The Criminal Escapades of Geoffrey Larkin

by R. W. Hughes

  Peer was obviously struggling for English words to explain his friend’s position, especially as he became more excited and animated.

  ‘Non association type of people, not gangster!’ he added.

  It was here that Peer Merkel stopped. He had run out of explanations of the negatives of the robbery so his old friend took over.

  ‘We think, Geoff, that you and your friends are very naive to attempt such a crazy scheme but you already know our views on this matter.’

  Geoff was not surprised at what both men had said. It was what, deep down, he had really expected and, if the truth be known, he had to agree with them, it was a crazy idea. Even so, it had given him had a great buzz in his mind’s eye just thinking about it. He would now have to think about organising the lads leaving, especially as he was getting uneasy feelings about their present position staying at the villa.

  ‘But,’ continued Fisher, ‘as rightly you have said, we would not be involved. Peer and I would be in Austria when you attempt your robbery so, if you are successful and you can transport the bullion over the border into Austria without being arrested, I will then, and only then, see if I can make contact with people who may or may not be interested in the silver.’

  Werner then added, ‘Geoffrey, I must emphasise that this agreement is null and void if any innocent person is injured in this escapade.’

  Geoff’s heart missed a beat at what Werner Fisher had said. ‘They were in! The two old codgers were bloody well in. The scheme was on! It was on. It was a goer!!!’

  ‘Great! That’s fantastic!’ said Geoff rigorously shaking both Werner Fisher and Peer Merkel’s hands in turn, then going back to shake Werner Fisher’s hands again.

  He left the two men in the lounge with their coffees. He had a lot of planning to cram into the next few days. Firstly, he had to tell the rest of the lads that the scheme was on. Werner and Peer would instruct John Bolton on the assembly and workings of the firing mechanism on the 75 mm cannon, how to load the shells and how to manually raise and lower the gun.

  Geoff had to contact Jock the Fence. Clearly, the safest method of doing this was to use public telephone boxes miles from the villa but that would cause serious delays in communication and time was of the essence. So the easiest method would be using the pay as you go mobile phone. This could be traced to them through their passports as they had been required to produce them in order to purchase the phones but these were false anyway.

  He decided there were many risks involved with this job and this was just one of them.

  If there were any comebacks they would, hopefully, be long gone before the calls could be traced back to the villa, if they could be traced back there at all.

  Jock the Fence was so surprised to hear Geoff’s voice on the other end of the line that he spilt his cup of hot tea over his nightshirt. This soaked immediately through to his thighs causing him to jump out of his seat whilst, at the same time, knocking over the small table complete with its contents of buttered toast and jam which ended up on the floor.

  The last time Geoff Larkin’s name had been mentioned was when the Scot had passed the information on to the syndicate when they were making enquiries on the underworld grapevine offering a good price for information leading to the apprehension of the four young men. He had not given it another thought as he believed that all four of them would be pushing up daisies by now in some foreign field.

  ‘Hoch! Why it’s so good te hear from ye agen, Geoff Larkin,’ answered the Scot on his hands and knees. He had retrieved the phone that had fallen under his chair in the accident whilst, at the same time, trying to hold the nightshirt away from his burnt thigh.

  ‘What ken I do fer ye?’

  ‘Have you got a pen and paper handy, Jock?’ The request that came from Geoff left the usually unflappable Scot temporarily speechless.

  ‘Three 75mm Stuk 37 L/24 shells, two of ‘em armour piercing! That’s not in my line of work. I dun’a deal with explosives. I anna an arms dealer,’ repeated Jock when he had eventually regained his composure after his brain had absorbed the request.

  ‘Write it down, Jock!’ was the firm reply from the other end of the phone. ‘Money is no problem so try any of your contacts who have friends in the Balkans, possibly Albania. Ring you back tonight.’ The phone went dead. Jock sat down, not noticing he was sitting on the wet carpet and also forgetting his burnt thigh.

