by Julia Hughes
‘You got boring Crombie, stuck in the sticks, why’d ya wanna move all the way out in the middle of nowhere?’ This was an old grumble of Ricky’s, and Crombie ignored it, Ealing was hardly the middle of nowhere, and Mrs Crombie already had her eye on the tropic of Ruislip, her idea of genteel living.
Ricky lowered his backside into a seat at a table already occupied by three fellow sufferers, and without waiting for a reply introduced Crombie to the group: A slim intense looking Asian called Nathan; Patsy, a middle aged prim and proper woman, and Heather Clack, whose red hair was cut in a short mannish style and wasn’t much older than WPC Holland, but had an air of authority about her which she’d probably been born with. Chandri launched into a tale of the old days, playing up an abortive raid for laughs.
‘Man, you should have been there, funniest thing ever.’
It hadn’t been funny at the time. Acting on a tip off that a deserted farmhouse was being used to make porn or worse, snuff films, Crombie found himself somehow tagging along with Chandri and his “boys”. Crombie felt his ears going red and concentrated on the plate in front of him.
‘So Del Boy here went up the front entrance playing the straight man, and he’s clocked all these vans got the BBC OB logo on their side, and seen the catering trailer, but it’s too late to call us off, we’ve all gone in through the back, team handed, armed bastards, proper Gene Hunt stuff.’ Ricky choked with laughter, a smile spreading on the faces of his listeners as they guessed what was coming.
‘And the bald one, the one that plays one of the brothers, meant to be the hard nut, he’s hiding behind the actress playing the pub landlady, and she’s gone red in the face, and there’s six men all dressed in black, all pointing guns at her and the crew.’
‘Don’t tell me.’ Patsy said ‘They were filming an episode of “East Enders” and trying to keep the ending secret.’
Ricky nodded, laughing a lot harder than the story warranted. ‘And Del Boy rushes over, and he says “Sebastian, Roderick, I told you this was the wrong set, come along now, Julian will be tearing his hair out.” and the woman that plays the landlady of the pub, tottered over, for a moment I thought she was going to say “Gerrout my pub!” instead she’s saying to Crombie “don’t I recognise you from somewhere?” well she used to be married to Ronnie Knight - and of course, Crombie helped at the trial that put him away.’
Chandri’s audience gave wry smiles. Crombie said apologetically ‘It’s one of those stories where you had to have been there.’ and before Chandri could embarrass either of them further, asked Nathan which station he was from.
‘Uxbridge. I’m hoping to try for undercover, we’ve a huge problems with cannabis farms. That’s why I’m attending today.’
Chandri raised his eyebrows, but Patsy and Heather nodded agreement.
‘It’ll be interesting to see if the prospect of legalisation or decriminalisation is raised.’ Heather said. This time Nathan and Patsy nodded. Crombie liked their optimism, but doubted any ground breaking discussions would take place today. The tannoy pinged, and a voice informed all delegates to begin making their way along the corridor and down the stairs to conference room three.
Nathan, Patsy and Heather rose to their feet, shook hands with Chandri and Crombie who noticed Patsy held onto Chandri’s hand a little longer than necessary, perhaps she wasn’t quite as prim and proper as the A line suit and sensible shoes indicated.
Conference Room Three had tiered cinema style seats so everyone had a clear view of the podium in the middle. Four people sat behind their name placards on a wide steel and chrome desk which must have weighed a ton. A screen hung behind their heads, and Crombie had just time to note only one was in uniform, and the man closest to him had the red nose of a drinker, and must have been at least ninety before the lights dimmed. He stumbled behind Chandri to a back row and found a seat just as introductory music played and the film titles rolled.
‘Showtime!’ Chandri whispered, as they took their seats.
The lasagne verdi resting comfortably in his tummy, Crombie settled back and tried to watch the adventures of a drug addict in rehabilitation, or rather the rehabilitation of a chemical substance abuser, but the early morning start caught up with him. He intended to rest his eyes for only five minutes, but jerked awake with a start to find the film had finished, the lights were back on and speeches were being made. He nudged Chandri dozing beside him.
‘Wha’d I miss?’ Chandri asked.
‘Nothing much.’ Crombie said ‘The Big Wigs’ speech on how we can combat crime together. Usual stuff.’
