles about it, and it all happened in the ’60s, so I suppose it comes with rather a rosy glow of nostalgia about it. The way some see the Great Train Robbery through a mist of Robin Hood romanticism, but the truth was always a little more criminally prosaic. And so it was with Ivan and Conrad.’
‘But all good things, depending which side of the law you’re on, must come to an end?’
‘Exactly. They’d ridden their luck, but as you know, in life sometimes you make your own luck. And Ivan Fielding certainly did that.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Ivan was an informant. A select source. And a category A one. Ivan was very well connected, as I said. He may not have been much to look at, but he was quick-witted, highly intelligent and immensely charming. He had that uncanny ability to mix with anyone, and knew everyone from society highlife to East End lowlife, and everyone of interest in between. Remember, this was during the Cold War, the Profumo affair was just unravelling. Paranoia was in the air and rumours of espionage were rife. And London was a hotbed of spies. So Ivan not only had his hooks into the criminal underworld, but he also had the ear of the aristos, the intelligentsia and the smart set, around whom diplomats, visiting dignitaries and people of note tend to cluster. And they were all spies, or certainly a lot of them were. It wasn’t hard to be a spy in those days, everyone was at it.
‘He proved invaluable not only to Scotland Yard but also to Special Branch, and even the Secret Service. And in reward, the Yard and everyone else would turn a blind eye to his activities. After all, Fielding and Wilde stole from the rich, and the goods were more often than not returned to the owners, eventually. After they had been rinsed through the market and everyone had earned a profit. Ivan often brokered the deals himself.’
‘So he was getting it both ways?’
‘Exactly – the art and antiques world is a murky one, it must be said.’
‘I think I get the picture. So they rode the tiger’s tail, but then how did it end for them?’
‘Well, badly, as you’ve just told me about poor Ivan. I’d heard he’d left London and moved to the sticks, dropped off the radar and hadn’t been active since. At least fifteen years ago, maybe close to twenty. But at least he had his liberty, even if he did squander it. But Conrad wasn’t so lucky. He eventually got caught on a job and went to prison.’
Anthony Dorking gazed out of the fifth-floor window on to a view of very little, just another municipal block. He looked reflective, a little stumped.
‘What happened to Conrad?’
The DI considered this, then turned his attention back to Frost. ‘Rumour or fact?’
‘I’ll take either, seeing as they go together rather seamlessly in this case, like yin and yang?’
Dorking laughed and stubbed out his latest cigarette with a withering disgust. He dialled a couple of numbers and asked his secretary to find him the files on Ivan Fielding and Conrad Wilde. In the meantime, he told Frost what he knew about Conrad’s arrest and imprisonment. Which was very little.
‘To be honest, I’d moved out of London by then, so I’d lost touch. But it’s always interesting to hear about a blast from the past, even if it is sad news about Ivan.’ Dorking’s eyes swept the photos of the stolen goods on his desk again. ‘Still, every cloud has a silver lining, and these candlesticks really are a joy to behold. Can’t wait to see them in the metal, any idea when that will be?’
Frost’s mind was somewhere else. ‘We’ve got another blast from the past on our patch. Jimmy McVale, released from prison last month after seventeen years. Another ’60s face. Allegedly involved in the Bond Street job of ’67.’
Dorking raised his eyes from the photos and squinted in concentration. ‘Yes, yes, I read about his release. Nasty piece of work, from all accounts. Are you looking for a connection?’
‘Always. Never one to leave it up to coincidence.’
‘Then you’ll have to cast your net wide. Every major crook in London and beyond was rumoured to have been in the frame for that caper at one time or another. I even heard that it was the work of a French outfit, seeing as they had initially gained their access to Bond Street via the unused basement of the Yves Saint Laurent boutique.’
‘Was Conrad ever in the frame?’
‘No. Not his style. It was a gang of five or more, using heavy drilling machinery, an oxyacetylene torch, and lots of hard graft. If I recall correctly, it took them the whole bank holiday weekend to get through the walls. Conrad worked alone. He was daring enough, but he had a lighter touch. More of a Raffles than a Reynolds.’
‘Reynolds?’
‘Bruce Reynolds. Masterminded—’
‘The Great Train Robbery.’
Frost was about to ask something when there was a light knock on the door and the secretary entered, and promptly told Dorking that she couldn’t find a hard copy of the files, and that the database stated they were
‘under seal’ and ‘special measures’ and had been given a D-Notice. Frost and Dorking looked at each other. They knew that meant the information was highly sensitive, and could involve national security. It had to be kept away from the media, and could be looked at only by those with special clearance. Dorking thanked the secretary and she exited as quickly and efficiently as she’d entered.
