The Madeiran Double Cross

by Sally Spencer

  “About that – if you want a proper job doing,” Sims agreed. “But I wouldn’t have to pay. I’ve still got plenty of friends left in the business who’d do it for free, just as a favour.”

  It was probably true. Sims had retired, but you never really retired in his line of business. The two heavies waiting outside the door were proof enough of that.

  Mason considered the possibility that by nightfall he might have become a permanent resident of the River Thames.

  “So,” he said, “you got the whisper. Your first thought was, ‘No, not Frank. He’s been a good son-in-law. He helped me take my mob to the top. I’d never have got so big, I wouldn’t have had all this’,” he gestured round the room, “‘if it hadn’t been for Frank.’ That’s what you thought, isn’t it?”

  “It might have been,” Sims said.

  “But then, because you’re a suspicious old bastard, you said to yourself, ‘But if Frank is planning a job, he’ll be getting a team together.’ So you got on the blower to see if you could come up with some names. Right?”

  “Right,” Sims replied, seeming less certain of himself now that Mason had taken the offensive.

  “And what names did you come up with?"

  Mason knew that he was managing to keep his face bland, but he could not control his fingers which were gripping – ever tighter – on the chunky whisky glass.

  “Well,” Sims said, “there was Tony Horton for a start.”

  “Oh, come on, Ted,” Mason shot back, faking exasperation, “of course there’d be Tony. That doesn’t prove a thing. It’s like the Old Bill saying they know I’ve turned over a bank because I’ve got a tenner in my wallet.”

  “Harry Snell’s name came up, as well.”

  “I can’t say I really know him, but I seem to remember he was a bit of a loser whose done bird two or three times. As a matter of fact, I think he’s still inside.”

  “You’re wrong about that. He’s just come out.”

  “So even if prison hasn’t broken him – and it has broken better men than him – he’ll still be punch drunk. And when have I ever been bloody stupid enough to use somebody who’s not up to the job?”

  Sims said nothing.

  ‘Anybody else on this supposed dream team of mine?” Mason asked – knowing that he was pushing harder than he should, and knowing, too, that his father-in-law came up with the wrong name, he was as good as dead.

  “Well,” Sims said reluctantly, “there was some talk about Portuguese Pedro.”

  Mason choked on his drink. For a full fifteen seconds he coughed and spluttered, then, with eyes filled with tears, he looked up at Sims. The old gangster seemed distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Portug ...uese Pedro!” Mason gasped. “Portuguese Pedro. Do you really think I’d have a wally like him working for me?”

  Sims smiled, half-amused, half-embarrassed that he had even suggested it. “No, it don’t seem likely, does it?”

  *

  “Mr Sims says we’re to take you wherever you want to go,” the shorter heavy said sulkily, from the driver’s seat.

  “Take me back to my flat. Do you want directions?”

  “No,” the taller heavy said. “We know where it is.”

  He bet they did. The bastards.

  Mason looked out of the side window. A few delivery vans chugged along half-heartedly, stopping briefly to make a drop. The occasional pedestrian could be seen, huddled up against the cold, scurrying along the pavement. Sheets of newspaper swirled through the air, until the wind grew tired of playing with them and dumped, unceremoniously, against the nearest lamppost or dustbin. It was a filthy day, and the Edgware Road seemed the most depressing place on earth.

  The two thugs in the front did not speak, either to each other or to their passenger, and Mason was glad of it. He needed time to think.

  It seemed to him as if his whole life had been dictated by circumstances beyond his control. Had he, for example, ever had any choice about drifting into petty criminality, and from there to the Ted Sims’ Mob? It did not feel as if he had.

  The years had not brought greater freedom, they had only imposed heavier restrictions. Marriage to Elsie had never worked – could never work. He would never be his own man because there was always Ted Sims in the background.

  He was not sure he could pull off the Madeiran job, especially now, because if Ted could pick up the whispers, then the Law could, too. The whole thing might be over before it ever got started. But it was a chance he had to take – the only real chance to break free he’d ever had.

