“Right, everyone smile at the camera,” the photographer said.
Jane thought how surreal it felt to find herself dressed up to the nines and standing in the middle of a group of hardened criminals who hated the police and would have shot her without a second thought.
As the photographer took the pictures, Jane saw a maroon Jensen Interceptor, with a man and a woman in it, coming down the driveway towards the house. She felt her heart rate increase as the Jensen pulled up by the house. The man and woman got out and walked across the lawn towards the assembled guests. The man was carrying a large gift-wrapped box, and wearing the exact same coat as Rachel described—a knee-length brown camel hair coat with a black suede collar. He did look like Bela Lugosi, too. He was nearly six feet tall, in his early fifties, with dark slicked-back hair that she suspected was dyed. He wore a blue three-piece pinstripe suit and walked with an air of confidence. The woman with him wore a wedding ring and was about the same age, elegantly dressed in a figure-hugging red dress and hat.
When George saw him, he went straight over and shook hands. Tommy Ripley, Smith and O’Reilly also greeted him warmly with big smiles. The man handed George the present, and he asked one of the waiters to put it in his study next to the lounge.
Jane looked at the registration of the Jensen, HLT 354N, and memorized it by repeating it over in her mind using the mnemonic HiLT-35-4 Nick. If and when she got the opportunity, she’d try and take a photograph. She managed to take a few photographs of the guests as they gathered for the large group photo and, holding her camera down by her side, took a few risky potshots of the man in the camel hair coat.
The professional Master of Ceremonies, dressed in a red jacket and black trousers, called everyone into the marquee and announced that the meal was about to start. The receiving line consisted of the bride and groom and both sets of parents. Jane felt her stomach churn as she shook hands with George.
“Lovely service, Mr. Ripley,” she told him.
“You the girl from the cafe?” He smiled.
“Yes, Carl invited me.”
He looked her up and down. “You’re far too good-looking for him, darlin’.”
Jane forced a smile and moved on.
She was about to look at the seating plan when Carl came over and said she was on the end of the top table with him. In some ways she felt relieved. At least it was better than sitting with Smith and O’Reilly.
Jane looked at the menu card. A prawn cocktail starter, a main course of chicken breast with vegetables and boiled potatoes, followed by Black Forest gateau, then coffee, cheese and biscuits. As she put the card down on the table, she felt an eerie sense of unease, as if someone was watching her. She scanned the marquee and saw the man in the camel hair coat sitting at a table in the middle of the room. He was looking at her with his head tilted to one side and tapping his lips with his left index finger.
“Who’s the chap that owns the Jensen?” she asked Carl casually.
“Tony. He’s a nice guy. He’s in the same Masons’ lodge as George. Lovely car, isn’t it? Me and Smudge do the servicing and inspection. He let me drive it once. It’s fast but drinks petrol. I could ask him if he’d let me take you for a drive some time.”
“That’d be nice.”
Jane was apprehensive about questioning Carl further about Tony. Knowing he was sitting at table 8, she thought she’d sneak a look at the seating plan by the marquee entrance to find out his surname.
“I’m just going to the toilet.”
“It’s in the hallway by the stairs,” Carl told her.
She walked slowly, then stopped briefly by the seating plan, which had Mr. A. Nichols where Tony was sitting. She went to the toilet, then returning to the marquee she suddenly felt her left wrist being grabbed from behind. She spun around, thinking it was Carl, and found herself face to face with Tony, who tightened his grip on her wrist.
“Do I know you?” he asked with a nasty expression.
“Let go, you’re hurting me,” she said, trying not to show she was scared.
He let go of her hand and smiled. “Sorry, I thought we might have met before.”
“I don’t think so, you must have got me mixed up with someone else.”
“Maybe, but I never forget a pretty face,” he said, walking off to the marquee.
Jane was shaking, desperately trying to think where or when they might have met. She went back into the house to phone Teflon and, seeing the study room door open, made sure no one was about and nipped in. She picked up the phone and noticed a long metal case tucked under the large oak writing desk and gift-wrapping paper in the bin. She called Chigwell Police Station, then asked to be put through to the canteen and Teflon answered.
“I need you to pick me up outside the house in about half an hour.”
“Will do. You all right?”
“The man in the camel hair coat thinks he knows me.”
“Come out right now, Jane,” Teflon insisted.
“I can’t. It would look suspicious.”
She put the phone down.
She was about to go back to the marquee when curiosity got the better of her. Realizing the metal case was the same size as the present Tony Nichols had handed George, she pulled it out from under the desk, put it on the top and opened it. Inside the silk-lined case were the barrel and stock of a Purdey shotgun. Jane got her camera out of her clutch bag and took a picture.
She returned to the marquee and saw Tony standing beside George at the top table, leaning down and whispering in his ear. As she walked to her seat, she tried not to look at them, but out of the corner of her eye she could see George glaring at her.
“I thought you’d done a runner for a minute,” Carl said. “George is about to start his father of the bride speech.”
“I’m really sorry, Carl, but I’ve got to go. My stomach cramps are killing me and my period’s really heavy.”
