The Dirty Dozen

by Lynda La Plante

  “After your mother was seriously assaulted, Asil helped the police to try and find your father. Perhaps his remorse is genuine.” She handed Emma a bit of paper. “This is a contact number for Asil if you want to speak to him.”

  She looked at the details, then held the note tightly in her hand.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “It’s not for me to decide, Emma. We all make mistakes in life and do things we deeply regret. Forgiving your uncle won’t change the past, but it could change your and Rachel’s future, without her ever knowing the truth about your mother’s death.”

  “I’ll speak to him—but it doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him,” she replied with a tear in her eye.

  Jane put her hand on Emma’s shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze of reassurance, then left.

  She got back to the office at 4 p.m. and was shocked when Cam told her about the embassy siege.

  “Was anyone killed?”

  “No, but the terrorists are saying they will shoot hostages if their demands aren’t met. We’ve lost all the CO11 officers.”

  “I bet Murphy’s pissed off.”

  “He was at first, but he knows the Anti-Terrorist Squad’s work always takes precedence. Paul Lawrence called and left a message. He wants you to ring him at the lab,” Cam told her.

  Jane went to her desk, picked up the phone and called him.

  “Did you get anything off the key?”

  “We got a thumb and fingerprint mark, which don’t match any of your suspects.”

  Jane felt a sense of relief. “Whose was it?”

  “No ident yet, but Fingerprint Bureau are still checking. Division are treating her death as murder, but they don’t think it’s connected to your investigation.”

  “Are they thinking it’s a burglary gone wrong?”

  “Yes, and I’d say that’s a reasonable conclusion under the circumstances.”

  She had a thought.

  “Could you get the RUC bureau to check the prints against their files? Just in case there’s a connection to Aidan O’Reilly.”

  “You don’t let things go, do you?”

  She smiled. “You shouldn’t have taught me so well.”

  All the team were in the office by 7 p.m. With the surveillance and intelligence officers having to return to the Yard, the mood was bleak.

  Murphy strode out of his office looking positive.

  “For Christ’s sake—you lot look like you let the Ripleys get away with another robbery.”

  “The way things are going it could happen, Guv,” Bax remarked.

  “Not on my watch they won’t. If all else fails, revert to plan B.” He held up a piece of paper. “We can do this without CO11. It will be harder, but it’s doable.”

  “We’ve lost the firearms officers as well, and the CROPS officers won’t be working the bank holiday weekend. Colonel, you will be driving the gunship with DI Kingston on board and tailing George Ripley. The second gunship will tail Tommy, and be driven by Cam with Stanley on board. Bax and Dabs continue at the Bruce Grove OP and Teflon on GR Motors. We can pick up eyeball on Graham Smith and Carl Winter when they arrive at the garage, but don’t worry about a tail on Winter for now. Tennison, I’m going to have to pull you from the cafe to work in here.”

  She wasn’t pleased about it, but knew he had no choice as their numbers had been severely depleted. He did, however, say he would use Kingston’s office and listen in on the phone conversations as they were being recorded, as there were four phones to monitor.

  “Did the intel guys listening to the phones pick up anything interesting today before they went back to the Yard?” Kingston asked Cam.

  “I had a quick look through their logs. There’s nothing of significance, mostly Maureen Ripley moaning and groaning. She phoned George and gave him a right ear-bashing about playing golf on the Saturday morning before the wedding.”

  “He’s playing golf before his daughter’s wedding? That sounds a bit dodgy,” Teflon remarked.

  Cam picked up the relevant log from his desk and flicked through it.

  “George phoned the golf club straight after Maureen had a go at him to confirm a seven a.m. tee time, Saturday morning, for four people.”

  “I play golf—I can do a tail on Ripley,” Bax suggested.

  “Shut up,” Murphy told him, shaking his head.

  “Sounds legit. Does the log say which course it is?” Kingston asked.

  Cam looked at the log. “The person who answered the call said, ‘Royal Epping Forest.’ ”

  “That’s a private, members-only club. Not cheap either,” Bax said.

