Roller Coaster

by Michael Gilbert

  “I’d like to have the Meinholds’ telephones tapped and their mail intercepted. It needn’t be opened, but I’d like a list of the people it goes to. And if ”—this was inserted quickly, to forestall an explosion from Morrissey—“if that’s against the idiotic rules we’ve made, to wrap criminals up in cotton-wool, at least I’d like a watch put on their place and both the Meinholds followed. They live above their shop and there’s only one way out, so that shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “That’s three things you want.” Morrissey held up his formidably muscled right hand and extended three fingers. “Phone tapped. Mail scanned. Proprietors followed. Sure you wouldn’t like anything else? The moon, perhaps. Or one or two stars.”

  “I want one more thing,” said Petrella coldly. “That’s for this matter to be taken seriously and for something to be done about it.”

  “That’s not one thing more. It’s two things more.” Morrissey added his little finger and thumb. “Five, all told.” He stared for a moment at his own hand, as if surprised to see it there. Then he cocked his head round and looked at Petrella. He knew that, underneath the reasonable and civilised exterior – a gift from his mother – there lurked a Spanish devil. It was a devil that was almost always kept under strict control, but when it did emerge, wise men took cover.

  He said, “Let’s look at your last two points. You can take it from me that all of us here – and that includes the DC – take this business seriously. I’ve been talking to Charlie Kay about it. No question it’s a filthy racket and if it’s run the way you think it is, there’s a blackmail angle as well. And from what Charlie tells me, it isn’t only the videos. He says shots from the film are sold to half a dozen sleazy papers.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen one of them.”

  “It’s when we come to your second point that it’s not so simple.

  The main offence is taking the pictures. That’s done in Amsterdam and any action there is for the Dutch police. Agreed there’s a small matter of bringing the stuff into this country. We might catch one or two carriers. But it wouldn’t get us very far. The stuff could come in by post, to an accommodation address. No difficulty.”

  “Surely the real offence is selling the stuff in this country.”

  “Maybe. But it’s going to take time and a lot of hard work to build up a case against the people we really want to hurt. I mean the slimy sods in the City who are pocketing the cash.”

  “All right,” said Petrella reluctantly. “I do understand that.”

  “Then let me tell you something that may not have got down to your part of London yet, but is common knowledge up here. That is, that I’m due out at the end of the year. And I’d like to make a good exit. Not to creep out with my bloody tail between my bloody legs.”

  Petrella looked at him for a long moment. The turn in the discussion had taken him by surprise. Then he said, “Anyone who thinks that the work of the Serious Crime Squads hasn’t been successful, can’t have read the record.”

  “That wasn’t the way the DC talked when I saw him last Friday. What he said was, couldn’t the squads get off their prats and do some fucking work? Well, perhaps those weren’t his exact words, but that was the gist of it, and what seemed to be getting up his nose was the doings of two particular lots of villains, both in your manor, incidentally. The Farm Boys and their friends, the Torpedoes.”

  “I know about the Farm Boys. I haven’t got round to the Torpedoes yet.”

  “Then it’s time you had a word with young Trench down at CD. He knows all about them. They’ve nicked so many boats lately you’d think they were aiming to run their own boat show. And things are coming to a head pretty fast up here, too. Which is why I asked you to be here at half past eleven. Because I’ve got a man coming round here at twelve that I’d like you to meet.”

  He lifted the phone and said, “Is Mr Drummond here yet? Ramsbottom too? Good. Sling ’em both up. Does the name Ashley Drummond mean anything to you?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “He’s the boss of the East London Building Organisation – known to one and all as ELBO. Twelve firms under one flag.”

  “I’ve seen their placards.”

  “It’s quite an outfit. And Drummond’s the man who runs it. Here he is. Introduce Superintendent Petrella. Ramsbottom you’ve already met.”

  Petrella, looking at the close-shaven executive face, the firm mouth and the eyes which held a hint of menace, thought that Ashley Drummond might be a good friend, but would certainly be a bad enemy. Ramsbottom looked as though he’d had a taste of his tongue already.

