The Madeiran Double Cross

by Sally Spencer

  “You always told me that the best time to spot a weakness in the security is when they’re busy,” Mason said. “So I thought, with the Christmas rush … But maybe I’m wrong.”

  “No, you’re not wrong,” Elsie said, and there was some warmth towards him in her smile this time. “I keep forgetting how much I’ve taught you. Christmas would be excellent.”

  “So I could go up on the nineteenth or twentieth, stay until Christmas Eve, and be back in time for my turkey and three veg.”

  “That’s right, Frank,” Elsie said.

  If he’d had a tail, he thought, she would have expected him to wag it.

  He was both pleased and vaguely disturbed. The conversation had gone as well as he could have hoped – or had it gone too well? He would have been happier if Elsie had put up just a little more resistance.

  *

  The window into the staff toilet of the video warehouse was so small that they hadn’t bothered to connect it up to the main alarm system; so small that it even almost defeated Half Nelson, who spent fifteen minutes twisting and grunting before he was finally through.

  Once inside, it was simply a matter of walking into the store, picking up a machine, going back to the toilet, and handing it through the window to Roadie O’Brien. Then, while Nelson went back to get another one, Roadie nipped up the alley with the first, and deposited it in the stolen laundry van. The operation took around a minute per machine.

  As Portuguese Pedro had said when they’d met in the pub a couple of days earlier, this kind of job was strictly ‘chickens’ feed’ – but at least it paid the rent.

  “Thirty,” Roadie said, after about half an hour. “That’ll do. There’s no point in pushing our luck.”

  He disappeared into the darkness with the last machine.

  Nelson stood on the toilet seat, and leant towards the window. Arms and head first, then twist and turn until the right shoulder was clear. His feet groped blindly backwards, searching for the sink and a few inches extra height, but as he wriggled, he felt the basin start to come away from the wall.

  He got his left shoulder free at the same moment as the support behind him collapsed with a loud crash. His legs were left hanging in the air, and a cold jet of water shot up his trouser leg.

  Shit! Where the bloody hell was Roadie?

  He tried to get his feet back on the toilet seat, and if he had been just a little bit bigger, he would have made it.

  Try something else.

  He put his hands against the outside wall, and pushed. It hurt like hell, but it was working. His trunk began slowly to slide out. Until he came to his bloody hips! They wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard he pushed. Exhausted by his effort, he took his hands away from the wall, and the upper half of his body jack-knifed.

  There may be worse situations than hanging upside down, with your nose almost touching the brickwork, while, at the same time, your legs are being soaked by broken water pipes – but Nelson could not remember ever being in one. It was a relief to hear footsteps approaching down the alley.

  “For Christ’s sake, Roadie,” he whispered, “give me a pull, can’t you?”

  Two hands grasped him, one on each shoulder, but instead of pulling, they lifted. On his way back to the horizontal, Nelson noticed that though Roadie had been wearing a black nylon anorak minutes earlier, his rescuer’s sleeves were serge – blue serge. He raised his head and found himself looking into a familiar face.

  “Evening, Sergeant Roberts,” he said.

  “Evening, Halfie,” Roberts replied amiably. “You’re nicked, my son.” He gently lowered Nelson back into the position in which he’d found him. “I'm just going to get the car,” he said. “You won’t run away, will you?”

  *

  “Could I have a cigarette, please, Sergeant Roberts?” Nelson asked.

  “You don’t want to start smoking, Halfie,” Roberts said. “It’ll stunt your growth.”

  “Very funny, Sergeant Roberts,” Nelson said.

  It was not the first time he had heard the joke.

  Roberts slid his packet of Silk Cut across the interview room table. Nelson lit one, and greedily sucked in the smoke.

  “You know,” the policeman continued, “I used to think they called you Half Nelson because of your size. But that’s not the reason, is it? It’s because …” he paused to give his delivery greater effect, “… if it’s not nailed down, you’ll half-inch it.”

  “Ha, ha,” Nelson laughed obediently.

