Murphy put the phone down.
“That was the DCI at Tower Bridge. Tell me all about the wedding, then, and how you got the name of our Camel Hair Coat Man.”
Jane got straight to the point and told him about Anthony Nichols being a disbarred QC who knew she was a police officer.
“I had to come out when I saw Nichols speaking to George Ripley. Ripley was looking daggers at me.”
“I appreciate you being up front and honest, Jane. If I was in your shoes and a lone officer among the Ripley gang, I’d have been out of there in the blink of an eye.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve ruined the whole operation, sir.”
“Look, Jane, you did your job and got the information I asked for. Against the advice of some members of the team, it was my decision to send you in there alone, so the reality is I’m responsible for what happened—not you.”
What he said was reasonable, but she still didn’t understand why he wasn’t more pissed off about the way things had gone. They were never going to nick the gang on the pavement now.
“I’ve got an address for Nichols in Buckhurst Hill.” She handed him the details.
“As I see it, we’re left with two options,” Murphy said. “Nick them all now, or carry on with the surveillance for a few days and see what happens.”
“Paul Lawrence said the fingerprints on the Chubb keys matched a UDA man called O’Dwyer.”
“I know, I spoke to the DI investigating. His team are trying to locate O’Dwyer, but even if they do, I can’t see him implicating O’Reilly in anything.”
“There’s always Betty, the old woman who saw the getaway driver close up.”
Murphy nodded. “DI Kingston spoke to me about her.”
“She’s sharp as a tack and would make a good witness despite her age. I’m convinced she’d pick out Smith on an ID parade. Then there’s Abby Jones—”
“That’s a non-starter after the fiasco with her father.”
“But if we arrest the suspects and you spoke to him, he might be more willing to let Abby be a witness.”
“I’m aware of all the ifs and buts, thank you. I need to speak to the Commander. In the meantime, get Bax to call everyone in and ask Teflon to fax the statements over to Tower Bridge.”
Bax was gloomy as he picked up the phone.
“Sounds like he’s going to arrest them today if he’s calling everyone in. If we don’t find some solid evidence connecting them to the Leytonstone robbery, I can’t see how Murphy can charge them.”
“How’d he take the news about Tony Nichols?” Teflon asked her.
“I thought he was going to scream blue murder, but he basically said it was his fault.”
“Bloody hell, that’s a first. I take it you didn’t tell him about the date with Carl?” he whispered.
“No, and I’m not going to,” she whispered back. “Carl Winter’s not involved and doesn’t have a clue about what George or the others have been up to. Can I have a read of the statements for the Shoreditch job after you’ve faxed them?”
He nodded. “Wait till you see what they did to the supervising guard—it’ll give you nightmares.”
Jane was sitting at her desk reading the statements in chronological order when Bax answered the phone.
“Jane, it’s Paul Lawrence for you.”
He transferred the call to her.
“Hi. You still mad at me?”
“I wasn’t mad . . . just bloody knackered. I made some enquiries about Anthony Nichols with a QC who’s prosecuted a few murders I’ve given evidence in. He didn’t know him personally, but made some phone calls. Apparently Nichols is working for a dodgy firm of solicitors—”
“I thought he was disbarred?”
“He was, but that doesn’t stop him from overseeing cases or attending a police station as a suspect’s advisor. He just can’t appear in court as a legal representative.”
“The law’s an ass. Did your friend know which firm?”
“Russell and Cartwright—they’re in Curtain Road, Shoreditch.”
“Did you say Curtain Road?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Thanks, Paul.”
Jane grabbed the office Yellow Pages. She flicked through the directory to the solicitors section and found the address for Russell and Cartwright, then phoned City Road Police Station and spoke to the duty sergeant. Her hunch was right: the offices of the solicitors’ firm Tony Nichols worked for overlooked the Security Express depot.
She read through the statements slowly, making notes as she went. She thought the statement lacked fine detail and realized a local detective must have taken it, as the officer’s name wasn’t familiar to her. She wrote down the heights of the robbers as given by each guard. They all fitted within the range of the Ripley brothers, Graham Smith and, most notably, Aidan O’Reilly, who was six feet four. The supervisor said the man who threatened him had a deep voice, like George Ripley.
“Teflon, I need your help.”
He walked over to her desk. “What with?”
“These statements. There are details here that make me think the Ripley gang may have done the Shoreditch job.”
Teflon laughed. “You’re becoming obsessed with them, Jane. They were all playing golf.”
“The heights of the men all fit, one had a deep voice and repeatedly used the word ‘son’ in a colloquial manner—just like George Ripley does.”
“So do lots of people, Jane.”
She wasn’t going to be put off.
“The supervising guard said in his statement that the tall man who was watching the TV monitor kept scratching his face through the balaclava. At the wedding I was in a group photo. Tommy was standing next to me and Smith and O’Reilly were directly behind me. O’Reilly had a red rash all over his face and Smith made a joke about it, then Tommy said, ‘Now we know why he prefers the soft touch of nylon.’ ”
Teflon looked bemused. “What’s your point?”