  As soon as they were seated Morrissey said, without preamble, “I want to talk about next Friday. That’s a week today. And I’ve got you together because you’re the three men likely to be most concerned. Will you kick off, Drummond?”

  “Certainly. Easier if we had a map.”

  Morrissey opened a drawer in his desk and got out a large-scale street map covering the Tower Hamlets district. The three men shifted their chairs until they could see it.

  “I’d better explain how we operate. We pay our subcontractors every other Friday. It’s a compromise. I wanted to make it monthly, they wanted it weekly. We settled for fortnightly. It has to be Friday morning, because they pay their own men on Friday afternoon, and it has to be cash, because that’s what their men expect.”

  “To say nothing of their wives,” said Morrissey, “who are aiming to do the weekend shopping.”

  “Right. And that means, like it or not, we’re tied to a routine. Our bank is there—” he indicated a point at the bottom of Globe Road. “It’s the nearest bank to our headquarters, which are at the top of Globe Road – there. And that means transporting a lot of ready money for half a mile. It never used to worry us. We’ve got a Securicor-type van – you know the sort of thing – armoured all round and with no external handles. We used it to fetch the cash. No trouble.”

  Whilst he was talking, Petrella was examining the map. It seemed to him that Globe Road had one disadvantage. There were too many side streets crossing it. And worse, two of the side roads at the north end ran into Limehouse Fields, that centre of West Indian trouble.

  “Two or three weeks ago, some of our people picked up a rumour that the cash was going to be hi-jacked. When you remember that we employ over a thousand men, some of them pretty hard cases, it’s not surprising that one or two of them should have latched onto it. So last week we tried a diversion. Our van drove into the yard at the back of the bank, waited for ten minutes and then drove out and up Globe Road. The ambush was very skilful. One car came across the road at Chudleigh Street and stalled. The second car came up behind the van from Stepney Way. Two men jumped out and ran up. Upon which our driver activated the switch which opens the door at the back. A development”—Drummond allowed himself a tight smile—“which seems to have surprised them. They could see, quite clearly, that there was nothing in the van at all. The cash had, of course, come by private car, which I drove myself, an hour earlier. The men demonstrated their feelings by kicking the van, but couldn’t do much more. The blocking car withdrew and the van proceeded. End of chapter. But not, I fancy, end of story.”

  “Not end of story,” agreed Morrissey. “Because, if there’s one thing that really upsets these types it’s being made to look stupid. Did your men get a chance to identify them?”

  “They were wearing stocking masks and gauntlets. But both of our men were quite sure that they weren’t white. West Indians, they thought.”

  “Which looks like it was the Torpedoes doing the job solo. They won’t come alone next week. They’ll have a lot of friends and they’ll watch your van to make sure it’s loaded and they’ll watch any other cars which might be picking up cash.”

  “They can watch the front of the bank, but not the courtyard at the back.”

  “Wrong,” said Morrissey. “They can watch that too. The bank only uses the ground floor and basement. There’s three sets of offices above and
one of them’s to let. They’ll break into that one and stay in observation as long as necessary.”

  Petrella said, “I presume the Farm Boys will look after that end.”

  “That would be the normal division of labour,” said Morrissey drily. “They prefer other people to operate at the sharp end.”

  “So what’s your plan?” said Drummond.

  Morrissey said, “Globe Road’s in your manor, Arthur. It’s your plan.”

  Arthur Ramsbottom looked appealingly at Petrella. It was clear that either he had no plan ready, or was doubtful of any plan of his being accepted by such a critical audience.

  Petrella said, “I think, don’t you, sir, that this should be co-ordinated on a district basis? We’ll use our men in the first instance, Arthur, but if the opposition puts out any real muscle I could support them with men from other areas. Maybe from you, too, sir?”

  “Maybe,” said Morrissey, with a grin which exposed two gold-capped teeth. He had been certain that Petrella would take over.

