Bent

by Joe Thomas

  PRAISE FOR BENT

  ‘Brilliant. Bent compellingly re-imagines a shocking true story of bravery and deception with all the manic energy and terrifying presence of its subject’ Jake Arnott, author of The Long Firm Trilogy

  ‘A wildly stylish and hugely entertaining read, Bent brings the worlds of sixties Soho and Nazi-occupied Italy thrillingly to life. It's taut, evocative and laugh-out-loud funny - and, like its anti-hero, Challenor, slick, pacy and just crooked enough to keep you guessing, right up until its gut-punch of an ending’ Lucy Caldwell, winner of the Dylan Thomas Prize

  Vivid, stylish, funny’ Mick Herron, author of the Jackson Lamb novels

  ‘From the cool spine of Italy to the burning heart of London, Bent merges war and peace as it shows how our traumatised heroes helped shape Britain in the decades following the Second World War. While the sixties swing, one man's need for order is undercut by a seething anger and some righteous violence. Written with love and respect, Bent is a snappy, thoughtful, moving novel’ John King, author of The Football Factory

  ‘Bent makes me remember Fridays bunking off work early, slipping and sliding on mashed fruit and veg through a deserted old Covent Garden, down to Berwick Street market to buy a few ex-jukebox 45s for half a dollar each, then to the Nellie Dean for a couple of pints of Guinness, followed by a nap in Soho square gardens if the weather was clement. Shoot off home to change into something sharper, and back up for an all-nighter at the ‘mingo, all pilled up and glassy-eyed. We were far from innocent, but they seemed like innocent times. Not bent at all. Happy days!’ Mark Timlin, author of the Sharman novels

  ‘Perhaps the most notorious copper of the postwar era, Harold “Tanky” Challenor has taken many literary guises, his contradictory, charismatic presence and catchphrase “You’re nicked, me old beauty” muscling its way into work by Joe Orton and Jake Arnott. But no one has delved so deeply into what turned a wartime hero of the SAS into a peacetime detective whose attempts to “clean up Soho” led to ignominy and the epithet most readily applied to him - Bent - until Joe Thomas braved his way into Tanky's skull, effectively channelling Challenor in this vivid recreation of the events that forged and then destroyed his reputation. Utterly brilliant’ Cathi Unsworth, author of That Old Black Magic and Bad Penny Blues

  ‘Had James Ellroy and David Peace collaborated on a novel about a corrupt 1960s Soho copper, they’d have written something like this. Bent has left its Size 12 boot-prints across my memory’ Paul Willetts, author of Members Only, filmed as The Look of Love

  PRAISE FOR THE SÃO PAULO QUARTET

  ‘Thomas's fine series offers a wonderfully vivid introduction to a society in violent, vibrant flux’ Mail on Sunday Thriller of the month

  ‘Great crime fiction hinges on a sense of place, and in his sophisticated debut, Thomas proves an adroit guide to a city that has developed at dizzying speed’ GQ

  ‘With its feverish energy, opulent nightlife, culture and chaos, the Brazilian megalopolis is a perfect setting for Joe Thomas's crime thrillers’ Guardian

  ‘As vibrant, colourful and complex as South America's largest city’ Irish Independent

  ‘Stylish, sharp-witted and taut. A must for modern noir fans’ NB Magazine

  ‘A new and distinct voice in crime fiction of the city’ Susanna Jones, author of The Earthquake Bird

  ‘Fresh, gripping and incredibly assured’ Stav Sherez, author of The Intrusions

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Joe Thomas is the author of Paradise City, Gringa and Playboy. The final part in his São Paulo quartet, Brazilian Psycho, is scheduled for publication in autumn 2020. Bent is his first London novel.

