by J F Straker
Tight Circle
J. F. Straker
© J. F. Straker 1970
J. F. Straker has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1970 by Harrap
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Extract from Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker
Prologue
When the moon was up and the roads were dry, the small hours of an early autumn morning were for Police Constable Grayson the most enjoyable hours on patrol. The engine of his motor-cycle seemed to run more sweetly, there was fascination in watching the long beam from the headlamp probe the shadows ahead, in feeling the cool night air on his face. The roads were his, to loiter or speed at will; only the occasional passing car, the occasional light from an upper window, provided the necessary reminder that this wasn’t a joy-ride, that he was there to observe and report. Not that he often had anything weighty to report. That part of the New Forest, with its low population density, was light on serious crime.
He was coming down the gentle slope that led to the Branleigh-Ringwood road when he saw the light in the ground-floor window. His first thought was that he had been mistaken, that it was moonlight reflected in glass; Forest Lodge had been unoccupied and empty for weeks. It wasn’t until he was some distance past the house that he realized that the gate had been open. Not the wicket gate, but the gate to the drive. That could lead to damage by straying cattle.
He turned and went back. There was no light in the house, but the gate was definitely open. Kids, he thought, as he rode slowly down the drive; an empty property attracted kids. Particularly when it was well tucked away, with a large garden and an orchard at the back. And kids were shockers for leaving gates open.
It was when he rounded the side of the house and his headlight picked out the rather battered Zodiac that supposition turned to bewilderment. What the hell was it doing there? He cut his engine, propped the bike on its stand, and walked over to the car. The boot was locked, the doors were not; the radiator was warm. Had some sex-eager couple preferred a grass couch to the back seat? Or was it a tealeaf who thought he’d hit on a dead job? Surely not. One flash of the man’s torch through a window, and he’d have seen that the job wasn’t only dead, it was barren of anything worth pinching. So why hang around?
From the car Grayson crossed to the house. This was the modern part, with a paved piazza and a lot of stonework and glass, and plants in small wooden tubs now overgrown with weeds. He ran his torch over the glass. There was a dull patch that failed to reflect the light, and on inspection he saw that a neat, almost circular hole had been cut in a bottom pane. Professionals, he thought — and was even more bewildered. But, professionals or amateurs, his orders were explicit: to radio headquarters, and wait for reinforcements.
He was still on the piazza when he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel, moving fast. A man came round the near end of the house and sprinted for the car, his body a blur, shielded from the moon by the trees. Grayson went after him, eager for an arrest. The man had only a few yards start. He might make the car, but he wouldn’t make the driving seat.
Grayson didn’t see him make either. As he closed on his quarry something hard hit him across the base of the skull, and he stumbled forward and fell. There was a drumming in his ears and sparks in his head, but he didn’t immediately lose consciousness. While the ground rocked about him he heard vaguely the slamming of doors, the whirr of a starter motor, the bite of tyres on gravel. His last awareness before he blacked out was of a shower of gravel spattering his head and body.
When he came to he was alone. It took him a few moments to recall why he was there and what had happened; then he got slowly to his feet, cursing his stupidity in assuming he had only the one man to deal with. His head ached abominably and his stomach felt queasy, and when he tried to walk his knees seemed to splay outward, making him unsteady. But he made it to the machine — only to discover that his radio had been smashed. Bracing himself against the handlebars, he rolled the machine off its stand. The feel of it on the ground told him that it too had received attention. There was a deep gash in the front tyre.
Sick with anger and pain, he set off on foot for the nearest telephone.
1
A small group of dedicated rubbernecks was clustered outside the bank when Sherrey and Johnny Inch arrived. None of the onlookers had witnessed the actual raid, which had taken place a good half-hour previously; they were there on the off-chance of further excitement, and there was an eager shuffling of feet, a pressing of bodies and a craning of necks, as the police car drew up and the two men got out. Detective Superintendent Sherrey’s name was familiar to many, but his image was not; it was the alacrity with which the uniformed constable moved to clear a way for him and open the bank door, the smartness of the constable’s salute, that told them the newcomers were important. ‘It’ll be that SIN mob, I shouldn’t wonder,’ a man said. ‘I was reading about them in the Express. They’re called in on all the big bank jobs. It’s their speciality.’
‘Why SIN?’ a woman asked.
It’s a nickname. From their initials. Some newspaper geezer thought it up. Sherrey’s the superintendent in charge he’ll be the one in the hat — and there’s a couple of sergeants. Inch is one of them. I forget the other chap’s name, but it begins with an N. That makes S-I-N, SIN. See?’
‘They may be bloody specialists,’ another man said, ‘but they don’t seem to scare the crooks none. I mean, just about every day one reads in the papers how another bank’s been done. Bloody criminal, I call it.’
‘And why wouldn’t you?’ an Irish voice called from the back. ‘Seeing as how that’s what it is.’