“We know Aidan O’Reilly wore a stocking mask in the Leytonstone robbery—stockings are made of nylon and balaclavas of wool,” Jane explained. “If O’Reilly’s allergic to wool, he would get a rash on his face.”
“So why would he wear a balaclava this time?” Teflon asked dismissively.
But Jane knew she had the answer to that.
“He had a cut to his head that would be visible through a stocking mask. A balaclava doesn’t give away any features apart from eye color, and both the supervisor and the guard, Archie, said the man with the sawn-off had blue eyes, just like—”
“Tommy Ripley,” Teflon said.
“Bax, how long did it take our suspects to play their round of golf?”
Bax looked in the observation log.
“They teed off at seven a.m. and were on the eighteenth at 10:50. Stanley said Smith was a shit golfer, so I would have thought they’d take a bit longer than that.”
“That’s if they were actually playing golf,” Teflon said, catching on to Jane’s idea. “Does the Royal Epping golf club have woodland on it?”
“It’s called the Royal Epping Forest—the clue’s in the name,” Bax replied sarcastically.
“Can you look in the A-Z and see if there’s any roads by the course that you could get to through the woods?” Jane asked Teflon.
“I’m on it.”
“What are you two doing?” Bax asked.
“Jane’s on to something big,” Teflon said as he opened the A-Z.
“What?”
“I think the Ripley gang did the Shoreditch job,” she said.
Bax started to laugh but Teflon was on her side.
“She’s serious, Bax, and there’s evidence in the guards’ statements that backs her theory up.” He looked at Jane. “There are three roads with sections of woodland that lead to the course where they could have left and returned.”
“I reckon it would take about thirty to thirty-five minutes to get from the course to the Security Express depot in Shoreditch on a Saturda
y morning at seven o’clock,” Jane said.
“How could they leave the course and return nearly three hours later without other golfers seeing them?” Teflon asked.
Bax grinned. “Easy. You just need to make sure there’s nobody playing behind you when you go back on. When I was younger, we used to sneak on and off the local course and never got caught once.”
“Then they must have had someone in a vehicle parked up nearby waiting for them,” Teflon said.
“That makes five robbers, and the guards all said there were four,” Bax remarked.
“The driver would have stayed in the van while the others did the robbery,” Jane suggested. “If they did, my guess is it’s a guy called Patrick O’Dwyer. He’s connected to O’Reilly and his prints were on Fiona Simpson’s keys.”
Jane did some calculations on a piece of paper.
“The robbery started at eight o’clock, when the guard arrived at the depot. If they cut through the woods and got in a van on the second hole it would be about 7:15, which means they’d get to Shoreditch before eight and had at least two hours to do the robbery. If they left the depot at ten, they’d be back at the course by, say, 10:30 at the earliest to 10:45 latest.”
“Which would mean they’d have to sneak back on the course at the seventeenth or eighteenth to finish at 10:50,” Bax said.
Jane looked on the back of the supervisor’s statement to check the provider’s address and phone details. She picked up the phone and called him.
“Hello, is that Mr. Bridge?”
“Yes, speaking.”
Jane turned on the speakerphone for Bax and Teflon to listen in.
“It’s WDS Tennison from the Flying Squad. Some of my colleagues were with you this morning.”
“What can I do for you, officer?”
“I’m sorry to bother you after such a traumatic experience. I just need to ask you a couple more questions about the robbery.”
“Certainly—I’ll do whatever I can to help catch those bastards.”
“You said in your statement that the man with the deep voice, the one who threatened you, had a gold-colored lighter in his hand.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Was it butane gas, or a fluid lighter like a Zippo?”
“Definitely gas—I watched the bastard light it in front of me,” he said, a tremor in his voice.
“How did he light it?”
“The way you do any lighter—by flicking the spark wheel with your thumb.” He sounded bemused by the question.
“And was the spark wheel on the top or side of the lighter?”
“The side.”
“Could you see if it had any writing on it?”
“No, his hand was covering it.”
“Can you describe the lighter to me in detail?”
“It was about two or three inches long, an inch wide and chunky-looking.”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Bridge.” She put the phone down.
“What was that about?” Bax asked.
“I’ve seen George Ripley use a gold lighter with his initials in the cafe.”
“That doesn’t mean the man who threatened the supervisor was him,” Bax replied.
“George’s lighter also had a spark wheel on the side.”
“It’s just a bloody lighter—it doesn’t prove anything.”
“I know it was George Ripley,” Jane said tersely.
Bax sighed. “No, you don’t. They all wore masks, so none of the guards can identify them. Everything you’ve said is valid, Jane, but it’s guesswork—not bloody evidence.”
“Bax is right, Jane. If no one saw them leave or return to the golf course, then Stanley and the Colonel have unwittingly given them the perfect alibi.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
By midday the Rigg Approach office was filled with another fifteen detectives from the Tower Bridge Flying Squad, who had been called in to assist the arrest operation. Most of them were carrying revolvers in side holsters and everyone in the room was tense, waiting for Murphy to address them.
