A Hanging Job

by W H Oxley

  Once passed the Austin 10, Foxy kept a wary eye on the mirror, but the police remained unmoving under the oak tree. He breathed a sigh of relief as he rounded a bend.

  ‘I think our luck’s in. They ain’t looking for us. So you can put that bloody safety catch back on, Alfie. You’re making me nervous.’

  ‘Are you bleeding sure?’

  ‘Almost – but I’ll pull in somewhere just to make certain. And relax for Christ’s sake. If it comes to a chase there ain’t nobody who can catch old Foxy on a nice wet road.’

  Foxy waited until he found a suitable turning, a narrow country lane, and parked just past it. After less than a minute, the patrol car reappeared and halted about a hundred yards behind them.

  ‘Stuff that, they’re shadowing us. Only one thing for it, I’m gonna have to outrun ’em…’

  Before the police had time to react, Foxy was accelerating up to sixty miles an hour, leaving them floundering in his wake. After going all out for five miles he eased back a little.

  ‘Almost there, boys, we’ll soon be– Shit!’ As he slammed on the brakes the Riley went into a skid, waltzing all over the road like a skater on ice. Eventually, he succeeded in bringing it to a halt about five yards short of the level crossing gate. It was a very solid gate, a formidable barrier blocking the entire road.

  Jack tightened his grip on the shotgun and Alfie released the safety catch on his revolver.

  ‘Take it easy, boys. We’ve probably lost the woodentops and…’ Foxy’s voice trailed away as he caught sight of the Austin 10 in the rear-view mirror. It halted some way back. ‘Why do they always keep their distance?’ he murmured.

  ‘They must know we’ve got shooters,’ growled Jack. ‘The bastards are keeping out of range. Come on, Alfie, let’s sort ’em out.’

  ‘Erm, yeah…’ mumbled Alfie, sitting tight and making no effort to get out of the car.

  ‘Hold on, Jack.’ Foxy patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t do nothing hasty.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Foxy, if they’re good little boys and behave themselves, I’ll just shoot a tyre out.’

  ‘Look, Jack, why don’t you…’

  ‘Sorry, Foxy…’ Jack opened the door, got out and tucked his shotgun under his arm. Then he hesitated. Through the rain he could see a car approaching on the other side of the railway line. It halted a short distance from the opposite gate. Three doors opened and three policemen stepped out. One held a revolver in his hand; the other two were carrying Lee-Enfield rifles.

  ‘Armed police!’ shouted Jack as he threw himself back in the car. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

  PC Bailey, the driver of the Austin 10, froze like a rabbit as the Riley hurtled towards him. He’d always enjoyed the thrill of the chase and run many a poacher to ground, but this was something new: robbers were supposed to run away from cops, not race backwards on a collision course. Nobody in their right mind reversed at that speed. He must be dealing with a madman. Instinctively, he threw the car into reverse, but the engine stalled and he was reduced to muttering a prayer he’d learned at Sunday school. At the very last moment the Riley switched to the other side of the road and flashed past him. The last he saw of it in his rear-view mirror was the chrome radiator and headlights gleaming through the curtain of rain.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Blimey, Foxy, you’re a fast worker.’ Jack watched as Foxy attached the registration plate.

  ‘Yeah, well you’ve gotta be in this game, ain’t you?’ Foxy stood up and brushed himself down. ‘You never know how much time you’ve got to change a number plate when the old Bill’s on the warpath.’

  ‘What sort of place is this?’ Jack gazed around at the decaying woodwork, bare brick walls, broken windows and concrete floor covered in bird droppings.

  ‘Dunno, mate, and don’t care. It’s by a stream so it probably used to be a mill. I’m just bloody glad I spotted it just before we ran into the heavy artillery. The woodentops won’t expect me to hole up this close to the level crossing, but sooner or later they’ll be back sniffing around, which is why I wanna get going a bit sharpish. That’s a point, where’s that prat Alfie got to?’

  ‘Cleaning the shit out of his pants.’

  ‘Yeah, well so long as he remembers to keep his gloves on…’

  ‘Don’t worry, I told him I’d shove ’em up his arse if he didn’t.’

