Joseph Bridgeman and the Silver Hunter

by Nick Jones

  Frankie appears, his face pale as the moon beneath the lighting rig. Unlike his crew, who are all wearing overalls, Frankie is dressed in a dark suit.

  He approaches, smiling cheerily. ‘Well, if it ain’t Houdini himself!’

  I stare at him, swallowing down my fear. He has a sawn-off shotgun in his hand.

  Mad Harry looks up and when our gazes connect, I see an unexpected flicker of fear pass over him. He flexes his jaw and continues with his work. Seems our disappearing act has had quite the impact on the vicious bulldog. Good. I hope he suffers for what he did to Vinny.

  Frankie is so close I can smell his minty breath. ‘You know, I love this work,’ he tells me gazing around the vault. ‘I might do more of it, actually.’ He nods to himself before turning his attention back to me. ‘And I could do with a man of your skills,’ he says. ‘Harry here tells me you did a proper disappearing act.’ His chalky-blue eyes flicker and he leans in, voice lower. ‘How did you do it? Harry thinks you hypnotised him or something.’

  He turns and shouts to his crew, ‘He’d make a good bank robber, wouldn’t he? But don’t look him in the eye, boys, he’ll have you clucking like a chicken.’

  The men laugh obediently. Mad Harry doesn’t look up, he continues stuffing money into a bag.

  ‘You think you’re the bee’s knees, don’t you?’ Frankie asks, voice sharp.

  I shake my head.

  He breaks open the shotgun, leans it over his left arm and reaches for me with his right. I flinch but then realise what he’s after. Reluctantly, I allow him to reach inside my shirt and snap the pocket watch from around my neck. He stares at it, looks at me with a patronising smile and says, ‘This is mine, do you understand? And I’m not losing it this time.’

  ‘Jock!’ a man says.

  The bearded man stops drilling. ‘What is it now?’

  ‘Stop drilling,’ the man whispers.

  Someone I hadn’t noticed in the corner of the vault holds up a finger and the room falls silent. He’s wearing headphones and fiddling with a radio unit. His glasses reflect in the light and I get a better look at him. It’s Squint Daley, the Woody Allen look-a-like, weedy and innocent and totally at odds with these gangsters.

  ‘We’ve got a couple of coppers on the beat nearby,’ he whispers.

  Minutes go by in silence.

  Eventually Squint wipes his brow. ‘All clear, they’re moving on.’

  Frankie approaches, clicking the safety catch up and down on his shotgun. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing all about how you knew I was robbing this bank tonight.’

  I stare back at him, heart pounding.

  ‘Boss!’ Jock shouts.

  ‘What is it?’ Frankie replies impatiently, gaze still on me.

  ‘You aren’t going to believe this.’

  Frankie turns. Jock is beaming, holding up an envelope. They spread the contents of their discovery over a nearby table and the crew gather around. DI Price keeps a gun on me.

  ‘Well, blow me,’ Frankie chuckles delightedly.

  ‘I bet that’s what he’s saying,’ Jock replies.

  The vault erupts with laughter. Everyone except me. I’m staring longingly at the entrance to the tunnel.

  Frankie turns to DI Price. ‘We’ve just hit the jackpot, Tone.’

  They’ve just found the incriminating photographs featuring politicians and a member of the Royal family, the ones that Vinny and I read about back in... in the future. Frankie now has all the leverage he will ever need.

  Jackpot indeed.

  The crew begin piling bags around the tunnel’s entrance. I watch with a kind of morbid fascination as Frankie shakes an aerosol can and sprays the wall. He stands back, admiring his work.

  YOU WILL NEVER CATCH ME.

  He calls out, ‘Right, good job fellas. Let’s move out.’ Then he turns to me. ‘Whatever you thought you were doing tonight, you failed. No one can stop me, no one,’ he says, banging his chest with his fist.

  Squint Daley clears his throat and steps forward like a frightened mouse walking onto a stage. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr Shaw?’ he asks.

  ‘What’s that, Squint?’ Frankie replies without turning.

  ‘You need to tell us where the rendezvous point is.’

  Jock picks up two huge bags of money as though they weigh nothing. ‘He’s right boss, we could do with knowing.’