  Had he heard correctly? He said aloud to himself, ‘Was that Larkin at the other end of the phone, the small-time crook, Larkin?’ What the hell would he want with three 75mm shells, and where did he think he could get them? Who did that Larkin think he was? Issuing orders as if he was his lackey. Expecting him to jump to his tune at a moment’s notice. He’d give him a piece of his mind when he rang back. He’d tell him where to get off.

  It was a short while later, after he’d cooled down, that Jock started to think money, and how much this information could be worth to him if it was passed on to the right people. It was obvious that Larkin was still on the run from the syndicate. Jock looked at the details of what was requested that he had scribbled on a scrap of paper. He would make some phone calls.

  The syndicate had paid him handsomely for the last information he had passed on to them so he could possibly get the same again or even more. It was obvious that they had not yet caught up with Larkin and his mates.

  The Scot dragged away the corner of the wet carpet and, removing a loose floorboard, he took a dirty notebook from the opening. Flicking through the pages he found the number he wanted. He read the number to himself aloud but backwards, his own simple code? He then typed it in the phone. There was just an answering service at the other end so Jock put down the receiver. He did not like answering services.

  Still, there was a lot of cash at stake. He decided after several agonising moments of pondering that he would ring back, but he would not divulge too much information; just enough so they would know who he was and a name then leave it up to them to contact him. It would look as if he was not really interested in helping them but that way he could jack up the payment.

  He picked up the phone again. ‘Hi there, this is Jock. The friend, Larkin, who you were looking fer has just been in touch wi’ me.’ He then placed the phone back on the receiver.

  He returned his notebook to its hiding place then refitted the floorboard before mopping up the wet carpet as best he could whilst wiping up the spilt jam in the process. He then went to find some antibiotic cream for his burnt thigh. He knew he had a jar somewhere in his bathroom cabinet as he had used it for a cut finger twelve months ago. He got dressed, gingerly pulling on his trouser leg over his painful thigh. ‘That’s that wee weasel’s fault!’ he said aloud as he made his way into the small shop. This section displayed a variety of second-hand goods of poor quality.

  Most of them had been there for many years and they were covered in a fine layer of dust but the shop was just a front for Jock’s real business. It was while he was in this part of the shop one hour later that there were three sharp knocks on the shop door. Pulling back the two heavy bolts he opened the door several inches still on the heavy security chain.

  It was just sufficient to see the caller, a thick set, stocky, reasonably well-dressed man in his late thirties. The man smiled pleasantly at the face peering through the 3 inch gap of the shop door. This put Jock on his guard immediately. He was always wary of people who smiled so easily.

  ‘Yeh! I an’a open yet,’ he said looking up and down the street as best he could from the narrow gap. He observed there was no car to be seen so the man must have walked here.

  ‘You left a message for us to contact you,’ said the man, still smiling.

  ‘God, that was quick,’ thought Jock to himself. ‘They’re certainly desperate.’ Pound note signs were flashing in his brain. ‘Och! Just a mite mate while I unhook th’ chain.’

  The gentleman from the syndicate, as he called it, wrote down all the information to the last minute detail
of the phone call. Jock was surprised; even when he mentioned the 75mm armour piercing shells, the man showed no emotion whatsoever.

  ‘Your information will be passed on,’ he said, still smiling at Jock, making the Scotsman feel very uncomfortable. When the man mentioned money, Jock did not try and barter as he had intended. Just indicating that he had been well paid for his previous services, he was sure the syndicate would be just as generous again. ‘We will contact you later to tell you what to say to our friend, Mr. Larkin,’ said the man who was still smiling at Jock as he rose to leave.

  ‘He’s no frien a mine,’ was jock’s quick response, a hint of panic sounding in his reply that they should think Larkin was his friend. The man’s expression did not falter, the smile never moved from his face.

  *

  It was getting quite late in the day and Geoff had had a very restless afternoon. He hated it when there were things to be done and it was not possible to get on and do them. He stopped in the doorway of the lounge and watched Peer and Werner showing John and Derek Bolton how to assemble the trigger and firing mechanism of the tank’s gun.

