The Jump

by Martina Cole

  ‘MAEVE! Will you listen to me, please?’

  Donna’s loud, agitated voice halted Maeve in mid-sentence.

  ‘What’s the matter, child? What’s happened?’

  Donna hung her head, unable to look into the faded blue eyes of the woman in front of her. ‘It’s Georgio, Maeve. He’s been arrested.’

  Maeve’s eyes opened to their utmost. ‘What’s he done now?’ This was said in a flat voice and Donna felt a moment’s anger, but it flickered and died. Maeve had loved her children wholeheartedly but she had never harboured any illusions about them.

  ‘He hasn’t done anything, Maeve.’

  Mrs Brunos pushed her lank grey hair away from her face in a gesture of defeat. ‘Then why has he been arrested?’

  Donna looked up into the older woman’s face. She pointed at the newspaper on the table and whispered, ‘He’s been accused of being behind all this.’

  Maeve blinked a few times in consternation, then taking a deep breath, she said quietly, ‘I don’t think I grasp what you’re saying, child. Behind all what?’

  ‘Behind the robbery in Essex. The robbery yesterday where the security man died.’

  Maeve sank down into her chair, her face pale and tightly closed like a nun’s prayerbook.

  ‘He’s what?’

  Her mouth was open and a thin line of spittle was hanging from her top lip. Then Donna heard a loud keening, a thin high-pitched wail that gradually became louder as the seconds wore on. Putting an arm around her mother-in-law’s shoulder, Donna pulled her head to her own breast, glad of the warmth of Maeve’s body against hers, glad to be doing something for someone else instead of waiting, waiting, and knowing that nothing she could do would change the situation.

  Donna heard Pa Brunos’s steps coming heavily up the stairs and a minute later she relinquished the hysterical woman to her husband. Then, sitting back at the table she watched them both, dry-eyed. Unable to cry any more. Because the shock had worn off, and she was back again in what Georgio called ‘the real world’.

  Georgio stood in the courtroom listening to the charges against him being read out. His black eye was evident, as was his broken finger and his dirty clothes, yet no one mentioned them, or indeed seemed to take notice. He smiled grimly at his wife and shook his head in a gesture of denial.

  He was being accused of providing cars, guns and plans. Of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.

  Georgio’s solicitor, Henry Watkins, stood up and cleared his throat loudly.

  ‘Your Honour, this man has never been in trouble with the law before. He is innocent of any crime and I would like to propose bail on his own recognisance . . .’

  Judge Blatley interrupted: ‘You will recall, Mr Watkins, that a young man died. That your client has been accused of conspiracy to murder because he allegedly told the perpetrators of the robbery to shoot to kill. I take it you have read the statements?’

  Henry Watkins nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but was once more interrupted.

  ‘You will realise then that I cannot be responsible for letting this man walk out of here on his own recognisance - or anyone else’s, come to that. I assume you read the conspiracy to murder charge?’ Blatley watched Georgio’s solicitor redden and then said smoothly: ‘The prisoner will be taken to Chelmsford prison. Bail denied.’

  ‘You what!’

  Georgio jumped from his seat and Watkins tried to restrain him.

  ‘I never done nothing!’ he shouted. ‘You hear me? Nothing! This is a fucking fit up. I’ve heard better stories on Jackanory!’

  Blatley peered over his pince-nez while Georgio was restrained by two officers of the court.

  ‘Mr Brunos, don’t you think you’re in enough trouble as it is, without a contempt of court charge against you?’

  Georgio’s face was twisted in temper. Watching him, Donna felt her heart sink down to her boots.

  ‘Bollocks to you, and to Laughton, and the rest of you! I’ll prove my case, you just watch me. Call this British justice, eh? Three people saw me in my car lot - three people! You’re going on the word of a smalltime hood. I’m a businessman, I pay me taxes, I’ll see me day with the lot of you. When you’re paying out my compensation you’ll wish you’d never heard of Georgio Brunos . . .’

  Judge Blatley bellowed across the courtroom, his face contorted, ‘Have you quite finished, Mr Brunos?’

  Georgio stared at the men around him, as if memorising their features, burning them into his brain.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve finished.’

