Thief Taker

by Alan Scholefield

  “You’re not feared of that wee pimple are you?”

  In his anger Macrae’s childhood accent was taking over. “Of course not,” Wilson said. He tapped his stomach. “The doc thinks it’s an ulcer.”

  Macrae sat down, overflowing a small straight-backed chair, and sipped morosely at his drink. “Les, he’s just a bloody kid. Can’t be more than thirty-five.”

  “What else did he talk about?”

  “Boozy lunches.”

  “I said so.”

  “And Eddie.”

  “Aah. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Listen, Eddie’s been driving me ever since the old Murder Squad days. No one knows the routes better. Saves us hours. According to you saving money’s everything. And time’s money.”

  “Can’t help it. I let you get away with that. Scales isn’t going to.”

  “Fuck Scales. You know as well as I do that Eddie would’ve been out on early retirement years ago if it hadn’t been for me. I got him tucked away in that filing job.”

  “You can argue as much as you like but — ”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Les…”

  The two men had known each other since they were coppers on the beat, had watched each other’s backs, had spent Christmases together and gone on holidays together. Now they sat in an uneasy silence. Both were thinking the same thoughts. If Macrae’s personality had been different, he would have been sitting behind the Deputy Commander’s desk. Instead he didn’t even have Wilson’s rank.

  “Aah…to hell with it,” Macrae said and poured himself another drink.

  “Did he talk about promotion?”

  “Aye. He thinks a computer course would work wonders. Well, he can stuff that.”

  “Did he talk about the Healey investigation?”

  “Not a word. Murder’s not his speed. I checked his background. His experience at senior level has been in communications, complaints, training. Steering committees. And courses. Every bloody course you can think of. Twelve months as an inspector in Thames Valley then back to the Met. I bet you he’s never even made an arrest. And he talks about the “sharp end”…“the cutting edge”…!” Wilson’s eyes flicked nervously round the room as though he expected to see Scales standing in a comer listening.

  “Don’t underestimate him. He’s a clever lad so they say. Anyway, what gives?”

  Macrae filled him in on what they’d found out so far. “What about this girl the old lady saw? The one running from his house?”

  “Could have been a tart,” Macrae said. “The old lady said there were a lot of female visitors. I’ll see Rambo about her.”

  “You still using him?”

  “From time to time.”

  “Watch him, George, I don’t trust him.”

  “He’s a criminal, Les. They’re not supposed to be trustworthy.”

  Wilson waved his hand in the air. “You know what I mean. Anyway, what else?”

  “The ex-wife was out of town.”

  “Alibi?”

  “She gave us a name but we had to squeeze her for it. There’s also a daughter in the West Country. We’re going to see her.”

  “By train, George.”

  Macrae screwed back the top of the bottle and picked up the glasses. “They’ve got new drugs for ulcers now. You take them and you can drink what you like.”

  “Put it under your jacket! Christ, if he saw you coming out of my office with — ”

  “All right, all right.”

  Macrae went to his own office and flicked through the messages from the incident room. The post-mortem was scheduled for the following day, but it looked definite that the wrench was the murder weapon.

  He picked up the phone and put through a call to Eddie Twyford in the clerks’ office.

  “Yes?” Eddie said.

  They arranged for Eddie to pick him up in Battersea early in the morning.

  “Can you tell me where we’re going?”

  “All over the bloody place. The West Country. Surrey. That’ll do for starters.”

  “Right, guv’nor. I’ll be there.”

  Eddie leaned back in his chair. The West Country. He wondered what it was like. He didn’t trust the countryside.

  CHAPTER IX

  Silver was lucky to find a parking place outside his apartment. The time was round 8.30 and the evening was cold. He let himself into the communal hall on the ground floor, picked up his post from the hall table — brown envelopes — and was about to start up the stairs when he remembered he hadn’t signalled to Zoe. He stuffed the post into his pocket, went back, rang two shorts and a long on his own bell and then went up the stairs to the top floor maisonette. He unlocked the three deadlocks, went in, relocked them, threw the bolt.

  “Leo?” Zoe called from upstairs.

  “I’m back.”

  He dropped his jacket and went up into the open-plan living room/dining room/kitchen. The smell was wonderful.

  “What are we having?”

  “Pollo al ajo.”

  “What?”

  The noise was prodigious. Zoe had tremendous passions and her passion this month was for Handel’s Alcina. Sutherland’s voice was overpowering in the small kitchenette.

  Leo turned down the volume. “What’s polio whatever?”

  “Hello, darling, lovely to see you. That’s what we say when we come in from work. Not “What are we having?””

  “Hello, darling, lovely to see you. Get your clothes off.”

  “That’s my boy. Chicken with garlic. And speaking of clothes, now or later?”

  “Why don’t we take a bottle of that Australian white to bed and have our drinks there.”

  “Naughty.”

  “And then come back and eat and watch an old movie.”

  “Leo, you have such wonderful ideas. Is this a kind of Jewish thing?”

  “What?”

  “Fucking and eating and eating and fucking.”