  ‘When I was in charge of placing the tank in the Piazzale Garibaldi,’ Werner was telling the Bolton brothers, ‘in remembrance of my comrades, I serviced all the remaining working parts of the tank including the gun. It may be very stiff but it should still move. The angle of the barrel is manually operated so it will traverse twelve degrees left and it will also traverse twelve degrees right. Elevation is minus ten degrees to plus twenty degrees. I am afraid the sights were removed many years ago by souvenir hunters but the range is short and it is possible, you can sight down the barrel for that short distance.’ Werner looked at Peer and shrugged his shoulders.

  This expression wasn’t seen by John and Derek Bolton but it was observed by Geoff who was still standing quietly watching by the door.

  It was late in the afternoon and Jock was getting quite concerned. No one had contacted him from the syndicate. As yet, Larkin also hadn’t been back in touch about his ridiculous request for shells to fit a piece of field artillery.

  Jock saw Mr. Smiler, as he now called the representative from the syndicate, through his shop window standing across the road opposite. The man was casually looking both up and down the road as if looking for oncoming traffic, of which there was none. Jock knew the signs; he had seen it many times before. Mr. Smiler was checking the way was clear before coming to his shop.

  ‘This time,’ said Jock aloud to himself, ‘I’m goin’ t’ settle a fee before I offer this lot me professional services agen.’

  As Mr. Smiler, entered the shop Jock closed and locked the door behind him. ‘That Larkin an‘a bin in touch yet,’ he said as he led the way into his kitchen which also doubled as his office. ‘What de ye want me to tell him if he rings agen?’ he said before sitting down on the old armchair by the phone, indicating a chair opposite for Mr. Smiler.

  ‘You will tell him that you can arrange for the goods he requested. It will take several days to organise but where will he want them delivered to and can he be contacted on this telephone number if needed?’

  Jock listened carefully to what Smiler had said. ‘He’ll expect me t’ want payin’ up front before I make any deals.’

  Smiler rubbed his chin thoughtfully then nodded.

  ‘Ask for £6000,’ Smiler replied.

  Jock wondered if Smiler had plastic surgery to keep that smile permanently on his face like that. He looked vacantly around the room at everything but at Mr. Smiler. He had decided to leave the negotiation of a fee until later. Even though he was expecting the telephone call, when it did ring, it made him jump.

  ‘Hi!’ he said picking up the phone. ‘Yea, I can provide the goods but it’ll take a couple of days to fix. Naw what about payment? Six grand, that’s it. Take it or leave it. Credit cards?’ Jock looked at Smiler who nodded.

  ‘Yea, I’ll make an exception for ye, Mr. Larkin, give me ye numbers.’ Jock wrote down a series of numbers on a nearby notepad.

  ‘Can we contact ye on this number if there be any problems? Where will ye want the goods delivered to? Okay, Mr. Larkin.’ Jock replaced the phone and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grubby handkerchief.

  ‘He won’a give me a address yet but ye can contact him on the telephone number in an emergency, them there are the credit card numbers Larkin gave me.’ Jock handed the slip of paper over to Smiler who took a list from his wallet and then compared the numbers on that with the numbers on the slip of paper.

  ‘Oh!’ said Jock, ‘the other thing Larkin said was that there are serial numbers stamped on the goods which he will require before collection to show good faith.’

  For the first time since Jock had been in contact with the syndicate’s agent, the smile disappeared from the man’s face but it was only for a brief moment then it returned.

  Mr. Smiler stood, an obvious indication to Jock that he was now ready to leave.

  ‘We’ll be in touch shortly,’ he said as Jock let him out through the shop’s front door but not before first looking up and down the road through the shop’s bowed window.

  *

  Geoff was alone sitting in the steamer chair by the pool. It was there that he got the strongest signal on his mobile phone as there seemed to be many blind spots in and around the property. He had contacted Jock and was feeling good about the result of the conversation.

