The Razor Gang Murder

by Simon McCleave

  Gaughran frowned. ‘It just struck me that if someone came into your yard one night, dug a hole, buried a body and then filled it in, someone would have noticed?’

  Dixon snorted. ‘Yeah, I can see why you would think that. But believe me it was a right shithole over that side. You could have come in and buried a bloody tank and no one would have noticed. Anyway, if I’d suspected anything I would have called your lot. Having a dead body buried in your yard isn’t good for business, is it?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it is,’ Gaughran said dryly. He was more convinced now that Dixon wasn’t hiding anything.

  ‘Did anyone ever say what they thought had happened to Alfie Wise?’ Hassan asked.

  ‘It had to be something to do with Charlie, didn’t it?’ Dixon said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Gaughran asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Charlie Wise. Jesus, he was a right spiv, poncing about in that bloody car. Charlie knew some very serious people in South London. In fact, I’m surprised it wasn’t Charlie that got topped and stuck in a hole.’

  CHAPTER 11

  It was the following morning and, twenty minutes after briefing, Ruth and Lucy were making their way over to Catford to talk to Trevor Walsh. Heading east on the A205, they had hit morning traffic and were crawling along slowly. As a double-decker bus pulled away from its stop, Ruth gazed out at the busy pavements. Catford was a deprived area of South East London, at the heart of the Borough of Lewisham. It had the predictable array of fast food outlets, newsagents, and bookmakers along its high street.

  Ruth glanced at Lucy who was still thumbing through a tabloid newspaper.

  Lucy pointed to the paper. ‘Apparently Diana and Dodi are going to Paris to stay in the Hotel Ritz, which his dad owns.’

  Ruth gave a sardonic smile. ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘I wish Harry’s dad owned a posh hotel in Paris we could stay in.’

  ‘Yeah, that would be nice.’ Ruth raised an eyebrow. ‘You guys all okay?’

  ‘Slight problem,’ Lucy said and pulled a face. ‘I haven’t said anything to you, but his wife isn’t taking their breakup lying down.’

  Ruth looked mystified. ‘But you’ve been together for months now.’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘A woman scorned and all that.’

  ‘Why, what’s she doing?’

  ‘I caught her sitting outside my house the other night. And it wasn’t the first time.’

  ‘Bit creepy.’

  ‘Night before last, she posted an envelope full of dog shit through my letterbox.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Luce. You can’t have that going on. What’s Harry said?’

  Lucy pursed her lips. ‘He said he’ll talk to her. But I’m not sure that’s going to work.’

  ‘If there’s anything you want me to do ...’

  Lucy smiled over at her. ‘Thanks. Not sure I want to escalate it at the moment.’

  Ruth laughed. ‘Yeah, you don’t want to come home to a domestic pet cooking on the hob.’

  Lucy gave a twisted smile. ‘No, that wouldn’t be the best.’

  Spotting Doggett Road, Ruth indicated and turned left out of the traffic. A few seconds later, she spotted a house marked number 68. Walsh lived in Flat B. They parked up and got out.

  Ruth pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and looked up at the tall, scruffy, Victorian house that had been converted into three flats. Two young boys riding mountain bikes sped past them on the pavement.

  ‘Little sods!’ Lucy grumbled.

  ‘You could tell them they should be on the road and wearing helmets?’

  Ruth watched as the two boys circled around and then came back to where her and Lucy were standing on the pavement.

  They couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven-years-old.

  ‘That your car, Miss?’ said the one with curly hair.

  Ruth shared a look with Lucy – What the bloody hell are they up to?

  ‘Might be. Why do you want to know?’ Ruth asked with a quizzical smile.

  ‘Bit rough around here, Miss,’ said the other boy who was wearing a red baseball cap.

  ‘Is it?’

  The curly-haired boy nodded. ‘Yeah. Cars get scratched all the time. Or people take windscreen wipers or wing mirrors.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Ruth said as she looked over at Lucy who seemed tickled by the boys’ antics.

  ‘Tell you what, Miss. You give us a pound and we’ll protect your car for you. Make sure no one damages it,’ the boy said.