  *

  “Ooo, that’s lovely, Bruce,” Linda said. “Again, please, again.”

  Her head, inside the hood, felt pleasantly warm, and her toes prickled. This was her favourite time of the week. She popped another chocolate into her mouth and turned the page of her glossy magazine.

  “Can I move on now, lovie?” Bruce asked. “I’m getting rather bored with this foot.”

  She looked down. She could only see the top of his head, his thick, brown, virile hair.

  “All right,” she said, “but I might want you to go back to it later.”

  “Anything you say, duckie,” Bruce lisped. “The customer’s always right.”

  Most of the clients at the salon thought Bruce was gay, but she knew different. He wasn’t just doing his job down there, he was taking every opportunity he could to look up her skirt. Sometimes when the massage and manicure was finished, he had such a hard-on that he could hardly walk straight.

  Today, she was wearing black see-through panties with little pink butterflies on them. She opened her legs wider. She was feeling good herself, so why not give him a treat?

  Nigel resented these visits to the beauty parlour.

  “You don’t need to have your hair done every week,” he was always saying, “and we simply can’t afford it.”

  But somehow, the knowledge that he had to give up other things in order to scrape the money together so she could indulge herself only made the whole thing seem more luxurious.

  “So where are you going for your holidays, Bruce?” she asked.

  “Wha … I … sorry, lovie, I was miles away.”

  Not miles, she thought, just a couple of feet away – at the top of my legs. The idea that she could have so much power over a man gave her a warm glow.

  Her good mood was shattered by the thought of Frank. She didn’t seem to have too much power over him these days. She could still have him panting and begging in the bedroom, but outside was a different matter. He used to tell her everything, all his problems, all his frustrations. Not that she had been particularly interested, but at least it had shown that she had a hold on him. Now, despite her having asked him several times, he had refused to tell her why he needed Nigel. And although she was part of the firm, she was sure that he was having meetings without her.

  “How’s that, sweetie?” Bruce asked. “Like it, do you?”

  “Lovely,” she said absently.

  She wasn't sure that it would be a good idea to run off with Frank, even if he still wanted her to. Seeing him a couple of times a week was all right. But living with him? He certainly wouldn’t let her get away with things like Nigel did. She’d have to become a one-man woman, and even with someone like Frank that could become boring after a while.

  And there was another thing. You needed a lot of money to retire, and however big the bank haul was, there were too many people wanting their cut. If Frank would take more than his twenty per cent, say – in round figures – a hundred per cent … But she knew it was useless to try and persuade him.

  What she needed was a new man, not a worm like Nigel, but someone a little more pliable than Mason – and rich! Now if she could find someone else in the gang a little less scrupulous about seeing that everybody got their fair share …

  And once you put it like that, the choice was obvious.

  SIX

  Portuguese Pedro pushed the door open, and looked around. Outside, the p
uddles were freezing over, but the saloon bar of The Crown, packed with Friday night punters, was almost oppressively hot.

  No one noticed him standing there – but that would soon change. After he’d pulled the job with the Mason Mob, he would be a man to reckon with.

  In his imagination, Pedro played out the scene. A noisy pub a few weeks hence: the door swings open; the loud conversations stop almost immediately, and heads turn. “It’s Portuguese Pedro,” someone whispers, “the man behind the big robbery.”

  At the tables, the men smile ingratiatingly, hoping that he will favour them with his presence. He raises his left eyebrow and every woman in the room thinks, ecstatically, that the gesture was directed at her.

  “Shut that bloody door, you stupid little bastard,” a voice called out. “there's a bleeding gale blowing in.”

  Pedro walked quickly over to the bar and ordered a pint. When he came to pay, he produced the roll of tenners that Frank Mason had given him and nonchalantly peeled one off. He could see that the barman was impressed.

  “Have one yourself,” he said.

  “That’s very kind of you. sir. I’ll have a Remy Martin.”