  That was not a new line to him either.

  “So,” Roberts continued conversationally, “what do you think you’ll get this time. A five stretch? Eight? You are a habitual criminal, you know.” He shook his head sadly. “Eight years inside is a long time for a little feller like you.”

  Nelson licked his lips nervously. "I don’t suppose … I mean … if I told you something useful, would you put in a word for me with the prosecuting brief?”

  “You know me, Halfie,” Roberts replied. “I’m always willing to oblige an old friend – as long as the old friend is willing to oblige me in return.”

  Nelson searched his mind, picking on titbits to feed to Roberts, rejecting them, and looking for better ones.

  “That lorry hijack in Clapham,” he said at last. “I’ve heard it was Manchester Mike and Billy Trench.”

  “I’ve heard that too,” Roberts said easily. “Got any proof?”

  Nelson shook his head.

  “Then it’s not much use, is it?” Roberts asked. “Certainly not enough to make me bust a gut helping you.”

  “Frank Mason's planning another job.”

  “Is he?” said Roberts, looking interested now. “And where did you get that particular piece of information from?”

  “Portuguese Pedro. He’s on Frank’s team.”

  Roberts slammed his hand down on the table in annoyance.

  “Come on now, Halfie,” he said. “You can’t expect me to swallow that.”

  “It’s true!” Nelson said. “Honest to God. I saw him in The Crown the other night. He had a fist full of tenners – two or three hundred quid at least.”

  “Surprising,” Roberts agreed. “I’m amazed that little shit Pedro had any money at all. But it doesn’t prove he’s working with Mason.”

  “He told me himself,” Nelson persisted. “He wouldn’t have dared say it if he wasn’t.”

  “But would he have dared say it if he was?” Roberts asked. “Still, that's better than all that crap about Manchester Jack. You’ve earned half a brownie point so far, Halfie. What else have you got?"

  *

  “I’m just an honest businessman,” Arthur Daley, the dodgy car dealer protested.

  “Oh, are you, Daley? Are you indeed?” demanded the actor playing Sergeant Chisholm.

  Sergeant Scott grunted in disgust, and flicked the television over to Channel Four, only to find himself in the middle of a comedy sketch about a policeman who couldn’t tell his arse from his elbow.

  He switched the set off.

  Typical, he thought, that on his one night off, everything on the box seemed to be taking the piss out of the police. Maybe Chief Superintendent Gower was right; maybe they’d never get the respect they deserved until they stopped pussyfooting about and showed everybody what hard bastards they could really be. One thing was certain – if he wanted to get on in the next three years, then it was only Gower’s rules that mattered.

  The phone rang. He picked it up.

  “Malcolm?” said the voice on the other end. “Andy Roberts here. Sorry to disturb you at home …”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Scott replied.

  It didn’t – not if it was about work. He was quite prepared to give his job all his time, on and off duty.

  “I’ve just booked a little no-count called Halfie Nelson. You might like to come down here and see him. He seems to know something about your mate Frank Mason.”

  “Are you sure this little creep – what’s-his-name – Nelson, wa
sn’t just feeding you a line?” Scott asked.

  “Pedro may not actually be working for Mason,” Roberts said carefully, “but I’ve just put Nelson through three hours of interrogation, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he believes he is.”

  *

  It was the first time Scott had ever been in Gower’s office. It was an easy place to find, the standard Force joke went – you go past the men looking vaguely worried, turn left at those showing quiet desperation and when you reach the ones who seem positively suicidal, you’re there.

  The office didn’t stink exactly, but it bore the smell of almost full-time occupation. Yet there were no personal touches like there were in other offices – no pictures of wife and kids, no flowers, not even posters on the wall. Nothing at all, except for a group of photographs pinned to the notice board – and though it would be true to say that they were there for personal reasons, there was certainly no affection attached to them.

  Gower strode over to the notice board now, and pointed to a black and white print.