  Ruth reached for her warrant card. ‘That does sound like a good deal.’ She then flashed her ID at them. ‘But if anything happens to my car, then I’m going to be banging on your mum’s door.’

  The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘Come on, let’s go!’ the other boy yelled.

  The two of them turned and cycled away as fast as they could.

  Lucy laughed and shook her head. ‘A life of crime starts early round here!’

  Ruth smiled. ‘Bloody hell. My dad used to give me ten pence for cleaning his car, and that took me and my brother an hour.’

  They walked up the stone steps to the house and rang the buzzer for Walsh’s flat.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Lucy shifted uncomfortably on Trevor Walsh’s threadbare brown sofa. His flat was definitely a health hazard. It smelled of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and wet dogs. The walls were stained and there was beige lino rather than carpet on the floor.

  Walsh was small and weathered looking. Even though he was only about sixty, he looked ten years older. Given the empty cans and the smell, Lucy assumed he had some sort of alcohol problem.

  Leaning forward, Walsh licked a paper as he rolled himself a cigarette. ‘Bloody hell. I never thought I’d have to talk about Alfie Wise again. Ancient bloody history, that is.’

  Lucy took out her notepad. ‘You were there the night that Frank Weller was killed. Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Walsh nodded. ‘But he bloody deserved it.’

  Ruth frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Walsh lit his cigarette and blew a plume of bluish smoke up into the air.

  Great. Now I’m getting second-hand cancer to go with my scabies, Lucy thought.

  ‘Frank and those other two tossers started on us. Me and Alfie were just sitting on the bench waiting for a bus, minding our own business,’ he explained.

  ‘But Alfie was carrying a knife, wasn’t he?’ Lucy asked.

  Walsh shook his head. ‘Nah. Alfie never carried a knife. It was Frank Weller’s knife. He stabbed me in the leg with it. Alfie must have got it off him. I told your lot at the time but they weren’t interested.’ He tapped some ash and frowned. ‘What’s all this about then?’

  ‘You know the names Terry Droy and Eddie Bannerman?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Of course. The other kids that were there that night. Fucking Plough Boys giving it large. Well Alfie showed them. Weren’t so fucking cocky after that were they?’ Walsh said in an aggressive tone that implied he was proud that Frank Weller had been killed.

  Lucy looked up from her notepad. ‘Did you ever have your suspicions about what happened to Alfie?’

  ‘A few.’ Walsh blew smoke out of his nostrils and sat forward. ‘Have you found him then?’

  ‘We have found a body that we believe to be Alfie Wise.’

  Walsh blinked as he took in the news. ‘That’s sad, that is ... I thought I’d go to my grave and never know what happened to him.

  ‘We believe he was murdered,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Really?’ Walsh shook his head. ‘Poor bastard. Not a big surprise, but at least Alfie can be put to rest now, eh?’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with Alfie?’

  Walsh pulled a face. ‘Relationship? What does that mean?’

  ‘Am I right in thinking that you’re a homosexual, Mr Walsh?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah I am.’ Walsh rubbed his nose and then looked at Lucy. ‘Oh right. Y
ou think me and Alfie ...’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘Well ... were you in a relationship with him?’

  Walsh snorted. ‘Leave off. Alfie was what we called AC/DC.’

  ‘You mean bi-sexual?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Yeah. We were just mates. Nothing more than that.’

  ‘You sure about that? We’ve been told that you were in a relationship with him.’

  ‘No. No way,’ Walsh grunted. ‘He wasn’t my type anyway.’

  ‘We heard that you might have been jealous or angry because of Alfie’s behaviour with other men?’

  ‘Bloody hell! Where are you getting all this crap from? Jackanory?’ Walsh leaned forward and stubbed his cigarette out. ‘You think I killed Alfie in some kind of lover’s tiff. Jesus, you’re way off, love.’

  Lucy looked over at Ruth – they weren’t going to get any further with this line of enquiry.

  ‘He did send me a letter,’ Walsh said.

  ‘Alfie?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Walsh nodded. ‘Just before he went missing. Said he was going away for a while and wouldn’t be around.’

  Ruth frowned. ‘What did you think he meant by that?’