  “Sure.”

  They went down to the bedroom and took a bottle of cold white wine and drank it and made love and lay with their arms around each other and listened to their stomachs rumbling.

  “Come on, let’s eat,” Zoe said.

  She put on a kimono that was quite transparent. “Just in case there’re seconds,” she said. “Girl guides be prepared.”

  “Don’t push your luck. I’ve had quite a day.”

  She had been asleep when he came in the previous night and now, as they ate, he told her about the murder from the beginning, including the bits about Mr Hay and Lady Hickson he’d stored up for her.

  Then he told her what he knew about Macrae and Scales and about the whisky. “He’s got a built-in self-destruct mechanism.”

  “Why do you stay with him then?”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “That’s a bit incestuous, isn’t it?”

  For a long time she had never wanted to hear anything against Macrae. Or about the police in general. That was because of what had happened to her. But she’d got over that, or at least she wasn’t having nightmares any longer. Her neurosis had been replaced by ambition for him; the same ambition his mother nursed. Onward and upward with the Met.

  “You can’t just go on being Macrae’s little boy.”

  “No. But at the moment it suits me fine. He has more contacts in the criminal world than any other copper in the Force. Things happen around him.”

  “They must happen around other people.”

  “He’s like a honey trap.”

  “Leo, you’ve got your own life.”

  They finished dinner and put on an old black and white movie and sat on the sofa. She curled up against him.

  But he could not concentrate. How could he explain about Macrae? His thoughts went back to his own beginnings in the Force. It was only a few years ago but seemed like a lifetime.

  I solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that I will well and truly serve our Sovereign Lady the Queen in the Office of Const
able without favour or affection, malice or ill-will, and that I will, to the best of my power, cause the peace to be kept and preserved…”

  That was the oath he had sworn at the Hendon Police College.

  And that’s what he’d done — caused the peace to be preserved. The Queen’s peace. He loved that phrase. It sounded more Elizabethan than contemporary. The kind of phrase Raleigh or Drake might have used.

  He remembered the section house in London where he had first lived as a probationer. He remembered the lectures on the possibility of contracting AIDS and hepatitis from prisoners and how the police were more worried about the latter than the former because just about every tart in London was a hepatitis carrier.

  And he remembered the money.

  Soon after he had passed out of college he was deluged with letters about money. They came from banks and credit agencies offering what seemed like limitless credit on easy terms. They said it was because he was trustworthy, because he was a policeman.

  The other young cops were spending money as though it was going out of fashion. So did he. It was the first time in his life he had had a cheque book. His wallet was stuffed with credit cards. He bought sharp clothes and a car and went on holiday to Portugal.

  And then all of a sudden he was getting different letters from the banks and the credit agencies and these weren’t friendly at all.

  This was soon after he had left the uniformed branch and gone into the CID. It was the first time he had met Macrae. They had been on a job near London Airport and Macrae had intercepted a message for him from a debt-collecting agency.

  Macrae had taken him for a drink and said, “Tell me about it, laddie.”

  He’d told him.

  Macrae had said, “It’s an offence in the police to get into debt. Give me your cheque book and your cards.”

  Macrae had bent and broken up the credit cards and put the cheque book in his pocket. He’d told Silver to sell the car and put aside money to pay off his debts. He was as tough as hell. When Silver needed a new pair of socks or a pair of shoes he had to go to Macrae, who would tear out one cheque, make it out, and Silver would sign it.

  In fourteen months he was in the black again and Macrae gave him back his cheque book.

  There were no guns or knives involved. Macrae hadn’t saved his life or done anything dramatic. But it was important. He would never forget. He owed him.

  They were both almost asleep when the movie ended. “You want anything?” Zoe said. He shook his head. “Let’s go to bed then.”

  They went down the stairs to the bedroom on the floor below. Silver had flung his jacket down on a chair and it had slipped on to the rug. Zoe bent to pick it up and in doing so saw the letters sticking out of the pocket.

  “Is this all the post?”

  “Yeah. Only bills.”

  “Gas. Electricity. Garage.” She handed them to him. Then she frowned at the last envelope. It was addressed to “Zoe” and carried no stamp. She opened it but it was empty.

  “There’s writing on the back flap,” she said.

  “What’s it say?”

  She held it to the light. “B…A…no not A, O…L…T…O…P…BOLTOP. What’s it mean, Leo?”

  “No idea. Probably some intensive advertising campaign.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “They write something that doesn’t make sense and try to intrigue you. We’ll probably see it written on telephone poles and on the pavement.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “That doesn’t make it wrong.”

  “For God’s sake, Leo, I work for an advertising agency and I’ve never heard of it Anyway, why just “Zoe”? No address. No stamp. Someone stuck this through the letter-flap. Then one of the other flat-owners picked up all the envelopes after the post arrived and put them on the table. And this was with the others.”

  “It might even have been on the table this morning,” Silver said. “I never look at brown envelopes when I’m going out.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “BOLTOP…” He shook his head.

  “Leo, d’you think — ?”

