by Roberta Kray
Archie was struggling to keep his story straight. It was easy to forget stuff, especially when he’d had a drink or two. Things became blurry, soft around the edges, and the detail was lost. Sixteen years was a long time. That’s what he kept telling Banner, but the inspector only curled his lip.
‘Try harder, Arch. A jury isn’t going to want to hear how crap your memory is.’
It was the number five Archie had to keep in his head. Yes, there were only five of them on the job: Jack Minter, Don West, Paul Rossi, Paddy Lynch and himself. He’d decided to keep Ned Shepherd out of it. He might be turning Queen’s evidence but he wasn’t about to screw over a mate. He still had some decency left, some honour. There was no need for the law to know that Ned had been the driver.
Archie wondered if his old pal knew what was going on. He must. After that Herald piece, the East End would be buzzing. And Vera Lynch wouldn’t be slow in spreading the word; there was a squealer, a grass, a lowlife rat spilling his guts about the Epping warehouse robbery – and all the sordid details of her husband’s death. Ned would be shitting himself, waiting for the knock on the door.
‘That fuckin’ Minter,’ Archie muttered.
Banner looked at him, his eyes sly and narrow. ‘You want him to go down, Arch, you’ve got to make sure you nail the bastard.’
Archie stared at the floor. He hadn’t seen much of Ned in recent years, not since he and the missus had moved out to Thetford, but they’d been tight once. The three of them – Don, Ned and himself – had grown up together, gone to school together, drunk their first pint together, even started thieving together. Don had died a few years back – nothing could hurt him now – but Ned was still alive and kicking. Although his old mate might not be living in the East End, he still had family there. Word would have got to him by now. It must have. And the word would be that Archie Rudd was squealing like a pig.
‘What are you thinking?’ Banner asked.
Archie didn’t reply. He was wondering if he should get Rose to tip Ned the wink, let him know he was safe, he didn’t have to worry. But that was tricky. She wouldn’t be able to use the blower in the Chiswick flat – it was bound to be tapped (Banner would be keeping tabs on her, making sure her old man wasn’t planning any nasty surprises) – which meant she’d have to use a phone box. And if the law were keeping an eye on her, they’d wonder what the hell was going on.
‘Archie?’
‘What?’
‘What’s on your mind?’
Archie shook his head. This problem wasn’t one to be shared. Maybe he could get Davey to call Ned instead. But the moment the idea entered his head, he instantly dismissed it. There’d be questions, accusations, all kinds of grief. No, he didn’t want to drag his son into it. Perhaps it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. Ned would realise soon enough that he wasn’t in the frame. The poor bloke would have a few sleepless nights between now and then, but it couldn’t be helped.
Banner tried again. ‘Is everything all right here? Is there anything you need?’
What Archie needed was to be able to turn the clock back, to have never accepted a place on the Shepperton job, to have never opened his big mouth, to be home where he belonged and not stuck in a three-star jail with everything he needed but his liberty and dignity. There was no denying the Chiswick set-up was good – comfortable living space, decent food, booze, plenty of fags and lots of visits from Rose – but none of it made him feel any better about the choices he’d made.
Archie lit a fag while he contemplated the miserable truth – that he actually missed mainstream prison. Everything was clear in there, black and white; you knew who you were and which side you were on. He missed the camaraderie, the banter and the gossip. He missed waking up every morning with a clear conscience. Now, when he looked in the mirror, he didn’t even know who he was. It was as though his very identity had become distorted, a twisted reflection of his former self.
‘If something’s bothering you —’ Banner began.
Archie waved a hand, dismissively. The ash from his fag dropped on to the floor, a tiny cylinder of grey. He gazed at it, wondering why he’d made the choices he had. What did the likes of Banner know when it came to what he was going through? Fuck all. For him, it was all about getting results, getting names, getting a foot on the next rung of the ladder. The pig pretended to care, but he didn’t really give a damn.
‘Talk to me, Arch. I need to know what’s going on.’
The edges of Archie’s thoughts had no straight lines; they dipped and curved, drifting off to some distant horizon. What was the word on the street? What were people saying about him? His chest tightened as he visualised faces, people he’d known all his life, and heard the scorn in their voices. There was the man he’d been – good old Archie, loyal, reliable, salt of the earth – and the man he was now. He had crossed the line and there was no going back. He was a Judas, a turncoat, the lowest of the low.
Vic didn’t like it when Archie went all quiet on him; it made him suspect the old lag was hiding something. Or maybe the guy was just depressed. He’d seen it before when men decided to turn Queen’s evidence. There was all the bravado at first, the self-justification, before the doubt began to set in. Perhaps he should call the doctor to sort out some happy pills. There were still months to go before the trial and he couldn’t afford to let Archie slide into the pit.
‘Let’s talk about the money from the Epping heist,’ he said. ‘Two million, yeah? That was quite a haul.’
Archie barked out a laugh. ‘Two million? I wish.’
‘That’s what the company claimed.’
‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘It weren’t nothin’ like that much,’ Archie said. ‘Shit, we didn’t have time to clear the place, not even half, before Paddy got shot. We took what we could but… those shysters were just conning the insurance, saying they’d lost more than they had.’
Vic shrugged, knowing this was probably true. It was easy money for the company involved. They claimed on the insurance and then sold on the allegedly stolen goods, making twice the amount of profit. ‘So how much are we talking about, then?’
‘Less than a million, a good bit less, and by the time the fence had taken his share… I don’t know, we only came out with about a hundred grand each. I mean, it ain’t to be sniffed at but it ain’t a fortune neither.’
Vic did some mental calculations. It was probable that the money in Tom Chase’s Munich account had come from the raid but there wasn’t any way of proving it. And if Chase had been living off the proceeds he must have been living pretty thriftily to have still had thirty-five grand left four years ago. But then he could have done other jobs, topping up the cash from different sources.
Vic wasn’t making much progress with the bank in Munich. The bloody Krauts were being less than helpful when it came to giving out information about Tom Chase’s account. So much for European cooperation. He needed to know exactly when the money had been deposited and where it had come from, but all he was getting was a pile of bureaucratic bullshit.
The information Tammy had passed to him was worrying too. She reckoned Tom Chase could prove where the cash had come from – and that it was a legitimate loan. At least that’s what Eden had told her. If it was true, it could put a spanner in the works. Although it couldn’t explain what the bracelet was doing in his safe.
Vic folded his arms and looked over at Archie. ‘What about this snake bracelet? How come Chase ended up with it if all the haul was sold on to the fence?’
‘Because the cheating bastard stashed some things away, didn’t he? Kept them back, shoved them in his pocket instead of in the sacks.’
Vic grinned. ‘And you didn’t?’
‘A few rings, a couple of gold chains, but nothin’ flashy, nothin’ that could be traced directly to the warehouse. He was an amateur, see, a greedy fuckin’ amateur.’ Archie touched the side of his head with his right index fin
ger. ‘You’ve got to think when you’re on a job. You’ve got to use some smarts.’
‘Whatever happened to honour among thieves?’
Archie gave a derisory snort. ‘I didn’t owe that bastard a thing. Me and Don split the extras we got; it weren’t that much, just a bit on the side. What kind of twat holds on to a piece like that? It’s asking for trouble.’
Vic wondered why Chase hadn’t got rid of the bracelet when he was abroad. Maybe he’d kept it as a souvenir, something to remind him of the job. Except who in their right minds would want to be reminded of a job that had gone so spectacularly wrong? Perhaps it had just been down to carelessness.
Everything was resting on Archie’s testimony. It had to be right. It had to be solid and convincing. Apart from Chase, Paul Rossi was the only other surviving member of the gang. And, if the rumours were to be believed, he was currently sunning himself on the Costa del Sol. As there was no extradition treaty with Spain, there was sod all chance of bringing him to justice.
Vic’s thoughts skipped on to the fire at the Chase flat. He’d met up with the Islington cop, DS Nicholls, but hadn’t learned more than he already knew – that the fire had been deliberate and that whoever had started it didn’t give a damn about the people inside. He wondered what state Eden was in now. She had to be scared. She had to be bloody terrified. And who was to blame for that? Her no-good, lying, murdering husband. When would she see him for what he really was? It was time the stupid bitch woke up and smelled the coffee.
40
Jimmy Letts had one decent article under his belt, but it wasn’t enough. There was something bigger out there, an exclusive that had his name all over it. How had Tom Chase, an apparently respectable photographer, got away with murder? It was sixteen years since Paddy Lynch had met his miserable end and no one had been charged until now. Chase had somehow managed to slip under the net, to evade justice, for all this time.
He stood and stared up at the blackened exterior walls of the house on Pope Street. There was little doubt it had been a revenge attack, payback for what Chase had done. Jimmy didn’t feel guilty about being the cause of that – the truth was the truth and if he hadn’t told Vera, someone else would. His conscience was clear. It was unfortunate, of course, that Eden Chase had got caught in the blaze, but she hadn’t been seriously hurt. What bothered him more was he had no idea where she was staying now.
Still, that was a problem soon to be solved. Hopefully Eden would be at the jail today, and Maurie Post would be waiting for her. Jimmy had bunged him a score plus some petrol money, and given him the details of the car and a photo of Eden.
‘I just want you to follow her home, yeah? Wherever she goes. Think you can manage that without being spotted?’
Maurie was in his early twenties, a small-time dealer, a thief and a snout. He was the kind of lowlife who’d sell his granny for a fiver and not think twice about it. ‘Sure, man. Just leave it to me.’
‘Don’t get too close, right? Keep your distance, but not so far off you lose her.’
Maurie had given him a look. ‘I’m not stupid, man. I know what I’m doing.’
‘And I want the address as soon as you get back. Not next bloody week or whenever you decide it’s convenient. This afternoon. Bring it to the office and if I’m not there leave it with the woman on reception. Think you can manage that?’
‘The woman on reception,’ Maurie had dutifully repeated in a bored monotone. Then he’d looked at the photo and grinned. ‘A redhead, huh? She’ll be hard to miss.’