  Walsh shrugged. ‘No idea. I thought he might have been talking about prison.’

  ‘But you never saw him after the night Frank Weller was killed?’

  ‘No. I was too frightened.’

  ‘Have you still got that letter?’

  ‘Yeah, somewhere,’ Walsh said. ‘I can dig it out if you want?’

  Ruth nodded. ‘That would be helpful.’

  Lucy looked up from her notepad. ‘Do you think that Terry Droy and Eddie Bannerman were responsible for Alfie’s death then?’

  Walsh shook his head as he reached to the floor for a can of super-strength lager. ‘No. They were definitely looking for him. I know that much. They found me and gave me a good kicking. And they would have killed him, if they’d found him.’

  Lucy frowned. ‘Then who do you think killed Alfie?’

  Walsh rolled his eyes. ‘It was to do with Charlie, wasn’t it? It had to be.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Walsh laughed. ‘Not really doing your job, ladies, are you? Charlie Wise, or Sir Charles fucking Wise as he is now, was involved in all sorts of shady stuff. Drove around in a big American car, suits made up in the West End. Right flash wanker.’

  ‘When you say shady stuff, what exactly do you mean?’

  Walsh shook his head in disbelief. ‘He was a gangster, love. It’s the world’s worst kept secret. There was a club over on Balham High Road. The 211 Club. Big place with a casino upstairs. Charlie used to work there. Place was owned by that Freddie Foreman.’

  Lucy frowned – she knew the name.

  ‘Freddie Foreman?’

  ‘He was an enforcer for the Krays in the late 50s and 60s. Brown Bread Fred they called him,’ Walsh explained.

  Lucy and Ruth looked at each other – they weren’t expecting that.

  Walsh gave a wry grin. ‘Fucking funny when you think about it now. Technically, Sir Charles Wise once worked for the Kray twins. And when Charlie boy didn’t do as he was told, or pissed someone off, they murdered Alfie as a warning.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who that person might be?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘I’ve got a few ideas,’ Walsh said.

  ‘Can you tell us who you think might have killed Alfie?’

  Walsh looked nervous as he shook his head. ‘No chance. If I give you names, and you start poking around, you’re going to find me dead and buried in a hole.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Gaughran and Hassan had soon found the address they had been given for Eddie Bannerman in Brockley, which was about two miles south east of Peckham. The road was residential, with small, semi-detached houses that had been built in the 1930s.

  Gaughran parked outside No. 23, turned off the ignition and unclipped his seatbelt.

  ‘Don’t think I’ve been out to Brockley before,’ Hassan admitted.

  ‘It’s nice. Well, nicer than Peckham. But then again, so is Beruit,’ Gaughran joked and pointed to the right. ‘My old man used to take us for walks on Blythe Hill, which is just over there. Used to fly kites when it was windy enough.’

  Getting out of the car, Gaughran took his sunglasses from the top pocket of his short-sleeved shirt and put them on. Even though it was hot, there was a decent breeze. He spotted an old Renault 5 on the drive – looks like someone’s in.

  Walking up to the front door, Hassan knocked and stepped back. Gaughran joined him and they waited for a few seconds.

  Nothing.

  A dog barked from somewhere inside.

  ‘Pint after work?’ Gaughran asked. He had a bit of a thirst on and a cold pint or two of lager would go down a treat.

  ‘Sounds good,’ Hassan said as he knocked on the door again, this time a lot harder.

  There was no doubting that anyone inside would hear them now.

  Gaughran snorted. ‘Bloody hell, Syed! We’re not the drugs squad doing a raid, mate. You’ll give the poor bloke a heart attack.’

  ‘He’s old. He might be deaf,’ Hassan laughed as he cupped his hands and tried to peer through the thick frosted glass panel on the front door.

  ‘Anything?’ Gaughran asked.

  Hassan turned and shook his head. ‘Nothing, Sarge.’

  Then they heard a bang from somewhere inside the house. It sounded like a door closing.

  Gaughran exchanged a look with Hassan. ‘Well, someone’s definitely in.’

  Stepping over a small rockery wall, Gaughran went to a large downstairs window and gazed inside. There was an old-fashioned three-piece suite, a television and a large coffee table.