The floor opened up for a question and answer session. Crombie clamped his lips together, it seemed everyone agreed with him: “Let’s keep quiet and we’ll get out early.”
‘Come on now, someone must have a point of view on this?’ The Assistant Chief Constable said, a touch of annoyance in his voice. ‘Yes you there? What’s your name?’
Several rows in front of Crombie and half a dozen seats to the left, a head bobbed up, and Crombie recognised the mannish hair cut of Heather Clack.
‘Since Portugal decriminalised registered drug addicts, and other countries, notably Mexico have followed suit, does the Home Office have any plans to legalise drugs, or at least decriminalise registered addicts?’
Crombie brightened, and mentally got the popcorn ready. The nonagenarian opened his mouth, but the Assistant Chief Constable answered for him after a speedy consultation with his assistant.
‘Thank you for raising this issue. If you’d like to ring my secretary to make an appointment after this conference, I’ll gladly discuss your theories with you.' His gaze shifted dismissively. 'Now moving on.’
‘Let’s discuss it now.’ A glance at Chandri’s face confirmed the voice belonged to Patsy.
Crombie saw the advisor’s lips move again. With a satisfied smirk the Chief Constable said ‘Thank you Acting Sergeant Wilson. Your ... fervour on this matter has been noted, and one of my aides will be in contact with you shortly. Now unless anyone else has any objections, I’d like to move on.’
Apart from one or two muttered ‘Shame’ no-one rushed to be singled out.
But the Chief couldn’t resist a little dig. With a chuckle he said ‘Whatever next? Maybe we should discuss legalising brothels.’ This brought one or two sniggers. When the hall quietened again a voice next to Crombie call out ‘Why not?’
The Assistant Chief Constable didn’t have to wait for his advisor to supply Ricky’s name.
‘That might be something you’d like to see in London Mr Chandri, or even visit, but I can assure you it was meant as a joke.’
A muted tittering rose from the front rows. Choosing his words carefully Crombie waited for the sniggering to subside. ‘And I can assure you Sir, DCI Chandri is happily married, and even if he were not, I doubt he would ever have to pay for anyone’s company.’
Ricky nodded encouragement, from in front Crombie heard murmurs of support.
‘However, it is the oldest profession in the world, and it would make everyone in this hall’s job easier, not to mention providing a safer environment for the majority of sex workers, who tend to be young vulnerable women.’
While the Assistant Chief Constable glared again, the advisor scribbled frantically, at her nudge, the Chief looked down at her notes, then smiled broadly in Crombie’s direction.
‘And how would you feel, DI Crombie if a careers’ advisor suggested that as a job to your daughter?’
This time Crombie didn’t have to think. ‘Sir, at the risk of pointing out the obvious, I don’t imagine too many careers’ advisors ever single out school children as road sweepers or traffic wardens come to that. Prostitution is not the chosen career of anyone, no matter what your assistant would have you believe.’
He stopped there, declining to dignify the Chief’s nasty personal attack with a response.
Apart from the rustling of paperwork and the nonagenarian clearing his throat, the hall fell silent once
more. Seeing there was no help coming from the girl wonder beside him, eventually the Assistant Chief said:
‘Well, this is all very fascinating, and I appreciate the feedback, but there is a time and place for everything, unless we want to be here all night, I’m sure some of us have homes we want to get to, not to mention jobs to go back to tomorrow.’ He turned to the elderly man by his side. ‘Mr Rose do you have anything to add?’
Crombie turned to meet Ricky’s equally bewildered gaze. ‘Did he just threaten us?’ Ricky shrugged and grimaced.
‘He’s right. Keep stum. I wanna get out of here.’
Mr Rose couldn’t quite get the hang of the microphone, looking down to refer to his notes often with the result that the first part of his sentences were all Crombie ever caught. For all anyone knew, the old boy could have been proposing free drugs, sex and booze for the whole country. Whatever he had to say, the Assistant Chief Constable, his aide and the vastly overweight woman from Social Services heartedly agreed, nodding enthusiastically. Crombie guessed Mr Rose was someone very high up in the pecking order.