Jimmy lowered his gaze from the house and glanced at his watch. It was twenty past two. Maurie should be on his way to the jail by now – so long as everything had gone to plan. If Eden had changed the day of her visit, or decided for some reason or another not to go, then he’d just chucked a score down the pan. It would probably have been easier, and certainly cheaper, to do it himself, but he hadn’t wanted to take the risk of being recognised. One look in the mirror and she could have easily clocked him.
Anyway, he had better things to do than hang around outside jails. One of these things had involved a trip to Somerset House to try and dig out Tom Chase’s birth certificate. Three bleeding hours he’d been leafing through those ledgers before finally hitting pay dirt. He took the slip of paper from his pocket and studied the details he’d copied down: Thomas James Chase, born 17 April 1940 in Norwich, Norfolk. Parents – Clive and Andrea Chase.
It had to be him, surely? The date would make him forty-two this year which sounded about right, and the full name was the same as the one given in court. What were the odds of two different men having the same name and age? Pretty slim, he reckoned. The address of the parents at the time of the birth had been recorded as 23 Lester Street. Jimmy had gone to the library and checked out the Norfolk phone book, but there had only been three Chases listed. None of these had tallied with the address he’d got, but a number in Norwich – Sadler Street – had been listed under C. Chase.
Jimmy had called and a man had answered after a couple of rings. ‘Hello, is that Mr Clive Chase?’
‘Yes, speaking. How can I help you?’
But Jimmy hadn’t wanted to give him advance warning of his visit or give him time to concoct a story about his murderous son. An element of surprise was always useful in situations like these. He wanted to speak to the parents directly, to look into their eyes when he asked how they felt about their son being charged. ‘Oh, I’m really sorry, Mr Chase. My apologies but something important has just come up. I’ll have to call you back.’
So the good news was he’d found Tom Chase’s father, the bad that he’d have a three-hour drive to get to him. Jimmy slipped the piece of paper back into his pocket, walked over to the Cortina and got in. He pulled the door closed and sat for a while staring along the street. Earlier, he’d gone knocking on doors, hoping for some neighbourhood gossip on Tom and Eden Chase, but no one had been prepared to talk. People round here were suspicious of the press; middle-class lefties, most of them, the sort who only ever read the Guardian.
Jimmy’s knees jerked up and down as he tried to decide whether to set off for Norfolk straight away. His editor was going to kill him if he went AWOL. He was supposed to be over at Kellston this afternoon, chatting to the residents of the Mansfield estate and getting some copy on the recent troubles. Still, he could probably cobble something together this evening, the usual shit, a few fake interviews and the like.
Jimmy mulled it over. It would mean missing Maurie too, but that didn’t really matter. There was no point in having Eden’s address if he didn’t have something solid to confront her with. A thin prickle of sweat broke out on his forehead. It was nerve-racking being so close and yet so far. Every morning he woke up dreading that some other reporter had beaten him to it, and that the inside story of Tom Chase was already splashed across one of the nationals.
Yes, it made sense to head for Norfolk right now. If he wanted the low-down on Chase, he had to talk to the family. He needed to know about the bloke’s past, his childhood, his history, if he was ever going to fathom why he’d become what he had – a vicious armed robber who had heartlessly left a man to die. He needed background, colour and plenty of quotes. At the moment all he had was a vague grey outline.
Jimmy put the key in the ignition and started the engine. ‘Tom Chase,’ he muttered. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
It was a long drive and by the time Jimmy reached Norwich, darkness had fallen. He’d spent most of the journey trying to figure out his approach. The parents were going to be defensive and he needed an ‘in’, a way to ingratiate himself. The best method, he decided, was to say he believed Tom was innocent. That way they might be willing to talk. Yes, something along the lines of a miscarriage of justice could do the trick.
Jimmy knew he’d only get one chance and he couldn’t afford to blow it. Hope was the gift he would offer the Chases, an opportunity for their son to get a fair hearing. Unless they already knew he was guilty, in which case
he’d have to go down a completely different road. Sympathy, an understanding ear, might be what was required in those circumstances. Well, he could do that. He could do sympathy in buckets.
Until he got there, Jimmy wouldn’t know for sure how to play it. He had to be prepared for all eventualities – including getting the door slammed in his face. That would be a bummer after driving all this way. Shit, no, he had to make sure that didn’t happen. He was close enough to smell the exclusive, to breathe in its glory. To fall at the last hurdle would be a goddamn disaster.
Sadler Street was to the west of the city and he had to stop several times to study the map. The traffic was heavy with everyone heading home after work, and the rain was lashing down. It was another half hour before he found the address, a small bungalow in a winding street of identical properties, with a garage to the side and a square of grass out front.
He pulled up outside and gazed along the drive. There was a light on in the front room behind drawn curtains. Good, someone was in. He hoped it was the mother, Andrea. Women were more emotional, more likely to blurt out what they really felt. Jimmy checked his face in the rear-view mirror, ran a comb through his hair and adjusted his expression to one of righteous indignation.