Inside the bank the two detectives stood by the door, taking stock. The branch was a small one; a long, narrow room with a counter down one side and the manager’s office at the far end. Right now the building was crowded, and Johnny wondered how those present were split between staff, customers, and police. Behind the counter a man sat rubbing the back of his head, his eyes closed, his shoulders hunched in pain. Near the manager’s office a girl was slumped on a chair, tears welling soundlessly from red eyes and rolling unchecked down her cheeks. She must have had one hell of a shock, Johnny thought, to be able to find tears so long after the event. Occasionally she hiccupped. A woman was bending over her with a cup of tea, but the girl didn’t seem interested.
A youngish man detached himself from the crowd and came over to the newcomers. ‘Inspector Gott, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll remember, but I was with you on that Sidex job. I was a sergeant then.’
‘I remember,’ Sherrey lied. The face was vaguely familiar. But he met so many faces, it was difficult to give them all names. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Inch.’
The inspector nodded at Johnny. Johnny nodded back. He’s younger than me, he thought, with some envy. I’m in the wrong bloody job.
There was no promotion within SIN. Only out of it.
‘Who are all these people?’ Sherrey asked. ‘Customers?’
No, Gott told him. There had been only two people in the bank when it was raided: a man named Crawford and the girl on the chair. The others all claimed to have witnessed the raid from the street. ‘There’s one more, but he’s be
en taken to hospital. Tried to have a go and got clobbered. I don’t think he’s badly hurt.’
Sherrey pointed to behind the counter. ‘Who’s he?’
‘The chief cashier, sir. A Mr Browne. One of the villains wrapped a hose round his neck; I understand he was reluctant to co-operate. He’ll have a sore head for a few days, the doctor said, but nothing worse.’
‘H’m! Your chaps taking statements?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Road blocks?’
The inspector shrugged. ‘Too late for that, I’m afraid. Apparently the alarm failed to function.’
‘How very convenient for the visitors! Well, carry on.’ The superintendent smiled thinly. ‘The charm of our particular setup, Mr Gott — you’d probably call it an injustice — is that you fellows do the work and we take the glory. When there is glory, that is. Recently it’s been in rather short supply. Is the manager in his office?’
The inspector nodded. He knew there was truth in what Sherrey had said; the Press tended to glamorize SIN to the exclusion of divisions and the Regional Crime Squads. But he was too shrewd a policeman to resent this. He knew that without SIN’s extensive knowledge of the crooks who specialized in this particular type of crime, much of the spade-work might never come to fruition.
‘He’s ringing head office, I think.’
The manager was a trim, balding man with a greasy skin. He seemed to perspire freely, for he was continually mopping his face with a folded handkerchief. Nervous tension, Johnny decided. Or maybe he wears his collars too tight. And from the creases in his waistcoat I’d say he likes his oats.
‘You’ll be Superintendent Sherrey, eh?’ the manager said, slamming the receiver down on its cradle. ‘They told me to expect you.’ He placed chairs for them, and told them his name was Johnson. ‘Head office must think ‘Jonas’ would be more appropriate. This makes twice in one year I’ve been raided.’ Sherrey’s heavy eyebrows shot up. Johnny gaped. ‘No, no. Not here. I only moved here in April. Before that I had a branch in Hull. They got away with forty thousand then. February, it was.’
‘How much this time?’ Johnny asked. ‘Less, thank goodness. Somewhere around twenty thousand.’
‘Still quite a useful haul.’
‘Yes. But they were lucky. It would have been nearer eight thousand if Mansons hadn’t just paid in. They’re the local Selfridges. We were still checking when it happened.’
‘I doubt if luck came into it,’ Sherrey said. ‘These chaps don’t leave much to chance. How many were there?’
Three, the manager said — masked, and wearing plastic gloves; one of them had a gun, the others carried pieces of rubber hose-pipe. It was a hose-pipe that had stopped the chief cashier when he had tried to tackle one of the raiders; after which the gunman had grabbed Mrs Belloni and had threatened to shoot her if anyone else attempted to interfere. ‘None of us did. He was probably bluffing, but one couldn’t risk it. He had the barrel jammed against her ear.’
Sherrey nodded. ‘Mrs Belloni being the woman on the chair, eh?’
‘Yes. I think she’s still in a state of shock. The doctor wanted her to go to hospital, but she refused.’
While the gunman held Mrs Belloni the others had gone behind the counter and had started cramming the cash into sacks. They were still at it when the gunman shouted at them to stop; whereupon the two men had scrambled over the counter, spilling money as they went, and all three had made off. As soon as they were out of sight the manager had run to the door, and was in time to see a bystander go down as one of the raiders hit him. ‘The other two were already in the car,’ the manager said. ‘This chap dived in after them, and they were off and round the corner even before the doors were shut.’ He mopped his chin. ‘I got the number of the car, if that’s any help.’
‘They’ll have switched cars within minutes,’ Sherrey said. ‘And both will have been stolen. You don’t catch professionals that easy, sir.’
‘I suppose not. Although they didn’t look particularly professional to me. They forgot to lock the door until the gunman shouted at them. And they weren’t so slick with the money. Not like that Hull gang.’ The handkerchief moved to his brow. ‘Still, they got away with it. I only hope it hasn’t upset too many of our customers. Goodwill is so important.’
