by Roger Busby
The Sweeney came down like Byron’s wolf on the fold and as any self-respecting villain will testify there is nothing quite like a full-on police dragnet to shake the mice out of the woodwork. No sooner had DAC Tom “The Cat” Parker cranked up the operation, fuelled by the prospect of limitless overtime, than the neighbourhood was crawling with detectives much to the chagrin of the criminal fraternity who immediately began to batten down the hatches to weather the storm, but not before the sweep had stumbled across a lock up crammed with stolen TVs, a hydroponic cannabis “farm” bathed in the glare of 600watt grow lights in a foil lined roof void and a thermic lance plus full kit of housebreaking implements concealed under a loose floorboard in a spare bedroom. Several of the brotherhood found the frenzied police activity just too much for their blood pressure and took off for a belated holiday in Tenerife. Alex Donnelly declined a seat on the chartered jet. It would, he told his colleagues, take more than the Old Bill busting a gut over a two-penny-ha’penny blagging to crack his nerve. Besides, he was to all intents and purposes, a legitimate businessman with interests and a reputation to protect.
So he was just a mite surprised when a hoodie sidled into his office, long billed baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and announced in an anguished tone: “My God, Alex, you’ve made a right monkey out of me!”
Donnelly, who was in his customary place behind his desk sighed, sat back from his computer on which he was assiduously tracking the EU metal market and looked up expecting the usual motley raiding party to materialise behind Metal Mike Malloy. But to his surprise, his brother-in-law was alone and his pained expression, odd appearance and injured tone seemed to indicate something was seriously amiss.
“You don’t look so good, Michael,” he replied mildly, “You’d better take the weight off and tell me all about it.”
Tugging the hood further over his head in the hope of concealing his true identity from the prying eyes of the Flying Squad’s long toms Malloy flopped heavily into a chair. After extinguishing the fire in his wastepaper basket he had headed directly for the scrap yard to have it out with Donnelly.
“You’ve made me look a right mug,” he complained accusingly.
“Mike..Michael,” Donnelly replied patiently, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“And what’s Linda going to say, eh?” Malloy grumbled, “answer me that?”
“Look,” Donnelly remained unruffled even at the mention of his sister; “you’ve got the advantage over me, what am I supposed to have done?”
“All this time and you didn’t even tell me…me, your own brother-in-law. You let me keep on coming here without so much as a nod or a wink, it really is too bad, Alex.”
Donnelly leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and asked gently: “What’s too bad Michael?”
“And to think I had to find out for myself.”
“Find out what?”
“That you’re a Flying Squad target, that’s what!” Malloy exclaimed hotly, “there’s Ds on roof tops, in TV repair vans and pretending to dig up the road, taking pictures of everything that moves around here, including ME!”
Alex Donnelly sat up and spent a moment composing his facial muscles. “A Flying Squad target eh?” he mused, shifting his mind into overdrive to assess the ramifications of this piece of information.
“Not any old target either, a Zatopec target,” Metal Mike scowled miserably from the depth of his cowl, “the one that goes the distance.”
Careful to avoid betraying a hint of emotion, Donnelly asked: “How did you find out?”
“From the horse’s mouth,” Malloy replied, “from the squad itself, and how d’you think that made me feel. My own brother-in-law a Zatopec target and I’m the last one to know. I’m telling you Alex, you’ve made a right monkey out of me and no mistake; what’s Linda going to say.”
“You haven’t told her then,” Donnelly inquired, merely to keep the conversation going although he really couldn’t have cared less about his sister’s opinion at this juncture, he had enough to worry about on his own account.
“Of course not, I only just found out myself and I came straight over. You’ve spoiled everything, Alex, you know that. I was going to do a raid today and another tomorrow. I’m on this burka bandit job, you know, on the hand picked team and we’re pulling out all the stops. It was my big chance to shine, but how can I do it now with those jokers from the Squad perched all around. You’ve queered my pitch good and proper.”
They talked on in this fashion a while longer, Malloy accusing; Donnelly placating as he extracted more and more information from his brother-in-law. The picture certainly looked gloomy, but he was a resilient and resourceful villain and now that the first flush of shock had passed he began to examine the problem as a chess player, with a cool analytical approach. There had to be a gambit he could play, the Donnelly defence; all he had to do was figure it out.
The more Donnelly thought about it, the more he pinpointed the burka bandit bit of nonsense as worthy of consideration. Here was a single event stirring everything up, exciting the forces of law and order, turning a damned great searchlight on the shady areas of the manor. It was of constant amazement to a realist like himself that a nondescript crime could still cause such an uproar. It was all over the TV news and you could hardly move for woodentops prowling the streets. But that quirk of bureaucratic imbroglio could at least give him a starting point in his search for bargaining power for he had no intention of remaining a Flying Squad target for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary and he was astute enough to understand that with the right commodity on offer, you could bargain your way out of anything.
So by flattery and subtle questioning he proceeded to pick DC Metal Mike Malloy’s brain clean on the subject of the burka bandit blagging.
“All right,” Donnelly said at last, “let’s see if I’ve got it right. This comedian pulls off an armed robbery,” he was always careful never to slip into the criminal vernacular in conversation with Malloy, “and it so happens that a pair of VIPs come a cropper and start yelling blue murder. Your lot get the bit between their teeth and haul in some likely candidates, is that about the strength of it.”
“It was down to that toe rag Ricky Rikeman, pound to a penny, got his MO stamped all over it, only he’d got a cast iron alibi backed up by a bunch of upright citizens, so he walked.”
“And now you’re beating the undergrowth looking for some other prospect eh?”
“I don’t know why you’re so interested in this case,” Malloy replied morosely, “not now you’re a big deal Flying Squad target who can’t even play fair with his own brother-in-law.”
“Just humour me,” said Donnelly easily, “Did I get it about right?”
“I suppose so.”
“This alibi,” Donnelly mused, “can you get me a look at the statements?”
“Well I don’t know about that,” Malloy bridled, “that’s official police business and besides…”
“Michael, look at me, this is a family thing, would I ask you otherwise? Besides, you’re an important bloke, the crime intelligence analyst. So don’t go selling yourself short. Besides you wouldn’t want to let those glory boys from the Yard put your nose out of joint now would you.”
“What if I could get ‘em?” Malloy scowled miserably and Donnelly eased himself back in his chair, a gambit beginning to take shape.
“Wouldn’t you like things to get back the way they were, like the good times,” he waved a hand, “when you had the run of the place and no hassle from snoopers taking liberties with Metal Mike Malloy?”
“Yes, but..”
“Trust me, Michael, get me those statements and I’ll see what I can do to put this little mix-up to bed.” Donnelly rose and walked over to the cocktail cabinet. “Now how about a drink to calm the old nerves?”
Malloy heaved himself to his feet. “No thanks,” he turned the offer down emphatically, “I’ve been here too long alre
ady. Associating with a Zatopec target! Jesus, they could boil me oil for that.”
Donnelly shrugged; mentally the chess pieces were already in motion. “It’ll be all right, Mike, you’ll see,” he said persuasively, “just get me a shufti at those statements, OK?”
“I can’t bring ‘em here,” Malloy shrank deeper into his hood and Donnelly laughed at his pained expression.
“Why not? You’re always down here. Break the pattern and you’ll be the next under surveillance.”
An involuntary groan escaped Metal Mike Malloy’s lips as he imagined the Squad staking out the Greenwich mews town house, which was his wife’s pride and joy. Linda would crucify him.
“Just get the statements,” Donnelly urged, reaching into his desk drawer to fish out a thumbnail sized flash drive, “use this, and trust me Michael, it’ll be OK.”
ooOoo