  The barman charged him for the expensive brandy, but made no move to serve himself with one.

  Pedro looked around the crowded room for familiar faces. In one corner sat Fat Sid the bookie, a huge barrel of lard encased in a loud check suit. Next to him, wearing a donkey jacket with WIMPEY written across the back in large white letters, was Roadie O'Brien. There was so little of the third member of the company visible that he appeared to kneeling on the floor rather than sitting on a stool – Half Nelson.

  “Small fries,” Pedro thought to himself, “piggies-bank robbers.”

  But even so, he felt the need of company. He sidled over to them, and sat down uninvited.

  Sid looked across at him. “Piss off, you Portuguese dickhead!” he said, without rancour. “We’re talking business.”

  Pedro was offended. These jump-up shits didn’t know who they were talking to.

  “I just thought I buy you fellers a drink,” he said.

  He pulled out his wad of tenners, and saw Roadie O'Brien’s eyes light up.

  “Well, if you’re buying, Pedro,” the Irishman said, “I wouldn’t mind one for the road.”

  “Me neither,” squeaked Half Nelson.

  Fat Sid frowned and stroked his treble chin thoughtfully.

  “All right, you little greaseball,” he said, as though he was doing Pedro a favour. “I’ll have a double whisky.”

  O’Brien had not specified which road they were having a drink for, and over the next two hours they toasted most of the British transport network. The three men continued their discussion of robberies past, present and future, noticing Pedro only when it was time to order another round.

  The drunker the Portuguese got, the angrier he became.

  These guys thought he was nothing – a loser. They didn’t have no respect, they were just freeze-loading off him.

  “So anyway,” Fat Sid said, finishing off a story, “he had so much bother shifting these cans of Tesco corned beef that in the end he had to offer a free gift with every case.”

  “And what was it?” Roadie O'Brien asked.

  “Half a dozen bottles of Californian bleeding syrup of figs.”

  Only Pedro did not share the general hilarity of the table.

  “Is small stuff,” he said. “Chickens’ feed.”

  “Small stuff?” Roadie said, almost choking with laughter. “Well, I suppose it would be – to Big-Time Pedro.”

  “ ‘s right,” Pedro slurred.

  ‘Big-Time Pedro’ – he rather liked the sound of that.

  “Anyway,” Sid continued, “when he couldn’t get rid of it even with the bleeding syrup of figs thrown in …”

  “ ‘s true,” Pedro interrupted. “I’m working on a job right now.”

  “You’re better than the telly, so you are,” Roadie O’Brien said.

  “I’m planning a job with Frank Mason,” Pedro said, exasperatedly. “Me and Frankie going to pull a job.”

  “Frankie and Pedro,” O'Brien said, giggling. “Crime’s answer to Batman and Robin.”

  “You’re not treating this seriously enough, Roadie,” Fat Sid wheezed, taking a vivid check handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his streaming eyes. “So tell me, Pedro, my old son, when’s it going to be?”

  “I can’t give any details yet,” Frank had said, “not even to you, Pedro”'

  “Soon,” Pedro said, half-heartedly.

  “And where’s it going to be, my little bandito? Bank of England? Harrods?”

  “I don’t … kn … Is a secret.”

  “I don’t kn … Is a secret,” Sid repeated.

  His chins wobbled like jelly on a sweet trolley and he buried his head in Roadie O’Brien's shoulder. The Irishman, almost purple in the face, slapped the other man heavily on the back.

  “You guys are bloody bastards,” Pedro said.

  He rose gingerly to his feet and picked his way carefully between the swaying tables to the door. If he hadn’t been so drunk and so angry, he would have noticed that while Sid and Roadie were still convulsed with laughter, Half Nelson merely looked thoughtful.

  *

  The fire was burning as well as could be expected with smokeless fuel, but it wasn’t giving off that cheery glow that made you feel glad it was raining and windy outside.

