A Time To Pay

by David Woods

  “I thought you didn’t like towns.”

  “Antwerp sounds different”

  “Yes, it did sound interesting I must admit. How long are you going for?”

  “About a week or a bit longer. It depends how I get on.”

  “Good luck to you then. You’re only young once.”

  “Betty frowned a little at this talk of travel. “You will be careful won’t you Brian.”

  “Of course I will. I’m not going for a burn up with the boys. This is going to be a leisurely touring holiday.”

  After breakfast Brian rang the ferry office in Dover to reserve a passage for him and his bike. The day was spent checking the bike, tightening the nuts, and when he was satisfied he could do no more, he cleaned and polished it. Then he thought, where am I going to put the diamonds? Taking the lid of the battery area, he decided one bag could go in the cavity behind the battery and the other in the toolbox under the cover on the opposite side of the bike. He thought he would reduce the size of the bag so he could still store an adequate amount of tools.

  On his way to the house Brian went into the workshop and found a clean cloth bag which some tractor parts had arrived in, and took it up to his bedroom. After emptying the two bags out on to the bedspread, he selected the largest stones and put them into the small bag from the workshop. He then put the remainder equally into the original two bags and into his jacket pockets. He took them out to the bike placing one of the original in the toolbox one side, carefully re-packing the tools, replacing the lid and making sure the hand screw was as tight as possible. He packed the other bag behind the battery, and tightened the lid. The third smaller bag fitted snugly inside the rear number plate and light holder, which was secured by a single bolt to the rear mudguard. After making sure the lights still worked, he went back indoors and packed a canvas holdall with the clothes his mother had prepared, and other items he thought he might need.

  He enjoyed looking at maps and laid a sheet covering northern Europe on the floor. After a considerable time spent working out a route to Antwerp, he decided to make a list of towns and road numbers, which he would then stick on to the petrol tank with masking tape under a waterproof cover.

  It was nearly time for bed and he quickly checked his riding gear, making certain his passport and money were in pockets easy to get at, with waterproof over-gloves and a rag in the large lower pockets. He thought about Laura and decided that if she did not try to contact him after his return from holiday, she obviously did not want to see him again. This line of thought made him sad and sleep very difficult. The night was very still with not even a slight breeze to rustle the leaves, and eventually he drifted into a disturbed sleep, dreaming about being chased by the police. He awoke in a cold sweat to the sound of a police car with its siren on as it raced along a nearby country lane, only relaxing when the sound faded away.

  Chapter Four

  Having left the two bags of uncut diamonds in the woodman’s hut, Stan and Reg Jones drove to London to visit their number two lock-up garage. After checking no one was around, they took the holdall out of the boot and hid it in the garage under a pile of cardboard boxes.

  That evening Stan rang Venk who immediately said.

  “Why didn’t you drop the diamonds in the hut?”

  “We did” was the amazed reply.

  “No you didn’t.”

  Following that, both parties got bad tempered and accused each other of double crossing the other.

  After a while they both calmed down and Stan said.

  “There’s only one explanation. Some other bugger got there first.”

  “I arrived at dusk to avoid being seen, so therefore they must have been removed between 12.30 and 7o’clock.”

  “I’ll go back tomorrow to have a look around. If I find the bastard who lifted our ice, I’ll break his neck.”

  “Let me know the outcome” said Venk sarcastically.

  Stan grunted, put the receiver down and then rang Reg to tell him the bad news.

  Stan picked up Reg the next morning and they drove off towards Kent. The weather was dull and Reg remarked.

  “I don’t fancy walking in that wood in the pissing rain.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “Why can’t we just forget about the ice? We’ve got plenty of other stuff.”

  Stan was angry. “I’ll tell you why we can’t forget it. Firstly some other firm might have rumbled us and followed us out there, and if so I’d like to know who. The other reason is money. They could be worth a bloody lot of dough.”

  “If you say so.”

  The first thing they did was to search the hut to no avail, and then walked the three paths which led away from it. Two of the paths led to pasture fields and the third to a ploughed field, which was the shortest and it only took them fifteen minutes to get there and back. By this time they were both fed up and tired. They got back into the car, drove around the area for about an hour, but were still no wiser.

  “Let’s pack it in” said Reg.

  “Not yet. We’ll go to the local village and buy a map.”

  They drove into Lenham and parked in the square.

  “Pretty place, ain’t it?” said Stan.

  Reg was too fed up to appreciate the scenery and just grunted. They bought an ordnance survey map just before the shop closed, and then went across to the café in the centre of the square to buy a snack.

  Picking a table in the corner away from other people, they sat down and Stan began to study the map. After tea and doughnuts he said.

  “I’d like to look at the area again.”

  On the map he had found a set of farm buildings close to the wood. As it was getting dark Stan remarked.

  “We’ll have to find somewhere to stay.”

  “If we must” was the impatient reply.

  The night was spent at a small hotel in the village square and both slept badly, probably due to the amount of beer they had consumed in the bar.

