by Roger Busby
Tom “The Cat” Parker caught up with his old sparring partner in the steam room of the Elephant Turkish Bath and Sauna on the Walworth Road.
“My God,” he exclaimed, towel wrapped around his waist toga-like, “this place hasn’t changed a bit.” He cast an eye over the veined white tiling and bleached out benches, “I used to come here with Michael Caine, before he was Michael Caine.”
Bobby Jones, looking distinctly the worse for wear, blinked uncomprehendingly. “Before he was Michael Caine?”
“Mmm he was Maurice Micklewhite in those days and the Elephant and Castle was his stamping ground. We used to have a laugh, if I’d kept in touch I might have got a part in The Italian Job, I was a bit of a thespian myself in those days.” He peered at the naked form through the mist of steam. “You don’t look so good old son.”
“Sweating neat alcohol,” Jones said, “last night was a marathon, like non other. I’ve got jack hammers going flat out inside my skull.” He winced, recalling the scene. The Commisioner had sent over a case of champagne and a limitless bar tab, so the party had spiralled out of control in time honoured fashion. He had awful memories of DCs throwing up in the alley adjoining the pub, another, attempting to drunkenly seduce a barmaid fell down the cellar steps and broke his leg; a usually staid DS danced a jig on a table wearing only his underpants and then led the assembly in community hymn singing before collapsing into a paralytic stupor. Jones shuddered at the memory.
“Well you cleared the burka bandit job, Bobby, feather in your cap all right. The Old Man was cock-a-hoop. Hollingsworth gave him a pat on the head and maximum brownie points, so his K looks safe again, of course he says he only wants it for his old lady so she can swank around as Her Ladyship to compensate for all the time he was away keeping this fair city safe for honest folk.”
“Now where have I heard that before,” Jones muttered as The Cat perched on the bench beside him. “You know what Bob,” he remarked brightly, still strolling down memory lane; “This reminds me of when we were up at Orgreave, knocking miners heads together, and using the old coking works bath house for a scrub up. Seems like only yesterday eh, when we were young and keen as mustard.”
Jones groaned. “Not so loud Tom, my head can’t stand it.”
“Well you’d better fill me in on this burka bandit job, good bit of work by your lads, commendations all round. So what happened, some sharp D get lucky?”
The groan faded into a sigh. “Damndest thing,” Jones said, “Rikeman’s cast iron alibi blew up in his face, just evaporated.”
“Get away.”
“He had all those witnesses in his pocket, backing him up at that all day poker game.”
“So who pulled the rug out from under?”
Jones winced as the pain stabbed behind his eyes: “Local crime intel, would you believe, that old warhorse Mike Malloy..,,”
“Metal Mike as I recall,” The Cat had a good memory for nicknames in the job.
“The very same, been out to grass in crime intel longer than I can remember, then bang, he’s got this one sewn up and covered himself in glory.”
“Luck of the draw, probably,” The Cat said, “What did Metal Mike do, rub his lamp three times and get himself a genie?”
“Something like that,” Jones agreed, “Turns out he’s got a bloody good informant, some guy he’s been cultivating for years suddenly came good, got a nice citizens commendation coming from the Commissioner for his public spirited action. We gave Rikeman another pull on the strength and when we put it to him he didn’t have a prayer, he folded his hand and coughed it. Not even the CPS is going to balk at a confession. Oh and we’re putting the poker school on for conspiracy to pervert, they’ll probably go down for longer than burka man.”
“That’s the spirit,” The Cat said, “that’ll get the old sphincters twitching.” He turned to face Bobby Jones: “This informant of Malloy’s, wouldn’t be some superstar called Alex Donnelly would it?”
“How’d you know that, Tom?”
The Cat scratched his ear. “That explains it,” he said, “I got a steer from the Old Man on him. We’d got him marked down as a Zatopec target.”
“What?”
“Just one of those things,” the Deputy Assistant Commissioner shrugged.
“What’d you do?”
“Oh we dropped him like a hot potato. How’d you like to explain away a Flying Squad target who’s just cleared a major high profile crime with the Metropolitan Police Commissioner’s commendation in his pocket to prove it.”
“I wouldn’t”
“Who for good measure personally returned the presentation time-piece to our friend at the Pakistani embassy earning himself the grateful thanks of the representative of a friendly nation to boot.”
“Ouch!”
“Oh yes, quite the man of the moment, our Mr Donnelly. So to answer your question, I had his stuff yanked out of the system and the file erased back to the Stone Age so fast you wouldn’t have known he ever existed.”
“Self preservation,” Jones nodded.
“Name of the game,” The Cat grinned. He looked around again at the wraith like figures materialising through the mist of the steam room and got to his feet pulling his towel tighter around his waist. “Yes, me and Maurice had a fine time down here in the good old days, put the Bard through his paces a few times too, nothing like a touch of Julius Caesar when you’re sweating cobs.” He struck a pose: “Friends, Romans, countrymen lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar not to praise him…” peered down at his subordinate. “Well they’re open, Detective Chief Inspector Jones, so how about a jar, hair of the dog?”
Bobby Jones lowered his head into his hands. “Go away, guv’nor,” he pleaded, steadying his brow and waiting for the spasm of nausea to pass.
££££££££ THE END ££££££££
Other Titles by: Roger Busby
Trafalgar - Dispatches
South Bank Blue
High Jump
Crackshot
Snowman
The Hunter
Fading Blue
Garvey's Code
New Face in Hell
Pattern of Violence
A Reasonable Man
Deadlock
The Frighteners
Robbery blue
Main Line Killer
The Chicken Suit
The Hammer
The Betrayed
The Villain
Authors Website: Roger Busby.Com
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Biography:
BUSBY, Roger (Charles). British. Born in Leicester, 24 July 1941. Educated at Bishop Vesey's Grammar School for Boys; Aston University, Birmingham, certificate in journalism, 1968. Married Maureen-Jeanette Busby in 1968. Journalist, Caters News Agency, Birmingham, 1959-66, and Birmingham Evening Mail, 1966-73. Since 1973.