  ALSO BY JOE THOMAS

  Paradise City

  Gringa

  Playboy

  BENT

  BENT

  Joe Thomas

  A

  Arcadia Books Ltd

  139 Highlever Road

  London W10 6PH

  www.arcadiabooks.co.uk

  First published in the United Kingdom 2020 Copyright © Joe Thomas 2020

  Joe Thomas has asserted his moral right to be identified as the authors of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-911350-73-6

  Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd

  Printed and bound by TJ International, Padstow PL28 8RW

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  BENT

  Author's note

  During the Second World War, my grandfather, Ronald ‘Bob’ Young, served in 2SAS with Harold Challenor, most notably in Operation Wallace, behind enemy lines in France in 1944. Like Challenor, after the war, he became a policeman, though his career was markedly different.

  I grew up with stories of the exploits of my grandfather and Challenor, and other men like them. My brother, sister and I would listen, rapt, wide-eyed, to the tales our grandfather and his friends would tell us. Our grandmother, too: she was the real storyteller. It was an important part of our childhood.

  Although based on historical events and involving historical figures, Bent is a work of fiction, and certain names, dates, places, organisations have been changed for dramatic purposes. A bibliography follows the main text together with a list of quoted material.

  Harold Challenor is a controversial figure; this novel is an imagined version of part of his life.

  In memory of my grandparents, Mary and Ronald ‘Bob’ Young; and for their great-grandson, Lucian

  With a few more Challenors, the war would have been over sooner

  Major Roy Farran

  Come not between the dragon and his wrath

  Shakespeare, King Lear

  Hero

  The first time I met Harold Challenor, he frisked me for weapons -

  I was ten years old.

  It's quite a story, the life of Detective Sergeant Harold ‘Tanky’ Challenor.

  He and my grandad served together in 2SAS in the Second World War.

  Challenor was a war hero, a copper, a storyteller, a lover, a lunatic, and a whole lot more.

  He was the scourge of Soho, that ‘mad bastard’ Challenor.

  The Kray twins offered a grand to anyone who’d help stitch him up.

  But that's a mere footnote.

  This story, it's all true, all of it.

  The Trial

  The Old Bailey

  June 1964

  Challenor sits. Challenor waits. He sits on a bench outside the courtroom at the Old Bailey, and waits to give his testimony. The Old Bailey, he thinks. In the dock. Here we go. Here we fucking go.

  There's a young police constable sat next to him, keeping an eye, that's all. Making sure. No bolters in this court, no runners, not on your -

  You know the word: life. No runners, no way, not on your life, son.

  The lad says, ‘You done it then?’ He winks.

  Cheeky sod, Challenor thinks. Did I do it? Well, did I do what, young man?

  He says, ‘Listen, my young beauty, you keep your trap shut.’

  Challenor smiles. The lad smil
es back. The hallway clock makes its noise. They both listen. They can’t hear nothing else. They can’t hear nothing else from inside. From inside the courtroom.

  Did I do it? Did I do it?

  Challenor sits. Challenor waits. He sits and waits and thinks about this question. He fingers the piece of paper he has in his pocket:

  If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

  Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies.

  He's not sure.

  Did I do what, old chum? he thinks.

  Less of the old, eh.

  There was a letter. From that quack down by the river. Sargent was his name. A Dr Sargent, psychiatrist.

  Quite something, that letter, evidence-wise:

  I am certain that Harold Challenor is very mad indeed.

  It said, among some other things.

  Indeed.

  Did I do it? Did I do what, my old son?

  Challenor sits and waits and his thoughts turn to Doris. There's a lot he can forgive himself, he thinks, but letting her down, letting down his wife, is certainly not one of them.

  He wonders if he already has done.

  Part One

  WHO DARES WINS

  July 1962-December 1962

  One

  ‘A big showdown for power is coming and when it does come it will be a bloody battle.’

  Challenor scarfs prawn dumplings. He wolfs brown ale. He's sat at the counter of the Chinaman's copper-friendly crab shack on Lisle Street, Chinatown. This place was set up by Brilliant Chang, Chan Nan, the first oriental gangster to run the roost in these fine parts - then cut the roost's neck and sell it in a pancake.

  Brilliant Chang didn’t last long. Show-off, he was, no discretion. Did a fourteen stretch for drug trafficking, then was stuck straight back on the long-haul junk across the ocean for home.

