The Razor Gang Murder

by Simon McCleave

  A tabloid newspaper dropped onto her desk, which broke her train of thought and startled her.

  ‘What is she doing with that man? Balding, hairy, and butt ugly?’ Lucy said loudly, pointing to the front page.

  ‘Christ, Lucy! You made me jump.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Lucy pointed to a paparazzi photograph of Princess Diana on a yacht with Dodi Fayed, son of Mohammed Al-Fahed - the famous business tycoon and owner of London’s most famous department store, Harrods. ‘But what is Diana doing? Did you see her on the front of Vanity Fair last month? She’s completely beautiful.’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘No, I didn’t.’ If she was honest, she couldn’t care less who Princess Diana was or wasn’t dating. ‘And yes, what does she see in a multi-millionaire with an enormous yacht in the Mediterranean?’

  Lucy rolled her eyes and took her paper back.

  Ruth sniggered. ‘Well, there’s a word for women who sleep with men for money.’

  As Brooks walked into CID for the morning briefing, Lucy scuttled back to her desk and the volume of conversation waned as detectives turned their chairs to face the front of the room.

  ‘Right everyone, if we can settle down, let’s get cracking for the day, shall we?’ Brooks said. He was already in shirtsleeves with his tie loosened. It was hot and stuffy, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.

  There was a brief discussion of the ongoing robbery investigation before Brooks looked in Ruth and Lucy’s direction. ‘I understand that yesterday you had afternoon tea with Sir Charles Wise?’

  There were mutterings and piss-taking from some of the detectives.

  Ruth gave a wry smile. ‘Sort of, guv.’

  ‘Slumming it was he?’ Gaughran joked to more laughter.

  Ruth grinned and gave him the finger.

  Brooks gestured to the front of the room. ‘Can you bring us up to speed, Ruth?’

  Getting up from her desk, Ruth knew that she wasn’t really in the mood to address the whole of CID. Her head was fuzzy from tiredness, wine and weed. She went over to the scene board, composed herself and pointed to a forensic photograph of the skeletal remains that had been found. ‘As most of you know, two days ago human remains were discovered by builders at Dixon’s Timber Yard. The skull that was found had what looks like a bullet hole at the base. Our forensic team believe it was the cause of death but are waiting for the Coroner to carry out a full post mortem.’

  ‘Which means this is effectively now a murder investigation?’ Brooks asked.

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘Any way of dating the remains?’ he asked.

  ‘We ran a DNA sample through our database but there wasn’t a hit. The lab is going to send a sample for carbon dating but it may take some time,’ Ruth explained.

  She then pointed to photographs of the car key and the signet ring. ‘However, this car key and signet ring were found with the remains. We traced the key to a Chrysler Imperial car that was owned by Sir Charles Wise in the 1950s.’ She indicated a photograph of him. ‘Yesterday, Lucy and I visited Sir Charles at his home. He confirmed the car belonged to him and that he bought it in 1954 and sold it sometime in the 1960s. The DVLA confirmed it was sold in 1966.’ Gesturing to a black and white photograph of a teenage boy with a black quiff, Ruth said, ‘Sir Charles told us that he believes his brother, Alfie Wise, had the spare car key to the Chrysler when he disappeared on the afternoon of the 27th November 1956. He has never been seen since. I’ve checked the Met’s missing persons file, and he’s still on there. We will ask Sir Charles for a DNA sample in the next few days, but he was very upset by the discovery so we should hold off on that for at least today and tomorrow.’

  ‘Any other blood relatives we could ask to speed up that process?’

  Ruth shook her head. ‘No, guv. Mother and father died quite some time back, and his sister was killed in a car crash five years ago.’

  ‘Any idea who the last person to see Alfie Wise alive was?’ Brooks asked.

  Ruth shook her head. ‘No, guv. At the moment, we’re assuming it’s his brother Charlie.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie now is it?’ Gaughran asked, taking the piss.

  Ruth rolled her eyes. ‘He likes people to call him Charlie, unless they’re complete tossers ... Looks like you’ll be calling him Sir Charles, doesn’t it Tim?’

  There was laughter as Gaughran mimed being shot and injured. Lucy grinned at her – they loved to get their own back on Gaughran.

