In Vino Veritas

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘Yes,’ Cragg replied, ‘and the older you get, the more you can say it.’ Then he paused. Slurring his words, he added, ‘You know, I killed someone once.’

  The younger man groaned inwardly, assuming that he had met another barstool ex-serviceman, who, if all were telling the truth, would mean that the British Armed Forces would be ten times larger than they actually were. ‘Oh, yes?’ he replied, expecting the tall, drunken Andrew Cragg to then claim service in the Parachute Regiment or the Royal Marines, his being far too tall to have served in the Special Forces, where the average height of the soldiers is five feet six inches.

  ‘Yes,’ Cragg affirmed, still staring fixedly ahead of him.

  ‘Ex-army?’ The young man asked wearily, expecting a rapid, proud-sounding reply in the affirmative.

  ‘No,’ ‘Big Andy’ Cragg replied softly after a period of silence. ‘No … I was never a soldier. It might … it would have been easier if I had been but I never served Queen and Country. I never reckoned Queen and Country did anything for me so I never felt I owed them anything in return. It was here … I did it here.’ Cragg patted the bar with his large palm.

  ‘Here!’ The young man gasped. ‘Here, in this pub?’

  ‘No … no, I don’t mean here, here.’ Andrew Cragg took a deep breath. ‘Not here in this boozer, I meant here in the Smoke … here in London.’

  ‘Here in Notting Hill?’ the young man asked with interest. ‘Here in this part of the Smoke?’

  ‘No … no …’ Cragg once again gripped the brass rail attached to the bar. ‘It was south of the river. New Cross, to be exact.’

  ‘New Cross?’ the young man repeated. He was becoming genuinely interested in ‘Big Andy’ Cragg.

  ‘Yes, it was down New Cross way. I was part of a team, a heavy team. We shot this young woman. She was too young. She had most of it in front of her – still had her life to lead.’ Once again, Cragg steadied himself.

  ‘Shot her?’ the young man repeated.

  ‘Yes … a proper shooter. He made sure all right.’ Cragg slurred his words again. ‘He made well sure. The geezer what done it made well sure. Two taps to the head. One to the chest. Three taps all told. She was going nowhere, not after that. She wasn’t going to get up … ever again.’

  The young man remained silent.

  ‘Never done nothing like that before … never done nothing like that since.’ Cragg was by then talking more to himself than to the young, unshaven man. ‘Yes … all right. I’ve done a few stupid things, I’ve done things I am not proud of but I’ve never done murder. Not until that night – I hadn’t done murder. All right, all right, so I didn’t pull the trigger, I didn’t shoot the old shooter, but I was there and that’s all it takes. People tell me that makes me equally guilty. “Joint venture”, I think it’s called. Or something like that.’

  The young man continued to remain silent. He was by then content to let Cragg talk freely. Hugely content. He took a mouthful of his beer and continued to listen closely.

  ‘Forgot it.’ Andrew Cragg gripped the bar in front of him. ‘I forgot it. For a lot of years I forgot it had happened. I forgot all about it. It was like someone had wiped my memory clean. Then it all started to come back, about eighteen months ago … not all at once but a bit at a time. It all came back over the space of about three or four days … And all out of order – all the bits, I mean – and then it took me some days after that before I was sure I wasn’t remembering a dream. And I tell you, it all came back because of this stuff.’ ‘Big Andy’ Cragg tapped the side of his beer glass, and as he did so the young man noticed that Andrew Cragg’s fingernails were bitten to the quick. ‘You know,’ Cragg continued, ‘they say that you drink to forget but you don’t – you don’t forget anything when you’re drunk, it’s the other way round. If you drink you remember things. This stuff … your old printers’ ink … it makes you remember. The drink makes you remember things.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard that.’ The young man held his glass in both hands. ‘I’ve been told that is the way of it.’

  ‘We tapped her cold in a lock-up. Somewhere down the East End, it was. I don’t know the East End, I’m from south of the river, but she was tapped over the East End. That look in her eyes … the fear … the pleading … the knowing that she was going to die. She looked at me. I reckon she did that because the geezer with the shooter, well, he wore a mask, didn’t he … like a pig’s face on his head, so she looked at me because I wasn’t wearing no mask. She looked at me like she was asking me to save her, but I couldn’t do nothing … That look in her eyes …’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’ The young man lifted his beer glass to his lips. ‘Can’t say I have seen that look you speak of but I can imagine it all right.’

