“I don’t think using the cafe as an OP will work, Jane,” Teflon said. “If the suspects park in Moorfield Road we won’t be able to get photos of them going in or out of the café. That newsagent’s on the corner would be better as it overlooks both the cafe and snooker hall.”
“You’re right. We could see what Nick can tell us about the owner. The closed sign’s up, so let’s go and talk to him.”
Inside, a short, balding man in his late forties was picking up used plates with one hand, while using a cloth in the other to clean the table. He puffed on a cigarette that dropped ash on his food-stained chef’s coat. Jane and Teflon checked no one was coming, especially from the snooker hall, before knocking on the cafe door. The man turned and glared, stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray, then put the plates down.
“He looks like Friar Tuck,” Teflon remarked.
He opened the door a few inches.
“Madonna mia, can you no read the sign? It a say we are CLOSED!”
He started to close the door.
“Is Nick in?”
“Why you wanna know?” he asked warily.
Jane showed him her warrant card.
“I’m WDS Tennison and this is DC Jackson. We’d like to speak to Nick.”
“You a lookin’ at him. My name is Nicola Bianchi, but I pay my taxes and don’t allow no stolen property to be sold on my premises. Che vuoi da me?”
She smiled. “It’s nothing like that. We’d like to talk to you about some men who use your cafe—”
“You gonna take long, because I have to clean the place up, then go to the shops for supplies. This business doesn’t run itself, you know.”
“We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” Jane said.
Nick opened the door and ushered them inside the cafe.
“Alla tavola—”
Nick gestured to a table and pulled a chair out for Jane.
“Is there somewhere out the back we could talk more privately?” she asked.
Nick looked surprised. “What’s this about?”
“If we could go somewhere more private I can tell you.”
“OK. My wife is away just now, so we can go upstairs to the flat.”
“That would be ideal, thank you. PC Bottomley mentioned your wife hadn’t been well—he asked me to send his regards to you both.”
“That’s kind of him. My a wife is suffering from breathing problems—she’s staying with her brother in Southend. I’m hoping the sea air will do her good.”
As they walked through the downstairs kitchen the smell of cooking oil and fried food was almost overpowering. The living room was small, with a two-seater sofa, two armchairs and a four-place dining table. It was neat and tidy but, like the kitchen below, smelt heavily of cooking oil and fried food.
“Please sit down. Who are these men you wanna know about?”
Nick sat down in an armchair. Jane sat on the sofa with Teflon, who got out his pocket notebook to take notes.
She smiled. “We were hoping you could help us with that. From our enquiries we know they are white, in their mid-forties to early fifties, and usually use your cafe on Monday and Friday mornings.”
She didn’t want to give away too much information until they’d gauged Nick’s willingness to help.
“I’m full of customers at that time: there’s a decorators, plumbers, electricians, engineers—you name it, I get them all in my place.”
“These men like to sit at the far end, at the table by the wall,” Teflon told him.
“I need a some more clues if I’m gonna be able to help you,” Nick said, lighting a cigarette.
“One of them wears a chain with a little pair of gold boxing gloves,” she added.
His eyes lit up. “Ah, OK, that’s a gotta be Tommy, il pugilatore—he tell me he used to be a champion boxer. He owns the new snooker club over the road.”
“And the other man?” Teflon asked.
Nick shrugged. “There’s a few people I’ve seen sittin’ with Tommy . . . but I think is probably his brother George you talkin’ about. He’s a bit older and sometimes has breakfast with him.”
“Does George smoke?” Jane asked.
Nick frowned. “Yes, the big fat Cuban cigars. The smell upsets some of my regular customers as his cigar make more smoke than my bloody frying pans—”
“Do you know their surname?” she asked.
“No, they’ve only been coming in here a few months. I have a little chat sometimes with them, I like a due chiacchiere with my customers—is good for business.”
“Is George involved with the snooker club?” Teflon asked.
Nick shrugged. “He could be, but I never ask him what he do and he never tell me. Have they done something bad?”
“We don’t know. Some information we received suggests they might have, but for now we’re just trying to find out more about them,” Jane told him.
“You said there’s a few people you’ve seen sitting at that table with Tommy. Do you know their names?” Teflon asked.
“When the inside of the snooker club was being built, he used the cafe like it was his office to discuss the building work—so he was talking to lots of different people.”
“I meant more recently.” He turned to Jane. “Have you got that description of the white lad who wears the designer polo shirts?”
She got her pocket notebook out of her bag and looked for the relevant entry.
“He’s late twenties to early thirties, five feet eight tall, slim, with blue eyes and wavy blond hair down to his shoulders.”
Nick looked more curious. “I thought you said you just wanted to know about two men?”
“We’re also interested in their associates—any information about them could also be helpful.”
“Are you the CID from Tottenham?”
Jane and Teflon looked at each other, wondering who should answer and how much they should divulge. PC Bottomley had given Nick a clean bill of health, so Jane decided they could risk being more open with him.