  “Right. First we’ll need two of your best men, Arthur. They’ll be driving this van Mr Drummond mentioned. They’ll go into the courtyard behind the bank and be loaded with what looks like cash. Then they drive out, up Globe Road, keeping their eyes open for trouble. Who’ll you put in for that job?”

  “My first choices would be Sergeant Stark and Sergeant Pearson.”

  “They should be able to look after themselves. Particularly since they’ll both be armed.”

  This produced a moment of silence. Ramsbottom said, “I don’t know that I could accept the responsibility—”

  “You don’t have to accept any responsibility,” said Petrella coldly. “I’ll give you instructions about it. In writing, if you wish. They will carry one Police-Positive .38 revolver each. Six rounds loaded. And no spare ammunition. This is to be checked by you, personally, before they set out.”

  “I’m longing to hear the end of this exciting story,” said Drummond politely.

  “I’m afraid it hasn’t been written yet,” said Petrella. “A lot will depend on the two men in the van. If an attempt is made on the same lines as before they will be heavy enough to break through. No doubt they’ll be chased. But since, by that time, the side roads will all be stopped they and their pursuers can only go straight ahead. The idea will be to lead them into Limehouse Fields. Which is, as you can see from the map, a dead-end. Meath Gardens blocks it at the top. It’s a private garden and kept locked. The Grand Union Canal shuts off the east side. The only way is back into Globe Road and by that time our reinforcements will be in position.”

  “And whilst all this is going on, I presume that our cash is coming up by another route altogether.”

  “Correct.”

  “Seems all right to me,” said Morrissey. “Better if they don’t shoot until they’re shot at.”

  Drummond said, “And as long as everyone remembers that the main object is not to stage a Western, but to get our money safely through.”

  “Agreed,” said Morrissey. “All right, Arthur?”

  Inspector Ramsbottom said, “Right, sir.”

  He did not sound happy.

  Back in his own office Petrella, too, was wondering why he had shoved his oar in. He could easily have left the whole thing to Ramsbottom. True, the operation fitted in with Morrissey’s contention that the people he ought to have his eye on were the Torpedoes and the Farm Boys. He doubted whether it would achieve much against the latter. Morrissey had suggested that they would break into the empty office to be able to observe the loading of the ELBO van and, presumably, to give the signal to the Torpedoes to move in on it. This was pure surmise. There were easier and safer ways of doing it. They could get a legitimate order to view the unlet office. Or they could bribe one of the employees in the other firms. Clearly, all the real risks would be taken by the Torpedoes. Which was the way the Farm Boys liked to work.

  He wondered, too, why he had stuck his neck out over the carrying of guns. If there was any trouble it was going to bounce back on him. God damn it, he said, if you’re not prepared to stake the limit you’ll never win the jackpot. With which dubious piece of self-comfort he turned his attention back to drug-related offences and traffic problems.

  Ten minutes later his telephone rang. It was Inspector Trench from the Isle of Dogs, and what he had to say also chimed in neatly with Morrissey’s wishes. He said, “I’ve picked up two pieces of information, sir, which might interest you. One bit’s about the lot who call themselves the Torpedoes. The other’s about the Farm Boys. I could come up any time you’re free—”

  “Stay put,” said Petrella. “I’ll come down to you.”

  It was a welcome chance to get out of the office. He had not yet succeeded in buying himself a car. What he wanted was a reliable second-hand jalopy at a reasonable price. Unfortunately this was what most of the car buyers in London also seemed to want. He went down to get hold of the station runabout, a seven-year-old Rover, which had had a hard life and was beginning to make noises like a patient with advanced asthma. It was outside its garage, jacked up, with its bonnet open and parts of its interior on a bench beside it. Detective Hoyland emerged from underneath it. He was wearing a pair of overalls, his hands were black and he looked happy.

  He said, “I could put everything back, sir, if you wanted to use it.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Petrella, “I’ll go by train.”