  ‘Good, then as soon as he’s finished wiping his arse we can start shifting ours. Now where’s my little bag of…’ He paused as a shame-faced Alfie slunk in pulling up his braces. Foxy chuckled, ‘Hello, look what the wind’s blown in. I hope you’ve got a nice clean bottom, Alfie.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Foxy. It’s cos I been eating winkles.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, next time you go on a job remember to eat a proper breakfast.’

  ‘What next time?’ Jack growled.

  ‘Leave it, Jack.’ Foxy held up a hand. ‘First, let’s get the hell out of here, cos if we don’t...’

  ‘How? We’ve got no chance against the rozzers, they’ve got rifles and all we’ve got is a sawn-off and a revolver.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned that’s the good news: it means you two might just stop trying to kill coppers. And I don’t care what you say, there’s always a chance the copper ain’t dead.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Jack frowned and ran his fingers over his scars as if counting them one by one.

  ‘And,’ Foxy continued, ‘like you just said, we got no chance against rifles. You might as well be carrying peashooters. So I ain’t driving if you’re carrying. If you want to walk back to the Smoke your welcome – and you can take Alfie with you – but if you expect me to drive, you get rid of the guns.’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Use your loaf, Jack. Even if they pull us in, if we ain’t got the guns or the money they’ve got nothing to link us to the bank job. With a good brief we’ve got at least a fifty/fifty chance of getting off, but if you and Little Caesar start waving bloody guns about, then we’re all for the long drop.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose…’

  ‘Good. And make sure you wipe that shotgun clean, and I don’t trust Alfie to clean his gun, so you do it. Then take the car plates and chuck the lot in that pond. Not much chance of them being found this side of Christmas – and even if they are, so long as there’s no prints on ’em they’ll have nothing on us.’

  ‘What about the plates?’

  ‘Cleaned ’em already.’

  ‘I s’pose we ain’t got much choice,’ Jack shrugged his shoulders, ‘but even with new number plates we’ll stick out a mile: three blokes in a Riley Continental. If the rozzers spot us they’re bound to pull us in.’

  ‘Not if they think we’ve got guns. They’ll have to radio for the heavy mob, and they ain’t gonna do that if they see only one bloke in the car, which is why you two’ll be lying down in the back covered with a blanket.’

  ‘Mmm, worth a try … might work.’

  ‘Don’t worry, mate, it will work. Old Foxy’s always got a trick up his sleeve. So, the sooner you two move your arses and get shot of the incriminating evidence, the sooner we can eff off out of here.’

  With a sigh, Jack set about his task, carefully wiping every surface of his gun. Finished, he turned to Alfie. ‘Right, hand it over.’

  ‘What?’ Alfie feigned innocence.

  ‘Your shooter.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘If you don’t, I’ll tear yours off.’

  ‘It ain’t fair.’ Like a sulky child, Alfie threw his revolver on the ground and stormed off.

  Without a word, Jack picked it up and got to work. Satisfied, he asked, ‘I just chuck everything in the pond, right?’

  ‘Yeah, and make sure it’s in the middle.’

  Once he was alone, Foxy began his transformation. When Jack returned he had a sullen looking Alfie in tow. They both stared in amazement. Alfie was the first to speak.

  ‘Blimey, you look like a vicar.’

  ‘That�
�s what the woodentops are s’posed to think.’ Foxy adjusted his dog collar and tapped the horn-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Yeah, but what if you get pulled in?’ Jack looked thoughtful. ‘Ain’t it illegal to impersonate a vicar?’

  ‘Not half as illegal as bumping off a copper. Come on, move your arses you two. Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  It had stopped raining and the sun was shining on the bright red telephone box that stood on the corner of Essex Road and Coleman Street. Police Constable Perkins was stationed next to the box. Notebook in hand, he watched the traffic. Twenty-one years of age, fresh faced and six feet three inches tall, he’d joined the police for the excitement, but the reality had turned out to be mind numbing boredom. Fed up and longing for adventure, he had resolved to volunteer for the army if war broke out.