  “That’s Mason when I first pulled him in, fifteen years ago,” he said. His finger moved on. “This one was taken about the time of the Hampstead job in ‘83. This is the most recent one – last year.”

  There were twenty-five or thirty pictures, none of them official.

  “Study that face, sergeant,” Gower said. “He may be a brute, but he’s no fool. If he is using Portuguese Pedro, there’s got to be a reason for it.”

  “How do you mean, sir?”

  “Pedro’s a bleeding idiot,” Gower said. “So if he’s on the team, it must mean that the job calls for a bleeding idiot.”

  “Shall we pull Pedro in, sir?” Scott asked. “Put a bit a bit of pressure on him?”

  Gower shook his head disgustedly.

  “You young coppers,” he said. “Put the boot in first and think later, that’s your motto.”

  “I’m sure he’d talk, sir.”

  “Well of course he’d bloody talk – because he’s nothing but a little wanker! But what would you learn? You’d find out about a job Frank had been planning, but which he’d have called off the second you collared Pedro.”

  “So what do we do, sir?”

  “Better to wait till there’s a raid with Mason’s MO all over it. Then the little Portuguese turd will know something worth pulling him in for. And sergeant, once you have got him inside you can be as rough as you like, and I’ll be willing to swear under oath that I saw him fall down the steps on the way to the interrogation room.”

  He leant forward and examined another photograph of Mason, this one with Tony. The two men had their arms around each other’s shoulders, and Mason was looking at Tony and smiling affectionately.

  “Oh, you can smile, you bastard.” Gower said, “but you won’t make a fool of me for much longer.”

  He placed his thumb on the picture, so that the nail dissected Mason’s face. He pressed harder, then slowly – deliberately – began to twist. He removed his thumb, there was only a hole where Mason’s head had been.

  When he turned round, his glassy eyes were bulging and his toad-like mouth had a venomous twist. Scott coughed discreetly, and watched as his superior slowly returned to normal.

  “If we lived in a decent society, sergeant – one that had real respect for law and order – we’d have the manpower to keep Mason under twenty-four hour surveillance,” Gower said. “As things are, since there are more bloody social workers than there are policemen, we’ll have to settle for less. Put men on him whenever they’re available.”

  “I’ll watch him myself, when I’m off-duty, sir,” Scott said.

  Gower grunted, as if that was already understood.

  “I want regular reports,” he said, “not through your DCI, but straight to me.” He flipped his address book, scribbled down a number on his pad and handed it to Scott. “I go on leave on the nineteenth of December. If anything breaks while I’m away, you can reach me there.”

  “I’ve already got your home number, sir.”

  “Aye, well, I won’t be there, will I?” Gower said belligerently. “I’m going on holiday.”

  Gower on holiday?

  Gower getting, away from it all?

  Scott found the idea so incredible that he let it show on his face.

  “Find that surprising, do you, sergeant?” Gower asked. His mouth, like an open wound, was set in a sarcastic smile.

  “No, sir … I …”

  “It’s for health reasons. When you’ve been up to your neck in shit for as long as I have, some of it’s bound to end up on your chest.” He coughed, then spat a huge wodge of green phlegm into the wastepaper basket. “So that arsehole of a police doctor gave me two choices, didn’t he? Get away to a warmer climate once every winter, or start thinking about early retirement. I trust you think I made the right decision.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Scott felt hot under the collar. He glanced down at the number Gower had given him. A lot of digits – the old bastard wasn’t going to Torquay, that was for sure.

  “Spain, sir?” he asked.

  “No,” Gower replied. “A small island off Africa. Name of Madeira.”

  SEVEN

  It was freezing in the car, but there was no way of heating it without turning on the engine, and Nigel didn't dare do that. Besides, it was not only the cold that made him shiver —it was also the thought of what Mason would do if he found him there.

  The first time he had done this, he had followed Linda on foot, dodging behind parked cars whenever she stopped to light a cigarette. And then she’d disappeared into the house in Matlock Road – she had her own key, the bitch! – and he’d been left in the street, feeling vulnerable and exposed.

