by W H Oxley
‘Don’t worry, love, you’ve still got all your hair. But who was it?’
‘It’s best you don’t know.’ He inserted a finger and began to massage.
‘Is there anything that the police can pin on you?’ She opened her legs wider.
‘Nothing I can’t talk my way out of.’ He bent over and ran is tongue along the length of her torso, from top to bottom.
‘Ahhh … yes, you always did have a silver tongue…’
Bed linen, carpet, curtains and wallpaper, everything was pink, even the bacon. Foxy sat propped up in bed, eating breakfast off a tray in the rose tinted surroundings of Lil’s bedroom. Foxy, however, was not feeling in the pink. It was a good breakfast, and it had been a good night. Lil, as usual, had been obliging, very obliging. But now, after the adrenaline of the chase and the exertions of the night, he pondered his situation…
I wish that paperboy would shift his arse. There was nothing on the radio last night. A copper getting gunned down, that should have been on the news. But all they were rambling on about was Germany and Danzig. There’s bugger all else in the news these days. If they’re going to have a bloody war, the sooner they get started the better. It’s about the only thing that might save my bacon: who’s gonna give a monkey’s about one dead copper when the Germans start dropping bombs on London. Why can’t that prat Hitler move his bloody arse? Come on, Adolf, I’m counting on you…
‘Cripes, darlin’, you look like the Queen of Sheba.’ Lil, her blonde hair now piled up on her head, marched in waving a copy of the News Chronicle.
‘Give us a break, Lil, and more important, give me that bloody paper.’
‘You haven’t made the front page, love; from the way you were behaving, I was starting to think you’d killed somebody.’
Foxy ignored her, grabbed the paper and snuffled his way through it like a pig hunting truffles – nothing. Watched intently by Lil, he repeated the process before tossing it away in disgust.
‘I take it you didn’t find what you were looking for? Lil folded her arms and tilted her head to one side.
‘Nope.’
‘Look on the bright side, darlin’. No news is good news.’
‘Yeah, I suppose… What about the car? When are–’
‘What car?’
‘Already?’
‘See for yourself.’
Foxy eased himself out of bed, padded over to the window and looked down into the yard. About the size of a couple of tennis courts, it was crammed full of unrecognizable chunks of metal, though there was something familiar about a set of headlamps perched on a bench, but other than that all trace of the Riley had vanished.
‘Blimey, Lil, that was quick.’
‘My boys finished taking that car apart before you’d awoken from your beauty sleep.’
‘Heh-heh, that’s my girl. What would I do without you?’
‘What you always do, darlin’: a bit of stuff about twenty years younger.’
‘But I always come back to mama…’
The newsagent’s white walrus moustache was stained yellow. One elbow resting on the counter, he puffed away at his pipe, sending vast clouds of smoke in the air. When Foxy asked for a copy of every daily newspaper except the News Chronicle he didn’t bat an eye. Laying down his pipe, he collected them together and took Foxy’s proffered half crown.
‘Are you trying to pick a winner, guv?’ he asked, as he handed him his change.
‘Nah …’
‘Keeping up with the international situation, are you then?’
‘Yeah, I s’pose you could say that…’
‘You’ll have a good read then. The papers are full of it. They keep saying that Hitler wants peace, but I don’t believe it. You mark my words, there’s another war coming and it’ll be worse than the last one. That’s why I always keep this handy.’ He rummaged around under the counter and produced a gas mask. ‘I was on the Somme; I know what gas can do to a man, nasty stuff gas. I never go anywhere without it. Have you got yours?’
‘Er, yeah, I think it’s at home somewhere.’ Foxy gathered up his newspapers and began to beat a hasty retreat. ‘But thanks for the advice. I’ll bear it in mind.’ He exited the shop, leaving the old soldier standing to attention behind the counter, holding his gas mask.
Once outside, Foxy made straight for the nearest pub. The place turned out to be almost empty, just a couple of old men playing dominos while a few bored bluebottles buzzed round and round in aimless circles. The full bosomed barmaid took his order with barely a glance. Foxy twitched with impatience as she took an eternity to pump out a pint of Mann’s best bitter.
