by Tessa Dale
“Why, have you got a date with that pretty lass from the bus depot?” Dan Jones said, and smiled as his constable’s face coloured up in embarrassment. “Watch out, Stanton, that old saying about two living as cheaply as one is rubbish.”
“Leave off it, Sarge, I’ve only seen her twice.”
“Fair enough, but take my advice and get her to introduce you to her mother,” Jones continued. “That way, you know what you’ll be getting twenty years down the line. Go on, get off with you, before the Guv’nor…”
“Too late,” Stanton muttered as their DCI emerged from his office. “This looks like the end of my night out, Sarge.”
“Ah, Dan, Stanton, I’m glad you two haven’t knocked off just yet. I need to have a word with you both.” The DCI signalled for them to be seated and closed the outer door to increase the sense of isolation. “I’m afraid I have to let you know about a recent development - one that could affect your careers.”
“This sounds ominous, Guv,” Jones said. “You best let us have it straight.”
“That’s the conclusion I came to,” Clever told him. “You both must have realised that our investigation has been skirting around the edges of some dangerous ground. Some aspects of the Fornell case may have shown our Chief Constable up in a bad light.”
“Back when he was an inspector,” Stanton said. “Doesn’t that make a difference, Guv?”
“Different ranks, but still the same, dangerous man. I intended completing my investigation, uncovering Peter Kerr’s killer, and dropping a few hints to the powers that be about his possible shady past.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Jones agreed. “So, what’s altered, Guv?”
“The Chief Constable has discovered what is going on, and has passed down the word that I’m to drop the Fornell side of the investigation. I received an official warning off with one hand, and encouragement with the other.”
“I don’t get it,” Stanton said. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” said Dan Jones, “that they want us to do all the dirty work. If we come up with the goods, we get a medal, but if we don’t, they’ll want to know why we disobeyed their strict orders. In that case, we are all for the chop.”
“Correct. Which is why I’m giving you the chance to ask for another assignment,” Richard Clever told them. “I’ll not think badly of you chaps, if you decide to walk.”
“That means you’ll be handling two investigations by yourself, Guv,” Jones said. “Even you can’t be that clever. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay on board. What about you, Stan?”
Stanton was taken aback by his sergeant using his first name, and he felt a kind of pride at being a part of what was going on. If things went well, they could solve two cases and, with luck, deal a blow to everything corrupt within the Town and County force.
“My dad is a joiner, Sarge. He says I can go into his business whenever I want. If things go wrong, I could ask him to take us all on as apprentices.” Jones just nodded. The slight inclination of the head conveyed his pleasure in how Stanton was taking to his new role in CID.
“Then we sink or swim together,” DCI Clever said. “To be honest, I knew you’d agree. Otherwise, I’d not have offered you an escape hatch!”
Chief Constable Alan Herbert waited for the third ring before picking up his telephone receiver. He cleared his throat, and said:
“Yes?”
“Alan, it’s Don Bronson. You wanted to speak to me?”
“Ah, Chief Superintendent, I’m so glad that you got my message,” Herbert said. “Are we still on for a round of golf at the club this Sunday?”
“Of course,” Bronson replied, warily. “I want a chance to win that fiver back.”
“Excellent. Perhaps we could have a chat about your position here. You know I’ll be moving to pastures new next year, and I want to leave things in ship shape condition. Besides, the outgoing king should always have a say in who succeeds. How long have you been a CS now?”
“Four years,” Bronson said, hardly believing his ears. “I transferred from the Met, if you recall.”
“I do. Wasn’t there some upset about evidence going missing, Donald?” the Chief Constable said, smoothly.
“I was exonerated, Sir,” Bronson replied. He was suddenly uncomfortable as to where the conversation was heading. “May I ask what you are trying to suggest?”
“Only that I think you should be moving up at this stage of your career, Donald. One of my Assistant Chief Constables will expect to fill my shoes, of course, and that will perforce, leave his post empty. Are you the man for that job? That is the burning question of the hour.”
