The Criminal Escapades of Geoffrey Larkin

by R. W. Hughes

  Heavily laden with two bags apiece, they left the village, slowly making their way back to the villa.

  ‘I’ve never felt so knackered,’ said Geoff, stopping on the lane for a breather, putting down his bags and stretching his back.

  ‘It’s the heat,’ said John Bolton. ‘At this time of the day it must be well over thirty degrees, that’s why all the locals go for a kip for a couple of hours until it cools down.’

  ‘We definitely need wheels, John,’ said Geoff, picking up the two bags again and continuing to make his way slowly along the lane in the direction of the villa, followed by his friend.

  It was a long, hot walk along the sizzling tarmac of the road which was exposed to the full heat of the afternoon sun; the lads’ shirts were soaked and sticky with sweat when they eventually struggled up the drive to the villa.

  Unfortunately, when they arrived in the villa’s kitchen and emptied their bags, their pride was dented further when Peer Merkel inspected what they had purchased.

  Previously he had bought tins with pull off lids but the lads had purchased tins that required a tin opener. They searched high and low in every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen but to no avail, no tin opener could be found.

  ‘This bread bring hard. Tomorrow be like rock from garden, break teeth. You bring good pasta, no pesto, no peppers, no porcini. You bring ham. This no bacon, you need machine to slice, you need aqua melone.’

  Peer Merkel was getting very frustrated. He resorted to several sentences of his native German, before taking a bottle of red wine from the pile of food on the kitchen table and leaving, going in the direction of the lounge, muttering to himself as he went.

  A very red, sunburnt-faced John Bolton summed up both their feelings as he looked across the table at Geoff’s also very sunburnt red face.

  ‘I feel very hot, very inadequate and bloody pissed off!’ he said, watching the back of the old man walking slowly away with the bottle of red wine in one hand and leaning on his walking stick on the other.

  ‘You won’t be as pissed off as Peer Merkel when he finds that wine he’s walked off with is just a bottle of cheap local plonk,’ replied Geoff. Both young men were aware of Peer Merkel’s expensive tastes and they were both laughing about the situation when Harry Sutton and Derek Bolton came into the kitchen from the pool, dripping water on the terracotta tiled kitchen floor.

  ‘What’s for tea?’ enquired Sooty, looking at the pile of food on the kitchen table.

  Hs remark caused both Geoff and John Bolton to burst into further peals of laughter, causing a pained expression on the face of the bemused Sooty.

  *

  It was after a makeshift meal of bread and several tins of self-opening sardines washed down with a number of glasses of the local red wine that Geoff brought up the subject of a set of wheels. He’d racked his brain for several hours and could not come up with a solution so he had decided to put it to the group, in the hope that something would materialise out of their discussion.

  ‘We can’t use these passports or driving licences to hire a car,’ said Geoff.

  ‘I suppose the same would apply if we tried to buy a car,’ volunteered Derek Bolton.

  ‘Well,’ continued Geoff, ‘according to Peer Merkel that is out of the question. It’s very difficult to buy a car if you’re not a resident, plus it would make a massive hole in our finances, so that’s a no go.’

  ‘Hanging around that bus stop in the village is too dodgy, too dodgy by far,’ added John Bolton. ‘What if we just go to the nearest town, like Arezzo, and just lift a car? John can fix the wiring. Pronto, we have wheels!’ added Sooty.

  ‘No, we have to do it legit if possible,’ continued Geoff. ‘Peer Merkel has the contacts so we have to go through him. He would have got through that bottle of plonk by now so he should be quite talkative. Let’s go and have a word with him.’

  As Geoff had suggested, all four lads left the kitchen and made their way to the large lounge diner where Peer Merkel was just finishing the last of the wine.

  ‘I compliment you, gentlemen,’ said a voice from a deep chair near the window as the boys entered the room. ‘Your choices wines same as choice provisions, crappy!’ Peer Merkel continued laughing to himself at his witticism.