Having paid for his beer, he located a seat in the most remote corner of the pub before setting about his task. There was nothing in the Mail, Herald or Express. Desperation was starting to set in when he turned to the Daily Mirror. It was there that he found what he was looking for on page five. A photograph of a grinning PC George Robinson and the headline:
The Keystone Crooks
Brave Bobby Fools Bungling Bank Robber
Two men that had carried out a brutal armed bank robbery were escaping with their ill gotten gains when they were confronted by PC George Robinson, a decorated war hero. At the sight of the gallant officer of the law, the robber who was carrying the bag of money panicked and dropped it.
According to PC Robinson, when the masked robber fired a gun at him, he pretended to be shot and deliberately fell on the bag of money, forcing the villains to flee empty handed. Whilst nobody in any way disputes his version of the events, in spite of a thorough search, the police have been unable to recover a single bullet from the scene.
Chapter 6
‘It was Fox. This case has his grubby paw marks all over it. Nobody else in the business could drive like that.’ Detective Inspector Hawker of the Flying Squad applied another match to his pipe, leaned back in his chair, plonked his feet up on the desk, stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket and puffed away furiously.
‘Fox, sir, I don’t think the name rings a bell.’ Detective Sergeant Brightwell fumbled with a packet of Woodbines. Young, keen and recently posted to the Flying Squad, he was eager to make an impression.
‘It was before your time, sergeant. Fredrick Cuthbert Fox, he’s been retired for nearly five years, or so my informants tell me.’ Hawker waved his pipe – it was a standing joke in Scotland Yard that he was an avid fan of Sherlock Holmes.
‘When did you last nick him?’
‘I’ve never managed to, and nor has anybody else. I’ve felt his collar a few times but could never get anything to stick. He’s a slippery character, is our Fox, though I’m dammed sure that if the crafty blighter hadn’t retired I’d have nabbed him sooner or later. I’d just love to pin this one on him.’
‘I must say, sir, the robbery didn’t exactly have the hallmark of a high class operation. The whole thing struck me as being a bit amateurish.’ Having managed to extract a cigarette, Brightwell lit it.
‘Yes, that’s what’s been puzzling me. Which ever way you look at it, it’s not the run-of-the-mill bank robbery: small suburban bank, incompetent robbers but top rate driver.’
‘Is it possible, sir, the Hertfordshire police have exaggerated the driver’s abilities in order to cover up their own incompetence?’
‘I doubt it. That bunch of farm boys would never have the imagination to dream up the escape by reversing at high speed ploy. That’s got Fox’s moniker all over it. I can almost smell the blighter.’
‘What about the other two, sir, any idea who they are?’
‘Not the foggiest – and, odder still, not even a whisper.’
‘Nothing from the snouts?’
‘Tried them all, not a single informer is talking.’
‘Did you lean on them?’
‘I most certainly did, but I got the distinct impression that someone else was leaning on them from the opposite side.’
‘I don’t quite follow, sir.’
‘It all adds up,
Brightwell, whoever the other two were they have to be connected to somebody high up in the criminal fraternity, somebody big enough to frighten off the snouts and influential enough to coax Fox out of retirement.’
‘Any idea who, sir?’
‘I could make an educated guess, but knowing is one thing, proving it, another. Come on, Brightwell, grab your hat. We’re going to pay a little visit to an old friend of mine.’
‘Mr Big, sir?’
‘No, Mr Slippery. Have you ever been to Walthamstow, Brightwell?’
‘I can’t say I have, sir.’
‘Well, now’s your chance, come on…’
The platform of Southend Central station was crowded with day-trippers: children clutching buckets and spades, old men in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, young men in sports jackets and plump ladies with hats labelled Kiss Me Quick perched on their heads, all heading homeward after a glorious day at the seaside.
In his well pressed, brown striped, double breasted suit and hat set at a rakish angle, Foxy presented a sharp contrast to the crowd. He’d taken the precaution of purchasing a first class ticket and stood well back from the hoi polloi. When the train finally squealed to a halt in a cloud of steam the mob parted miraculously, leaving the way to the first class section clear as they all clamoured around third class.