  Things were beginning to move forward so he could now start doing some ground work for their forthcoming attempt at the new bank vault which was now temporarily bolted to the floor just inside the town’s Municipal Building. But. Something was bugging him about the telephone conversation with Jock and he just couldn’t put his finger on the problem. It was much later, during dinner with the group, that the thought suddenly struck him like a thunderbolt.

  He realised what it was. Jock had said ‘we’ in the telephone conversation. He had not been alone when he was speaking to Geoff; someone else was there as well! Now it could be his contact for the shells or it could well be someone from the heavy mob, they would be the favourite, they had the contacts.

  They were on the scene in Italy pretty quickly and Geoff knew that Jock the Fence would sell his own mother for a price, especially, as they would have spread the word around that there was good money for information leading to the whereabouts of him and the other three. He knew that he would have to be aware of this possibility, which he would have to try and use to his own advantage.

  ‘Geoff! Hi Geoff, stop daydreaming!’ The shout from John Bolton brought him back from his inner thoughts.

  ‘Do you want any more of these potatoes, Geoff, before Sooty scoffs the lot?’

  ‘No thanks, John,’ he replied, laughing as he saw Sooty with the large serving spoons poised to remove the last of the hot, buttered potatoes from the bowl in the centre of the dining table.

  ‘By the way John, I could do with a lift to the railway station in the morning. I want to catch the train to Castiglion Fiorentino. I think going in the car could be too conspicuous.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ volunteered Sooty, looking up from his full plate of potatoes.

  ‘No thanks, Sooty, it will be less obvious if I’m on my own.’

  ‘Then I suggest you take your mobile phone and let your friends, John and Sooty, stay at the railway station with the car, they can be with you within a short while if you require any assistance,’ voiced Werner, joining the conversation.

  ‘Thank you, Werner,’ said Geoff, ‘that sounds like good advice which I think we will take.’

  He was also thinking, Great! Werner is slowly getting involved and, with a bit of luck, and before he realises it, I’ll have him as a full member of the team.

  Werner went to bed early. He was tired as he was not used to so many late nights as he had been involved in recently. That was not the case with Peer, however, and it gave Geoff the opportunity to mention to him the incident about the dog and the stranger wandering a
round the outskirts of the villa.

  ‘Ah yes! Owner the little dog he friend of Werner’s, own villa, when villa occupied he stay in village. Owner walks little dog to woods around villa garden. He is old friend of Werner from war, retired captain from English panzar.’

  The explanation made Geoff grimace, the fact that the landlord was wandering around the grounds at all hours of the day and night was a minor nuisance for Geoff, but then again on the positive side he was in fact like an unpaid security guard, he quickly put it to the back of his mind, he had much more serious problems to occupy his thoughts.

  The following morning John Bolton pulled the car under the shade of trees at the coach Italia depot. Geoff had decided at the last minute to see if there was a bus to Castligion Fiorentino. It meant that both could be in for a long wait while Geoff caught the bus to further inspect the tank.

  ‘I need to weigh up the surrounding area and roads around the city’s Municipal Building,’ he told the two inquisitive lads. He also realised that going back to the area was a risk, but it was a risk he had decided he had to take.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acting Inspector Paul Robinson had been sitting at his desk looking through some of the unsolved cases that he had been in charge of that year. It made disappointing reading. At the top of the list were the murder and the forged £20 note affair where information seemingly had now come to a full stop.

  Word had filtered through to the team on the case from various informers that a large organisation was also looking for Larkin and co. and they were offering big money for any information to find them, this did not bode well for the young small-timers.

  Then there was the theft of all the new kitchen equipment from the lock-up on the building site. The managing director of the building firm, that big slob, Daniel Goodier, was constantly pestering the superintendent for results and complaining about the lack of progress on this case.

  At the back of Robinson’s mind was a nagging feeling, a copper’s intuition that even though he had obtained convictions on two other cases, the warehouse electrical equipment scam and, before that, the overhead copper wire theft. Geoff Larkin had been on the scene there as well. Somehow, Paul Robinson knew that he had been involved. The phone on his desk rang. He answered it immediately.