  He was obviously in a jovial mood. The local wine may not have been the best quality but the alcoholic content was exceptionally high.

  ‘We have just been saying in the kitchen,’ said Geoff, ‘what we really need is a vehicle.’

  ‘Ja that ees true-full, that ees very, very, true-full,’ retorted Peer Merkel, nodding as he spoke to emphasise his statement.

  ‘The problem is,’ said Geoff, ‘our licenses are not up to date so we wondered if your associates could come up with a solution.’

  ‘Ahhh, a solution,’ repeated Peer Merkel, emptying his glass and wincing at the taste in the process. ‘Tomorrow make phone call, as you say a solution, now my bed go.’

  It was Sooty who helped Herr Merkel out of the big easy chair supporting him as he made his way to the foot of the marble staircase that led to the bedrooms, turning to face the watching lads. ‘Gute Nacht Gentlemen.’ Then with the help of Sooty, he slowly climbed the stairs to his bedroom. After assisting the old man to his bedroom, Sooty rejoined the other lads who were now deep in conversation.

  They stayed up for several hours discussing the options and possibilities of trying to acquire a vehicle but failed to come to a feasible conclusion.

  The more of the local wine they drank the more absurd were their suggestions. When there were no more bottles of wine left, and with the faint light of dawn beginning to show outside, they all very unsteadily and supporting one another in the process, slowly made their way up the wide staircase on the way to their bedrooms.

  Everyone overslept the following morning as all the lads had a hangover from the local wine from the night before. Even Herr Merkel was a little under the weather being very quiet at breakfast, which they all eventually settled down to at lunchtime, surprisingly Merke did not request anything but milk and sugar in his coffee.

  ‘I make call! Telefono Italia my friends,’ said Peer Merkel breaking the subdued silence in the room. ‘I think machine during darkness. I think solution.’ Peer Merkel slowly left the kitchen to make his call, leaving the group of lads around the kitchen table drinking coffee, all promising themselves that they would never drink that much red wine again.

  Geoff watched from the kitchen as Peer Merkel rang several numbers from a little notebook, looking more dejected after each unsuccessful phone call holding his head in his hands during the process and mumbling to himself in German, until after the fourth call Geoff noticed a glimmer of a smile flit across his face.

  With a deep sigh Merkel put away his mobile phone and relaxed in the deep, comfy chair with his head resting on the high back.

  Geoff and John Bolton were washing the breakfast dishes while Derek and Sooty were having a soak in the pool when Peer Merkel re-entered the kitchen, sitting down at the table and hanging his walking stick on the back of a nearby chair, waiting while Geoff and John Bolton finished the washing up and he had their full attention.

  ‘My friends provide machine, not new motor, but good German auto, fit everybody.’

  What emerged was that the car and documentation would be leased in Peer Merkel’s name. If the Carabinari waved the car down for any reason, which they could well do, one of the lads would have to produce his driving licence and risk it, that’s the best he could do.

  Geoff was over the moon. They had wheels although he did not know what as yet. It would be delivered that afternoon and they would have documentation of a sort in English and Italian. They were just ignorant tourists and they would have to bluff their way through, if and when that situation ever arose and, if and when it ever became necessary.

  All five were waiting at the front entrance of the villa at 4.30 that afternoon; the time stated when the vehicle was going to be delivered.

&nbs
p; It was nearly 5.30 when the very bored group first heard then saw a small white Fiat Panda, with rusting wings and blue smoke puffing from its noisy exhaust, struggling up the drive to the villa.

  ‘That rust bucket won’t carry all of us,’ exclaimed John Bolton, the disappointment sounding in his voice.

  ‘Oh shit!’ was all Geoff could find to say. Herr Peer Merkel just leaned on his walking stick and smiled, ignoring the glances directed towards him.

  The driver of the Fiat struggled to turn the vehicle around before parking it at the far end of the drive, just sitting in the driver’s seat with the engine running. All the boys were so busy watching the manoeuvres of the Fiat that they did not hear the large, black saloon pull up and park in front of the villa until the last moment.