  “Sound like the sort of place Ripley would join to impress people,” Stanley said.

  “Maybe Camel Hair Coat Man is a member there as well,” Dabs suggested.

  Murphy nodded. “Anyone know if there’s anywhere near there we could park an OBO van, or surveillance car, to get a few pictures of George Ripley’s playing partners?”

  There was silence and shaking heads.

  “I’ll scout it out first thing in the morning,” the Colonel said.

  “I don’t need you all on duty Saturday or Sunday, and Monday is the May Day bank holiday, which reduces the pressure on us as no Securicor vans will be making cash deliveries to the banks during the long weekend.”

  “What about covering the wedding?” the Colonel asked.

  “Is there anywhere on the grounds of the church we can use as a static OP?” Kingston asked, knowing the Colonel had been to the church.

  “No, and it’s right by a country lane, so an OBO van would stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Murphy looked at Kingston, who shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “It’s up to you.”

  “Tennison will be going undercover at the wedding.”

  Jane looked up, wide-eyed.

  “That could be a bit dangerous, Guv,” Stanley remarked.

  “It’s a risk I’m prepared to take. We still haven’t identified the man in the camel hair coat and there may be other people attending who could be of interest. She’ll be able to take photographs of the guests and their cars without it looking suspicious.”

  “There’ll be a load of criminals there. If she’s nicked one of them before and he recognizes her, it could blow the whole operation,” the Colonel argued.

  Jane wasn’t worried. “I last worked north of the river over four years ago, and never arrested anyone who I’d consider to be involved with the likes of the Ripley brothers. It doesn’t appear they’ve sussed who I am, and they’re expecting me to be there. Carl Winter invited me while I was working in the cafe.”

  “Well, that makes it all hunky-dory then,” the Colonel said, clearly unconvinced.

  Murphy looked at Jane. “Wear a wedding hat and keep the brim down, consider sunglasses if it’s a bright day. If at any time you feel your cover might be blown, pull out.”

  “If she leaves it will look suspicious,” the Colonel said.

  “There’s two hundred people going to the reception and more coming in the evening, so I doubt they’ll miss one person leaving. If I need to, I’ll tell Carl Winter that I’m not feeling well and leave.”

  “Anything else anyone wants to add?” Murphy asked.

  “The banks usually take in extra cash before a bank holiday weekend. It seems strange that none of our suspects have been out plotting up their place for a hit.”

  “They could have done a recce before we started our surveillance or have been given the details by Camel Hair Coat Man,” Murphy said. “Apart from that, George Ripley may actually have a heart and not want to risk another robbery going pear-shaped and getting nicked before his daughter’s wedding.”

  “Hmm, we’ll see about that,” the Colonel said darkly.

  “Right, we resume at six a.m. tomorrow,” Murphy said, dismissing them.

  Thursday was another uneventful day, and some on the team began to wonder if the Ripleys knew they were being followed. Murphy’s experienc
e told him otherwise, and his thoughts were confirmed on the Friday at midday when Teflon spoke on the radio from his OP overlooking GR motors.

  “All units . . . all units . . . Targets 1 and 4 leaving garages in gold Mercedes.”

  “Central 888 has eyeball and will follow,” Kingston replied, and continued with a running commentary. “Vehicle turning right into Bruce Grove and maintaining thirty miles per hour.”

  “Received by Gold,” Jane said from the office with Murphy standing beside her.

  There were a few minutes of silence before Kingston spoke again.

  “Target 1 has turned left and is entering rear of hall.”

  Bax came on the air.

  “OP 1 has eyeball and holding.” Several seconds later he spoke again. “Targets 1 and 4 entering hall.”

  “Looks like they’re having a meeting.”

  Bax came back on the radio, sounding excited.

  “All units from OP 1 . . . Male in camel hair coat wearing brown snap brim trilby has just got out of a cab and entered hall. Unable to give description as eyeball on his back.”