  Peering at Georgio for a few moments, as if unable to believe what he was seeing, the judge said peremptorily: ‘Take him down.’

  Jimmy Crossley was well-built and blunt-featured. He looked what he was, and he made a point of acting the part: a smalltime villain with dreams of the bigtime.

  As he stepped out of The Bull pub in Hornchurch, he pulled the keys to his Renault out of his pocket. The six pints of beer he had consumed were lying heavily on his belly and he belched loudly, putting a large hand up to his mouth as if he was a fastidious person, which he wasn’t. As he lumbered towards his car, he saw a figure getting out of a dark blue Daimler.

  Sighing loudly, he stood and waited for the figure to approach him before saying loudly, ‘Hello, Mr Laughton, and what can’t I do for you?’

  Frank Laughton laughed gently, showing his brown-stained teeth and a yellow-coated tongue.

  ‘How are you these days, Jimmy? Still taking it up the arse for the big boys, eh?’

  Laughton grinned at the look of shock in Jimmy’s face. ‘You know why you’ll never make the big time, don’t you? You’re too open, too trusting. Only you would park your car away from the entrance to a pub. A big villain would have a decent car, not a French tart’s motor, and he’d leave it where he could keep an eye on it. See what I mean, eh? You got no class, Jimmy. Now put away your car keys and let’s me and you go and have a little chat.’

  Jimmy frowned. ‘I ain’t going nowhere, Mr Laughton. You got a warrant for me?’

  Laughton shook his head. ‘Course not. This is me, Laughton, not fucking Paul Condon, you prat. Since when did I need a warrant - or anything else, come to that?’

  Jimmy took a step backwards, straight into the arms of two uniformed officers.

  ‘Bollocks, Laughton! I ain’t getting in no motor with you . . .’

  Laughton spat noisily on to the tarmacadam. ‘Get him in the car, lads. I ain’t got all fucking night.’

  Jimmy was sandwiched between the two officers inside the blue unmarked Daimler, while Laughton sat in the front seat. Leaning nonchalantly back he smiled into Jimmy’s frightened countenance.

  ‘I want the score on Georgio Brunos,’ he said. ‘And before you begin, Jimmy, if push comes to shove I’ll smash your face in without a thought for blood, AIDs, gristle or bone. Do you get my drift?’

  Jimmy shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know Brunos. I mean, I know of him, but not personally like. All I know is, he’s a face. But I don’t know anything about him. What’s he supposed to have done?’

  Laughton lit up another cigarette and looked out into the car park for a few moments, as if debating with himself over his answer.

  ‘Never mind what he’s done. I want you to tell me what he’s done. You, James Crossley, Grass of the Year and prize prat. Now tell me all you know about Brunos because I’m beginning to get annoyed. I’ve collared Wilson, and according to him you’re a bit of a face lately. So just open your fucking trap and we can all get home for a kip.’

  Jimmy kept his eyes on the dashboard, not trusting himself to look at Laughton. The smell of the cigarette was making him feel ill. One of the uniformed men had been eating garlic, and the combination of odours was causing the beer to rise up in his stomach. He swallowed nervously.

  ‘Look, Mr Laughton. If I knew anything . . .’

  Laughton sighed. ‘Belt him one, Stanley, the night’s drawing on.’

  The policeman to Jimmy’s left j
abbed him in the face with a short uppercut. Jimmy felt the man’s knuckles jar on his teeth. He could taste blood, and knew his lip was split and probably swelling badly.

  Putting his hand instinctively to his mouth, he mumbled, ‘Fucking leave it out! I tell you, I don’t know anything!’

  Blows were rained on him by both men now. Jimmy, trapped between them, was helpless as the two officers pummelled his face and head.

  Laughton leaned over the seat, and the two men resumed their earlier positions. Neither was even breathing heavily after his exertions.

  ‘Don’t wind me up, Jimmy. I’m on the verge of losing it, believe me.’

  Jimmy was nearly in tears. Laughton watched the changing expressions on the man’s face with a deep-felt glee. He hated this villain and all his counterparts.