Sherrey wasn’t interested in the bank’s image. ‘You were in here, I suppose, when it happened.’
The manager shook his head. Previously, he said, he had been interviewing a customer. But shortly before the raid started he had heard some sort of commotion in the main office and had gone out to investigate. ‘Mr Browne was having trouble with a man — a complete stranger — who kept shouting that he had to see the manager. Well, I explained that I was the manager, but it didn’t seem to sink in.’ He shrugged. ‘I think he was drunk. He stank of beer, and his speech was slurred. However, we got rid of him eventually. I was apologizing to the customers when these men came in.’
His description of the thieves was detailed as far as it went, but that wasn’t far. Build and dress were all he had to go on, since their heads had been completely covered by hoods; and as the hoods had been pointed, height was only relative. The one with the gun, who seemed to be the leader, had had a cultured voice; the manager thought he might possibly recognize it if he heard it again. But that was as far as recognition could go. He doubted if any of the staff could go further.
Sherrey thought he was probably right. But what, Sherrey wanted to know, had happened to the alarm? Had no one had the opportunity to use it?
The manager started fresh mopping-up operations on his face. He looked pained.
Both Mr Browne and Mr Buckman had foot switches in their stalls, he said, and both insisted they had pressed them. It wasn’t until he returned to his office that he discovered the master switch was off. ‘I must have forgotten to switch it on,’ he said glumly. ‘It’s the only possible explanation.’
‘Unless someone switched it off,’ Johnny suggested. ‘One of the staff, for instance, while you were at lunch.’
Mr Johnson frowned. That, he said, was a possibility he preferred to ignore; the blame must be his. But Sherrey’s mind was groping in another direction. Prior to the raid the manager had been interviewing a customer in his office. Where had this customer got to while the raid was on?
‘Well, he stayed in here at first, of course. During the original disturbance, I mean. He came out later when he realized we were being raided, and I think he’d have had a go if the gunman hadn’t shouted at him. Like the rest of us, he wasn’t prepared to risk Mrs Belloni’s life.’ Mr Johnson shuddered. ‘The brute must have jammed the gun right into the poor woman’s ear. Her scream was really pitiful.’
Sherrey’s fingers caressed his chin. He had a long, thin face, and fingers as supple as a pianist’s. Wasn’t it possible, he suggested, that both drunk and customer had been in league with the thieves? The drunk draws the manager out of his office, his confederate switches off the alarm. Wasn’t that a more likely explanation?
Johnny nodded. The same possibility had occurred to him. But the manager shook his head.
‘I disagree.’ For the first time he smiled. ‘You see, the customer in question happens to be a policeman.’
Momentarily they were silenced. But, as Sherrey said, there were bent policemen just as there were bent bank employees. What was the man’s name?
‘Nicodemus. Unusual name, isn’t it? He’s a detective sergeant, I believe.’
Sherrey frowned. Detective Sergeant Humphrey George Verity Nicodemus was the third member of SIN. And he remembered with misgiving that Nicodemus had asked for time off that afternoon to visit his bank. Was it possible that Nicodemus was bent?
Johnny was more explosive in his astonishment. ‘Knickers!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, I’ll be plastered!’
Mr Johnson tucked in his chin and puckered his eyes. The collar seemed to bite into his neck.
‘You know him?’
Yes, Sherrey said, they knew
him. What they didn’t know, and what they would very much like to know, was the ostensible reason for the sergeant’s visit to the bank. One didn’t need an interview with the manager merely to cash a cheque. Not if one’s account was in order.
The manager hesitated. ‘Really, Superintendent, I’m not sure that I —’ The look on Sherrey’s face decided him, and he shrugged. ‘He wanted an overdraft.’
‘Why?’
‘We hadn’t got around to that when we were interrupted. But I’m afraid he’d have been unlucky. Under existing conditions, and without security —’ The manager spread his sweaty palms in a Semitic gesture. ‘It just isn’t on.’
‘What did he do after the raiders had left?’
‘Well, I heard him say ‘I know that voice’. I’m not sure he didn’t also say something about the drunk. The staff may remember. Anyway, he and I made for the door together. I’m afraid I baulked him — I’d forgotten he was a policeman — and the thieves were in the car and making for the corner by the time he got outside.’ The manager dabbed at his chin. ‘I think he tried to follow them in a taxi.’
‘Has he been back?’
No, the manager said, he had not been back.
They went out to talk to Gott. Now only the bank staff remained; the girl, Gott said, had finally been persuaded to have her ear examined in hospital. ‘We’ve got statements from all the witnesses,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid they won’t get us far. The thieves must have arrived singly, and on foot. That’s why they weren’t noticed; they were just three individuals among a crowd of others. Presumably they timed themselves to arrive at the doors simultaneously, and donned the hoods as they entered.’
‘The get-away car?’ Sherrey asked.
‘A woman saw it arrive. She had just passed it when the driver sounded the horn; a signal for the others to leave, I suppose. A dark blue saloon, she says. She didn’t notice the driver.’