“You can have a lie-down in the house if you want.”
“No thanks, I’m worried about staining my dress.”
“I understand. I’ll call a cab for you.”
“I did it while I was in the house. You stay for George’s speech and I’ll see myself out.”
“When can I see you again, Jane?” he asked, a little forlornly.
“I’ll be in the cafe next week. I’ll see you then.”
She kissed him on the cheek, feeling ashamed.
It was still light as Jane walked along Gravel Lane. One second she was thinking about the Ripleys and Tony Nichols, and the next about Carl. Part of her was excited that she’d identified the infamous “Camel Hair Coat Man,” but she wondered if in doing so she’d jeopardized the whole operation and the Ripley gang now suspected they were being watched. But worse than that was the thought of the danger she’d put Carl in if George suspected she was a police officer.
She saw Teflon approaching in the cab and waved him down. He stopped and she got in.
“You look awful.”
“I feel awful.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you on the way home.”
The speeches finished and the DJ was setting up his equipment for the disco.
George smiled as he approached Carl.
“All right, son? Where’s your girlfriend?”
“She wasn’t feeling well and went home.”
“That’s a shame. She seemed a lovely girl.”
“She is. I really like her.”
“I’d like to have a word with you in my office.”
“What about?”
“Your future. I know I’ve been a bit hard on you over the years, but you’re a good worker, Carl. I’d like to give you a little something to show my appreciation.”
His eyes lit up. “Really? What is it?”
“Just a few quid to help you—”
“Set up my own business?”
“You can do what you like with the money—maybe get a flat of your own. I’ll see you in the study in
a minute, after I’ve had a word with your uncle Tommy.”
George patted Carl on the shoulder.
After a few minutes, George walked into the study, smiled at Carl, then closed the door behind him and quietly locked it. He got a key out of his pocket and opened the desk drawer, which was filled with bundles of cash. He took a few out and placed them on the table. He picked up the nine-inch letter opener by the point, and flipped it up and over so the wooden handle was in the palm of his hand.
“There’s two grand for you, son.”
“I don’t know what to say, George,” Carl said as he went to pick up the money.
Before he knew it, George had grabbed him around the back of the neck and slammed his head down hard onto the desk. He turned Carl’s head sideways and pressed the tip of the letter opener against the skin by the side of his eye.
“Your fucking tart’s a copper.”
“She’s not, she’s a secretary,” Carl said, his voice trembling with fear.
George slowly applied more pressure on the letter opener.
“Well, whatever she is, you’ll never be able to see her again if I take your eyes out.”
“She never asked me anything about you or Tommy,” Carl said, realizing he made it sound as if she had.
“You dumb shit! Don’t fucking lie to me!”
George lifted Carl off the table and punched him hard in the stomach. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath. George stood over him.
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing . . . I didn’t tell her nothing,” he pleaded.
George slapped him hard across the face.
“Your precious Jane doesn’t give a toss about you—she even asked me if you were a retard.”
Carl looked at up at him. “I don’t believe you.”
George slapped him again. “She used you to watch me and Tommy because she thinks we’re criminals.”
“You’re not going to hurt Jane, are you?” Carl wept.
“Not as much as I’m going to hurt you.”
He removed his thick leather belt, then held it so the metal buckle end was dangling over Carl.
“Please, no, don’t,” he begged.
“Don’t you dare scream.”
George raised the belt and brought it down hard on Carl’s back. He let out a muffled scream, then fell to the floor and curled up in a ball. George whipped him again and again across his back and legs, leaving him shaking and sobbing. When he’d finished, he looked down at Carl and sneered.
“Take the money and get out of my flat. If I ever see your face again, I’ll kill you.”
He put his belt on and kicked Carl in the stomach, then ran his hands through his hair, brushed himself down and left the room.
George was at the bar speaking to Tommy and Smudge when Maureen came over.
“I just seen Carl leavin’ in ’is car,” she said, looking concerned.
“That tart he brought to the wedding gave him the boot and he’s gone running after her.”
“Fuckin’ bitch. Wait till I get me ’ands on ’er!” Maureen snapped, her eyes filled with rage.
Teflon parked up outside Jane’s block of flats and got in the back of the cab with her.
“Come on, stop beating yourself up about Carl.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Are you sure you’ve never seen Tony Nichols before?”
“Nowhere I can think of.”
“Like you said, he might be mistaken, but it does sound like he sussed you were Old Bill. You’re going to have to tell Murphy.”
“I know.”
“Granted he’ll be pissed off, but at the end of the day he chose to send you in there. What you did took a lot of guts.”
“I feel like shit about what I’ve done to Carl. George Ripley’s used him as a punchbag for years. If he so much as thinks I’m a police officer, I dread to imagine what he might do to Carl.”
“Look, I know it’s tough, but sometimes when you’re doing UC work, people on both sides get hurt. At the end of the day you were doing your job.”
“That’s easy to say.”
“You have to forget about Carl; think about why we’re doing this. We’re trying to put away some violent criminals. There’s going to be a few tears along the way.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jane tossed and turned in her sleep, dreaming that she was walking through London Fields late at night, when suddenly a man in a stocking mask jumped down from a tree with a knife in his hand, and held it to her throat.