  Ruth looked back at Brooks. ‘Until we check if there’s an actual missing persons file somewhere here in the basement, we’re going to assume that Charlie was the last person to see Alfie alive. We showed him the gold signet ring that was also found with the remains. He confirmed the ring belonged to his brother, so there is a very strong possibility that the bones that were found were Alfie Wise.’

  There were a few more murmurs from the team.

  Brooks shook his head. ‘I never knew that Sir Charles Wise had a brother that mysteriously disappeared.’

  Ruth nodded. ‘He was very emotional yesterday, as you can imagine, guv. His seventeen-year-old brother went out one afternoon in November 1956 and just never came back. It’s taken forty-one years to find him.’

  Gaughran looked up from his desk and frowned. ‘Any idea why Alfie Wise might have been shot and killed?’

  Ruth moved closer to the board and indicated a photograph of another teenager with a quiff who looked a little older than Alfie. ‘This is where it gets interesting. Two weeks before his disappearance, Alfie was involved in a fight with this young man, Frank Weller. They ended up on a platform in Balham underground station where Frank Weller was stabbed and fell under a train. It was all over the papers the next day. There had been a spate of stabbings and fights between Teddy Boy gangs in South London in the mid-50s. Alfie Wise went home and laid low for a few days, but the police never came to interview him. For whatever reason, the local police didn’t have him down as a suspect. On the day he disappeared, Alfie took Charlie’s car to run some errands, dropped it back home and then went out again. That was the last time anyone saw him.’

  ‘Did Alfie say where he was going?’ Hassan asked.

  Ruth shook her head. ‘No. Just that he was popping out.’

  Gaughran looked up from writing in his notepad. ‘Do we think that Alfie Wise was murdered as revenge for Frank Weller?’

  ‘That was Charlie’s theory,’ Ruth said. ‘He always assumed that’s why Alfie had gone missing. He said he guessed that Frank Weller’s friends had tracked Alfie down and killed him.’

  ‘Do we know who these friends were that were involved in the fight?’ Brooks asked.

  Ruth pointed to some names that she had written on the scene board. ‘Alfie was with a mate of his called Trevor Walsh. They’d been to the cinema in Balham and were waiting for the bus home when the fight broke out. Frank Weller was with two mates who were part of a Teddy Boy gang, based up by Clapham Common, called The Plough Boys.’

  Gaughran nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of them. Used to carry razors, coshes, and bicycle chains.’

  Ruth indicated the other two names. ‘Terry Droy and Eddie Bannerman were the two other teenagers that were with Frank when the fight broke out at a bus stop on Balham High Street.’

  ‘Any idea where they are now?’ Hassan asked.

  Lucy shifted in her seat and looked over. ‘Terry Droy is serving time in Wandsworth for assault and theft. Nothing for Eddie Bannerman.’

  Ruth looked at her notepad. ‘We do have an address for Frank Weller’s sister, Jackie.’

  ‘Trevor Walsh?’ Brooks asked.

  Ruth shook her head. ‘Nothing yet, guv.’

  Brooks rubbed his chin. ‘Right, Ruth and Lucy, go and have a chat with Jackie Weller. Tim and Syed, get yourselves over to Wandsworth and see what this Terry Droy has to say for himself ... That’s great work everyone.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Ruth and Lucy parked under the railway bridge at Clapham North underground station, and head
ed round the corner to Jackie Weller’s flat in Landor Road. The sun was burning down on them as they passed a large beer garden that was full of young people drinking in the sun.

  As they reached the door of number 8, Lucy saw the name J Weller scribbled beside the bottom buzzer. Pushing it, she heard the sound inside. A few seconds later, the front door opened and a woman in her late 50s appeared. She was diminutive with neat but old-fashioned clothes and haircut.

  ‘We’re looking for a Jackie Weller?’ Lucy asked as she showed her warrant card.

  The woman smiled. ‘Yes. That’s me. Am I in trouble?’

  Lucy smiled back but wasn’t sure if she was serious or making a joke. It was hard to tell. ‘No, no. We’re hoping that you can help us with an investigation.’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ Jackie said. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lucy said as they followed her into her ground-floor flat.