  ‘Now Brunos’s arse is up for robbery, the big robbery that has even impressed the government. So you can imagine, I want as much as possible on our Georgio before I get him to court, and that is where you come in, Jimmy. I want you to tell me what I want to hear, see? Even you can manage that, surely?’ Jimmy stared into the older man’s face. ‘You must be mad, Mr Laughton.’

  Laughton laughed noisily. ‘Mad? Oh yes, I’m as mad as a hatter, my son, and don’t you ever forget it. Now, talk.’

  Jimmy’s eyes were burning bright with malice. ‘With respect, Mr Laughton, if Brunos’s face is in the frame for that robbery, then quite frankly you can kick the shit out of me and I’ll just take it. Because I’m more inclined to be frightened of Brunos at this moment than I am of you. Do you get my drift? I ain’t putting no one down for a long one. No fucking way. Especially not Georgio Brunos. ’

  Laughton smiled, a chilling little smile. ‘Would you get up in a court of law and say that then? That you’re too frightened to give information about Georgio Brunos?’

  Jimmy closed his eyes. ‘That’s not fair, Mr Laughton, because I don’t know anything, you know I don’t. There probably ain’t anything to know. That’s why you’re here.’

  Laughton lit another cigarette and grinned. ‘I just want a statement saying you refuse to give any evidence on Brunos, that’s all.’

  Jimmy shook his head sadly. ‘You’re an arsehole, Mr Laughton.’

  ‘So I’ve been told, Jimmy. Many times, and by better men than you. Now let’s get to the station, shall we?’

  Chapter Two

  Donna stared around her.

  The jury were filing back into the room. Eight men and four women. They looked serious, as they were supposed to. Donna was reminded of long-forgotten courtroom dramas from America, in which the suspect’s wife, knowing her husband is innocent, has to watch him being condemned. But now there was no amiable cop around to pip the jury to the post. She felt an insane urge to laugh, only knew it was not with humour but with hysteria. She fought the urge, and held her breath instead.

  As she watched a reporter at work sketching Georgio, she expelled the breath in a long silent sigh. Six weeks ago at the start of the trial, Georgio had been jaunty, confident. He had sat upright, offering his profile to the young girl so she could draw him at his best. Smiling that engaging smile of his. Today, he sat slumped in his chair. He looked beaten. Donna felt her heart going out to him, this man of hers, this husband whom she missed so much, especially in the night.

  ‘Jaysus, they’re taking their time. Would they just get it all over with?’

  Maeve Brunos’s voice was loud, her face, semi-obscured by a large hat, looked ferocious. Donna took her hand and squeezed it tightly. Pa Brunos was wiping his forehead with a large handkerchief. His enormous bulk was squeezed into a dark blue suit, and he looked out of place - a peasant once more in the company of his betters.

  Donna felt her heart constrict with love for these two kind people, both of whom were amazed and bewildered by the events of the last year. God-fearing, law-abiding citizens of their adopted country, they couldn’t comprehend what had transpired. Their eldest son, their pride and joy, had been accused of masterminding a bank robbery, a robbery that had been violent in the extreme. During the execution of it, a guard had died - a young man with a pretty plump wife and two innocent children. Another guard had been shot in the leg, wounded badly enough to be confined to a desk, his permanent limp a painful legacy of doing his job. He had lain beside his dead colleague while the masked raiders loaded up the money into a car, one that Georgio Brunos had reported stolen three months previously.

  The evidence was all circumstantial. Georgio had been in the car lot the day of the robbery - three people had testified to that. Except that those three people were not reliable. One, a woman named Matilda Braithwaite, had been looking at cars; she had dropped in to inspect a small Mercedes Sports. A woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. Under oath she had been reduced to a quivering wreck, finally unsure if it had been on that day or the one before that she had called in at the lot; admitting that she often traipsed around car dealerships looking at different models. It was a kind of hobby with her, rather like those women who look at other people’s houses. The other two witnesses had been swiftly discredited because one was a convicted criminal, the other a well-known layabout already convicted of perjury.

  The prosecution had brought forward a battery of men who said they would not, under any circumstances, give evidence against Georgio. It had been a farce, but an elaborate farce. No one had been able to get a straight answer from any of them. Only that they refused to give evidence either way. One man, a Jimmy Something or other, had mumbled his lines as if rehearsed. Which Donna had a sneaking feeling they were. Well-rehearsed.