“That would be a wonderful opportunity, sir,” Bronson said, not wishing to sound too enthusiastic. “There are others who are far better placed than I am though. People with longer tenure.”
“Bugger tenure, Don. I intend playing the despot in this case, and recommend, or rather insist, on you for the post.”
“ACC at my age, sir?” Branson could still hardly credit his good fortune. “Who do you want me to kill?”
“Not funny, old fellow. Just keep on with the splendid job you are doing right now,” Herbert said, meaningfully. “I believe you are going to crack down on these West End louts soon?”
“Am I? Oh, I see. Yes, it crossed my mind.” Bronson was relieved to discover that all he had to do to pull a plum post, was his duty. “My thinking was for us to conduct a nice dawn raid, and bring the whole lot in for some vigorous questioning, Alan. How would that be?”
“And a bus ticket out of Castleburgh,” the Chief Constable concluded. “I’m glad we agree on this policy, Don, and that we both understand the urgency of the matter. I’ll be in touch.”
The line went dead, leaving a bemused Chief Superintendent to ponder his glowing career prospects. If giving a few slaps to some low life thugs was what it took to become ACC of the County, then he was just the man for the job.
Chapter Thirteen
Chief Constable Alan Herbert had been quite clear as to how quickly he expected action, and that was the one flaw. An operation like the one proposed required a lot of muscle. Bronson would need at least a dozen men, several squad cars and precise intelligence as to the West End gang’s current whereabouts and strength.
He was still pondering the logistics of the envisioned raid when he literally bumped into DCI Clever in the narrow corridor. The two men, both big six footers, turned sideways in a comic dance that was meant to facilitate their passing one another. It was the DCI who pressed himself back into the wall, allowing the senior man to squeeze past.
“Sorry, sir,” Richard Clever muttered. “I wasn’t watching where I was headed.”
“Not at all, DCI Clever. My fault entirely,” Bronson said, magnanimously. He was a desk man, unused to getting his hands dirty with Castleburgh’s underworld characters and was engrossed at the prospect of action. “I was too wrapped up in a very important job the Chief Constable wants me to handle personally for him.”
“Really?” Richard Clever paused and turned back to face the Chief Superintendent. “Why didn’t he go through the usual channels, sir? I thought he’d have to contact one of his ACCs, and they’d call you in.”
“Yes, it is a little unusual,” Donald Bronson conceded, “but he wanted some fast action over this West End mob. I’m trying to scrape up enough lads for a dawn raid. I don’t suppose you could spare any of your CID boys, could you?”
“A dawn raid, under direct orders from the Chief Constable?” Clever replied. “I admire your courage, sir.”
“Yes, that’s what… er… courage?”
“Of course. Imagine what might happen if this gang have a decent solicitor, sir. First thing he wants to know is, exactly who is the arresting officer. When he finds out it is a Chief Super… he’ll want to know what is going on. I mean to say, a senior officer leading a dawn raid on a bunch of low life thugs. The alarm bells will be going off, well and truly.”
“I do
n’t follow what you mean, Clever.” And Bronson was telling the truth. It had not crossed his mind that the task involved any personal danger to his own career. “Surely, the hands on approach shows the general public we mean business.”
“Fair enough, sir, but make sure you have them bang to rights. If not, one of them is sure to go bleating to the newspapers and awkward little questions will be asked.”
“Questions?” Donald Bronson abhorred the news media, and awkward questions made him think about poisoned chalices.
“Like, who authorised the raid.”
“The Chief Constable, of course.”
“In writing?” Chief Superintendent Donald Bronson could feel his heart dropping into his boots. His old golfing pal, Alan Herbert had not put it in writing, and had only hinted at what he wanted doing.
“Not yet,” he replied, defensively. “What would you do in a case like this, Chief Inspector?”
“Speaking hypothetically?”
“Of course.”
“And off the record?”