  “Christ, I wish we had a listening device in there,” Murphy said.

  “You could send Dabs in again,” Jane suggested.

  Murphy took the radio from her.

  “OP 1 from Gold . . . receiving, over . . . ?”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “Have you access to a phone?”

  “Yes, there’s one right next to us.”

  “Call me in the office.”

  A few seconds later the phone rang, Murphy answered it and asked Bax if there were many punters in the club. He told him there were about six unidentified men who had entered the club since it opened, and some were carrying snooker cues. Murphy asked to speak to Dabs.

  “Yes, Guv, what’s up?”

  “I want you to go in the snooker hall, make out you want to join or practice on a table and see what’s happening—then phone me back later.”

  “On my way, Guv,” Dabs replied enthusiastically.

  “That was a good shout about Dabs, Jane.”

  Murphy handed the radio back to her.

  He’d called her by her Christian name for the first time.

  I’m finally doing something right, she thought.

  As Dabs entered the snooker hall he saw the Ripley brothers, Smith, O’Reilly and the man in the camel hair coat by a table at the far end of the room. Maria Fernandez was behind the bar. Dabs approached her with a smile and his checkbook in his hand.

  “I came in the other day and decided I’d like to join.”

  She picked up a membership form and handed it to him.

  “Fill this in and make the check for twenty pounds payable to Bruce Grove Snooker Club.”

  “Is it all right if I do it here?”

  “Sure.” She handed him a pen. “Do you want a drink?”

  He asked for a half of lager and leaned on the counter to fill in the form. The suspects were too far away for him to hear what was being said, but he deliberately took his time so he could glance up occasionally and see what they were doing. After a few minutes he’d seen enough and returned to the OP, where he called the office. Jane answered and handed the phone to Murphy. She wanted to listen in, so pointed to the headset and Murphy nodded. He was concerned that Dabs hadn’t been in the snooker hall very long.

  “I thought it was best to leave as O’Reilly looked over, but I think it was because he’d met me the other day when I was in there with Stanley. Anyway, I said I wanted to join the club and Maria gave me a form and—”

  “For God’s sake, Dabs, I don’t care about that. Did you hear what they were talking about?”

  “No, but from what I saw they were clearly planning something. While I was filling in the form, I—”

  “Just tell me what they were bloody well doing!” Murphy barked.

  “They were all stood around a snooker table. George Ripley was moving some of the balls and talking to the others.”

  Murphy sighed. “So, they were just playing snooker?”

  “No, none of them had a cue in their hands. George was picking up different colored balls and placing them in a pattern on the table, just like he did with the condiments and sugar cubes in the cafe last week. I think he was demonstrating how the robbery would be carried out.”

  “You little beauty, Dabs, well done.” Murphy beamed.

  “Thank you, sir. The man in the camel hair coat does look like Bela Lugosi, by the way—he’s even got the greased-back hair.”

  “Make sure you get some good photos of him when he comes out.”

  Murphy put the phone down.

  “You think they’re going to do the robbery this afternoon?” Jane asked.

  “I doubt it, but what Dabs just said makes me feel even more confident that it will happen, and they obviously haven’t a clue we’re watching them,” he said with a sly grin.

  Bax spoke on the radio.

  “All units, all units, Camel Hair Coat Man leaving hall with Targets 1 and 4.” He turned to Dabs. “Quick, get some pics of them.”

  Dabs pointed the Nikon zoom lens camera at the targets and pulled the winder back to advance the film and take a picture, but there was no resistance.

  “Shit, I forgot to put a new film in before I went to the snooker hall,” he said, hurriedly opening the back and removing the film.

  “Hurry up, he’s hailing a taxi.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can.” He fumbled the new film as he tried to fit it to the winder teeth. “Right, I’ve got it.”

  “Too late, he’s gone.”

  “OP 1 to Central 888, are you tailing Camel Hair Coat Man?”

  “No, we’re on Target 1 and 4,” Kingston replied.

  “Murphy’s going to kill us,” Dabs said forlornly.

