Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  “Taking them from up-river, the first one is Universal Wharf. That’s almost on the tip of Blackwall Point. Next is Breakspeare, which is just below the South Metropolitan Gas Works. Then the Suffolk Wharf, said to belong to one of the co-operatives, but no one quite knows which. The bull point about all of them is that they lie just below the western entrance to the Victoria Dock Tidal Basin. That means a ship could continue, as long as possible, on its stated route. If it arrived at that point after dusk, when the factories on the north bank had shut down, there’d be no one to notice if it stopped for a few minutes before it carried on, into the Royals, as per schedule.”

  Michaelson had his own chart spread in front of him. He said, “It sounds very feasible, Bruno. Much better, certainly, than trying to offload in the middle of Woolwich or Plumstead. What about the owners?”

  “That’s what our men have been busy on. They’ve unearthed a few facts. Nothing specific against Blaikmores, who run the Breakspeare, except that they seem to do most of their transport work after dark.”

  “Curious,” agreed Michaelson, “since they’d have to pay their drivers night rates.”

  “So I thought. The only odd thing about Suffolk is that no one seems to know who it does belong to. Everyone who is asked says someone else. Universal is the pick of the bunch. It’s run by two brothers called Roberts. One of our men recognised them. He says that their real name is Rodzinsky. If he’s right, they’ve both got form. Nothing recent. Their last convictions were seven or eight years ago, in connection with a protection racket they were running in Stepney.”

  “To mount a permanent watch on those three places you’d need eighteen men. If you were asking us to do it here at District, we’d have to immobilise the bulk of our Direct Support Units. Which wouldn’t be a popular idea. If you want our CID personnel it’s even worse. Do you realise, we’re so short-handed, we can only afford to have two CID men on night duty for the whole District? People who natter about over-manning ought to look at the statistics instead of shooting their mouths off. Did you know that we have fewer policemen per head of the population than any country except Iceland?”

  Bearstead couldn’t help grinning. Michaelson normally looked like a teddy-bear; now he was giving a performance as a ruffled teddy-bear. He said, “It’s a hard life, Micky. Sometimes I wonder how you manage to survive.”

  He knew the difficulties. The 1980 changes had abolished the separate CID chain of command up to Central. CID Chief Inspectors at Division now reported through their own Divisional Commander. This had left Michaelson at District out on a limb. No one reported to him at all. He was a colonel without a regiment. He knew that CID officers still went to him for help and advice, but this was a personal equation, the result of the esteem in which Micky was held. True, this made him available to take charge, in an emergency, of any major incident squad set up at District level, as had been done in the Southwark and New Cross riots. In each case Micky’s handling of the police had reduced what might have been a major disaster to an unpleasant, but controllable crisis.

  “I suppose,” said Michaelson tentatively, “that it’s no use suggesting that Special Branch might handle the whole thing.” When Bearstead said nothing, he added, “Stupid suggestion. You’ve got worse manpower problems than we have.”

  Bearstead said, “The people who are really equipped to do a job like that are the SAS. Every would jump at it.”

  “And think what a stink it would raise. Army doing routine police work for them.”

  “There’s no percentage in chasing shadows,” agreed Bearstead. “It’s clear that if this job’s going to be done properly it will have to be a straight uniformed job done through the Reynolds Road Division.”

  “And equally clear,” said Michaelson, “that Brace won’t immobilise eighteen of his men without getting a clearance from Tancred here. And he won’t give it without going right up to Central.”

  “Which means bringing in Haydn-Smith, who’ll block it if he can.”

  Michaelson did not feel called upon to make any comment on this. He had got into trouble for criticising the Assistant Commissioner’s wife and had no desire to compound the offence.

  He said, “One thing’s been puzzling me a lot. Everyone seems set on the idea that when this cargo of explosive is landed it’s coming to this neck of the woods. Not one of the Midland or Northern ports or Scotland, but right here, in the heart of the metropolis. I’m sure there’s some reason for this odd notion, but no one’s explained it to me.”

  Bearstead hesitated, but not for long. He knew that Michaelson was totally discreet and he needed his help. He said, “All right, Micky. For your ears alone,” and repeated what he had told Anthony Leone, only more shortly, since, in this case, much of the background could be omitted.

  “So the key to this is Olaf Firn.”

  “That’s right. You’ve got to appreciate what an important figure he is. He would only have taken on this particular assignment if he thought it was vital and needed very tactful handling.”

  “You say he was posing as a journalist.”

  “That’s right. His paper, he said, was interested in a report about racial tension. A perfectly trivial matter, incidentally, involving two boys having a scrap in the street.”

  “Has anyone asked the Paki kids what he said to them?”

  “The Probation Officer asked, but they wouldn’t tell him anything. However, in the end, they did let slip a few hints, which their father passed on. It seems Firn was really interested in the idea of further trouble occurring between them and the white crowd. Juvenile gang warfare, he called it. And naturally that appealed to them. All boys like the macho implication of being called a gang.”

  “Not only boys,” said Michaelson. He sat in silence for nearly a minute. Bearstead waited patiently.