  It was clean and tidy, and had high ceilings. The smell of baking made it feel warm and welcoming. The décor was a little tired and didn’t look like it had been updated since the 1970s. Lucy spotted a few religious posters on the wall advertising a local church. Although it was guesswork, it looked like Jackie lived alone as there were no signs of anyone else.

  Jackie motioned to the sofa. ‘Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? Tea or a glass of water, perhaps?’

  Lucy now noticed that Jackie had the faintest trace of an Irish accent.

  Ruth smiled at her. ‘We’re fine thank you.’

  Leaning forward, Lucy composed herself. Bringing up her brother’s murder from over forty years ago might be difficult for her. ‘Jackie, we want to talk to you about your brother, Frank.’

  Jackie’s brow furrowed for a few seconds as though she hadn’t understood what Lucy had said. Then she gave a slight nod and murmured, ‘Yes. What do you want to know?’

  Ruth took out her notepad before giving Jackie a compassionate smile. ‘I know this is difficult for you, but we want to talk to you about the time when Frank was killed.’

  ‘I see. Yes.’ Jackie looked visibly upset and her eyes began to water.

  ‘What can you tell us about your brother?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘My brother was a lovely young man. Very generous and funny. And handsome. That’s what my mother used to say ...’ Jackie said, her voice breaking from emotion.

  Ruth took out a handkerchief and passed it over to her. ‘Here you go.’

  Jackie took it, and dabbed her cheeks. ‘Thank you. I’m so sorry. I haven’t spoken about Frank for a long time, you see.’

  Lucy nodded. She noticed that Jackie wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. ‘Take your time, Jackie. We’re in no rush,’ she said empathetically.

  ‘All I know is that Frank went out with some of his friends one evening. The police told us he got into a fight of some kind ... They took my mother to St George’s hospital to identify his body. Then I think she cried for a week after that.’

  Ruth looked up from her notepad. ‘Was your father around at that time?’

  Jackie shook her head sadly. ‘My father never came back from the war. He was killed in Burma.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Lucy said. ‘And was it just you and Frank, or did you have any other siblings?’

  ‘No. It was just us.’

  Shifting forward on her seat, Ruth looked at her. ‘Does the name Alfie Wise mean anything to you?’

  Jackie couldn’t hide her reaction. She looked away and shook her head almost imperceptibly. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Lucy glanced over at Ruth - it was clearly a lie.

  ‘Jackie, I know it was a long time ago,’ Ruth said gently, as if talking to a child. ‘Are you sure you don’t know the name Alfie Wise?’

  Jackie blinked as tears came, and she wiped her cheeks again. She was finding it all too much. ‘No. I just told you that, didn’t I?’

  ‘Do you remember Terry Droy?’ Lucy asked.

  Jackie frowned and then said, ‘Yeah. One of Frank’s friends. I went to school with his sister, Pauline.’

  ‘And Eddie Bannerman?’

  ‘Yeah. Eddie knocked about with Frank and Terry.’ Jackie gave a half smile. ‘The Three Musketeers they used to call themselves. Always getting into bloody trouble.’

  Lucy waited for a few seconds, then sat forward and looked directly at Jackie with a kind smile. ‘And you’re sure that Terry and Eddie never mentioned the name Alfie Wise?’

  Jackie took a breath – she was clearly debating whether or not to continue the lie. Then she whispered, ‘Yeah ... they did.’

  ‘What did they say about him, Jackie?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘They said they was gonna find him.’ Jackie pursed her lips and sniffed. ‘They said he was the one that had ... you know ... attacked Frank at Balham station.’

  ‘Did they say what they were going to do when they did find Alfie Wise?’

  Jackie closed her eyes and nodded, ‘Yeah. They said they were gonna sort him out for good.’

  ‘What did you think they meant by that?’ Lucy asked.

  Jackie thought for a second and then said quietly, ‘I suppose I thought they were gonna kill him.’

  GAUGHRAN AND HASSAN made their way along the long corridor towards one of the interview rooms on the ground floor of Wandsworth Prison. Built in the 1850s, Wandsworth was one of the largest prisons from the Victorian era. Gaughran had been there lots of times since he joined the force. The high, echoing corridors were painted a vanilla cream colour and the doors and metalwork were all dark blue.

  ‘You watch Match of the Day?’ he asked Hassan. Gaughran was from a family of Chelsea supporters that went back generations. His great, great grandfather had even been to the club’s first ever game in 1905.