“Yes, man! What do you think I should do?”
“Assume overall command, at the higher level” Richard Clever said ingenuously. “Put a more junior officer in as your bag man, and let him delegate to another junior officer. That way, you get to put some more distance between you and the job, should it go sour. The Chief Constable will be much more willing to support you if you have several other links to pass the blame down to.”
“That’s my thinking too, Clever. Any ideas who might be free at the moment?”
“Well, I’m not exactly snowed under at the moment, sir. I could have Detective Sergeant Jones and DC Stanton pick up the ringleader. That way there’s no fuss. We take him in, give him the hard word, and kick his backside onto a train to Scotland.”
“Will it work?”
“Like a charm, sir. You report directly to Mr. Herbert, and sign off on all of the paperwork. If, by any chance, it goes wrong, we reprimand Detective Sergeant Jones. He’ll not mind the black mark, especially if I give him a few days paid leave. As for DC Stanton, I Shall just …”
“I don’t want to know the details, DCI Clever,” Bronson said, regaining his courage. “Just get on with it!”
“My pleasure, sir,” the DCI said. “One thing though. Don’t let the Chief Constable know about my involvement. He isn’t keen on my kind of policing methods.”
“Not a word,” Bronson replied. No, credit would go where he thought best, and the ACC job would be his. “Don’t worry, Clever, I’ll have your back, right to the death!”
Although Richard Clever despised the idea of a lucky break, preferring to call it random chance, he had to admit that his bumping into Donald Bronson had been a fortunate occurrence. The Chief Constable was obviously playing his own game, and it apparently involved the removal of the West End Lads gang from the chess board.
It did not take much effort to work out that the gang’s Waterloo had been planned to benefit a third party, and that third party could be none other than Vincent Morant. The Morant gang were having trouble with the West End Lads, and must have called in a very big favour.
The Chief Constable was either being bought, or blackmailed by Morant. Clever believed it to be the latter, as Morant was not rich enough to buy a Chief Constable, even one as avaricious as Alan Herbert. From there it was easy to deduce what the little crook held over him.
Vinnie Morant had inherited something more than vague stories, passed down from his uncle. Black Archie Morant had been a methodical sort of man; the sort of man who would keep careful records. His nephew had something incriminating on Herbert, something so bad that it earned the Chief Constable’s favour.
“Do we know who is running the West End Lads gang these days, Dan?” the DCI asked. The DS frowned at the sudden shift in emphasis from the doings of the high and mighty, to the squalid goings on of Jacko Ball.
“Jacko Ball, last I heard, Guv. He’s not too bright, but he knows how to use a cut throat razor, and has plenty of nasty young muscle behind him. He’s currently working out of the Pigalle nightclub on Carlisle Road. The place is a bloody fortress, with barred windows and hard lads minding all the doors.”
“I see.” The DCI considered his options. “What are the chances that he’ll come along quietly to answer a few questions?”
“Mathematics was never my strong point, Guv, but I’d be looking around the zero mark.”
“Then we need a cunning plan,” Richard Clever replied, smiling. “Where’s Detective Constable Stanton got to?”
Jacko Ball cast an admiring glance at himself in one of the club’s full length mirrors. He was a streetwise tough guy, but the new ten guinea suit he was wearing softened the image. He liked to think of himself as an up and coming local business man, so tried to look the part. Unfortunately, he still looked like a common thug dressed up in a nice suit.
It was almost ten. Still a little early in the evening for the Pigalle’s usual type of clientele. Castleburgh’s bored, rich boys and girls would come flooding in before midnight, keen to be seen with the town’s most notorious mobster. The fake champagne would flow at two quid a bottle, and his friendly ‘hostesses’ would do brisk business. Jacko was just thinking how good life was, when the door opened, and a girl walked in.
Not just any girl. She reeked of class, and had legs that went on for ever. He took in the perfectly made up face, and stunning figure, even as he crossed over from the bar. She saw him coming towards her, and smiled. Jacko grinned back, sure he’s made a good impression.
