The Sweeney 01

by Ian Kennedy-Martin

  ‘If you don’t like it,’ Regan pretending that he was offended, ‘we’ll have one drink and go.’

  ‘We’ll have two drinks and go.’

  They had three drinks — Regan on Bells, Ewing on Jim Beam. They were both consciously trying to relax. Ewing lit an American-brand cigar and studied Regan through the smoke. ‘Right, how do we handle this?’

  ‘Handle what?’ Regan’s voice deliberately vague, anticipating what was to come.

  But it didn’t come, not for at least another half a minute while Ewing adjusted the burn on his cigar with another match, and took a few sample puffs and found the cigar now properly alight and to his satisfaction. ‘We’re on the same case essentially. We work out the parameters, who does what...’

  Regan could sense the game and play it that way or any way, any time. And he did and he took his time, and a few sips of his Bells. Then he looked up at the American. ‘Superintendent

  Maynon, Mr Haskins, Carter, you. Everybody’s decided we’re on the same case.’ He lifted his glass and swallowed the whisky down. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘That a fact?’ the American said. ‘So what the hell are we doing sitting here?’ In Ewing’s eyes the hint of anger; Regan was getting to him.

  ‘Because Haskins or Maynon can order me to work with you, and I think it’s a good idea for the two of us to get together so I can convince you it would be a lousy idea. Like when I move on a case I move fast. There’s no time for explanations to a fucking tourist.’

  Ewing’s eyes suddenly cooled. He understood now that Regan was being deliberately intimidating, and he wasn’t going to be intimidated. ‘Okay, that’s the way you want it, fine,’ he said off-hand. ‘It strikes me, like it’d strike most people, we’re going to be covering the same ground.’

  ‘When did I say I’d conceal information I uncover from you? All I’m saying is that the brilliant ideas you have about solving this case wouldn’t interest me.’

  ‘And that’s the end of this pub crawl?’ Ewing asked flatly.

  ‘Jesus Christ man! You misunderstand completely. It’s the start of this pub crawl and a reasonable working relationship.’

  Len drove them on to the Red Lion, opposite South Kensington Tube Station. Regan bought the drinks. Ewing found a quiet corner in the saloon bar.

  ‘Married?’ Regan wanted to see whether Ewing would produce one of his profound pauses before an answer.

  Ewing didn’t. He answered directly. "Not now. Two divorces.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘No.’ After that the pause. Ewing wasn’t going to reciprocate the questions.

  ‘Allow me to tell you the gripping saga of my sex life,’ Regan said, just loud enough for the two barmaids to shift uncomfortably. ‘Married a female hustler and divorced her more or less on the same day seven years ago. Adorable eight-year-old daughter whom I see probably five times per annum but weep frequently and guiltily over, and probably will do so later tonight. At the moment I’m banging a German ex-au pair girl who fell on me two years ago. We lay on long week-ends when she moves into my flat. I rarely see her at other times. It kind of doesn’t work, if you see what I mean...?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ Ewing said. It was obvious that nothing that Regan was saying interested him.

  Over the next two hours they covered six pubs. It was the first time Ewing has been driven by Regan’s driver.

  ‘You know you’re the only police group in the world that — ‘

  Regan cut across. ‘The Metropolitan Flying Squad is the only police unit in the world where each man, be he a sergeant or superintendent, is driven around by chauffeur just like Aristotle Onassis. Tourist-copper talk. Concentrate on how we’re going to drink ourselves to death tonight. Would you like to go south of the river?’

  For the next few hours Len shipped them from one pub to another, eight in all, the length and breadth of London. Regan was officially on duty, officially on the Mavor case. He had to log some movement for the night.

  Regan was getting drunk and watching Ewing get drunk. It was an interesting performance. The man got quieter, more reflective, gentler as he tanked up. Regan was watching Ewing because he was waiting for something. The American had been missing all day. What had he been up to and where?

  Ewing had already decided not to tell the British police about the men in the red Alfa at the bottom of Colmer Reservoir; or not to tell them yet. The guys were beyond producing information. The police procedure of any country would involve him in at least one wasted day while the car was recovered, the bodies identified, the questions asked, and the reports written. And there was always the possibility of something funny happening with these English guys — like sticking a manslaughter charge on him. He was satisfied that his action had been justified. One of the partners in the Alfa had pulled a shot-gun on him and presumably would have used it had Ewing given him another second.

  On his way back to London he’d realized that the bigger problem he’d have that day would be the Jaguar, with the front end now stove in. It was the Head Porter at the Bayswater House Hotel who had booked it, but as soon as Ewing dropped the man a twenty note there was suddenly no problem.

  ‘The car hire company is insured, sir,’ the man had said as he palmed the twenty pounds off the reception desk.

  ‘But here’s my problem. I want another Jaguar, delivered here within a couple of hours. Because I’m checking out.’ Ewing had then put another twenty on the desk.