Frost watched him closely as he lit up another Dunhill; he seemed to be mentally retracing his steps, scrolling back into the past. He pointed his index finger up at the heavens as if an idea had struck him.
‘Lionel, Captain Lionel Cavanagh, formerly of the Guards. He was Ivan’s handler at the Yard. Long retired now, lives in the Cotswolds, I believe, though don’t quote me on that. But I’m sure I can dig out his number somewhere. I’ll tell him what you’ve uncovered. I’m sure he’ll have the scoop on Conrad, and he’ll certainly want to know about Ivan. I think he was rather fond of him.’ Another thought struck him. ‘If he’s still alive, that is. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Lionel, and he enjoyed a tipple or ten himself.’ Dorking raked his fingers through his floppy fringe as his eyes flitted down to the five photos on the desk. ‘Meanwhile, you’ll certainly make a lot of people happy uncovering this little lot. When can we pick them up?’
‘We might need to keep hold of those for a while longer.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. The more this unfolds, the more I believe we have a murder enquiry on our hands.’
‘I trust they’re under lock and key?’
‘The usual security measures. They won’t go missing from the lost-and-found at Eagle Lane, it’s on the top floor. Where Eagles Dare, as we call it. Not even Conrad Wilde could get hold of them.’
Anthony Dorking looked doubtful about that.
Tuesday (4)
Jimmy McVale pulled up sharply. Took time to regain his breath. His stamina was still low, well off the mark for what he wanted it to be. Pumping weights in prison was one kind of fitness, but a long run in Denton Woods, out in the open, was another. As well as taking the opportunity to finish his second book, McVale was going to get in lots of long runs in the beautiful countryside he’d spoken so glowingly of, to anyone who would listen. It was a solid alibi.
He was on the edge of the woods now. He heard them long before he saw them. They were chanting, ‘WE’LL BRING JARRETT’S TO THEIR KNEES BEFORE THEY TOUCH OUR PRECIOUS TREES!’
As he looked about him, the cold January day didn’t seem bleak and grey in Denton Woods, it was multi-hued and verdantly alive and glorious. Before, it had been just a notion; now, in an instant, it was a deeply felt belief. He liked a good fight, maybe more than the next man, and this seemed like as good a one to join as any, for all sorts of reasons.
McVale ran over to the demonstration, and soon found himself in the thick of it. There were about two or three hundred protestors. The thin blue line of combined County police forces kept the crowd away from Jarrett & Sons Ltd’s onsite HQ, with its stacked Portakabin offices. Hard-hatted men in high-vis jackets walked about with rolled plans under their arms, trying to ignore the melee that they were fenced off from. There were rolls of razor wire festooning the high perimeter fence to ward off anyone who fancied scaling it. There were three yellow bulldozers lined up like tanks primed for destruction, and men stood ready with the lighter artillery of chainsaws. The battle lines were clearly drawn.
And there were TV vans and cameras rolling to capture the action.
McVale looked at those around him, young men in combat fatigues and black CRASS T-shirts and Mohican haircuts ready to get stuck in, given half a chance; but there were also older people, the kind who had gathered in Trafalgar Square to Ban the Bomb in the ’60s, and were probably more attuned to Gandhi than Guevara when it came to changing the world.
The ‘reformed’ villain hadn’t shouted so loudly since he was a nipper standing on the Millwall terraces at Cold Blow Lane, or when he led a handful of Cat A prisoners on to the roof at Parkhurst to protest the conditions and the brutality of the screws. They pelted the bastards with slates for six solid days until they ran out of roof to stand on.
‘Jimmy McVale!’
He turned to see Sandy Lane of the Denton Echo. He was with his pimply work-experience nephew, who as a photographer looked like he didn’t know one end of a camera from the other.
‘You said you’d be here, and here you are!’
‘It’s a disgrace,’ said Jimmy with a surge of indignant rage. ‘To destroy an inch of Denton Woods is truly a criminal act, a decimation of natural beauty, and we’re here to ensure that crime does not happen!’
Sandy Lane scribbled down the words of the eminently quotable ex-con in his notebook.
‘Go on, Degsy!’ came the cry from some of the more hardcore protestors, as a bottle got thrown over the fence of Jarrett & Sons.
Sandy Lane instructed his photographer to ‘get in there, son!’, pushing the fearful young man further into the crowd.