Having located an empty compartment, Foxy settled himself comfortably into the plush seat, pulled out a silver cigarette case and extracted a cigarette. When the guard blew his whistle, there was a soft chugging sound as the train began to ease itself out of the station. Once under way, he relaxed. Things were looking up: they can’t hang him and, with a little bit of luck, Hitler will finally stop pissing about, start a war and give the police something else to worry about.
When he alighted at Walthamstow, dusk was creeping in. Once out of the station he set off at a brisk pace, threading his way through the side streets. On reaching his destination, he noted an unfamiliar car parked outside the terraced house.
‘Ah, Fox, just the man I’m looking for.’ A familiar bowler hatted figure stepped out of the car. ‘Aren’t you going to invite us in?’
‘Sorry, Inspector, my dad doesn’t like me bringing back strange men.’ Foxy adopted an expression of wide eyed innocence.
‘If I recall correctly, you do not live with your father. You are the sole tenant of this establishment.’
‘Yeah, but still…’
‘Alternately,’ Hawker jutted his chin forward as his companion moved round behind Foxy, ‘I could ask you to accompany myself and Detective Sergeant Brightwell to the local police station in order to assist us with our enquires.’
‘What enquires?’ Foxy ignored Brightwell’s breath on the back of his neck.
‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘Nah, they’re full of rubbish about Hitler.’ Foxy stroked his moustache.
‘I am investigating an armed robbery.’ Hawker resumed a pompous pose and waved his pipe.
‘Bollocks! Do I look like an armed robber? I’m a respectable businessman.’
‘I am not too sure about the respectable. Where were you at two-fifteen yesterday afternoon?’
‘With a lady friend.’
‘In the afternoon?’
‘Only time we can fit it in: when her old man’s at work.’
‘Will she vouch for this?’
‘Don’t talk daft. He’d beat the shit out of her.’
‘So, you have nobody who can vouch for your whereabouts?’
‘If I’d done a robbery, I’d’ve made bloody sure I had an alibi. What was it, a jeweller’s?’
‘No, a bank.’
‘Phewee, sounds classy. How much did they get away with?’
‘Nothing, not a penny.’
‘Must’ve been a bunch of amateurs, probably kids trying it on.’
‘The driver was a real professional. You used to be an ace driver, didn’t you, Fox?’
‘Kind of you to say so, Inspector…’
‘I’ll bet there’s nobody as good as you?’
‘As the actress said to the bishop…’
‘Don’t get too clever.’
‘As the art mistress said to the gardener…’
‘Watch it, Fox!’
‘Like I said, Inspector, I cannot assist you with your enquires,’ Foxy took a step backwards onto Brightwell’s toes, ‘and I cannot invite you in.’
Hawker clamped his pipe firmly back in his mouth, and growled, ‘Come on, Brightwell. We’re wasting our time here. You can drive.’ He climbed into his seat, closed the door and wound down the window. ‘If you do have any information, Fox…’
‘I won’t hesitate to get in touch with you, Inspector.’
‘I’m sure you will... Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention it, you had a visitor…’
‘A lady?’
‘No, it was Alfred Peck. I didn’t know he was a friend of yours.’
‘He ain’t.’
‘Then, why would he be calling on you?’
‘Dunno, maybe he wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. Why didn’t you ask him?’
‘Isn’t he a nephew of Sid Weston?’
‘That’s Sid’s problem, not mine.’
‘How well do you know Weston?’
‘I’ve done business with him.’
‘Have you done business with Peck?’
‘Do me a favour, Inspector, piss off.’
Tut tut, temper temper, I do believe that I have touched a sensitive spot.’ A grinning Hawker wound up the window as the car pulled away.
Silently cursing that idiot Alfie, Foxy waited for the car to disappear before he opened the gate. He was about to close it when a firm hand stopped him.
‘’Ello, Foxy, enjoy your cosy little chat with the Sweeney?’