  But today was different. Something exciting had happened at last. His orders were simple. He was to keep a keen look out for a black Riley Continental, registration number RUS 728. This car was to be reported immediately. The registration number of all other black Riley Continentals was to be written down, and if it contained three males it was also to be reported to HQ by means of the telephone. For this purpose he had been given a special number to dial that would put him straight through, bypassing the need to insert coins.

  The orders had been very clear: do not to approach; they are armed and dangerous. A tingle of excitement ran down his spine. A black Riley was approaching, a Continental, but there was only one person visible. He licked his pencil and was about to write the number in his notebook when he recognised the driver. It was William Pollock who ran a car hire business. With a sigh he resumed his watch.

  The traffic was light, mainly Austins, Fords and Morrises. There was a Riley, but it wasn’t a Continental. He was debating whether to visit the army recruiting office tomorrow, when he saw approaching a black Riley Continental on the opposite side of the road. His instinct told him that there was something about it – and it wasn’t just instinct: it was splattered with mud. That was suspicious. He hesitated, unsure whether to lick his pencil or draw his truncheon. He was still wavering, when he realised that it was slowing down. His adrenaline went into overdrive and he reached for his truncheon, but all tension evaporated at the sight of the clerical collar.

  Foxy stopped the car, wound down the window and called out in a singsong voice, ‘I am very sorry to trouble you, officer, but I have come out without my watch. Would you happen to have the correct time?’

  ‘It’s ten minutes past five, sir.’ Perkins snapped smartly to attention and saluted.

  ‘Splendid splendid, then I won’t be late for evensong. Thank you, officer, you have been most helpful.’

  As Foxy drove away he heard a familiar sound from the back of the car.

  ‘Is that what I think it was?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ grunted Jack.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ moaned Alfie. ‘I told yer, it was them winkles I ate.’

  It was well past seven o’clock and sun was low over the hedgerows by the time Foxy finally deposited his passengers. It had been a tortuous drive, threading his way through the back roads and country lanes of Essex. Unsure what to expect from the Essex constabulary, he’d maintained his lone clergyman image, obliging the other two to remain hidden under the blanket. Jack had suffered in silence but Alfie had whinged and whined most of the way. It was only after Jack had threatened to throw him out of the car that he’d finally shut up.

  A mile short of his destination, Foxy called out, ‘Almost there. You can come out now.’

  ‘And about bleeding time too.’ Alfie emerged from under the blanket, blinking in the evening sun. ‘Where the bleedin’ hell are we?’

  ‘Just approaching Shenfield.’

  ‘And where the fuck’s that?’ Alfie peered at the handful of suburban villas lining the road.

  ‘It’s on the main line to London. The trains coming from Southend or Chelmsford all stop here, so you can hop off at Stratford.’ Foxy halted just short of the railway station. ‘Nip out a bit sharpish and walk along to the station. I don’t want any nosey railway porters spotting you getting out of this car.’

  Without a word, Alfie jumped out and sloped off in the direction of the station.

  Before following him, Jack offered his hand. ‘Thanks, Foxy, I owe you one. Anytime you need a favour…’

  ‘Thanks, Jack, I appreciate it,’ Foxy shook it, ‘but you’d better get moving…’

  Chapter 5

  It was dark by the time Foxy turned into the nondescript street off London Road in Southend. The beam of the headlights picked out the words painted on the heavy wooden gates: A H Farrow & Daughter Scrap Merchants. With a sigh of relief he brought the car to a halt and switched off the ignition. The dog collar and black shirtfront having been ditched somewhere near Wickford, he was collarless. A quick rummage around located his collar and tie, but he couldn’t find a collar stud. ‘Well she’ll have to take me as she finds me,’ he murmured, as climbed out of the car and stretched his aching body.

  There was a light in the downstairs window as he rapped the door knocker. Nothing happened. He knocked again. This time there was a response. The frosted glass panel of the front door lit up as one of the internal doors opened.

  Lil had been getting ready for bed when she heard the knock. Wearing a pink dressing gown, her blonde curls reaching almost to her bosom, she had been curled up on the sofa with a cup of cocoa listening to the radio. Her figure was a collection of well shaped curves that had ripened with age, but under the soft fluffy exterior lurked a tough interior. When her father had been conscripted into the army in the dying days of the war, never to return, it had fallen upon Lil, barely out of her teens, to take over the running of the family business.