  ‘Give me your Diner’s Club card again, sir. We’ll have another Jaguar here within two hours, sir.’

  They had delivered the new Jaguar half an hour later, at seven-thirty pm. Ewing had driven it to his new hotel, the Mount Park Hotel, Bayswater Road.

  He had decided to change hotels because Securcom, in spreading the word in the crime ghettos in London, had produced the goods — the two guys in the Alfa. Now these two men had disappeared, the Bayswater House Hotel might become a pressure point. He could maybe organize Securcom to help out with his personal security while he stayed on there. But he had now thought of another use for the Securcom company.

  Regan came back from the bar and stuck a glass down in front of Ewing. ‘Old Grandad. They have no Jim Beam.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘All right Lieutenant Ewing, what have you been up to all day?’

  ‘I changed hotels. Mount Park Hotel, Bayswater Road.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I cruised around waiting for your group to come up with something. Like you say, I’m just a fucking tourist.’

  Regan searched the American’s expression as he lied, and wondered why he’d lied, and began to realize that he wanted to find out. But it would take patient hours to get anything out of the Yank. ‘Pubs are closing. One more, I’m tired. I’m drunk.’

  ‘I’ve got a few questions to ask you.’

  ‘Fuck your questions. One more drink.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ the American said gently. ‘The night is young. And I’ve yet to meet your beautiful German girlfriend…’

  Regan’s flat in Hammersmith had once belonged to his mother. She died seven years ago — the year of his divorce. Regan was five foot ten. His mother had been a little woman. The flat was a little flat, four littler rooms full of little things — little coffee tables, little frames with small pictures in them. A little kitchen with little teacups, and a living room with a little sofa, and a bedroom with a little bed. The flat came complete with a little Spanish maid who cleaned it once a week. The one cleaning was enough because Regan was hardly ever at home. The only two things that Regan had done to change the flat were to throw out his mother’s bed and to move in a large Dunlopillo king size one and a rota of girls to go with it. That was until two years ago, when he had met Tanya Moller, then aged twenty-six.

  She had been a witness to a robbery. She had been outside a bank, just walking in, when two guys came out. She had been able to describe them in great detail. Regan had never met anyone quite so observant. From the moment he
met her he wanted her and eventually she reciprocated. And he was flattered and gratified. That changed after the first wild romantic and sexual month.

  They had found they were two people who loved each other but just couldn’t live together.

  Then they both hit on the idea of weekends. The fact was he was too busy and involved with the job — that’s what had broken up his first marriage. She moved out of the au pair world and became a secretary to a German goods importer in London. Her work was well paid but exhausting. So she would be there on Friday night whatever time he got in and they would screw maybe a couple of times and then they would talk, or rather she would talk, until dawn. And Saturday she would go shopping, get her hair done, meet girlfriends and she would return Saturday night until Sunday at nine pm. But usually he would be working Saturday night well into the small hours of Sunday morning. And he’d come back to his flat and she’d be asleep and sexually satisfied from the previous night and he would be wide awake still from the adrenalin of excitement or fear from some job he’d been out on, and he’d sit in the little chair by the bed and look at her face on the pillow — her blond hair spilled across her face in sleep — and wonder what the hell their relationship was about.

  It wasn’t always just weekends. There were periods when he’d been assigned to an important investigation that was in its early stages, just ticking over, and he could see that tomorrow night or the next night he’d be free — and he’d phone her up and she might also be free. That would happen maybe once a month, rarely more.

  The time was eleven-thirty and the manager of the Cherry Bush pub in Battersea was quite insistent that Regan and Ewing and four other drunks should go. But Regan was almost finished telling Ewing the details of his organized sex life with Tanya, and how beautiful she was, when Ewing made some remark like when exactly was he going to get the opportunity to confirm this. So Regan staggered to his feet and went over to a coinbox phone, brushed the landlord’s protestations aside, and called Tanya and told her to come from her place to his flat in Hammersmith for a drink and to meet an American. She said no. He said in that case he would come over to her flat and ring every bell on the entry-phone — and there were twenty of them — and wake up the whole bloody building, because he wanted to see her. And he’d thought about it and he wanted to talk to her about some Very Important Things. And she could tell that he was drunk and capable of ringing every bell in the block, so she agreed to go to Hammersmith.

  The sharp spring night outside the Cherry Bush hit Regan and Ewing in different ways. Cold air made Regan more drunk; possibly because he was more tired. The same air sobered Ewing up. He had still the residual effect of being on San Francisco time, eight hours behind. So four days ago this particular time would have been mid-afternoon.

  By the time Len dropped them off at Hammersmith, Ewing was sober, Regan drunk, yawning, fumbling his keys, and having problems wrestling with the manual lift-doors.

  She opened the door and she was beautiful and coldly furious. She weighed up the situation in a glance. That Regan was very drunk, and a row about his threat to wake up her entire block of flats would be wasted. But that his companion looked sober.

  ‘My name’s John Ewing,’ he said gently. She nodded. ‘Tanya Moller.’