The lapels of the double-breasted suit were turned up and the hat pulled down low, but Foxy had no trouble recognizing Sid Weston’s number one enforcer, Slasher Thompson – so named on account of his expertise with a cut-throat razor.
‘Blimey, Slasher, you scared the shits out of me. Where the hell did you come from? It was bad enough having the rozzers loitering on the doorstep without you sneaking up like that. I hope the pricks didn’t clock you.’
‘Nah, spotted ’em a mile away. I’ve been in the shrubbery of that empty house up the street, keeping an eye on ’em. They’ve been sitting there for over an hour, probably wanking each other off.’
‘You need a cock to do that, and I ain’t too sure Hawker’s got one. Anyhow, what are you doing here?’
‘Sid asked me to nip over and see if you got back okay.’
‘Very considerate of him. You can reassure Sid I got back safe and sound.’
‘What about the car?’
‘Vanished into thin air.’
‘Good, I’ll tell Sid. ’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Sid’s wants to know if you can meet him in Benny’s gym tomorrow.’
‘What time?’
‘About three o’clock.’
‘Tell him I’ll be there.’
Chapter 7
Benny’s gym smelt of carbolic, sweat and sawdust. Situated inside an old warehouse in a back street in Hoxton, it was dominated by the boxing ring. In it, two small boys were slugging it out watched by Sid and a handful of others. Foxy recognised Benny and Slasher Thompson, but of the rest of the cauliflower eared, broken nosed brigade the only one he could name was Lefty Muldoon, another of Sid’s enforcers, though there was something familiar about the grizzle haired referee.
Sharply dressed in a three piece suit, a red carnation in the buttonhole, Sid was puffing away at a Havana cigar. Born into a poverty stricken household in Canning Town, he’d been blessed with two advantages: he was big and he had brains. Having built up a bit of capital by robbing a bank, he invested the proceeds in a pub and pool hall. When one of the local heavies had the audacity to ask for protection money the man simply disappeared – and Sid took over his territory. The number of
disappearances increased as Sid expanded his empire, the task being simplified by the construction of the Southend Arterial Road, a twenty mile length of concrete stretching from Romford to Southend.
Keeping in the shadow of the doorway, Foxy took in the surreal scene. It was a moment before he realised that there something unusual about the boys: they were identical twins. As he watched, the two traded blow for blow with a skill that belied their years, egged on by Sid who was shouting encouragement and waving his cigar. Finally, the referee declared it a draw, everyone applauded loudly and Sid presented each of the boys with a one pound note.
Spotting Foxy standing in the doorway, he marched over to him and slapped him on the back. The smile was warm and friendly but the eyes, cold and alert as he shook Foxy’s hand.
‘Glad you could make it, Foxy. You just missed a bloody good fight.’
‘Er, yeah, I caught the last bit.’
‘Great little fighters ain’t they, a real chip off the old block?’
‘Old block?’
‘Jimmy Lee’s grandsons: Ronnie and Reggie Kray.’
‘Jimmy Lee? Oh yeah, of course. I thought I recognised the ref: Cannonball Lee, he was a bloody good in his day.’ Foxy ignored the smile and tried to read Sid’s eyes. ‘Anyhow, you didn’t get me here to watch a couple of small boys beating each other up. If you’re expecting me to do any more favours for Alfie you can forget it.’
Sid’s smile vanished and the eyes hardened. ‘Yeah, you can pick your mates but you’re stuck with your family. I never thought the berk would be daft enough to chuck the money away.’
‘And I’d never thought the prat would be thick enough to come banging on my front door when the Sweeny were parked outside.’
‘Bollocks, I didn’t know about that! What did he want?’
‘Dunno. I wasn’t there when he called. It was that that prick, Hawker, who told me.’
‘Yeah, I heard the creep was hanging about, but I didn’t know he’d clocked Alfie.’
‘And Alfie didn’t know he’d been clocked.’
‘Yeah, well, like I said, he’s family and I’m lumbered with him.’
‘And you’re bloody well welcome to him… But if you didn’t get me here for that why did you?’