  The front door then opened about six inches and a man in his 60s looked out. A Rottweiler was barking and snarling at his feet.

  Hassan showed him his warrant card. ‘Eddie Bannerman?’

  Bannerman frowned. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We’re from Peckham CID. We wondered if we could ask you a few questions to help with an ongoing investigation?’ Hassan said.

  ‘You got a warrant?’ Bannerman sneered.

  Gaughran stepped forward and glared at him. ‘We don’t need a warrant. We just want to ask a couple of questions.’

  ‘About what?’

  What a prick, Gaughran thought.

  Gaughran sighed. ‘You really want us to go and get a warrant?’

  ‘Is this about that body you found in Peckham? I saw it on the news this morning?’

  Hassan nodded. ‘We’re investigating what we think was a historic murder and we just want to ask you a couple of questions.’

  Bannerman blinked as the dog continued to bark. ‘LBC said the body might be someone called Alfie Wise?’

  Gaughran raised his eyebrows. ‘Why don’t you let us in and we can talk about it.’

  Bannerman gestured to the dog. ‘I’ll just get rid of him. Hang on a sec.’ He then closed the front door.

  ‘He looked rattled,’ Hassan said.

  ‘He looked bloody guilty.’

  ‘Wasn’t your old man a copper at Peckham?’ Hassan asked.

  Gaughran nodded. His father, Arthur Gaughran, had been a serving police officer for over thirty-five years in the Met and had only retired at the end of the 80s. Even though he would never admit it, Gaughran worshipped the ground his father walked on and he was proud to have followed in his footsteps. ‘Yeah. I’m pretty sure he was a bobby on the beat when all this happened. I should ask him about it.’

  ‘Yeah, he might remember something.’

  Gaughran then frowned at Hassan. ‘He’s taking his time, isn’t he?

  Suddenly, he spotted Bannerman dashing from the side of the house towards the Renault 5. For a second, Gaughran couldn’t quite believe what he was witnessing. What the bloody hell does he think he’s doing?

  Bannerman jumped into the car and started the engine.

  ‘Oi! Stay there!’ Gaughran yelled as he ran across the paved
front garden towards the car.

  Hearing the gearbox clunk, he realised it was too late. Bannerman was in no mood to talk and was fully intent on doing a runner.

  Cheeky bastard!

  The Renault sped forward, hitting the back end of their navy coloured BMW 3 Series. The back light and indicator smashed and glass fell onto the road.

  The car turned sharp left and accelerated away.

  ‘Are you fucking joking?’ Gaughran growled.

  Running to look at the damage, Hassan glanced over. ‘It’s okay, Sarge. It’s driveable.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about that. We’ve only had that car for two months and it’s police property.’ Gaughran grabbed his Tetra radio. ‘Control from Delta three eight. We have a possible suspect, an Edward Bannerman, in a blue Renault 5, plate unknown, heading south on St James’ Terrace. Requesting assistance, over,’ Gaughran hollered into the radio as he jumped into the BMW.

  The Tetra radio crackled. ‘Delta three eight, received. Will advise, stand by,’ said the female voice of the Computer Aided Dispatch controller.

  Gaughran could feel the anger surge through his body as he stamped on the accelerator. ‘What a wanker! Wait ’til I get my hands on him.’

  The car roared up the road in pursuit. Gaughran worked through the gears quickly, pushing the car’s acceleration as fast as he could. Forty miles per hour. Fifty.

  A car nosed out of a side road. Gaughran swerved and hit the horn. ‘Get out of my fucking way! Twat!’

  Hassan glanced over, looking concerned. He always got like this when Gaughran lost his shit. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘What?’ he barked. ‘You wanna fucking drive?’

  Hassan held his hands up defensively. ‘No, Sarge. But I’d like to get home to see my kids tonight.’

  Gaughran ignored him. That was the problem with Hassan. He lacked the bottle to be a top detective.

  Eddie Bannerman had a one minute start on them. Gaughran knew they needed him to have been held up at a junction or traffic lights.

  Scanning left and right as they reached the main road, there was no sign of the Renault. Where the bloody hell is he?