  ‘Yes, well, she had that look.’ Cragg swayed on his feet. ‘You take it from me she had that old look in her eyes and when I can’t sleep at night, I think about her those nights. I’ll never forget that look in her eyes.’

  ‘But you didn’t shoot her.’ The young man put his glass down on the surface of the bar.

  ‘No … I didn’t … but I was there. I was part of it, all right. It makes me equally guilty.’ Andrew ‘Big Andy’ Cragg steadied himself once more. ‘Like I said, it’s called “joint venture” or something, but whatever it’s called, I’m in dead lumber. I was just a gofer but that’s close enough. It was me that carried her old corpse to the van. She was so small, no weight at all. I tell you, it was like carrying a child’s doll. So anyway, I bundled her into the back of the van and we drove south of the river, down my neck of the woods. I sat in the back with her body on the floor of the van. There were two geezers up front … my governor and the geezer who had done the business. We drove to New Cross at about ten at night because there was still plenty of traffic about for us to hide in and because the cozzers change shift at ten p.m., so there’s less likely to be filth about on the streets. That’s what my governor said. He knew what he was doing did my old governor. If there’s business to be done, do it when the filth are changing shifts … about six a.m., two p.m. and ten p.m. So we did that. We waited until about nine thirty p.m. then drove from the East End to New Cross. I knew it was New Cross because I grew up in Deptford.’

  ‘The next-door manor,’ the young man commented.

  ‘That’s right,’ Cragg replied, ‘bang next door to each uvver,’ he said, his distinct London accent coming to the fore. He paused, ‘Me, I went to Grove Street School, right there by the Foreign Cattle Market. It’s not there anymore, none of it, the whole area has been redeveloped … That’s the area norf of the railway line,’ he clarified. ‘That’s the old railway line that goes out to Blackheath and Charlton. So we drove to Malpas Road.’

  ‘Malpas Road,’ the young man repeated. ‘Malpas Road …’

  ‘Do you know it?’ Cragg briefly turned to the young man.

  ‘I think I might … I think I might well know it.’ The young man pursed his lips. ‘I live in Lewisham. That’s not a million miles away, if I’m thinking of the right street. Malpas Road. It sounds familiar.’

  ‘Yeah …’ Andrew Cragg looked straight ahead, ‘Lewisham isn’t far away – a little to the south – but Deptford, New Cross, Lewisham … if you know one you know all three manors. So why come up to Notting Hill if you live in Lewisham?’

  ‘I was visiting someone I know. I came in here for a pint before heading back to Lewisham. I reckoned I’d let the rush hour die down a bit. Saw this battle cruiser. It looked kosher so I popped in for a quick printers’.’

  ‘Yes … this is a good old boozer and they know how to keep their beer,’ Cragg commented. ‘Some boozers ruin their beer because they don’t know how to keep if proper. Yes, if you come in when it’s quiet it’s all right for the likes of you and me and few other good boys here but when them from the City arrive, with their loud la-di-dah voices, flashing their cash around or buying posh drinks with plastic cards … well, then it’s time for the likes of us to move on.’ />
  ‘Time to go then,’ the young man replied.

  ‘You want me to go?’ Cragg turned to the young man.

  ‘No … no …’ the young man replied quickly. ‘I never said that. I didn’t mean it that way.’

  ‘It’s all right if you do.’ Andrew Cragg returned to staring straight ahead. He was clean-shaven with short grey hair, balding at the temples. ‘Most folk, they just want me to leave them with their beer and not bother them. I hardly get to talk to anyone these old days.’

  ‘You’re not bothering me, governor.’ The young man stroked his unshaven chin. ‘Honest … don’t worry … you’re OK.’

  Andrew ‘Big Andy’ Cragg nodded and grunted his appreciation. ‘So we took her to Malpas Road in New Cross … yes, we did, there’s an allotment site there … we took her at night, like I said. The governor had it all arranged, all worked out in advance. Even got the weather right.’

  ‘The weather?’ The young man studied Andy Cragg.