  “When this job’s over,” Mason thought, “I’ll get myself a stone cottage somewhere bleak. One with a fireplace that burns logs, so you can warm your arse properly and roast chestnuts in the ashes.”

  “I had a talk with your dad the other day,” he said.

  Elsie, sitting on the sofa opposite him, looked up.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “How is he? Haven’t seen him for ages.”

  “He’d heard a whisper that I was planning a new job,” Mason continued, watching her face closely.

  “He’d heard that, had he?”

  Her expression didn’t change. Elsie was good at not giving anything away.

  “Matter of fact, I am planning a job – or at least I’ve got the idea for one,” Mason told her.

  “Where?”

  “A branch of Barclays, right in the middle of Liverpool.”

  “How’d you find out about it?” Elsie demanded.

  By making a quick trip to Liverpool the day before.

  “Tony noticed it when he was up there last week, chasing some bird. He says it’s a beauty. It’s a historic building with a preservation order on it – so that they can’t mess up the frontage too much with security bars and things.”

  Elsie put down her drink, and walked over to the bookcase. She scanned the shelves and pulled out an A-Z of Liverpool, Pevsner on Lancashire and a large-scale road map of the north of England. They were the tools of her trade, just as much as the sawn-off shotgun was Mason’s.

  She walked over to the desk, took out a pad and a pencil, and sat down.

  “What’s the address?” she asked.

  Mason told her. She looked up the bank in Pevsner's index, then read the relevant section.

  “Show me exactly where it is in the A-Z,” she said.

  Mason pointed it out.

  Elsie studied the map with intense concentration. Sometimes she muttered to herself, occasionally she made a note on her pad.

  “One-way street system here …Find out about parking restrictions … How many traffic lights? … How are they weighted? … Police patrols – are they regular? … Do they have any coppers on foot?”

  When she had exhausted the area around the bank, she turned to other pages, following the roads on from where they disappeared off the previous map.

  “That’s the nearest police station … that road leads down to the docks … long way round to the motorway, but with the traffic flow …”

  Finally, she picked up the large-scale road map and traced the red lines out of the city and into Lancashire
, Yorkshire and Cheshire. The process seemed to go on for ever.

  While she worked, Mason sat in the corner, his copy of Gordon's Wild Birds of Britain on his lap. Normally, the book would transport him from the narrow world where sparrows and blackbirds stood shivering on the windowsill and begging for crumbs, to a place in which the air was tangy with peat and heather, and real birds – solon geese and petrels —were masters of the sky, and of themselves. Now, he could manage little more than a desultory flicking through the pages.

  Elsie and her father were not on to him yet, but they were not far from it.

  If she didn’t swallow the idea of this Liverpool job …

  It was over two hours before she finally, triumphantly, put down her pencil.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think I’m definitely on to something here.”

  Mason did his best to hide his relief.

  “The place will need casing,” he said.

  “Oh, will it, Frank?” Elsie asked. “I would never have thought of that. Well, since you seem to have taken over the thinking, when do you suggest we do it?”

  Mason bit back a comment. All he had to do, he told himself was put up with this a little longer, and then – if the plan worked – he would be free of it forever.

  “There’ll be no need for you to go up to Liverpool,” he said. “At least, not at first. You just tell me what to look out for. I mean, casing’s not the same thing as planning, is it? It’s more like your basic spadework, and I’m good at that.”

  A patronizing smile spread across Elsie’s face, and Mason realized that he had never disliked her quite so much as he did now. Yet he knew he should be grateful, because every smirk – every condescending comment – made it easier for him to do what he had to do.

  “Spadework,” Elsie repeated. “You’re quite right. That’s just what it is. OK, you do the routine stuff and I'll go up there when a bit of brainwork’s called for. When do you think would be a good time for this spadework of your?’

  Mason shrugged.

  “Dunno. Haven’t really thought about it. How about just before Christmas?”

  “Just before Christmas? Why just before Christmas?” Elsie said sharply – and there was an edge of suspicion in her voice now.