  Frankie smacks his forehead. ‘Of course,’ he laughs, ‘I almost forgot! The only thing is,’ Frankie turns to Squint, ‘I can’t tell you where the rendezvous point is.’ He snaps his shotgun closed.

  Squint’s mouth drops open. He blinks. A lot.

  I realise with a sudden rush of understanding what’s going on. This is my fault. In a desperate attempt to convince Price that my tip-off was credible I told him that Squint was my informant. A lie that landed him in deep trouble.

  How was I supposed to know that Price was playing on the same team?

  Frankie stares at him and says, ‘Jock’s a demon with the old fizzer, cut through that concrete no problem. How about we cut you open, Squint? See if the word “grass” is written through you like a stick of rock.’

  Squint swallows audibly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says nervously.

  To his credit, Jock steps in. ‘Boss,’ he says carefully, ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘Shut it,’ Frankie growls at him. ‘How else did pretty boy here know all about our plans tonight, not to mention the van job?’ He has his back to me. I can see Squint Daley’s terrified expression. My feet move without permission.

  Frankie turns. ‘That’s far enough.’

  We are now positioned in a nice little Mexican stand-off. The only problem is, I don’t have a gun. Frankie’s expression changes, the choppy anger of earlier replaced by a serene, disconnected calm. I’ve seen this look before.

  Price sees it, too. ‘Frankie, why don’t you calm down, think this through. If Squint is the grass, I would have known about it.’

  ‘You do not want me to think this through, Tony,’ Frankie assures him. ‘Because this could go either way.’ He turns to Price, his smile a ghostly grin. ‘Unless you’re telling me you’re the grass?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘What about you, Jock?’ Frankie asks.

  Jock shakes his head. ‘You know me, boss, I’m no grass.’

  Frankie settles his gaze back on Squint, disengages the safety catch on the sawn-off shotgun and pulls back both hammers.

  Squint lets out a single sob.

  Shaw plays the part of a friendly, helpful man sharing some tricky news. ‘You’ve been seen talking to the coppers, you knew the date in advance...’ he says, glancing around at me, ‘so I think you two are working together.’

  ‘No,’ Squint whispers, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘I’m not a grass, I would never do that. Please, Frankie, you’ve got it all wrong.’

  Frankie closes his eyes and draws in a long breath. ‘I can’t let you get away with it,’ he says. ‘Say hello to Ma for me.’

  He raises the shotgun and slides his finger over the trigger.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  ‘Wait!’ someone shouts, so loud it makes me jump.

  I look around.

  Oh crap… It was me.

  Frankie turns to look at me, his gun still fixed on Squint. ‘Got something to say?’

  I nod. ‘This has nothing to do with him.’

  Shaw closes on me with ferocious speed. ‘All right, pretty boy,’ he growls. ‘If it’s got nothing to do with him, tell me how you knew about tonight? Tell me, right now!’

  His presence forces me to step back. He raises the shotgun and aims it at me. Squint falls to his knees, sobbing.

  Unexpectedly, Price steps in. ‘Listen, Frankie,’ he says carefully. ‘Why don’t we get to the safe house and sort it all out there.’ He glances around the bank. ‘We’re sitting on bloody millions here, not to mention the photographs… We should get moving.’


  Shaw stares at him, chest rising and falling.

  Price continues, ‘Once we get to the safe house, you can do what you like for as long as you like. We will have days to kill.’

  Not my favourite turn of phrase.

  Squint lets out a sorrowful gasp and I notice a dark patch around his crotch.

  Frankie sniffs the air. ‘Oh, bloody hell, Squint, that’s disgusting!’ He walks over and rams the butt of the shotgun into his face. The sound is sickening. Squint collapses, out cold.

  Price glances at me, emotions passing over his face like time-lapsed clouds across a landscape. He looks lost; he knows he’s in deep. I see fear, defiance and then a flicker of acceptance, his own greed perhaps. I recall Vinny telling me that Price is murdered a few years from now. I had plans to warn him, but I suspect it’s too late. His fate is sealed.

  ‘Right!’ Frankie shouts. ‘Let’s move out.’

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ I ask.