  ‘Raining, wasn’t it? Cats and dogs, coming down vertical, bouncing off the street surface; it was either good luck or he was listening to the weather forecast but whatever, rain like that was well handy, kept folks indoors, stopped them wandering round the streets with their dogs. Anyway, like I said, it was all planned. If the weather wasn’t planned everything else definitely was.’

  ‘Interesting.’ The younger man ran his fingertips over his bewhiskered chin.

  ‘So we took her at night. It was all arranged, like I said. The governor had a key for the padlock on the gate and the grave was already dug. It was me that carried her from the van to the grave … I just dropped her in the hole … no dignity, nothing. There were another couple of geezers there – they were waiting for us and did the filling in. I’ve never done nothing like that before and haven’t since. I don’t mind telling you, don’t mind admitting that I got scared after that. That old team was too heavy for me, too much the business. I’m not out for that sort of game.’ Andrew Cragg slumped forward and then straightened himself up. ‘So I gave up my old drum and I moved to Notting Hill where I’m not known – not by them anyway. I’ve been here ten years now and I won’t be going south of the river again. It’s too risky.’ Andrew Cragg drew his right forefinger across his throat. ‘Know what I mean, governor? Too, too risky. I’m a dead man if I go back to Deptford. I know where a body is buried. It’s only one body but it’s enough. I’m only a gofer, an errand boy … go for this, go for that. What value is a gofer? None. So I stay here in Notting Hill around the Grove and I pass the days as a daytime drinker. It’s all I can do.’ ‘Big Andy’ Cragg raised his glass, then drained it and put it down heavily on the bar. Without another word he turned and walked unsteadily towards the door and the beckoning sunlight.

  The young man picked up the beer glass from which Andrew Cragg had been drinking by gripping it carefully using his thumb and forefinger and lifting it by the rim. With his other hand he produced a plastic bag from the back pocket of his jeans and did so with a flourish. He then placed the empty beer glass inside the plastic bag.

  ‘You’re not stealing that glass!’ The barman marched angrily towards the young man. ‘We lose too much glassware as it is thanks to people like you decorating your bedsits with glassware stolen from pubs. Let me have that beer glass or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Sorry, squire.’ The young man smiled. ‘I can return it but I can’t let you have it. Not right now, anyway. I can save you a phone call, though, I can do that. I am the Old Bill. I’m a cozzer, a police officer.’

  ‘You don’t look like one.’ The barman had calmed but he clearly remained suspicious. The young man sensed his hostility.

  ‘Just as well, eh?’ The young man smiled as he produced his warrant card with his free hand and held it up for the barman’s inspection. ‘I mean, otherwise that old geezer wouldn’t have sidled up to me and confessed to having committed a very serious offence, would he?’

  ‘Detective Constable Ainsclough,’ the barman read the card, ‘Murder and Serious Crime Squad, New Scotland Yard. Well, I dare say that’s good enough. So he’s confessed to a crime serious enough to be of interest to you … the murder squad?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ainsclough replaced his warrant card in his pocket. ‘He witnessed it, was definitely an accessory after the fact and may be guilty of joint venture but only if he knew the murder was going to take place, which, it seems, he did not. But anyway, I’m afraid I need this beer glass to obtain his fingerprints and probably his DNA as well. The DNA in his saliva might be too badly deteriorated by the alcohol but his dabs will be as clear as day. He’ll be known to us … all those self-inflicted tattoos … Even if he’s only been in youth custody, that’s all we need.’

  ‘Yes, I have noticed those tattoos … “LOVE” … “HATE”. I mean, you can’t get more original than that.’ The barman, by then having fully relaxed, grinned at his own joke.

  ‘What do you know about him?’ Tom Ainsclough asked.

  ‘Not a lot if I’m to be honest with you, guv.’ The barman rested his hands on the edge of his side of the bar. ‘He’s a daytime regular, so you’ll know where to find him if you don’t have his up-to-date address. We let his sort in during the day but tend to refuse them service in the evenings because they drive the big-spending customers away. Never like doing it but this is a business and we have to make a living. The licensed retail trade is going through a bad time right now. The smoking ban has hit the trade hard, mainly in the working-class areas, but our takings have taken a significant dive and our management has had to lay off a few staff. ‘Him.’ The barman pointed to the door out of which ‘Big Andy’ Cragg had exited. ‘He spends quite freely – six, seven, eight pints between midday and about this time of day, Monday to Friday. Seems to avoid the weekends completely. But anyway, he buys up to forty pints a week and that’s a handy bit of cash we wouldn’t otherwise be putting into the till.’