  “I expect you’ve thought of this,” he said at last. “Stop me if you have. This cargo, if it’s four hundred pounds of explosive and is hidden in some crafty way among slabs of marble or statues or ironwork, would total up to something like half a ton in weight.”

  “Or more.”

  “And therefore you’re arguing that it would need some sort of crane to sling it ashore and put it into a truck.”

  “Right.”

  “But suppose it isn’t planned like that at all. Suppose the explosive is split up into a number of smaller packets. A strong boy could easily carry a load of fifty or sixty pounds for a short distance. There are any number of places on Greenwich and Plumstead Marshes with tracks running close to the bank and footpaths leading down to the river’s edge. So all they’ve got to do is get a lorry as close as they can and the boys act as porters for the rest of the way.”

  “It’s an idea, Micky,” said Bearstead, “but I hope to God you’re not right. If you are, we’re not going to need eighteen policemen. We’re going to need a couple of hundred.”

  13

  Charndon Lane, Barons Court, runs south from Margravine Gardens. There are only six houses in it, all built about a hundred years ago; small and unpretentious, but with a sort of period charm. Estate Agents, with justification, describe the area as ‘select and sought after’. It is certainly quiet and very peaceful.

  Some alarm had been experienced by the other five householders when the sixth property changed hands and they read the brass plate which appeared beside the front door: ‘Albert Featherstone – Music Teacher’; but their fears were set at rest. Mr. Featherstone was considerate of his neighbours’ feelings. The practice room at the back of the house, he explained, would be sound-proofed as far as possible and in any event there would be no playing before ten o’clock in the morning or after six o’clock at night. Moreover he kept his word, even when his popularity, growing steadily in the three years he had been there, was making it difficult to fit in pupils.

  Mostly they were of the female sex, of all ages from schoolgirls to middle-aged matrons. This is not to suggest that Mr. Featherstone was a Don Juan. There was nothing of
the romantic music master about Albert. He was fat, middle-aged and jolly. When he laughed, which he did frequently, his small black eyes twinkled. He had a faint, but attractive, Irish brogue which he attributed, when anyone noticed it, to his grandmother, a colleen from Connemara.

  What people remarked on, more than his brogue, was his versatility. He seemed to be a master of all instruments from the decorous piano and violin, which the ladies preferred, to the saxophone, the drums and the electric guitars of the young male learners. If a stranger was seen approaching the house the likely question in an observer’s mind was, what new instrument now?

  “I tell them,” said Mr. Featherstone, one of whose many other names was Sean, “that the only instrument I haven’t tried is the bagpipes. And if my grandmother, bless her old heart, had been a Scotswoman I might have added that to my repertoire.”

  “You’re too old,” said Liam, “and too fat. You need more puff for bagpipes than for blowing up balloons for a children’s party.”

  “You heard about that, did you?” Mr. Featherstone chuckled. The previous Christmas he had given a party for the local children in the YMCA hut, supplying the decorations and food out of his own pocket. This had increased his growing popularity and had, incidentally, brought him four new pupils.

  “You’re a great lad,” said Liam. “No doubt about that.” They were sitting in the sound-proof practice room and he saw no reason to lower his voice. “Does it keep you awake at night to think that the children you were playing host to might be out shopping this Christmas and get blown higher than any of your balloons?”

  “The only thing that keeps me awake at night,” said Mr. Featherstone, “is wondering whether you’re going to be able to deliver. For if you don’t,” and his black eyes twinkled, “it may be you we’ll be counting the pieces of, my darling boy.”

  “Nothing is certain in this life except death,” said Liam. “And the only reason I’m still alive is that I’m more careful than the people who want to kill me. This time I’m doubling my precautions and the only thing that worries me is that both lots turn on one man.”

  “That’s the Arthur Drayling you’ve spoken of?”

  “Correct. And he’s a right study for a psychiatrist, I can tell you. To start with he’s a—what’s the name? Not a sadist, the other thing.”

  “A masochist.”

  “That’s the very word. I spotted it as soon as I met him. Mind you, I expected he might be. It’s the opposite side of the coin to his games with little boys.”

  “Does that make it easier for you?”

  “Certainly. To start with I thought I was going to have to rely on that photograph I got hold of. And that might have been dangerous. Threats wear thin after a time. A level-headed man starts counting the cost and sometimes the sum doesn’t come out as you’d wish it to. Not so with my Arthur. He’s in such a state now that he’s panting for orders. He’d crawl across the carpet with a dog-collar and lead in his mouth if I told him to.”

  “Your knowledge of the underside of human nature is a perpetual source of amazement to me. Incidentally, I have to warn you that the postal route is off.”

  “Why, did something go wrong?”

  Mr. Featherstone went across to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room, unlocked it and brought out two neatly wrapped and taped packages, each of them the size of a pound slab of chocolate. They were addressed to Alfred Taylor at 301A Brazil Street, marked, ‘To await collection’.

  “That’s an accommodation address we’ve used once or twice before. Our man picked up these two. Luckily he’s got eyes in the back of his head. The next time he went, there were two cars parked in the street which hadn’t been there before. He walked straight past the shop and was glad he’d done so. There were Flying Squad men in both cars.”