“You look lost, darlin’,” he drawled. “Welcome to the best club in town. I’m Jacko Ball, the owner. Champagne?”
“Not just yet,” the girl replied. “My little car has stopped working, just down the road. Have you a telephone, so I can call a garage?”
“At this time of night?” Jacko took her by the elbow. “Let me have a look at it for you, girlie. Then maybe we can get to know each other better?”
“That sounds like a rather nice offer… Jacko. The horrid thing is about fifty yards down the road.” She linked his arm, led him outside, and pointed down Carlisle Road. The young mobster nodded, and set off towards the stalled vehicle.
“I know a bit about these cars,” Jacko boasted to the girl. “The local Cop Shop uses black Austins too.”
“”What a strange coincidence,” Sam Hurst said, brightly. “That’s where I was going to when I broke down!”
Jacko felt the warm breath on his neck before the big hand clamped itself on his arm. A second man appeared to his left and opened the rear door of the car. The first man snapped on a set of cuffs and, within seconds, Jacko Ball, having been lured from his impregnable club, was on his way to Castleburgh’s main station house.
“Thanks for that, Miss Hurst,” Dan Jones said. “Can we drop you off somewhere?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “I might pop into the Pigalle for a drink or two.”
“Over my dead body,” DC Stanton muttered.
“Bloody cow!” Jacko Ball snarled, and received a sharp cuff to his ear from Sam’s new boyfriend.
“Manners, Jacko,” Dan Jones said, over his shoulder. “My Guv’nor only wants a quiet word with you.”
“He can have two off me… ouch!”
“Some people never learn,” the sergeant said, grinning. “I’ll drop you off at your place on the way, Miss Hurst. The Guv’nor will be waiting for us.”
The car’s engine fired into life and Dan Jones moved it away from the curb just as the Pigalle Club’s doors burst open and a half dozen young thugs piled out into the cool night air. They stood, impotently, as their leader, subject of the simplest honey trap imaginable, was driven away.
“That bastard Morant!” the biggest young man snarled. “We should hit his joint now, before they do anything to Jacko.”
“Stuff that,” another said. “A snatch isn’t his style. Morant would send in a couple of hard nuts with razors. That was a bloody cop car.”
/> “Bollocks!” the first man swore. “Since when do the rozzers kidnap people off the street?”
It was a good question; a question that was concerning Jacko Ball at that very moment. After the initial shock of being cuffed and thrown in the back of a car, it occurred to him that neither of the so called coppers had arrested, or even cautioned, him.
Rather than the thought making him feel better, it gave him a cold thrill of fear. If they were bogus rozzers, then he was in real trouble. He began to wonder if Vinnie Morant had ordered his kidnapping, and had something really nasty in mind for him. Jacko’s imagination was running away with him, just as the car turned into the police compound.
“You are rozzers!”
“Smart lad,” Dan Jones told him as he dragged him out from the rear of the car. “What gave it away, the handcuffs, or the fact of us parking outside a police station?”
“You ain’t cautioned me,” Jacko announced. “My brief will crucify you, copper.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry, I forgot,” the sergeant said. “Jacko Ball, I must caution you that we are going to take you into a quiet interview room, and kick you in the head, until you tell us what we want. If said information proves to be satisfactory, I will release you without any charge, but if I am displeased, Detective Constable Stanton here, will drive you out onto the moors, where he will make you dig your own grave. Understood?”
“You can’t do this. You’re coppers, for Christ’s Sake!”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Stanton said. “The girl you insulted was my girlfriend, Jacko. Seeing as how we’ve already kidnapped you, I don’t have a problem with making another scumbag disappear.”
Another. The word struck home like a fist to the gut. The big man gripping his arm had just casually admitted that his murder would not be the first he’d committed. Co-operate, or die seemed to be the new motto of the City and County Constabulary, and Jacko’s knees began to give way.