  ‘Somewhere nice and quiet.’ He pauses for a moment, studying me. ‘I have a surprise for you, someone I’m dying for you to meet.’ He glances at Harry. ‘Stick him in the car with us.’

  Harry looks at me, clearly nervous. ‘You want me to blindfold him?’

  Frankie shakes his head. ‘Nah, no need.’

  We follow another car out of London, its brake lights barely visible. Mad Harry is driving. I’m in the back with Frankie. He’s crunching peppermints, humming along to the radio. I stare out into the yellow mist, feeling horribly alone. All I wanted was to rebuild my life at home. I hate time travel with a passion, especially when I travel alone. I miss Vinny, although I’m glad he isn’t here, obviously. At least he’s safe. And weirdly, although I feel lost without my watch, I can tell that time is running out. I can feel it, like sand through my fingers. And when it’s gone, it’s gone. I’ve seen enough gangster films to know that when they don’t blindfold you, it’s because they don’t care what you see.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  My precious hours in the past slip away as houses become fields and the smog thins. Eventually we turn down a narrow, pot-holed track. The car’s headlights move across an old battered sign draped in ivy. It reads “Kingsgate Church. Welcome to All God’s Children”. We pull into a derelict garage. Harry kills the engine. According to the clock in the car, the time is just after six a.m., sunrise still a couple of hours away.

  Frankie – who has been quiet for the last half-hour or so – taps my knee with his shotgun. ‘Out of the car, nice and slow,’ he says, ‘and don’t get any funny ideas.’

  The air is cold and damp. The smog has been replaced by a mist that sits a few feet from the ground, straight out of a horror movie. Mad Harry lifts Squint from the boot of the car like a rag doll. Squint is awake, eyes wild like a trapped animal, his breath shooting out in fearful gasps.

  In the distance, I see a Gothic-looking church, its spire a black sword against a grey sky. It has fallen into disrepair; windows boarded up, stone crumbling, and is surrounded by a tall chain fence. Ivy covers everything. This place was abandoned long ago, and the sense of solitude is all-consuming.

  Hand-held torches cut triangles of light through the gloom. We walk through the churchyard, the sour odour of damp earth filling my nostrils. Creatures rustle in the undergrowth, silvery eyes observing us. Gravestones poke up from the ground like broken teeth. My pulse quickens each time someone’s torchlight glides over a stone figure floating waist-deep in the mist.

  We pass a sign. DANGER: KEEP OUT.

  I couldn’t agree more.

  We reach the entrance to the church, a huge wooden door. Frankie turns to his crew. ‘Right, you boys go and get the party started.’ He nods at Harry. ‘Tie Squint up, I will deal with him later… and get things ready for me.’

  I swallow, heart pounding. This place is not only giving me the creeps, it’s getting into my bones.

  The mob heads inside, leaving Frankie and me alone. He moves his torch slowly over the graveyard like a lighthouse over a calm sea. He settles on a solemn-looking angel. He moves down her body, past a mound of freshly dug earth and settles on an open grave.

  He turns to me. ‘It’s your choice,’ he says softly, ‘whether you end up in there tonight.’

  To my left, a distant hillside is cut by the first grey flickers of morning. I’m overcome with sadness. This will be my last sunrise.

  Frankie leads me into the church. The nave is a high, cavernous space. Portable lamps cast long, untrustworthy shadows across the stone floor. The ornate windows are boarded up, the walls peppered with graffiti. It’s been many years since this church was used for worship. Some pews remain, scattered along the aisles. The place smells of old wood, dust and spoiled milk. Various objects are covered in stained white dust-sheets.

  Frankie walks past me, whistling. He doesn’t seem concerned that I might attack him or run away. He knows as well as I do that both are unlikely.

  He switches on another portable lamp, illuminating a patchy roof. Ivy has found its way inside, hanging down like braids over the rusting, broken pipes of a huge organ. Another smell joins the party, a sweet, sickly odour like rotting meat. A pair of rats scurry away, which doesn’t do my already banging heart any good.

  Frankie heads towards the altar. ‘This place was bombed in World War Two,’ he tells me. ‘It was pretty knackered actually, so they boarded her up.’ He turns to me, lighting his pale face with his torch. ‘I bought it, planned to convert it into a hotel… not that I need to do that now.’ He smiles and begins lighting candles. He’s prepared for this moment. ‘It’s the perfect little hideaway,’ he tells me, ‘no one for miles.’ He stares at me with expressionless eyes. ‘So, where is Vincent?’