Jane had already spoken to Murphy about the Ripleys, and explained why she thought they were responsible for the Security Express robbery. He agreed there were parts of her analysis that pointed to them being responsible, but he felt her theory was based on conjecture and worried that she was making the suspects fit the crime. He told her that, although he had decided to arrest the Ripleys, Smith and O’Reilly, the only way they could prove the Ripleys themselves were responsible for both robberies was to find some actual physical evidence, at their homes or work premises, connecting them to the robberies.
Jane realized she was the only female in the room and overheard one of the Tower Bridge officers say he hoped he wasn’t with the “plonk” when they made the arrests. It made her hope she would be the one to arrest George Ripley or Tony Nichols.
Murphy came out of his office with the Tower Bridge DCI and DI Kingston. The room went quiet.
“Firstly, I’d like to thank the Tower Bridge officers for coming out to assist us with the arrests.”
“Don’t worry, Guv, we’ll happily show your lads how it’s done,” a Tower Bridge officer called out and his colleagues laughed.
“Yeah—and pigs might fly,” the Colonel retorted.
Murphy waited for the laughter to subside.
“I know, as dedicated Flying Squad officers, you would have wanted this to be an operation where we carried out an armed ambush on the suspects while they were committing the crime. However, circumstances beyond our control have dictated that we arrest them today in a coordinated hit that will take place at two p.m. precisely. I have split you into teams and armed officers from my squad will lead each team and make the arrests, supported by officers from Tower Bridge. Me and DI Kingston will arrest George Ripley at his home address, DS Stanley, Graham Smith at his home address and DC Baxter, Tony Nichols at his home address.”
“Yes, Guv,” they replied almost in unison.
“Our SOCO is presently working undercover in the Bruce Grove Snooker Hall and called me just before the briefing. Tommy Ripley, Aidan O’Reilly and Maria Fernadez are all there, apparently looking like they’ve got almighty hangovers from the wedding. The Colonel and Cam, with extra backup, will arrest them.”
“What if any of them leave before we get there?” the Colonel asked.
“Dabs is going to come out of the hall at five minutes to two and meet you outside the sorting office in Moorfield Road with an update. I want two teams from Tower Bridge to hit their home addresses at the same time. I’ve arranged for uniform officers to go to the garage at two p.m. and secure it, then we can search it later.”
Jane and Teflon looked at each other, wondering what they would be doing.
“WDS Tennison and DC Johnson will arrest Carl Winter. He, like Maria Fernandez, may or may not be involved in the planning or commission of the robberies, but they could be a useful source of information—especially Winter.”
Teflon could see that Jane was about to say something.
He gave her a discreet dig with his elbow and whispered, “Don’t say a word or he’ll crucify you in front of everyone.”
“I want all the suspects taken to Leytonstone Police Station for interrogation, and continual updates given to me over the radio throughout the operation. Any questions?”
There were none.
Murphy went to his office with the Tower Bridge DCI and Kingston to have a quick glass of whisky before the armed operation.
Teflon took Jane to Dabs’s office to speak to her.
“Not letting us be involved in any of the main suspects’ arrests is Murphy’s way of punishing us for what happened with Abby Jones.”
“Carl is not in any way, shape or form a criminal,” Jane said angrily. “I should be the last person to have to arrest him and Murphy knows that.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Murphy’s arresting Carl for the right reasons, not to spite you. Even if it was someone else
on the team making the arrest, it’s inevitable during questioning Carl will find out you’re a police officer. If you feel so bad, then this is your opportunity to make him realize you meant him no harm and were just doing your job.”
Dabs met the Colonel outside the sorting office just before 2 p.m. and told him that O’Reilly was in Tommy’s office and Fernandez was still behind the bar. The Colonel radioed Murphy.
“Gold from KG, receiving . . . over?”
“Go ahead . . . over,” Murphy replied.
“All three targets still in hall.”
“All units from Gold, are you in position?”
He waited until the last unit responded.
“Attack, attack, attack!” Murphy shouted.
A traffic police Land Rover pulled up outside the gates of George Ripley’s house. The passenger jumped out and quickly connected a cable to the gates.
“Go, go, go!” he shouted.
The Land Rover drove off at speed, ripping the gates from the brick pillars.
George was in his study and heard the noise. Looking out of the window he saw Murphy and his team coming down the driveway, sirens blaring. George grabbed the phone to call Tommy.
The unmarked police cars slid through the gravel as they came to a halt. An officer jumped out with a battering ram and smashed it against the Yale lock on the door, which splintered and flew open.
Murphy, Kingston and two other armed officers raced in, shouting, “Armed police! Stay where you are!”
Tommy didn’t answer. George put the phone down, calmly picked up the News of the World and started reading it as Murphy and Kingston rushed in, pointing their guns at him.
“Don’t fucking move, George,” Murphy said.
He smiled and slowly put the paper down.
“If you’d rung the doorbell, I’d have let you in. Who should I send the repair bill to?”
Kingston holstered his gun and got his handcuffs out. George put his arms out and held his wrists together ready to be cuffed.
“Is the lovely Jane not with you?”
The Dirty Dozen Page 43