  ‘Coffee, Where’s the coffee? ‘Regan had already blundered past them into the kitchen.

  She turned. The coffee is made and is in the sitting room and I suggest you have some immediately.’ She turned back to Ewing. ‘May I take your coat?’

  ‘I won’t be staying long.’

  ‘Stay.’ It was a double-edged invitation. Her expression implied the missing reason. It was ‘stay because I’ll need help with this drunk.’ Meanwhile she was also looking him over, and approving him. ‘Jack seems very drunk.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘He’s had a hard day.’

  ‘That is nothing unusual.’ She had taken his coat and hung it on a hat stand, but she still stood in the hall, as if reluctant to go to the living room and Sort out Regan.

  ‘He’s on a case he doesn’t want. I’m also on it. He has to carry me.’

  ‘I’m sure you would be a help rather than a hindrance to him. Come and have coffee.’

  The coffee didn’t sober Regan up. It mellowed him a bit. The three of them sat there. No one seemed to have a subject for conversation. ‘What kind of coffee is this?’ Regan asked at one point. ‘It tastes like cats’ piss.’

  ‘It’s decaffeinated coffee. I’ve found where to get the decaffeinated beans.’ She turned to Ewing. ‘Like Sanka. The coffee does not keep you awake.’

  She wanted to draw him into the conversation but he was all politeness — silence. She interpreted this at first as his inability to cope with drunken Regan. Then she realized that he wouldn’t find any problem in dealing with Regan, but he was quiet because he was studying her.

  A point arrived about twenty minutes later when even Regan began to notice his own yawns. He turned to Tanya. ‘I think it’s bedtime.’

  ‘I’m not staying here tonight,’ Tanya said. ‘I have to get up early in the morning. I haven’t brought my night stuff.’

  Regan looked angry.

  Ewing downed his second coffee and stood up. ‘Which way are you going?’

  ‘I live behind Marble Arch,’ she said.

  ‘I live on Bayswater Road. We’ll share a cab,’ the American said.

  ‘You didn’t bring your night things,’ Regan suddenly said loudly, as if he’d just registered it. ‘Why the fuck d’you need your night things to stay here?’

  ‘Jack Regan, you should go to bed,’ Ewing said heavily.

  ‘I’m alright,’ Regan snapped back. I’ve decided to stay up all night...’

  ‘You’re alright, but I’m not. I’m tired. Your girl’s tired. So we’ll go off.’

  Regan nodded. ‘Right, you just do that. Get out. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Ewing picked up his coat and followed Tanya to the door. Regan’s head already slumped on to his shoulders and he was asleep. Ewing opened the door for Tanya, and they walked out.

  It took them twenty minutes to find a cab, then another twenty minutes to cross night London and arrive at a little block of service flats off Bayswater Road.

  ‘Thank you for dropping me off. It was nice to meet you, Mr Ewing,’ Tanya said.

  ‘I remember telling you my name was John.’

  The back of the stationary taxi was dark and they were parked under a fused street light. She could not make out his face or his expression. ‘I hope we meet again, John.’

  ‘Your boyfriend Jack says you spend weekends with him.’

  ‘Is that what he says?’ her voice quietly annoyed. To have arrived at a statement like that they must have been discussing her sexually.

  ‘So give me your phone number. Your weekends are with Jack. That leaves five other days.’

  She wanted to see his face. His voice was so firm, assured. She felt like telling the cabman to switch on the inside lights. The man was obviously making a direct sexual invitation to her including an explicit betrayal of her lover, and she wanted to see if there was a smirk on his face. In that case she would ridicule him. She laid a silent bet that the expression, if she saw it, would be honest. Ewing had weighed up the situation of Regan’s two days a week and considered that there was nothing very sacrosanct about that relationship.

  And as she thought about it that way she faced the reality of her recent relationship probably for the first time.

  ‘There is no light to write anything. The surname is Moller, Tanya Moller. The address here is Melbury House, W 2. You’ll find me in the telephone book. And I would like you to ring me.’

  James Purcell sat in the Assistant Vice President’s waiting room of the New York Bank and Trust Company, 300 Eastcheap, London EC 3, and studied his notes and his correspondence like an actor having a last look at his lines before the first-night curtain went up.

  This was an important perf
ormance. It wasn’t that he didn’t have most of the information to plan the robbery, it was that he had to check on some critical pieces of information. Check, simple checks — but to do those he’d have, at this interview, to erect a tissue of lies so complex that the Assistant Vice President would be so overwhelmed and so confused he’d start to let vital clues out.

  And if he didn’t, then, so far, James Purcell had committed no crime in England. He could fly away and shrug it off.

  That’s the deal he had made with the IRA Provos and the man they called the Broker. He’d said: ‘I hope to pull this bastard off. I promise you nothing.’

  And the Broker had said: ‘Sure,’ just like that. The IRA Provos were one of the most experienced bank-heist outfits in the world. They knew the problems.