  He knew what she was going to say because it happened so often. Her mood change was abrupt, as though the thoughts were just below the surface of her mind.

  “Of course not. How the hell could he have put it through the letter-flap? He’s still inside.”

  “He could have given it to someone who was coming out.”

  “But he doesn’t know we’re together. Doesn’t even know where we live.”

  “Jesus, Leo, you’re supposed to be a detective! I know I’d have got the information if I wanted it.” She was angry now as well as showing fear. “He couldn’t…?” She paused as though unwilling to continue the question.

  “What?”

  “Couldn’t be out, could he?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leo, you’ve got to find out. You’ve got to make certain.”

  “Sure.”

  “Now. Pick up the phone. Ring someone.”

  “Who, for God’s sake?”

  “The prison.”

  “They’d never give me information like that over the phone. Not at this time of night.”

  “You said you’d keep a check on him. You swore you would.”

  “I did. And I will.”

  “You swear?”

  “Of course. I’ll find out which gaol and how much longer he has to serve. Every detail.”

  “What if he’s out?”

  “He’s not. He can’t be.”

  “Leo, what are we going to do when he does come out?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on him.” She turned away but he caught her hands. “Listen, you can’t let him ruin your life. These people are cowards. They only attack in the dark or lonely places. They’re more afraid than you are. Specially after a prison sentence. He’ll probably be broken anyway.”

  “Oh God, I’m so scared.”

  “Don’t be. You needn’t be. I’ll look after you.”

  In bed she clung to him like a child who has had a bad dream. He knew the dream. He had had it too: the shed, the knife, the blood on her naked belly, the man with his flies open.

  And for the umpteenth time he questioned himself about her reason for living with him. Was it love? Or was it for protection. And if it was the latter, was that any basis for marriage?

  *

  The pub was lost in the wastes of Stockwell. It was called the Black Swan but no swans, black or white, had been seen in that part of London in living memory, so people had re-christened it the Mucky Duck. It was a survivor — just — of the formica fifties and a place of such unparalleled dreariness that Macrae sometimes met his contacts there. As far as he knew, no self-respecting, villains ever darkened the doorway.

  He met Rambo there a little after half past eight. They took their drinks to a table where the light was so dim that Rambo’s pallor appeared deathly. Even in bright sunlight, as Macrae had frequently seen him, he did not look much better. He was a plump and unhealthy thirty-something and Macrae always felt that if he prodded him with the tip of a finger the indentation would remain for hours.

  But the point about Rambo — whose real name was Julius — was that he was over six feet in height and weighed nearly three hundred pounds.

  “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass.

  Macrae grunted.

  “How’s the family, Mr Macrae?”

  “All right.”

  Rambo’s father had been a clown in a small touring circus. He had wanted his son to follow in his footsteps but Rambo had started to grow early, had seen the writing on the wall for small circuses and large men, and instead had taken to writing other people’s names on cheques. That was when he was seventeen. When he was nineteen he was nicked and given a suspended sentence. By the time he was in his late twenties he was into cheque fraud on a grand scale. He was stealing cheques
and cheque cards — or paying others to steal them — and then cashing as much in one day as he could before throwing both away.

  It was an energetic way to make a living. The maximum he could draw from any one bank then was fifty pounds, and out of that he had to pay the thief half. So it was a matter of quantity.

  In order to hit as many banks in a day as he could meant meticulous planning. It also demanded stamina. His record was thirty-one between opening time at 9.30 a.m. and closing time at 3.30 p.m.

  On the day he set his record he was still going flat out at 3.25 p.m. He’d just done all the banks in Hammersmith Broadway, running on his large, fat legs from one to the next, and had then moved to Chiswick.

  With only a few minutes to go he hit a Midland and just made a Barclays as they were shutting the door. Blowing and puffing he went up to the nearest cashier, held out his cheque — and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  The manager called the ambulance service, was told it sounded like a heart attack and that he should loosen Rambo’s clothing and cover him with a blanket. While they were doing this they found fourteen cheque books with their accompanying cheque cards as well as pockets stuffed with five-pound notes.

  Macrae, who was doing a spell in the Fraud Squad, had interviewed Rambo in hospital.

  “There’s not much point in denying it, laddie, is there?” he’d said.

  “No, Mr Macrae.”

  So he’d pleaded guilty at his trial and gone down for two years. When he came out he was a changed man. The heart attack had scared him. He didn’t go back into cheque fraud but with his contacts in the circus and the fact that circuses were going out of business every month or so he began to put together a string of girls — trapeze artistes, fire-eaters, bare-back riders, lion-tamers — that gave sex a completely new dimension.

  The girls were often privy to important underworld information and sometimes he passed this on to Macrae; not for the money — he was doing well enough — but for reasons he could hardly understand himself.

  Any psychologist would have understood them. Macrae had been the only person to visit him in hospital. Not the only police person but the only person — period. In his subconscious this fact had transmuted Macrae from copper into friend.

  Macrae said, “How’s business?”

  “Not bad, Mr Macrae, not bad. I think we’ve found a gap in the market.”