At last the droning stopped, after a pause there was a scattering of applause, and Crombie stretched feeling joints crackle. A subdued group filed out of the doors to the right and left of the rostrum; feeling eyes on him, Crombie kept his head down. It was way too late in his career to worry about making friends or enemies for that matter. Reaching the ground floor the conference crowd straggled towards the main exit, and Ricky caught Crombie up.
‘Mate, thanks for going into bat for me in there.’
Crombie continued shrugging his arms into his jacket, rotating his shoulders a couple of times until the jacket fell into its usual creases, like a second skin.
‘Walked into it really didn’t he?’
‘Buy you a drink?’
Sensing his hesitation Ricky said ‘Come on, I ain’t seen you in over two years, when’s the next time we’ll have a chance? Just the one - promise.’
As he spoke, Ricky pushed against one of the side doors and glad to escape the throng of bodies flooding through the double main doors, Crombie slipped through. Once down the steps onto the pavement it seemed churlish to refuse, especially as Ricky kept tight hold of his elbow, urging him to hurry before the PC brigade chased after them.
A couple of heads turned as they entered the Pontefract Pub, then they were dismissed. One of the benefits of middle age; you became invisible. As his eyes adjusted from the sunlight to the pinkish artificial glow, Crombie saw the pub’s clientele were mainly huddled around circular tables raised on chrome pedestals. Thankfully half a dozen or so upholstered benches against the walls were provided for old fogies who needed to take the weight off their feet, and Ricky pointed towards a vacant bench, heading for the bar. Edging between the bench and low slung coffee table which still managed to catch his shins, Crombie sat down, uncomfortably low to the ground, consoling himself that they wouldn’t be staying long. On the bench diagonally opposite two overweight women, one brunette one blonde preened themselves.
Nudging Crombie’s knee, as he placed two pints on the table, Ricky winked settling himself on the bench next to Crombie with a practiced shuffle.
Crombie laughed at the notion, shaking his head just as the blonde one looked over in their direction, and her friendly glance turned into a glower.
They avoided talking shop, contenting themselves with criticising the kids slumping over the mushroom like tables with their jeans halfway down their backsides, showing the top half of their underwear; in the case of the males brightly coloured boxers. Rickie speculated on the comfort of the girls’ thongs and both admitted bewilderment on why anyone would want to show off such unattractive flesh and dodgy tattoo designs.
‘Must be freezing their arses off.’ Ricky grinned at his own quip, indicating Crombie’s rapidly emptying glass said ‘Same again?’
Instead of declining Crombie felt obliged to say ‘I’ll get this one, but then I’ve gotta go.’ The two women of his own age were being chatted up by men young enough to be their nephews at least, the blonde one tossed her head as Crombie passed, and trilled with laughter at a remark by one of the men, who seemed gratified that someone actually found him amusing.
Levering himself into a space at the bar, Crombie propped an elbow on the chest high surface, holding a fiver up for the attention of one of the bar keeps. At the far end of the bar, he witnessed a curious incident.
The majority of drinkers were under thirty and held out strips of plastic ready to pay for their drinks. Nothing unusual in that, more and more Crombie found himself in the minority, paying in cold hard cash. What was unusual was the furtive action taking place at the end of the bar. A trio of older men huddled close, shoulders hunched and heads lowered, but there was no mistaking the actions of their hands, and Crombie counted silently with them, so engrossed the skinny youth behind the bar had to ask him twice for his order. Realising he was staring, Crombie averted his gaze, pretending to read the upside labels of the spirit bottles behind the bar, but using the burnished cooper lining the wall to continue counting. Apart from taking a natural interest in large amounts of money changing hands, Crombie was trying to think where he’d seen the faces of the two men receiving the money.
‘Crombie you wanna stop staring at the Lampton Boys?’ Ricky materialised at his shoulder to whisper a warning. Raising his voice he added ‘Get us a couple of packets of crisps.’ The barman thought Rick was addressing him, looking bored he said ‘Sorry mate, no crisps, only pork scratchings. Youwannapack?’
‘No, no worries. Thanks mate.’ Giving Crombie another warning nudge, Ricky picked up his pint and led the way back to their table.