  Challenor is off-duty happy and gulping beer. He eyes the calendar: Year of the Tiger. He slurps a bowl of noodle soup.

  He nods at the Chinaman. ‘What year are you?’ he asks.

  The Chinaman smiles. ‘Year of the Rat.’ He gestures at the room, the kitchen. ‘Why we don’t have a pest problem. Only room for one.’ The Chinaman laughs hard. ‘The elegant way you’re applying yourself to the chow, friend,’ he says, ‘I’m guessing you’re a different animal.’

  ‘I fear a punchline,’ Challenor says.

  The Chinaman grins. ‘I’ll leave you to think about it.’

  Challenor checks the calendar.

  1922: Year of the Dog. Well-played.

  The Chinaman's back. ‘How's the Mad House?’ he asks.

  ‘Busy,’ Challenor says.

  The Mad House. West End Central. The busiest nick in London, CID, and Challenor's base. Covers Mayfair and Soho. Brass don’t let him anywhere near Mayfair.

  ‘Well, you’ve a rum crowd putting the bite on in these parts, Harry. You deserve a promotion, boy.’ The Chinaman looks around. ‘Here, you know what?’ he says. ‘You could eat in a better place than this, that's for sure.’ He points at Challenor's brown ale. ‘One for the road? On the house, mind.’

  Challenor smiles, shakes his head.

  ‘Suit yourself The Chinaman floats off to drink the health of some other punter.

  It's all God's honest, of course, Challenor thinks. Soho at the end of the 50s was a jungle. The Street Offences act of ‘59 saw to that. No more women of the night on the public prowl; all behind the clubs now. And the clubs all a front. Italian Albert Dimes saw off poor old Jewish Jack ‘bother’ Spot with a razor. He found himself in a spot all right, that night. The Kosher King fucked off sharpish after that. And it's gone from there, Challenor thinks. Ronnie Knight at the A&R on Charing Cross Road; the Krays at the Stragglers, off Cambridge Circus.

  And that's why I’m here, he thinks -

  Detective Sergeant Harold ‘Tanky’ Challenor.

  What's a couple of wide-boy thugs to an ex-SAS paratrooper?

  Challenor wipes his mouth. He sees off the rest of his brown ale. He throws coins on the counter.

  Challenor's off duty, but he's never off duty. He wraps up in a long, summer coat. Not the most subtle of disguises, but it’ll do.

  What are you going to do about it?

  Challenor means business. He doesn’t mess about, Challenor.

  He's following Flying Squad Rule no. I: catch the jokers at it.

  That way you can always sus them, bring them in on a possible, a charge.

  Red-handed is stone-cold cell time, Challenor's learnt that rule well enough.

  And you have to get up pretty early, as the saying goes, to catch the poxy bastards round West End Central way.

  He's out the Chinaman's place, turns right down Lisle Street. He glances at the knocking shop on the corner, a sign, ‘Models’, on an open door. Not the most subtle of disguises.

  He crosses Shaftesbury Avenue, and shuffles along Dean Street aiming for Wilf Gardiner's place, the Geisha club, on Moor Street, just off Cambridge Circus. He keeps his head down as he passes the French House. He's heard there are a couple of faces about and he doesn’t want anybody the wiser regarding this little off-duty jaunt. Research trip, he's calling it.

  The Geisha club, Challenor thinks.

  Not the most subtle of disguises.

  Old Wilf Gardiner is no sweetheart, Challenor knows this. Convictions for violence, dishonesty. He tuned up a traffic warden not long ago, and his strip clubs are rife with solicitation, short-time brass in upstairs rooms and whatnot. No, he is not a very nice chap at all, old Wilf Gardiner, and it strikes Challenor now that it's an unlikely set of circumstances that has led them to become something like accomplices.