  ‘Yes, both he and I assumed that to be the case.’ Ainsclough grinned. ‘Mind you, I’d do the same if I was in your shoes. So, tell me about him.’

  ‘“Big Andy”? Andrew Cragg by name. He’s been a regular in here since before I began as bar staff and that was eight years ago … eight years next month, to be precise. Heavens, the years have flown by, haven’t they just? Well, he lives locally because all the regulars do; all the regulars live close to their boozer and I see him in the Grove from time to time. I’m the deputy manager now, but on my first day here he came in and one of the bar staff said, ‘The usual, Andy?’ and poured him a pint of IPA.’

  ‘So a regular for more than eight years, called Andy or “Big Andy” Cragg?’ Tom Ainsclough held up the plastic bag containing the beer glass from which Cragg had been drinking. ‘But we’ll find out soon enough whether he is Cragg or aka by another surname.’

  ‘So, a serious crime,’ the deputy manager of the Tiger folded his arms and stood upright. ‘I have always figured him for a burnt-out lowlife crook with the sort of stupid convictions acquired by hot-headed youths: car theft, assault … but nothing more serious.’

  ‘Well, that might still be the case.’ Ainsclough rested his right palm on the bar. ‘He might just be a harmless old fantasist but we have to assume he’s telling the truth until we know otherwise. Anyway, we’ll try to get this beer glass back to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ The deputy manager held up his hand. ‘It’s on the house. I dare say we can stand the loss. I just didn’t like you stealing it on a point of principle … and you seemed to be doing it so brazenly.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand what I might have looked like but I would have identified myself and told you why I wanted it.’ Ainsclough smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have just picked it up and walked out with it.’

  ‘Yes, I realize that now,’ the deputy manager returned the smile, ‘but keep it, it’s just a beer glass. I mean, it’s hardly worth the bother of returning it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tom Ainsclough twisted the p
lastic bag round his wrist. ‘Your public spiritedness is appreciated. Look, I’d rather you didn’t tell “Big Andy” Cragg or whatever his name is that I am the Old Bill. We’ll do that soon enough when we bring him in for a chat.’

  ‘Mum’s the word, squire.’ The deputy manager held his finger up to his lips. ‘Schtum. Total schtum.’

  It was Monday, 18.17 hours.

  Wednesday, 09.15 hours –12.55 hours

  ‘Developments?’ Detective Chief Inspector Meadows glanced round the table at which his assembled team sat. ‘Did anything come in since the last weekly meeting?’

  ‘One very significant development, sir.’ Brendan Escritt leaned forward holding a handwritten report in both hands. ‘The bank notes from the Southampton robbery have begun to surface and they appear to be doing so in a steady stream.’

  ‘How interesting.’ Meadows, a tall man with a thin face, sat back in his chair. ‘What is happening?’

  ‘The usual pattern, sir,’ Escritt explained. ‘The high-street banks in central locations are discovering the notes amid cash that has been paid into various accounts, as is the normal method. The accounts are then credited with the money paid in but the actual notes go into a central pool which is held in the vault.’

  ‘Yes.’ Meadows clasped his hands together.

  ‘Only then are the serial numbers checked and the notes identified as having been stolen, and then this unit is notified but there is no way of knowing to which accounts the specific notes were paid into, or who paid them in.’

  ‘As is usual, you say,’ Meadows replied. ‘And, of course, the sequence has been broken up.’

  ‘Of course,’ Escritt grimaced. ‘It would be foolish to hope it hadn’t.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Meadows nodded. ‘So how much has been recovered?’

  ‘Approaching one hundred thousand pounds, sir,’ Escritt informed him.

  ‘From sixty million … So the laundering operation is just beginning and that is quite the normal lapse of time since the “robbery”.’ Meadows paused. ‘So, come on, team. Who do we know who can handle sixty million pounds of traceable money and scrub it clean?’