  Then out had come the reliable, and oh so plausible Peter Wilson, dressed in a nice grey catalogue suit with his hair cut and blowdried. He told the court he was a wheelman, and had been approached by Georgio Brunos to drive the car on the day of the robbery. He said he had taken the car that was used for the job from the car lot three months previously, in order to get it ‘tuned up’. He too refused to name the other men in the robbery - men who were supposedly now on the run - for fear of his life. He was only telling the truth about Georgio because he understood it was his duty. As for the others, he did not know them personally; they were ‘outside’ men brought in by Brunos and known only to Wilson by sight: he had first seen them on the actual day of the robbery. He understood they had travelled over from Marbella for the job, and supposed that was where they were now. He would receive a reduced sentence for his part in the robbery because of his help.

  As all this travelled through her mind, Donna became aware that the judge was being handed a piece of paper. He opened it, deliberately taking his time. Pulling herself back to reality, she listened intently to his words.

  ‘Has the jury reached a decision?’

  A tall, emaciated man was standing up. He was wearing a dark green suit and Donna thought he looked rather like a tally man or insurance salesman. His nose was long and thin, like his body, and his nostrils flared as he nodded his head.

  ‘We have, Your Honour.’

  ‘And is it a unanimous verdict?’

  ‘It is, Your Honour.’

  The judge’s eyes swept the jury before he said loudly, ‘How do you find the defendant?’

  The man looked at the floor and said distinctly, ‘Guilty as charged, sir.’

  She saw her husband’s head shake in denial.

  In her mind’s eye, she had pictured him at this moment jumping from his seat and screaming at Peter Wilson, calling him a liar and a grassing bastard. Saw him being restrained by two policemen, then escorted from the courtroom down into the depths of the Old Bailey to the holding cells, still protesting his innocence. She recalled his dignity and his calm demeanour during the first few days of the trial - a composure she had seen crushed as each witness that appeared helped put another nail into his already tightly closed coffin. Every day it had looked worse for him. He had stopped talking about how he was going to sue the police once it was all over, had stopped telling them all how he would
be the victor in the end.

  Now the moment of truth was at hand, her husband simply looked guilty, because all his credibility was gone . . . had vanished out of the door of the Old Bailey, along with Peter Wilson.

  Peter Wilson, a man to whom Georgio had given generously, a man he had looked after, had set on his feet after a long term in prison. A man who had betrayed him without a second thought.

  Donna was brought back to reality by Maeve’s voice beside her reciting the ‘Hail Mary’ in a monotonous undertone.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women . . .’

  The clinking of the rosary beads was loud in the hushed quiet of the courtroom.

  ‘Georgio Anthony Brunos, you have been found guilty.’

  Donna gasped, holding her hand to her breast as if to stem her heart’s erratic beating. Her eyes flew once more to Georgio. His face, normally so handsome and dark-skinned, was a sickly grey.

  ‘You have been found guilty of conspiracy to murder and conspiracy to commit armed robbery.’

  The judge paused to take off his glasses, polish and replace them. It was a theatrical gesture and Donna knew this, but the people in the public gallery were leaning forward in their seats, enjoying the spectacle. Revelling in the tension.

  ‘You masterminded a robbery in which an innocent man lost his life. Although you did not take part in the robbery, you were there in as much as you furnished the details to your cronies, as well as supplying them with cars and guns - guns which you told the men to use at the first sign of trouble.’

  His voice rose then. ‘Guns which were used to murder one guard and leave another incapacitated for the rest of his life. These were men with families, leading full and useful lives, which through your greed and viciousness were tragically cut short. As we have heard in this courtroom, you ruled your empire with terror, hiding behind the façade of a respectable building contractor and dealer in prestige cars. A man with a high profile in the community, an affluent man, a cunning man. You have refused to name those responsible for the robbery, insisting throughout this débâcle that you had no knowledge of it whatsoever, even though witnesses have sworn on oath that they are too terrified of you to give evidence against you. I can only hope that your conscience will trouble you in the future, when you think of Mr Thomas, who was a fine, upstanding and very brave man, and of his widow, who must now bring up two young children alone without the benefit of their father.’