  He's passed the Three Greyhounds on the corner of Moor and Old Compton, and it's quiet in there, this early-afternoon booze slot isn’t too busy, no, but he keeps himself to himself, doesn’t call out to Luciano - Lucky Luke - owner of his favourite Italian canteen, his very favourite trattoria, to be precise, Limoncello, across the road, like he sometimes does. He wants to know what exactly it is Wilf wants -

  Yes, it seems that old Wilf Gardiner is having a spot of.

  A week before, Challenor is at Wilf's other place, the Phoenix.

  ‘I’m telling you, Harry, these fuckers are taking the right old Mick,’ Wilf says.

  Challenor sits and listens. He swallows beer.

  ‘They’re round the Geisha early July, right,’ old Wilf is saying, ‘and Ford - that's Johnnie Ford, yeah, local face, a decent-looking lad I’ll give him that, a two-bob villain sort, you know him, course you do — so this Ford has told me to hire some of his mob, you know, working, bar staff, delivery lackeys, that kind of thing. Except their jobs will be on the books, but they ain’t gonna be punching in, know what I mean? So you see where this is going.’

  Challenor does see. Protection.

  ‘So I’ve told him we could talk about it, and he's told me no, no discussion. And that I need to watch where I walk and watch every way.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They fancy coming back and giving me a belting,’ Wilf says. ‘Same day I’ve come across him and a couple of his monkeys on Charing Cross Road and he's butted me, and I’ve struck him, and it's got a touch tasty, but I reckoned that’d be the end.’

  ‘But it wasn’t.’

  ‘No.’

  The following day young Ford and his mate Riccardo Pedrini head over to the Phoenix for a pow-wow to square things.

  ‘Giving up on protection then, are you?’ Old Wilf says, smirking.

  Ford grins, and turns, and does one. Scarpers.

  Pedrini points his finger at Old Wilf and says, ‘You try and get Johnnie Ford nicked, and I will cut you up.’ He turns away. Turns back. ‘And I get nicked for that, my lover, I’ll get out and cut you up again.’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ Wilf says. And he winks, and he heads in, head high.

  Pride comes before one, and blah blah blah and all that jazz, Challenor thinks now, as he heads towards the Geisha. Course it's not the charming
Italian waiter Pedrini that Challenor wants. He's just a wannabe with a blade who's known Ford for donkeys. And Ford is a cutthroat chancer who won’t last.

  No, Challenor's after bigger fish, and he's using Old Wilf here to lure them out of the weeds and into clear, running water.

  Challenor's after a certain racketeer named Joseph Francis Oliva.

  King Oliva.

  *

  You’re itching. You’re drunk and you’re itching. Algeria, 1942, and fuck all happening. Punch-ups with Yanks in the bars. Lying around getting a soldier's suntan, itching and waiting.

  You’re drunk in a bar.

  ‘So you’re an orderly?’

  You hear: oi-duh-ly.

  You grunt.

  ‘What's that, a nurse?’

  You hear: a noi-ss.

  Smack. Have that, you Yank cunt. You turn. Plant your bonce on his pal. Crunch. And we’re off. Glass smashes. Cheers. Head down, fists up. In seconds, tables crash. You pick up a chair leg and turn. Then whistles, shouts, cheering, laughter.

  Military Police, or some Yank nonsense.

  ‘Nah, it was nothing, was it, Harry? Just a laugh, guv.’

  Nods. Hands raised, drinks gathered, sipped. Your Yank pals grinning. Yeah, have that. You grin back. MPs fuck off out of it, and you shake hands with your new friends, clap their backs.

  ‘What the fuck is a noi-ss?’ you say.

  You all get good and drunk, brothers in arms and all that.

  If you want something enough, you’ll get it. You repeat the phrase to yourself again and again: if you want something enough, you’ll get it. And you want it, all right. This medical orderly business is not what you signed up for. Held in reserve, attached to the First Army, just a mass of bodies and equipment to keep Rommel from heading east while Monty cleared El Alamein.

  Least the booze is cheap. Algiers, cheers; cheers, Algiers. Every night you’re cracking that gag, toasting the sky and the sand. Bored out your skull. Not what you signed up for.