All business done, the Lampton Boys made their exit, rolling their way towards the door with a swagger. They had deep set eyes in broad confident faces, and wore the latest cargo pants, with polo t-shirts under hip length maroon cotton jackets. Crombie caught a glimpse of a pewter grey Bentley parked outside on double yellow lines, which pulled away silently as soon as the doors clunked shut.
‘I’ve seen that limo before.’ Crombie said.
Ricky shrugged. ‘They couldn’t be more obvious, Harry likes a bit of flash. Flash Harry. He’s laughing at me Crombie. Waving two fingers under my nose. Know what his reg plate is? 000HL. The bastard knows I can’t touch him.’
Crombie frowned: ‘Flash Harry and The Lampton Boys?’
Ricky nodded with his nose inside his drinking glass. Coming up for air, he swiped his mouth and still sotto voce explained.
‘We got files on him going back to 1963, about the time of the Notting Hill race riots, come on Derek, you must have heard of him.’
Crombie shook his head, meeting Ricky’s disbelieving stare with a shrug.
‘Well, I suppose he has kept his head down for the last twenty odd years.’ Ricky conceded ‘But you’ve heard of the Tramshed?’
As its name indicated, the building had once been used to store trams, and occupied a prestigious cul-de-sac off Tottenham Court Road.
‘Yeah, I know it.’ In fact, only last month Lizzie had applied for a part time job there, selling programmes for the many music and sporting events hosted in the popular club. Much to Crombie’s relief, she’d been rejected as being too young and told to come back when she was twenty-one.
‘He owns that, and a security company. He provides all the muscle for a lot of events, and rumour has it he takes 33.3%.’
‘And those were his sons?’ Crombie asked, tracing the outline of Killer’s photographs through his pocket, certain now where he’d seen those arrogant faces before.
‘Two of ‘em anyway. The eldest died in a hit and run five years ago. The younger one’s Craig and the elder one is Malcolm. There’s one in between, Maurice, he’s the real talent. Started out as a ticket tout, now he’s a promoter. Music, sport, knows a lot of people. A lot of people. There’s a daughter but she’s in New Zealand.’ Ricky explained. ‘Funny thing about the old man, he’s got these dre
adful varicose veins, all knobbly blue feet and legs, but he never wears socks.’ He snorted with derision.
‘Funny.’ Crombie agreed, tracing the outline of Killer’s photos through his pocket, weighing consequences in his mind, should he go through official channels first, or sound out Chandri, who was really warming to his subject now:
‘The clubs are all legit - even what you saw just now Lampton would have it covered - come up with paperwork saying he owned ten percent or whatever.’ Ricky swallowed hard, his eyes focussed on one of the bronzed half globe lamps. 'The Tramshed’s been raided a couple of times - but someone must tip the bastard off.’
Before Crombie could prompt him, Ricky grimaced. ‘I know he’s been holding bare knuckle fights after hours. But no-one’ll talk.’ Shaking his head as if to clear an image from his mind, Ricky took a couple of gulps of beer, and swiped his hand across his mouth. ‘Another thing. We reckon Harry’s got a little hideaway some place - a clearing house if you like.’ He shook his head again and tried to smile. ‘Remember that geezer involved with the Heathrow Airport Robbery? The one that wrote a book about it? Well he’s been on the missing list for nearly a year now. I reckon Harry’s behind that. Didn’t like his name being mentioned. Tell you what I’d love to find his hidey hole.’
Crombie saw again the scrap yard at the end of Latimer Road. Under the concrete jungle of the A40 White City roundabout, huddling against a thirty foot railway embankment.
‘Crombie you OK?’
In answer Crombie withdrew the photographs from his pocket and passed them wordlessly to his colleague.
Chandri’s jaw moved from side to side as he stared down at the grandfatherly figure in the photographs.
At six feet tall, Harry Lampton was above average height for most Londoners of his generation, sported glasses reminiscent of Buddy Holly and persisted in greasing back his hair like an aging teddy boy. He no longer wore a drape coat though, settling for a hip length cardigan with bulging patch pockets. His two grinning sons knelt either side of Harry’s unsmiling form, both resting one hand casually on Alfie’s back. Crombie noted there appeared to be duct tape around the alligator’s snout. All three Lamptons’ faces gleamed with excitement, and they all appeared to dine on steak and fresh strawberries daily.