  This meant risking the Dockland Line, about which he had heard a number of stories. They had not been exaggerated. The train was late, crowded and stopped everywhere.

  At the HD station house, in Manchester Road, he found Inspector Trench, who said, “Terrible railway. Can’t think why they don’t run it properly. You’d have done it just as quickly on foot.”

  “And more comfortably.”

  “Much more. Well, I hope you’ll think your journey was worthwhile. Here’s what I’ve got. You remember I told you about the motor-cruiser that was stolen from Millwall Pier. The man who phoned us about it – a Mr Philips – he sounded quite a respectable type, out to help the police. But I got the impression that he’d been holding something back. So I asked him to come round to see if he could tell us anything more. And this time, out it came. He’d been in the navy himself and he was pretty certain that he knew the man who seemed to be directing operations. It was an ex-petty officer, a submariner, known to one and all as Torpedo Hicks. Seems he’d been made redundant in one of the scaling-down operations in the late seventies and had been unable to land a job and that’s why he’d taken to crime. He’d put together a crowd of West Indians – who also thought the world owed them a living – and had been operating with increasing success for some years.”

  “Interesting,” said Petrella. “Pity they didn’t keep him in the navy. How definite was the identification?”

  “Reasonably definite. He said he knew Hicks from his general appearance and from his voice.”

  Petrella thought about it. He visualised the evidence being challenged by the defence. It might stand up, but he doubted it. Useful, nonetheless. It filled in a little corner of the picture. He said, “You mentioned two points.”

  “I’m afraid the second is even more flimsy than the first. It’s a rumour about a boy. This is a great place for rumours. No one knows quite how they start, but when they get under way, they move like a forest fire.”

  “It’s the old dockland sub-world,” said Petrella. “It hasn’t been driven out by all the modern development. Just driven under.”

  “Well, this story is firming up. That a boy happened to be in a position to overhear a gangland trial. You know the sort of thing. What made this one spectacular was that the prisoner – said to have been an informer – was sentenced to death, but beat the sentence by dying first.”

  “I take it you’re talking about the Farm Boys.”

  “So the rumour has it.”

  “And the youngster?”

  “All I know about him is that his Chris
tian name’s said to be Arnold.”

  “Does the rumour specify the building where this happened?”

  “Not in so many words. One or two things seem to be common knowledge. It was a disused ships’ chandlery. Of course, we’ve got dozens of them. In the old days, when the India and Millwall Docks were operating, every other building dealt in ships’ stores. But the next point really was interesting. The building is said to be within spitting distance of the river. Almost on the river bank. Now if you look at the map—”

  “Yes,” said Petrella. “I see what you mean.”

  “Nearly all the built-up areas are west of the main road. If this particular building was between the road and the river, that does narrow it down.”

  “Only two possibilities, I’d say. The Cold Harbour area, north of the old main-dock entrance, and the Stewart Street area south of it. Both with a lot of old chandlers’ stores in them, no doubt.”

  “Six in one, four in the other. All in the hands of receivers or liquidators. Some of them have been cooperative, sent me a spare key and said I could look over them if I wanted to. Others were sticky. They insisted on a search warrant and one of their representatives accompanying the party, which was the last thing I wanted.”

  “They were protecting themselves,” said Petrella, absently. He was thinking about the two trails which had been opened up. The second was the more promising. Like all gangs, the Farm Boys were traditionalists. If there was occasion for another trial, they would no doubt want to use their old courtroom. He would have liked to do a little exploring himself. If he had the time—

  The telephone answered him. It was Gwilliam. He said, “You’re wanted urgently, Skipper. Poston-Pirrie’s turned up.”

  “Where?”

  “Right now, he’s in the Stepney mortuary. Summerson’s doing a preliminary examination. He’d like a word with you.”

  He had spoken loud enough for Trench to pick up the sense of his message. He said, “I’ll run you up in my own car, Skipper.”

  Chapter Ten