  Now, it was easier. He could always tell when Linda was due to attend one of these meetings – there was an edginess about her that was a complete give-away – and he’d borrow a car and get here ahead of her.

  He heard footsteps, and looked out of the window to see a ridiculous swaggering figure in high-heeled boots walking down the street. The Portuguese chap. With the ones already in the flat, that made four.

  Mason and Tony Horton were at all the meetings Linda attended, but the composition of the rest of the group varied. He could recognize them all by sight now, and though he could not put names to the faces, that didn’t really matter, did it?

  Someone else was coming – the thickset man with grey hair. A jailbird, Nigel was sure of it. He could tell by the way the man walked – short careful steps, as if he were afraid he would suddenly run out of pavement.

  The man rang the bell. Nigel could not see who opened the door for him, only that the man seemed reluctant to go in.

  Doesn’t like enclosed spaces, Nigel thought to himself.

  That was probably all of them. Now there was nothing to do but wait until they came out again, and Nigel found himself wondering whether, tonight, there was even any point in doing that.

  He looked down the street, assessing conditions. It was a filthy night, bitterly cold. The freezing fog swirled around the lampposts, trapping them, smothering them. He shivered, and an involuntary spasm ran the whole length of his body.

  It was then that he saw the figure – a vague black shape standing perfectly still. He sat, mesmerized, for five long minutes, and in that time the figure never moved.

  It seemed to be watching the house, just like he was. Then, suddenly, he realized with horror that it was not the green front door that had the spectre’s attention, but the car – and him!

  As if it had read his thoughts, the figure began to drift slowly but inexorably towards him. The closer it got, the clearer its shape. Yet at the same time it became blacker – more menacing.

  I must go, he thought, his mind flooded with a torrent of panic. I must go.

  He willed himself to turn the ignition key. But fear had locked his hands to the steering wheel. He sat, trembling, as the awful form got closer and closer. Then a gloved hand knock
ed commandingly on the window, and, moving like a zombie, he wound it down.

  He had feared the figure would be a policeman – and now he saw who it actually was, he wished it had been.

  *

  It was to be the last meeting before the robbery. Pedro, sitting on the bed, looked around at the rest of the gang. Frankie, pinning a map on the artist’s easel he had brought with him; Linda, lying on the bed, showing all that leg – dirty cow; Tony-Boy standing by the door; Harry Snell, almost burying the tiny pink chair he was sitting on.

  Harry Snell. Harry Smell would be more like it – he had a stink of fear about him. Harry Smell. Yes, he liked that.

  “Right,” Frankie said, “let’s get started. Up till now, only me and Tony have known all the details …”

  But next time, whole new balls game, Pedro thought. Next time, after Frankie find out what a good job I do, he make me his Number Two and Tony-Boy can go screw himself.

  “Once you know the specifics, you’d better be very careful to keep your mouths shut, because I’ll personally cut the balls off anybody who repeats any part of this.”

  The other four nodded their heads gravely – and Pedro found himself wishing he hadn’t blabbed to Roadie O’Brien, Sid the bookie and Halfie Nelson.

  But it didn’t matter really matter, he assured himself. He hadn’t told them anything of importance – because he hadn’t known anything of importance.

  It was different now. Now, Frankie told them the name of the bank, the day of the robbery, and how they were going to pull it off.

  When he’d finished, Mason said, “Now we’ll go through it again, just to make sure we’ve got it right. Those of us involved in the actual robbery will be traveling separately to the island, and when you get there, you’re not to contact anybody else until the time agreed – which is when, Harry?”

  Harry Smell shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t know!

  Pedro put his hand up.

  “Yes, Pedro.”

  “The ones in the A Team meet at the car. The B Team meet them at the bank.”

  He said ‘B Team’ with special pride.

  “Good,” Frankie said. “Now are we sure we clear on this? Nobody sees anybody else until then. If you run into somebody accidentally, ignore them.”