  The next morning Stan announced.

  “I’ll go on my own to that farm and pretend to be an insurance rep.”

  Reg was pleased to left out of this escapade.

  “Ok. I’ll see you later.”

  Stan drove slowly along the narrow lanes which had high banks either side, and he wondered what would happen if a lorry came the other way. As he approached the farm entrance, a large red motorcycle came out of the drive towards him, and he pulled over to let it pass.

  John Wilkins had just finished washing out the milking parlour, and was rolling up the hose when he heard a car pull up outside. He walked through the dairy and saw a dark haired man getting out and thought not another time wasting rep.

  Stan played the part of a salesman well and stretched out his hand. “Good morning, sir. My name’s Harold Brown.”

  They shook hands and John Wilkins said. “What are you flogging then?”

  “Insurance Sir.”

  “Sorry but I’m already fixed up with the N.F.U. Mutual. They specialise in farms of course”

  Where do I go from here, thought Stan. I’d better compliment him on his farm.

  “Oh never mind. I say, it’s a nice view from here. Is all that land across there yours?” He pointed towards the ploughed field in the distance.

  “Yes, but not the woodland.”

  “Is it easy to farm here?”

  “I can see you don’t know this area too well. The Weald is very hard on farmers.”

  “Well, it’s a damn nice place all the same. Have you just ploughed that field by the wood?”

  “Yes. My son finished it the day before yesterday.”

  “Ah. That must have been your son I saw on the motorbike as I came in?”

  “Yes it was.”

  “Perhaps I could interest him in some insurance?”

 
John laughed. “Not much sense trying. He’s also covered by the N.F.U. and besides he’ll be away for a fortnight now.”

  “Gone on holiday, has he?”

  “Yes as a matter of fact he has.”

  “He must be a keen motorcyclist?”

  “Very keen. He’s off to Antwerp, but I don’t know why. I think he’s daft when it’s so flat and uninteresting.

  “I wonder why then?”

  “He says he’s interested in the city, but if that’s right it’ll be the first city he’s been near for ages. He’s always preferred the country.”

  The boy’s going to Antwerp - the diamond capital of Europe. Just to see the city. I don’t believe it thought Stan.

  “Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I won’t waste any more of your time.”

  Off he went up the drive, much faster than he came down it.

  What a strange man, thought John. He didn’t seem too interested in selling. He only wanted a chat and didn’t even mention the name of his company. How the hell does a bloke like that make a living?

  Stan drove back to Lenham and picked up his brother. “What did you find out?” Reg said.

  “The farmer’s son is suddenly going to Antwerp after ploughing that field by the wood. You remember we looked at it yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but don’t mean he’s got the ice, do it?”

  “No, but I bet he has. You got any better ideas?”

  “No.” Reg said gloomily. “I suppose we’ll have to go after him?”

  “Dead right. He’ll be heading for Dover, no doubt. The boy’s got a half hour’s start on us. But he won’t know we’re chasing him.”

  Reg looked down at the map.

  “I hope he don’t ride too fast. We must turn left at Charing.”

  They drove out of Lenham Square, turned right and Reg noticed the large white cross on the side of the hill.

  “What’s that?”

  “Dunno,” said Stan impatiently. “Just keep yer eyes on the bloody map, and don’t get us lost.”

  They drove on in silence until they got stuck behind a lorry on Charing Hill, and Stan cursed because he could not get by. Reg remained silent. As soon as they cleared the hill and overtook the lorry, Stan started to drive like a maniac, and by the time they reached Dover Reg was looking pale and feeling ill. They drove down to the ferry terminal and parked.

  “There he is,” said Stan.

  But it was too late and they could only watch as the motorbike disappeared on to the boat.

  “All that crazy driving for nothing. A complete waste of time.”

  “I don’t think so. Let’s find a phone.”

  There were plenty of telephones in the terminal building and Stan found one away from the crowded area, feeling relieved when Venk answered. The story of the farmer’s son was soon related and Venk said.

  “If he’s carrying the stones, we ought to be pleased.”

  “Why’s that?” Stan said, raising his voice.

  “Because he’s taking the risk of going through customs for us. We can easily collect them on the other side.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I’ll arrange for my people to meet the boy in France and relieve him of the goods, and then I’ll expect a phone call tomorrow night.”

  “Right. And it better be good news.”

  Stan put the receiver down and returned to the car.

  “I suppose that’s the end of that? We won’t hear any more about them stones will we?”

  Stan just grunted.

  Brian set off after breakfast. He hardly noticed the Ford Zephyr that pulled in to let him pass, but just waved automatically as he went by. The roads were dry so he enjoyed riding through the bends which led into Lenham and then on to main road, where he filled up with petrol. The bike felt good and he was enjoying the ride. He was soon at Charing and turned left up the hill. The bike pulled up the hill without effort, overtaking cars and lorries which always seemed to Brian to be painfully slow.