  I grit my teeth. ‘He says he’s sorry he couldn’t make it.’

  Not smart but I can’t help it.

  Frankie smiles. ‘Send my regards, won’t you? I like him.’ He walks towards me. ‘Now then, tell me your name and don’t lie to me.’

  ‘Joseph Bridgeman.’

  He narrows his gaze and nods. ‘I know when people are lying, Joseph. If you had made something up, I was going to shoot you in the leg.’

  He points the gun at my knee. I flinch. Frankie laughs again. ‘Well done, you passed the first test.’

  I hear voices and footsteps. Frankie looks like a kid at Christmas, and when Frankie is happy, it’s never good. He holds up a finger, grinning. ‘I told you, I wanted to introduce you to someone. Surprise!’

  Mad Harry appears, pushing a woman ahead of him. She’s struggling and complaining.

  My heart sinks like a stone.

  It’s Lucy Romano.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Lucy looks flustered but defiant. Her dark eyes scan the church. ‘How dare you kidnap me and drag me out here?’ She scowls at Frankie. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  Her Italian accent is more pronounced when she’s angry and, although she’s petite, she takes up space with her attitude. She’s a different person from the one I met last time, less timid. She pulls her coat up around her ears and glances at me. ‘Wait… I remember you,’ she says, ‘you were at the Royal.’

  I nod. I’m surprised she remembers me from the dance hall. For her that was six months ago. But, I suppose I did warn her, she thought I was police and Vinny made quite a scene.

  Her gaze flicks back to Frankie. ‘What’s going on?’

  He claps his hands. ‘Oh, Lucy, this is quite the performance, acting like you hardly know each other.’

  Lucy shakes her head, glances at me and then back at Frankie. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve only met him once.’

  Twice for me.

  ‘Shall I tell you what I think?’ Frankie says. ‘You two work for Don Dickerson.’

  ‘What?’ Lucy explodes. ‘Ha! That’s crazy!’

  ‘Shhhhhhh,’ Frankie presses a finger to his lips. ‘Your voice really hurts my head… I used to like it, but it grates on me now.’
Frankie stares at me. ‘Before this night is done, I will have answers. What do you think of that, pretty boy?’

  ‘She’s telling the truth,’ I reply. ‘We don’t know each other.’

  ‘Let’s play a game,’ Frankie suggests, voice jovial. His gaze settles on Lucy. ‘Guess where I’ve been tonight?’

  She curls up her nose. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I popped to the bank.’

  Lucy waits.

  ‘Yeah,’ Frankie sighs. ‘Barclays Bank, the one opposite that pub, the Bunch of Grapes.’

  Her olive skin fades until it almost matches the cold stone floor. She glances at me, a desperate fire in her eyes.

  Frankie continues, ‘There’s a house right opposite the bank, owned by a company called Ashburn Estates.’ He looks around the room, and his eyes come to rest on Lucy. ‘Anyone heard of them?’ he asks, staring straight at her.

  Lucy swallows. ‘No,’ she says, voice low and trembling.

  ‘No?’ Frankie repeats. ‘And what about you, Joseph?’

  I grit my teeth and shake my head.

  ‘That’s the beauty of it. Ashburn Estates has nothing to do with me. Completely untraceable.’ He taps a finger to his temple. ‘I’m smart, but unfortunately for you, I own that house.’

  I feel sick.

  Lucy looks desperate, eyes searching the exits.

  Frankie places his shotgun against a nearby pew and leans on a stack of tables covered by dust-sheets. I stare at the gun, calculating whether I have a chance of grabbing it before him.

  Patience, Joe, patience.

  ‘I’m going to cut a long story short.’ He drums his fingers on the table, eyes fixed on Lucy. ‘We dug ourselves a nice little tunnel, and we robbed that bank tonight. We got a job lot of cash, and some nice diamonds too.’ His mouth opens in wide surprise. ‘Oh, and I almost forgot, we found some very, very interesting photographs that guarantee me leverage on a number of people. Bloody bonus, they were.’