McVale surged forward and soon put himself at the front of the now baying mob, who were forcing the uniformed coppers to link arms and push back. Things were getting nasty, truncheons were being drawn.
‘KILL, KILL, KILL THE BILL! KILL, KILL, KILL THE BILL!’ was now the chant from the younger more militant members of the protest. Some more bottles, stones and other missiles were launched from the crowd into the blue line of coppers, a line that was looking frayed and weak as it became clear they’d misjudged the force of the opposition.
‘KILL, KILL, KILL THE BILL! KILL, KILL, KILL THE BILL!’
A black flag went up showing the interlocking emblem of CRASS. Then another, showing the scratchy encircled ‘A’ of Anarchy. What had been promised in the UK in ’76 seemed to be getting delivered in ’85. The Queen was never much of an enemy, benignly smiling up at you from your one-pound note when you collected your dole money. It was Maggie. She was the enemy. And Denton Woods was just a convenient battleground.
In amongst all the surging forward and pushing back, a copper, a young WPC, got pulled into the crowd, and blows rained down on her.
‘KILL, KILL, KILL THE BILL! KILL, KILL, KILL THE BILL!’
Jimmy McVale coursed forward, his red-tracksuited figure slicing its way through the muted colours of the protestors like a knife. He was soon in the eye of the storm – a storm that swirled around the young WPC. She was terrified, humiliated, and was getting hit and kicked as she fell to the ground, a ground of churned mud, her truncheon as useless in her hand as a dry twig.
McVale grabbed her, pulled her up from the mud, wrapped his arms around her and carried her through the hostile crowd, which was now overrun with black-T-shirted anarchists. One spiky-haired punk went to throw a punch at him, but McVale pulled his head back, like cocking the hammer of a gun, then he pressed the trigger and shot his forehead on to the bridge of his would-be attacker’s pierced nose. Blood exploded into the air. Other black-clad eco-warriors reeled back. They got the message. They were dealing with a different force here, someone used to the dreadful intimacies of violence, not just shouting and throwing things from the collective anonymity of the horde.
Just as McVale delivered the distressed young WPC into the hands of her colleagues and commanding officer, who were about to wade into the squall of the mob to save their fallen comrade, the camera flash popped. And Sandy Lane had his front page yet again. For the hack, the ex-public enemy number one was proving a godsend.
When Frost arrived back at Eagle Lane the first thing he saw was Desk Sergeant Bill Wells.
‘What you doing here, Bill, I thought you were on nights this week?’ said Frost in surprise.
‘You’ve not read the papers this morning, then?’ Bill Wells reached under the desk and pulled out the Denton Echo. ‘Mullett didn’t want it in the station, but saves me explaining what happened to Johnny.’ He handed it to the DI.
And there it was, splashed across the front page, Johnny Johnson stood next to convicted murderer, armed rob
ber, all-round arch criminal, and now apparently reformed character, Jimmy McVale. The image was obviously staged; Frost was there, saw what happened. Johnson got caught up in the moment with Sandy Lane barking instructions and setting the whole thing up, resulting in that ridiculous photo.
‘I take it the superintendent’s seen this?’
‘Sent Johnny home, suspended until further notice. But it looks bleak – ACC Winslow’s on Mullett’s case, apparently. Throwing Eagle Lane into disrepute is the accusation.’
Frost knew that Mullett was right. After all, even a broken clock is right twice a day. ‘I’ll have a word with the super when I can.’ Frost dropped the paper on the desk and went through to the incident room.
There was only one case that seemed to be taking up everyone’s attention: Operation Country Mile. On the long incident board, photos and names were pinned up; some had been taken at the site in Denton Woods, others, of known agitators who were expected to turn up, had been sent over from the police intelligence unit.
Frost looked at Rita at the computer, inputting new names into the database; her colourful fingers, each nail painted a different shade, were darting across the keyboard faster than Bobby Crush on amphetamines. Frost reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his packet of cigarettes, Dunhills. He remembered that for once he hadn’t nicked them, Anthony Dorking had given them to him as part of his long-running effort to give up. The DI looked at his team all beavering away, and wondered if this was the new face of policing. Everyone would be sat at their own computer, checking everyone who would be on the database. They’d be able to know what everyone was up to and their whereabouts 24/7 at a keystroke. Unless they had a D-Notice, like Ivan and Conrad.
Frost went over to Clarke’s desk. ‘Get your coat, you’ve pulled.’
‘That may be the best offer I’ve had all day. The get-my-coat bit, not the last bit.’
‘Got some interesting news about Ivan.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’ll tell you in the car on the way.’