“We’re from the Flying Squad at Rigg Approach.”
Nick’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “You’re from the bloody Sweeney!”
“We didn’t want to alarm you—that’s why I didn’t mention it initially.”
“I don’t know anything about any robberies . . . Madonna mia!”
He took a long drag on his cigarette, shaking his head.
“At present we have no hard evidence that either Tommy or George are involved in a robbery. We are just following up on some information received.” Jane tried to make it sound as routine as possible.
Nick looked concerned. “I understand you have a job to do, but my wife, she is very ill already. If she knew you’d been here asking about a robbery, she would get upset and it would make her breathing worse. Ti prego, enough,” he said, waving his finger.
Jane nodded. “I understand, and we’ve no intention of speaking to her. What you’ve told us is just background information and nothing incriminating against Tommy or George.”
“What a robbery you investigating?”
“A Securicor van,” Teflon told him, “outside Barclays Bank in Leytonstone on Thursday morning—”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Was that de one on the news, where the policemen were shot and they crash the car?”
“Yes—”
“Vigliacchi bastardi!” he said with a look of anger in his eyes.
Jane quickly pressed their advantage. “We want to arrest whoever is responsible before it happens again, and if these men are involved, we need your help.”
Nick stubbed his cigarette out, then ran his hand over his bald patch and took a deep breath.
“The young a man with long blond hair . . . I’ve a heard Tommy and George call him Carl—and George some time say, ‘You all right, son?’ But I donna know if he is really son, you know?”
“Do they look like father and son?” Jane asked.
Nick thought for a moment. “Not really,
no.”
“Do you know if Carl works for Tommy or George?”
“Maybe George . . . I’ve seen him give Carl a big wedge of cash, but I dunno what for—and I don’t ask.”
Jane looked in her pocket notebook “We’re also interested in a white man who’s about five feet eleven tall, with dark slicked-back hair. He wears a brown camel hair coat with a black suede collar.”
Nick smiled. “I see him a couple of time in here, he’s very smart and speak with, how you say . . . a plum in his mouth.”
“You mean he speaks with a posh accent?” Teflon asked.
“Si. I dunno his name, but he has a face I don’t forget, cause he look like the actor who play Dracula—” Nick paused to think of the name.
“Vincent Price?” Teflon suggested.
Nick raised his eyes. “No, no Vincent Price—he never play Dracula . . . I mean the man in the black and white film.”
“Bela Lugosi?” Jane offered.
“Yes!”
“How old is he?” Teflon asked.
Nick shrugged. “I dunno, he’s dead now.”
“I meant the man in the camel hair coat,” Teflon said, stifling a laugh.
“He about fifty, fifty-five maybe.”
“Have you ever heard George talk to him—or anyone else—about a wedding?”
“Not to Mr. Lugosi . . . but a few weeks ago Tommy ask a me if I can do catering for a big wedding at a cheap price as the caterers for a George’s daughter’s wedding charging a fortune. I know Tommy taking the piss so I ask how a many plates of full English breakfasts he wants. George no a look amused and told us both to eff off.”
“Do you know when or where the wedding is?”
He shook his head.
“Have you ever heard them talk about a robbery?” Teflon asked.
Nick looked offended. “If I had, I would tell you. Mind you, sometimes when they talking, and I go to the table, they stop suddenly—so maybe they don’t want me to hear what they saying.” He made to get up. “If that is all, I need to start cleaning up now.”
“There’s just a couple of other things—” Jane started to say.
Nick sighed. “I already tell you all I know.”
“Do you know what types of cars any of the men drive?” she asked.
“I far too busy to look out the window and see what they drive.”
“The newsagent’s on the corner of Moorfield Road—do you know the owner?” Teflon asked.
“Si, Paki Pete, he a good guy.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
Nick nodded. “One hundred percent.”
“I notice you had an advert in the window for a waitress,” Jane said.
“Si, but nobody applies yet. Why you ask?”
“Would you be willing to let me work undercover in your cafe for a few days?”
He looked surprised. “Is no an easy job, and might be obvious to these men you after them if you make a mistake, you understand?”
“I did quite a bit of waitressing before I joined the police, so I know how to take orders and serve tables.”
“OK, if it help you find the bastardi who shoot the policeman, the job is yours. When you want to start?”
“Monday morning?”
“OK, I see you here at six, you can have a little practice, familiarize yourself with the menu, then we open at seven.”
He got up to show them out.
As soon as they got back to Tottenham Police Station, Teflon checked the names George and Carl Ripley on the PNC, on the assumption that they might be father and son, while Jane rang Cam to update him.
“Me and Teflon have spoken to Nick and—”
Cam wasn’t listening. “Murphy wants everyone back here now for a meeting.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“I can’t explain it all on the phone. Let’s just say there’s been a few interesting developments.”
“Did you get a result on that phone number or the Wilson twins?”
“Yes, and I’ve spoken to the two children’s homes.”
“What did they say?”
“I’ll tell you when you get back.”