  Murphy called everyone back to the office after the Ripleys returned home. The atmosphere was highly charged as he spoke about the suspects meeting at the snooker hall and George Ripley strategically placing the snooker balls on the table.

  “How long will it take to get the photos developed at the lab?” Murphy asked Dabs.

  “There was a slight problem, sir. The shutter jammed when I tried to take a picture of Camel Hair Coat Man. By the time I got it working he’d got in a taxi and left.”

  He waited for a rollicking from Murphy.

  “Shit happens. At least you and Bax have seen his face. Pity he didn’t turn up in the Jensen as we might have got an address for him. If you see the car tomorrow, Jane, make sure you clock the registration. And take plenty of film with you,” he added with a shake of his head.

  Murphy looked in his pocket notebook.

  “Colonel and Stanley, I want you to take the OBO van out in the morning and see if you can get some pics of who Ripley’s playing golf with. If it’s too risky then don’t bother. Teflon, you pick up Jane from her flat at 1:30 in the undercover black cab, then take her to the wedding. The rest of you can have the day off.”

  “What about Sunday and Monday?” Bax asked.

  “Sunday, they’ll all be hung-over from the night before,” Stanley remarked.

  “And the banks will be closed until Tuesday,” Cam added, hoping they could have at least one day off.

  Murphy laughed. “All right, all right, you all deserve a bit of R and R. Sort it out among yourselves, but I want at least three of you in the office both days—the rest of you, be near your home phone in case I need to call you in. Otherwise it’s six a.m. Tuesday and noses to the grindstone.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Royal Epping Forest Golf Club was in Forest Approach, Chingford. It was 6:30 a.m., and the Colonel and Stanley sat in the back of the OBO van, which had JB Plumbers written on the side, spy holes and a one-way rear-view window. They were parked at the rear of Chingford Masonic Hall, opposite the club entrance, and had a good view, with binoculars, of the first tee and the eighteenth green by the club house.

  “I’ll bet the Ripleys are Freemas
ons,” the Colonel remarked.

  Stanley agreed. “And so are a few senior detectives. But thankfully none of them are on our squad. The rubber heelers and Countryman think any officer who’s a Freemason must be corrupt.”

  “Anybody that says I’m corrupt can kiss my Porsche!” the Colonel joked.

  Stanley had to put his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter from being heard outside the van. He nudged the Colonel.

  “Look up, here comes George in the Merc . . . He’s got someone with him.” Stanley took a photograph.

  “It looked like Tommy,” the Colonel said, looking out of the rear window.

  Five minutes later Stanley saw a dark blue Mark 3 Capri Ghia approaching the golf club.

  “I don’t bloody believe this—the Ripleys are playing golf with Smith and O’Reilly.”

  The Colonel looked out of the window. “Jesus, I thought you were taking the piss. I’ll call it in.”

  “They might just be having a meeting in the car park. Let’s wait until we see who George actually tees off with.”

  Just before 7 a.m. the four men approached the first tee, two men carrying a set of golf clubs each, the others pulling theirs along on trollies.

  “Do you reckon they’re just socializing or discussing a robbery again?” the Colonel asked.

  “How the hell should I know? I’m not Rachel Wilson, I can’t bloody lip-read.”

  They watched as George teed off and hit a decent drive down the middle of the fairway, as did his brother Tommy. Aidan O’Reilly was next to tee off.

  “Gold from KG, receiving . . . over?”

  “Yes, go ahead, over,” Bax replied.

  The Colonel told him who was playing golf and asked how long a round took, as he’d never played the game.

  “Depends if it’s nine or eighteen holes they’re playing, how good they are and if there’s any hold-ups by the golfers in front of them.”

  “There’s no one in front of them.”

  The Colonel watched O’Reilly hit the ball hard but slice it into the rough on the left.

  “You’re looking at about four hours then.”

  Graham Smith made two air shots, missing the ball completely, and on his third attempt the ball scooted about fifty meters along the ground.