  ‘Wow! Look at that,’ shouted Sooty directing the attention of the lads to a large Mercedes that had silently and smoothly appeared.

  ‘We’ll all fit in that, including Sooty, and have room to spare,’ shouted John Bolton jokingly as he bounded down the marble steps to inspect the car.

  He was closely followed by his brother, Derek, with Sooty and Geoff helping Peer Merkel down to the vehicle but at a much slower pace. Peer Merkel exchanged pleasantries with the driver, and then gave him the envelope, which Geoff had given him earlier.

  The man then joined his friend in the old Fiat and with a cheerful wave both men drove off leaving a strong smell of burning oil behind them. Geoff was left holding an envelope full of documents and a set of car keys.

  John Bolton drove the car down the drive onto the lane that led to the village. He was reminded by Peer Merkel not to drive on the left but to drive on the right. John did this, gingerly at first, but by the time they reached the village and had parked outside the local little Spar grocery store, John Bolton was driving the big Mercedes like he had owned it for years.

  Geoff looked up and down the main street of the village. Even though it was at the end of the siesta it was practically deserted.

  The temperature was in the low thirties and when you left the air conditioning of the car it was like stepping into an oven. Geoff thought the area where they were was really ideal, the road just served the village after that, it just faded out into narrow lanes and limestone tracks.

  No one came past the village unless they had business at one of the small farms or they were visiting one of the few other large villas similar to the one where Geoff and his group were staying.

  There was a sign over the family run general store which read, ‘Reggello Established 1936’.

  ‘I think this old chap could well have been the original proprietor,’ joked John Bolton as they were served by a small, wizened, old guy who conversed fluently with Herr Merkel in Italian. Under his supervision, the boot of the car was quickly filled with bags of groceries, fresh fruit and vegetables.

  Taking extra care, Peer Merkel chose the best of the store’s wine, making sure it was carefully stacked on the rear seat of the Mercedes next to him. The lads looked at one another and smiled, it was certainly going to be party time for the lads at the villa tonight.

  *

  Back in Stockport UK, Acting Inspector Robinson was sitting in his office reading aloud to his assistant a report in English which had just been faxed from the Italian Carabinieri department in Florence.

  ‘They traced the four of them from Pisa airport to a hotel in the city where they stayed for one night; they then turned up the following day at a five star hotel in the centre of Florence.

  They stayed here for one night too.’

  ‘What happened after that?’ queried Constable Wilson as Robinson lapsed into silence.

  ‘That’s it, that’s the last that has been heard, or seen, of them since; there’s been nothing for eight days.’

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, all the leads we’ve followed up at this end have also come to nothing. That silver plated spoon left in Larkin’s flat, the crest on the handle belonged to a peer of the realm, a family called Lucan. Apparently, the sixth Earl of Lucan disappeared in 1974 and, according to the report; Larkin’s prints were all over the spoon so we can assume it belonged to him. Where he came by it we don’t know but, by all accounts, he was a small time thief and con man so he probably stole it.’ There were a few more moments of silence before Constable Wilson added his thoughts.

  ‘Those friends of Dave Higgins and his cousin, Wilf Norton, were used by the mob to sniff out information. They don’t know, or if they do, they are too frightened to say anything after what happened to Sidney Locket.’

  ‘Larkin and co. have either gone to ground or, looking on the black side, they have been found by the heavy mob working for the money laundering organisation who seem to be as well informed as we are. If that’s the case, by now they’ve probably been disposed of, pushing up daisies or, in this case sunflowers, at the side of some Italian olive grove,’ said Inspector Robinson thoughtfully.

  This sobering statement by the acting inspector left both men quiet and deep in thought for a few minutes. The silence was eventually broken again by Inspector Robinson.

  ‘By the way, constable, how is Sidney Locket?’

  Wilson looked up from reading over the report from the Italian police that had been passed to him.