  It took very little time to get to Dover and he parked in the queue for the ferry to Calais. After checking the holdall was secure on the rear carrier, he pushed the bike forward nervously to the customs post. The officer studied his passport and then looked at Brian, whilst another officer was inspecting the bike and walking around it. It all seemed to take an eternity. As he gripped the handlebars and tried not to look guilty, sweat began to form under his helmet sticking his forehead to the lining. The two officers had a quick conversation, and to Brian’s surprise, they handed back the passport and waved him on. His hand was shaky so he quickly slipped the passport in the fairing front pocket to avoid fumbling around with his jacket pocket. His heart was thumping as he started the bike up, rode on to ferry and down into the hold, when he heaved a sigh of relief. He found there was only one other motorcycle and was directed to park beside it. The other bike was a BSA Gold Flash which had a sidecar with lots of stickers in the back window, indicating seaside towns visited in the past.

  Two children got out of the sidecar and stared at Brian’s bike. The little boy said “Look at that Dad.”

  His father smiled and nodded to Brian, who returned his smile, still feeling nervous.

  Reg drove back to London much slower and Stan sat pondering over the other jewellery. After a while he said “I think we ought to fence the other stuff pronto. Venk don’t seem too interested, so we’ll have to think of who we can trust.”

  “Too right. The sooner we get shot of it the better.”

  They arrived back at Stan’s house in the afternoon and were met by his wife.

  “Where the ‘ell ‘ave you bin? Not even a bloody phone call.” She yelled.

  Stan tried to calm her down, but it made her temper worse, so went into his small office room and locked the door. Reg left, having agreed with his brother to meet the next morning.

  Stan started ringing a few contacts, but each time he mentioned some goods to sell the conversation came to an abrupt halt. No one was prepared to take the risk. He began to regret doing the job at all, and even wondered if it would be better to get rid of the jewellery. He was sure Reg would agree.

  Chapter Five

  George Harris spent the morning reading through the files of unsolved jewel burglaries, and found a number of similarities with the last six. None of them involved violence- in fact they were not even witnessed by anyone. They were all well planned break-ins into small jewellery stores, the stolen goods never seen again, despite raids on the well-known fences. His underworld contacts seemed as much in the dark as he was, and two of his regular contacts were upset not knowing who was behind the raids.

  Bill Randall was trying to trace the gas bottles, having failed to find any finger prints, or anything else for that matter. The gas suppliers were contacted with serial numbers and traced to a small factory making wrought iron gates and fencing. Further enquiries revealed they were stolen three weeks ago, but the local police were not making much headway. However, there was a woman who noticed two men loading a car boot outside the back entrance. She thought it was a strange thing to do late at night, but did not think any more about it until the local policeman met her in the street. He knew she walked her dog every night, and asked if she had seen anything strange. Her description of the two men could have fitted half the men in London.

  House to house enquiries along the street of the builders’ yard proved more successful. A retired bank clerk who lived in the street had walked down to the corner shop and noticed a nice Jaguar car parked. He had admired the vehicle as he passed by. He also noticed two men inside eating chocolate. He had wondered what they could be waiting for, and having bought several items in the shop before walking back, noticed they were still sitting there with blank expressions. He said they were both in their thirties with dark hair and scruffily dressed. The car matched the description
of the stolen Jaguar found abandoned after the burglary. A Jaguar was seen parked at the back of the building site at the time of the burglary, but it was not seen to be driven away. This was good reason to have the car impounded and thoroughly checked, but the only finger prints found matched the owner’s, the bank manager who always parked in the same position.

  Inspector Harris asked the bank clerk, Albert Johnson, to come into Scotland Yard for a session with the photo fit artist.

  Sergeant Randall and two detective constables took copies of the photo fit picture, and spent a day showing them to their underworld contacts and people in the second-hand jewellery trade, who mainly consisted of market traders. When this course of action brought no response, George Harris became very depressed about the case. He sent out copies of the pictures to all the local police forces and hoped good old fashioned police work would produce something tangible.

  The sea was calm and Brian enjoyed the trip across the Channel. He had an early lunch on board, and then walked up to the outside area of the deck. Very few people had ventured out, preferring to stay inside out of the wind. He sat down on a bench putting his helmet down beside him. He watched the land in the distance getting nearer and began to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Thoughts of the farm’s financial problems returned and the hardships they would have to endure, particularly if this winter is as hard as the previous in 1963. At that time the January milk cheque had been badly down due to the many days when the milk could not be transported to the milk lorry. In the end the only solution was to cart it across the fields by tractor and trailer to a meeting point in Lenham Square. When the farmers arrived they sat around on straw bales waiting for the milk lorry, drinking coffee from thermos flasks. All this is in the past he thought and I must think about the future. If I manage to get to Antwerp and sell the stones, what will I do with the money and how will I explain it to my parents? He spent a long time pondering the subject, but his thoughts were eventually interrupted by the ship’s public address system which advised drivers to re- join their vehicles. He waited a few more minutes to view the French coast and then walked down to the car deck.