  “I always thought the postal route was too dangerous,” said Liam. “It leads straight back to the sender of the parcel, which is bad. And straight on to the receiver, which is worse. Anyway, to bring in the quantities we’re dealing in would need hundreds of parcels. None the less—” he opened the violin case he had been carrying, “some of this may come in very handy.”

  “I suppose it’s no use me asking what you’ve got in mind?”

  “No secrets between friends. I’m thinking of a surprise for Colonel Every.”

  “The SAS man?”

  “That’s the one I was speaking of. Do you know him?”

  “I don’t know him,” said Mr. Featherstone slowly, “but I heard something about him. Through our friends in Belgium. You remember when the Cuckmere Haven landing went wrong?”

  “Yes,” said Liam. He said it flatly, but there was an edge to his voice which warned his listener that he was probing a sore spot.

  “And you remember the man you put the finger on. The one who called himself Dirk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “I know he was working for either French or British Intelligence. Our Belgian friends didn’t think it necessary to enquire into his family history before they killed him.”

  “They should have done. They’d have found out that he was Every’s stepson.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  Whilst Mr. Featherstone was talking, Liam had got to his feet and now he stood quite still. There was an odd change in his eyes; a smoky film had spread over them, almost as though he had put on misted contact lenses. Mr. Featherstone was not a man who was easily alarmed, but the change disturbed him. He said, “You were talking just now about being careful. I think this is a case in which you’ll have to be very careful indeed, in view of what I’ve told you.”

  “Makes it a bit personal, doesn’t it?” said Liam.

  Michaelson had come up to Great Peter Street by arrangement, to call on Bearstead. Bad news, he thought, was better delivered personally. He found the Chief Superintendent in his office with Commander Salwyn, whom he had never met, but knew as head of the Anti-Terrorist Squad. He said, “Please don’t go, sir. This affects you, too. It’s about the arrangements we were hoping to make to have six points on the river watched.”

  Salwyn said, “I’ve been told about that. It seems a sound plan.”

  “Three of them are on the north bank, in ‘K’ District. Rowlands offered straight away to co-operate. Tancred didn’t feel able to do that without referring the matter to Area, who ducked it and passed it up to Central. We’ve now had categorical instructions that neither of the Districts is to use more than two men per site. They can do an eight hour spell each, but this leaves the period from eight p.m. to four a.m. unwatched. And the permission is only given for one week. After that the matter will be reconsidered.”

  Bearstead said, “And this came from the Assistant Commissioner?”

  “Not in his name, but clearly on his authority.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken by Salwyn who said, picking his words carefully, “If there is a massive outbreak of IRA activity this winter the chief blame will fall on me. When I took on my present job, I realised the risks entailed and was prepared to accept them, provided they were reasonable. But this seems to me to be unreasonable. You are asking the Met to employ thirty-six men for a few weeks. Possibly less. They offer you twelve men for one week.”

  There was a further silence.

  Salwyn continued, in the same level voice, “I haven’t followed all the arguments, but it does seem to me that a properly mounted guard, particularly on the three south bank points of entry, might prevent this explosive coming into the country and catch the IRA operatives involved. Perhaps even some of the more important ones now in this country, whose cover we have been unable to penetrate. It would be an important intelligence breakthrough. If the Met feel unable to oblige us, could we tackle it in another way? It would be a strain on our limited resources, but I could offer the services of say ten men. What about you, Bruno?”

  Bearstead, who had evidently been thinking on the same lines and making mental calculations, said
, “I can match that and improve on it. For a limited period I could find sixteen – maybe eighteen men.”

  “Then if we concentrated on what you call the four probables we’d be able, between us, to put a full team of six on to each. With perhaps a few men to spare to keep an eye on the possibles.”

  “And do the whole thing,” said Michaelson, “without troubling Central at all.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Salwyn. “As matters stand at the moment I couldn’t use any of my men without the sanction of the Assistant Commissioner.”

  The three men looked at each other.

  “I suppose you could always ask him,” said Bearstead at last.

  Anthony Leone had been elected to the Social Club in Camlet Road. In the end it had not been Drummer who had proposed him, as he once offered to do, but Mr. Nabbs who knew him from frequent encounters in the Magistrates’ Court. Crispin Locke had agreed to second him. Drummer had considered opposing Anthony’s candidature. Latterly he had not found him sympathetic about the troubles of his son. But in the end discretion had prevailed. He might not like the Probation Officer, but there was no point in demonstrating open hostility.

  So Anthony had paid his entrance fee and his first year’s subscription and had been admitted to the freemasonry of the club bar. He had not found the conversation sparkling, but some of the personalities had interested him. In France, he reflected, they would have been dismissed, offensively by the intellectuals, derisively by the working class, as petit bourgeois. Here they had no such clear label or status. Some were old enough to have fought in the war and preferred to foregather with others of the same vintage and discuss a conflict which was fading rapidly into the past.

  “Chiefly,” said Nabbs, “because their children won’t allow them to talk about it at home.”

  Drummer would normally have taken up the cudgels on behalf of the soldiers. Now he had something more exciting to discuss.

  “I got on to them through Arthur Drayling,” he said. “They’re extremely rare and very valuable.”