  The late twenties and early thirties had been tough going, but Lil’s willingness to use her body to clinch a deal, particularly with local councillors, had ensured enough contracts to keep the firm afloat until German rearmament resulted in a massive increase in the demand for scrap metal. When the local trams were replaced by trolleybuses, it was Lil who’d shipped the old tramlines over to Germany to be converted into tanks and guns, having first secured a very good price from a rather randy Nazi official.

  As she paused to check her appearance in the hallway mirror, there was an impatient rap on the glass door panel.

  ‘All right, Foxy, I’m coming. You don’t have to break the damned door down.’

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘How do I ever? You can’t just knock, you have to play Land of hope and Glory.

  When she opened the door and caught sight of him, she gasped, ‘Cripes, Foxy, you do look a sight. What, on Earth are you doing wandering around at this time of night without a collar or tie? You’re not on the run, are you?’

  ‘Course not, Lil.’

  ‘Hmmm...’ She waved her cigarette holder. ‘Don’t tell me; let me guess. I suppose you’ve been on the piss and didn’t fancy the drive back.’

  ‘You’re bleeding joking. I haven’t had a drink all day. I’m gasping for one.’

  ‘Then you’d better come in.’

  ‘Er, yeah…’ He hesitated on the threshold. ‘Um, would you mind opening the gates? I don’t want to leave the car in the street.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ she chuckled. ‘I should have known. You’re a bit old for nicking cars aren’t you, darlin’? That’s a kid’s game.’ She frowned. ‘How much is this going to cost me?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s a present. Just make sure it’s broken up first thing tomorrow.’ He stroked his moustache.

  ‘Ahh…’ She gave him quizzical look. ‘You haven’t been on a job, have you, darlin’? I thought you didn’t go in for that sort of thing anymore.’

  ‘I don’t. I haven’t been on one in years… Honest…’

  ‘Haven’t been on a job in years?’ Lil reached out for the packet of cigarettes on the bedside table. She handed one to Foxy who was lying beside her, head
resting on the lacy pillow.

  ‘You can’t fool me, darlin’. The last time you gave me such a hammering was after the Hatton Garden job five years ago.’

  ‘Yeah, well…’ Foxy lit his cigarette.

  As he did so, she placed a hand on his chest and slid it down past his stomach. ‘Thought so,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve definitely been up to your old tricks. It’s the only thing I know that gives you a permanent hard-on … not that I’m complaining.’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose there’s no fooling you, Lil. How long’s it been now?’

  ‘Twelve years; you were still young and innocent then … well maybe not innocent.’

  ‘Heh-heh, you still taught me a few tricks, though.’

  ‘Probably why you always come back to mama, either that or because you’re in trouble. How hot’s that car?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it hot … lukewarm perhaps,’ he tickled the inside of her thigh, ‘unlike you.’

  ‘So how did it go?’

  ‘How did what go?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, darlin’.’ She brushed his hand away. ‘You know dammed well what I’m talking about. How did the job go?’

  ‘So so…’

  ‘So it went badly?’

  ‘It wasn’t great.

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘No payday…’

  ‘Mmm … d’you need a sub? I could give you something for the car…’

  ‘Nah, I didn’t do it for the money.’ He slid his hand back up between her thighs.

  ‘So, why did you do it?’ She ignored the hand.

  ‘Somebody asked me for a favour…’

  ‘Ah, yes, you Eastenders…’

  ‘I’m from Walthamstow.’

  ‘Sorry, I keep forgetting. But you used to mix with that crowd in the old days, didn’t you?’

  ‘I still do a lot of business in dockland. Can’t just rely on what falls off the back of lorries, ships are bigger.’ He moved his hand higher and began to go round the edges with a finger.

  ‘So who persuaded you to come out of retirement?’ She opened her legs slightly.

  ‘Retirement? You make it sound like I was pushing sixty or something. I didn’t retire, I just moved on.’