  ‘Yeah. Saw your lot battering Barnsley,’ Hassan groaned. He was a fair-weather QPR fan.

  Gaughran grinned. ‘What did you say last week about Vialli? Over the hill? Waste of money?’

  Hassan shook his head. ‘Yeah, all right. Rub it in.’

  Chelsea’s Italian striker, Gianluca Vialli, had scored four goals against Barnsley at the weekend.

  Gaughran had worked with Hassan as his partner for two years. Although Hassan was too cautious for his liking, they performed well as a team. Wanting to be a copper was all Gaughran could ever remember. His old man, uncle, and brother had all been in the Met. He knew that some officers in CID thought he was arrogant. As far as he was concerned, he had been surrounded by coppers since he could walk and the job was part of his DNA. That gave him a knowledge and an edge above those he worked with.

  Pointing to the old-fashioned brass sign No. 12, Gaughran said, ‘We’re in here.’

  Entering the sparse interview room, Gaughran saw that Terry Droy was already sitting at the desk. A prison officer stood nearby.

  Gaughran looked at the screw. ‘Thanks. We can take it from here.’

  Droy was in his early 60s. His greying hair was short and brushed forward from the back. He was overweight, with a rounded jaw and was clean shaven.

  ‘Terry Droy?’ Gaughran asked as he and Hassan sat down at the desk opposite him.

  Droy sat back in his chair with a smirk and took a cigarette from the pocket of his blue regulation prison shirt. ‘Yeah. Who are you two then?’

  Gaughran pulled his chair closer to the table and looked directly at him.

  I’m not having this fucker think he can intimidate me. I’m in charge in here.

  ‘DS Gaughran and DC Hassan, Peckham CID,’ Gaughran said, not taking his eyes from Droy’s. If he wanted a staring competition, bring it on.

  Droy snorted as if something was funny. ‘Bloody hell. Peckham? What you doing over here?’

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about Frank Weller,’ Hassan said.

  Droy frowned as he lit his cigarette. ‘Frank? Jesus, that’s ancient history. What do you want to know?’

  Gaughran put his arms on the table. ‘You were with Frank on the night he was killed
in November 1956, is that right?’

  Droy blew smoke across the table. ‘Yeah. I was there. So what?’

  Gaughran studied Droy’s face carefully as he asked, ‘The name Alfie Wise mean anything to you?’

  Got you!

  Droy reacted, leant forward and tapped his ash into the ashtray. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Don’t lie to us, Terry,’ Gaughran growled.

  ‘Piss off. I’ve never heard that name before.’

  Hassan raised an eyebrow. ‘We’ve got a witness that says otherwise, Terry.’

  Sitting back in his seat, Terry ran his hand over his short hair. ‘You been talking to Jackie Weller, have you?’

  Gaughran leant forward aggressively. ‘Don’t dick us about. We know that you and Eddie Bannerman were looking for Alfie Wise. We know you thought he killed Frank.’

  Droy said nothing for a few seconds. ‘Why you asking me about this now, eh? It was forty years ago. Unless something’s changed or you found something.’

  Hassan sighed. ‘Just answer the question.’

  Droy ignored Hassan and looked at Gaughran. ‘What is it, eh? What are you not telling me?’

  ‘You know where Eddie Bannerman is?’ Hassan asked.

  ‘Nope. I haven’t seen Eddie for about thirty years. You wanna tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘You see, Terry, you’ve got a bit of a problem,’ Gaughran said.

  Droy smirked. ‘Have I?’

  ‘You know what DNA is Terry?’ Gaughran asked.

  Droy snorted. ‘Yeah, I read the papers. I’m not a fucking caveman.’

  ‘You know that they can now get the DNA from the tiniest fragment of skin, clothing, blood, anything?’

  Droy stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘You know how long DNA survives on a body?’ Gaughran asked.

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Millions of years. It doesn’t go away. It stays there. Forty years ago, no one had even heard of DNA had they? Unless you left a fingerprint, footprint, or a decent piece of clothing fibre, you could pretty much get away with anything,’ Gaughran explained in a menacing tone. ‘But if I took a tiny strand of your hair, or a sample of your blood or saliva, I could match it to something from decades ago. It would be as good as having your fingerprint.’