“Don’t scream or I’ll cut your throat,” he said, unzipping his trousers.
Terrified she was about to be raped, Jane kicked as hard as she could towards his groin, and the sudden jerking of her foot woke her up. Her heart was beating fast as she switched the light on, then went to the living room, picked up the phone and called Paul Lawrence.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Paul.”
“For Christ’s sake, it’s four o’clock.”
“I know, but this is really important.”
He let out a deep sigh. “Go on then.”
“You remember years ago when I was a decoy and arrested that rapist Peter Allard?”
“Yeah, he got off the rape but pleaded guilty to assaulting you.”
“That’s right, then we nicked him for the murder of Susie Luna.”
“I’m not really in the mood for war stories—”
“Was his barrister a guy called Tony Nichols?”
“Let me think . . . Yeah, he was Queen’s Counsel, but got disbarred about three years ago for false legal aid claims.”
“Do you know what he’s doing now?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Thanks. Sorry to bother you.”
“Wait a minute . . . What frying pan have you got yourself into now?”
“It’s a long story, but Nichols is tied up with the Ripleys and our other suspects.”
“Did you get the message I left for you yesterday afternoon?”
“No, I was at a wedding.”
“The RUC got a match on the Chubb key to a Patrick O’Dwyer. He’s got a criminal record for violence and was in the same UDA unit as Aidan O’Reilly. Looks like you were right about Fiona Simpson’s death being linked to your investigation.”
“I’ll let Murphy know. Thanks again, Paul.”
She put the phone down.
Jane thought about why she had failed to recognize Tony Nichols. She had only seen him once before the wedding, when he had cross-examined her for half an hour at the Old Bailey. Although it was six years ago, she now remembered he was chubby-faced, had greying dark hair with a side parting, and wore thick-rimmed gold glasses. Since then he had undoubtedly lost weight, dyed his hair black and, she assumed, replaced his glasses with contact lenses. It didn’t seem to her to be a deliberate effort to disguise himself, more the act of a vain man who wanted to look younger.
Jane arrived at the office just after 9 a.m. Bax was the only one there, working at a desk catching up on his reports.
“How was the wedding?”
“A right den of thieves. I saw the Jensen—a disbarred barrister called Anthony Nichols owns it.”
“Makes sense.”
“I’ve got the registration for the Jensen. Can you do an owner check, please?” She gave him the details. “Is Murphy in yet?”
“He was, but he got called out. There was an armed robbery at the Security Express depot in Shoreditch yesterday morning. The security guards were tied up and no one found them until this morning.”
“I didn’t hear anything on the radio about it.”
“That’s because the press haven’t been informed yet.”
“What? Does Murphy think it’s the Ripleys?” Jane asked with alarm.
Bax laughed. “If it is, the whole squad will be back pounding the beat. Luckily Stanley and the Colonel were watching our four suspects play golf when it went down.”
“That’s a relief. What happened a
t the depot?”
“All I know so far is four tooled-up blokes with dodgy Irish accents forced their way in there, tied up the guards and stole the money from the vault.”
“How much?”
“Four or five million, they reckon—in non-traceable notes.”
Jane let out a whistle of surprise. “That’s twice as much as they got away with in the Great Train Robbery. Is anyone with Murphy?”
“Just Teflon,” Bax said.
“Do you think they’ll need some help?”
“I wouldn’t bother. It happened on our patch, but Murphy said he’s going to hand the job over to the Tower Bridge team since we’re tucked up with the Ripleys.”
“I may as well catch up with my paperwork, then.”
Jane went to her desk while Bax did the vehicle check.
“The Jensen’s registered to Nichols. The address is fourteen Westbury Lane, Buckhurst Hill, which isn’t far from George Ripley’s house.”
Murphy and Teflon returned to the office just after midday.
“Well done on identifying our Camel Hair Coat Man.”
She looked at Teflon, realizing he must have said something to Murphy.
“Could I have a word with you in your office, please, sir?”
“Yes, if you make me a black coffee first.”
She was putting the coffee powder in a cup when Teflon came over for a quiet word.
“He asked me what happened at the wedding on the way to the Shoreditch robbery. I told him you’d ID’d Nichols, but I didn’t mention he might have sussed who you are.”
“I’m now positive he did.”
She poured the hot water in the cup.
“Shit. Why are you so sure?”
“Six years ago he was the defense barrister in a murder trial when I gave evidence. He’s changed so much I didn’t recognize him.”
“Then the Ripleys definitely know we’re on to them.”
Jane nodded, picked up the coffee, and took it into Murphy’s office. He was on the phone, but waved her in and pointed to a seat as he continued the conversation.
“One of them was dressed as a bloody priest and all the guards said they had Irish accents, which might have been faked. It was clearly well planned and executed, and they had insider information as they clearly knew the guards’ routine. Anyway, I’ve got some statements I’ll fax over to you now, then you can get one of your team to pick up the originals.”
The Dirty Dozen Page 42