  ‘He’s still in the hospital but, fortunately, he’s off the critical list. From what I can gather, when he’s discharged he will be only half the thug he was before he had the beating!’

  Robinson gave a wry smile at the cynical answer given to his casual enquiry.

  ‘The Crown Prosecution Service is unhappy about taking the director of the building company to court for passing forged currency,’ said Inspector Robinson as he opened and read another letter from the pile on his desk. ‘He has the money to employ the best barrister so if he is not convicted it weakens the case against the other young thugs.’

  Constable Wilson put the letter he had been reading from the Italian police in the out-tray on Inspector Robinson’s desk. ‘What do they suggest then?’ he asked.

  Inspector Robinson continued reading the report for several seconds before answering. ‘Leave the director of the building company because of lack of firm evidence; the same applies to the principal of the school. They are just going for a conviction of Norton for receiving the stolen goods we found in his flat and they will include the laundering of forged currency.’

  ‘Looks like they are running true to form and taking the soft option again,’ commented the constable dryly.

  ‘Yes, on the face of it, that seems to be the case. The only consolation is the fact that the director, Daniel Goodier, passed these dud notes at the golf club along with several other prominent places in the town. It certainly won’t do his reputation any good even though we don’t prosecute. A man like him makes a lot of enemies; they will have a field day spreading rumours and gossip at his expense. The story Dave Higgins told us about receiving the forged money in the post could well be true, apparently him and Geoff Larkin were at loggerheads for a good while, and it could have been payback time for Larkin, dropping Higgins in the shit you might say, along with that creep Goodier and a dislike for the school principal Tattersall. You go and see if the canteen has opened, constable. If it is, bring us both a cup of tea while I finish reading this mail.’

  The constable left, closing the door behind him, leaving the Inspector sitting at his desk sorting his morning mail. As he removed his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes, the acting inspector thought that the case seemed to be coming to a full stop.

  Next on the pile was a report from one of the team designated to finding known associates of the four young men who had done a runner. Apparently, all four used to frequent ‘the Swan’ public house, also they occasionally visiting the nearby nightclub.

  The team’s enquiries had discovered that the one they called Sooty, namely Harry Sutton, ex remand home, did not bother with girls and sometimes helped out the landlord at the pub on occasions doing cellar work. By all accounts, the
only mates he had were the other three who were also wanted for questioning.

  His pals were the two Bolton brothers, John who was the eldest and Derek, both ex remand home boys. They dated girls but neither had regular girlfriends. John Bolton was working at a local garage and, according to his boss; he was quite clever where machinery was concerned. His brother worked at a local shop repairing computers and radios. His employer said he was quite a talented technician, and was finding it difficult to replace him.

  Their enquiries had also turned up an email address for Derek Bolton. The next on the list was Geoff Larkin who was considered the leader of the group. He was ex remand home and was working part time at a local supermarket at the time of absconding. He had an on and off relationship with a girl, Alice Barker, who worked as a secretary on the industrial estate. She had not heard from him since the date of the group flying out of the UK.

  The name Alice Barker, secretary, triggered something in Robinson’s mind. He made a mental note to send one of the team to get more details and any information on this couple’s relationship from her present employers at the storage and distribution centre on the nearby industrial estate. But that was something he would do later because Constable Wilson had just returned with two steaming mugs.

  ‘I think, constable,’ said the acting inspector, stopping to take a drink of his tea before continuing, ‘we should put together and send a message to Derek Bolton’s email address, if on the off chance he replies we will at least know one of them is still alive.

  *

  Marco and his boss, who went under the name of Mr. Brown, along with the other two heavies, had booked into a hotel opposite Pisa railway station. While Mr. Brown was busy making several long distance telephone calls, the other three men sat about in the hotel lounge boringly looking at several out-of-date fashion magazines.

  A couple of hours later, two smartly dressed, young Italian men arrived , asking at the reception if they could see Mr. Brown, the Englishman who was staying at this hotel.