“You haven’t done it, have you?” she snapped.
“I have, Sarge, so stop getting your knickers in a twist and get back here.”
She was about to make an angry retort, but he’d put the phone down.
“Everything all right, Jane?”
“That bloody Cam’s a rude, lazy sod.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
“Still, looks like the others have got some good results. Murphy said he wants us all back at the office asap, so we better get going.”
“I’ve run the name George Ripley on the PNC with a forty-five to fifty-five age spread and got a few possible hits—”
“Leave it for now, we’ll have to do it back at Rigg.”
Teflon shut down the computer.
“Looks like your gut feeling about what the Wilson sisters told you was right.”
Jane thought back to what Kingston had said about Murphy.
“I hope so. But something tells me the road to getting our suspects charged and convicted is going to be a long and bumpy one.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Jane and Teflon walked into the office, they instantly felt the buzz of excitement in the room. Everyone looked focused as they got on with their work, whether it was on the phone or even just typing up their reports of the morning’s events. The first thing she wanted to do was have it out with Cam, but he was making notes while on the phone. She was surprised when the Colonel, who was writing some notes, looked up and gave her an approving nod.
“All right, Sarge?”
“Yes, thanks. How’d it go with Frank Braun?”
“Good. I was wrong about him being hooky; I think he’s straight up.”
She wanted to ask him what he’d found out, but he looked busy and she knew she’d find out in the meeting anyway.
Dabs was standing next to Stanley, who was talking on the phone.
“How was the snooker?” she asked.
“We played three frames: first one Stanley bets me a pound and loses, so he says double or quits, and I won the next two frames as well. The only thing positive for Stanley was meeting Aidan O’Reilly.” Dabs grinned.
“Why was that?”
Stanley nudged Dabs. “Nip over to the fax machine, they’re just about to send over the results and want to know if they’re coming through our end. Give us a shout when it starts printing off.”
“Sorry, Jane.”
Dabs brushed past her to get to the fax machine.
She sighed; it looked like everything would have to wait until the meeting. Cam finally put the phone down and she marched over. Before she could speak, he handed her an information sheet.
“That’s the result from the Post Office on the phone number—”
“And the Wilson twins?”
“That was the children’s home I was just talking to. There’s a few things about them that don’t add up and I—”
“What do you mean ‘don’t add up’?”
“It’s just that they might not be who they say they are.”
“Are you playing games with me?” She glared at him.
“For fuck’s sake, I did what you asked and you’re still moaning.” He picked up a notepad and tore off the top sheet. “They lived in St. Cuthbert’s, a Catholic home. The address and phone number’s on there—you can ring them yourself if you don’t believe me.”
He walked off towards Murphy’s office before she could reply. She was sure he was going to complain about her to Murphy. She watched anxiously as he knocked on Murphy’s door and opened it, but didn’t go in.
“Everyone’s back in the office, Guv.”
“Thanks, Cam, we’ll be out in a second.”
“Guv wants to start the meeting,” Cam said loudly.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned their chairs towards t
he center of the room.
Jane felt bad for misjudging him.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. What did St. Cuthbert’s say about the Wilson sisters?”
Cam shook his head. “I’ll tell you after the meeting.”
Murphy strode into the room, followed by a subdued-looking Kingston.
“Right, I’m going to ask the Colonel and Bax to start.”
He nodded to the Colonel to start, but the fax machine began whirring and humming as it printed off an incoming fax.
“Somebody turn that bloody thing off!” Murphy barked.
“It’s some urgent information I requested. It shouldn’t take long,” Stanley said.
Murphy sighed. “Carry on, Colonel.”
“We spoke to Frank Braun and it’s safe to say he’s no longer a suspect,” the Colonel said. “I examined the documents for both his vehicles, and everything was in order.” He held up the inspection paperwork. “But this little beauty is the inspection for his Cortina and I seized it as evidence.”
“You just said his vehicle documents were in order,” Cam said, looking puzzled.
“They are, but the garage stamp on the inspection was ‘GR Motors Ltd.,’ located in Lordship Lane and close to Bruce Grove.”
Bax took over. “We did a casual drive past and the premises has a front, with about twenty high-end second-hand cars on it, like Jags, Mercs and BMWs. At the back there’s a servicing, inspection and repair garage, as well as a separate office area, where, according to Braun, a young receptionist called Tina works.”
Murphy looked in his pocket notebook.
“The name Tina was lip-read by Rachel Wilson, wasn’t it?” he asked Jane.
She nodded and looked in her pocket notebook.
“M1 said to M2 in the cafe, ‘If yesterday hadn’t been a total fuck-up I could have paid our Tina’s wedding off in cash.’ ”
Murphy looked pleased. “Interesting. Do we know who owns the garage?”
The Colonel shook his head. “We’re still working on it, Guv. Companies House isn’t open until Monday, but I reckon there’s a good chance GR could be the initials of the owner, so it could be Ripley.”
The Dirty Dozen Page 29
