A Hanging Job

by W H Oxley

  ‘And if you’re going to start rabbiting on about that bloody bank job, forget it.’

  ‘In my humble opinion you should reconsider my proposition.’ Alfie did his best to sound pompous.

  ‘I know you’ve got plenty to be humble about, but what makes you think I’d be daft enough to reconsider?’

  ‘Well, what about her?’ Alfie motioned toward Kitty who was standing in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘What d’you mean? What’s she got to do with your one-man crime wave? Do you need someone to make the tea while you’re robbing a bank?’

  ‘What if her old man finds out you’ve been banging her?’

  ‘And who’s going to tell him?’

  ‘You never know…’ Alfie smirked.

  ‘Blimey, Alfie, this really takes the biscuit. I always knew you were a scumbag and a piece of shit, but I never thought of you as a blackmailer, the lowest form of animal life.’

  ‘It ain’t blackmail,’ Alfie sniffed. ‘It’s a negotiating stance.’

  ‘Blimey, who taught you that one? I bet you don’t even know what it means.’

  ‘Course I do,’ Alfie mumbled.

  ‘Anyhow, you’re welcome to tell her husband: he won’t give a toss. But write him a letter, cos I wouldn’t recommend that you tell him in person.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Cos he’s into small boys, and you being a small boy he might want to show his gratitude.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘And now, piss off. Cos if you don’t I’m gonna take this rolling pin and shove where you’ll get a foretaste of what her old man would like to do to you.’

  Chapter 9

  The war continued at a steady pace. The Germans pushed on into Poland from the west, and the Russians attacked from the east – but Foxy had other things on his mind.

  ‘Come on, Pete, they’ve got to be worth fifteen bob a piece. They can pick up medium wave, long wave and short wave. Lovely bit of furniture too. Once the war gets under way you’ll have no trouble getting more than couple of quid each for ’em.’

  ‘The war’s over, Foxy. I’ll offer you seven shillings.’

  ‘Wad’yah mean, over? It’s only just started.’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘Nah, never get the time.’

  ‘The Russians have joined in the war on the German side, Poland’s done for and now Hitler says he wants to make peace with us and the Frogs.’

  ‘Blimey, you can’t rely on anyone these days. All right, I’ll make it twelve and six.’

  ‘Nine shillings, take it or leave it…’

  ‘Ten bob if you take a dozen.’

  ‘Done!’

  ‘Where have you got them stashed away?’

  ‘Come off it, mate, you don’t expect me to tell you that.’

  ‘I just hope it’s not some lock up in Hackney.’

  ‘Er, why d’you ask?’ Foxy’s tone remained casual but a butterfly fluttered in his stomach.

  ‘Because there was something about it in tonight’s paper… Where is it… Ah here we are. Now let’s see… Yes, I thought so. Here it is: “After receiving an anonymous tip off, the police raided a lock up in Pierpoint Street and discovered a cache of stolen radios.” It seems they’re now trying to trace the person who rented… Christ, Foxy, you’ve gone white! Can I get you a drink?’

  Foxy sat in the billiard hall that served as the headquarters of the firm. He was awaiting an audience with Sid. It was ten o’clock in the morning and the place was deserted. Unable to sit any more, he began to pace up and down among the green baize tables, pondering his dilemma…

  Let’s face it Foxy, you’re well and truly in it, up the creek without a paddle. And what’s more, you know the name of the piece of shit that dropped you in it but you can’t prove it. Meantime, you owe Sid a couple of hundred quid, enough to buy a house, and Sid ain’t exactly known for his generosity… Oops, here he comes.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Foxy.’ Sid strolled up to him with an outstretched hand. As Foxy shook his hand he scrutinised the face: friendly enough, though the eyes as usual were hard. ‘I can guess why you’re here,’ Sid continued. ‘I heard all about it. Any idea who grassed you up?’

  ‘I could make a guess.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Sid looked thoughtful; then adopted a sincere expression. ‘I can’t let off the hook, Foxy, business is business. How much time do you need to pay?’

  ‘Depends… If the worst comes to the worst, I could always take up Alfie’s offer.’

  Sid looked at him sharply. ‘I didn’t know the berk was trying to rope you in on his latest fiasco.’

  ‘Has been since the night of your engagement party… By the way, how’s Josie keeping?’

  ‘She’s fine; sends her regards. You’re invited to the wedding. We’re bringing the date forwards on account of the war.’

  ‘Ta for the invite. What would you like for a wedding present, a radio?’

  ‘Hah-hah, nice one, glad to see you ain’t lost your sense of humour.’ Sid laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I like you, Foxy; Josie likes you; we both like you. Take a bit of advice from me, don’t do another job with that nephew of mine, just don’t, okay?’

  ‘Yeah, but what about the money?’

  ‘Hmm, tell you what, just leave it for the time being. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Is there a catch?’

  Sid grinned. ‘You know me, Foxy, of course there’s a catch.’ He patted him on the back. ‘You owe me a favour. Next time I need a driver, you drive. No questions asked, okay.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Shake.’ Sid extended his hand.

  They shook…

  Alfie was waiting outside the hall.

  ‘Wotcher, Foxy.’

  ‘Piss off!’

  ‘I heard about your bit of bad luck.’

  ‘I bet you did.’

  ‘And I want to help…’

  ‘I can believe that.’

  ‘You can have half the take.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, you little toe rag,’ Foxy grabbed him by the collar and twisted it until his face turned red, ‘why don’t you keep a hundred per cent for yourself, cos I wouldn’t touch any job of yours with a bloody bargepole.’

  When he finally released Alfie, he was gasping for breath and whining, ‘You’ll be sorry … you’ll be sorry…’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘What about the money you owe Sid?’ Alfie recovered his composure.

  ‘Well, what about it?’

  ‘How’re you going ter pay it.’

  ‘Sid and me have come to an arrangement. Sid’s a good mate.’

  ‘Is he? There was a malevolent glint in Alfie’s eyes. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Yes I bloody well am. So, piss off!’

  Four days later the telegram arrived. It was terse and to the point: meet me back row Odeon three thirty tomorrow urgent. It didn’t say which Odeon cinema. It didn’t have to. Foxy knew.

  Next day he set off bright and early, taking the train to Saint Pancras. Once there, he took the Circle Line underground train to Tower Hill. He wandered down to the Tower of London and spent a bit of time sitting on a bench in the shadow of Tower Bridge. After half an hour he set off again. Strolling past the crowd listening to the soapbox orator, he headed for Bank tube station. When he reached the platform there were only a few people waiting for the next train. He went to the far end, several carriage lengths from the nearest person. When the train squealed to a halt, he hopped in and stood in the doorway, one foot placed to block the sliding door. When the guard closed the doors, he jumped back onto the deserted platform and watched as the train whistled off into the tunnel. Then he caught the next train.

  When he reached the cinema fifteen minutes early, she was already there sitting in the middle of the back row. A scarf covered her hair and she was wearing an old coat.

  Sliding into the seat next to her, he asked, ‘What’s going on? I hardly recognised you.
You look like a housewife. I thought we’d agreed not to meet. It’s too risky. If Sid finds out, he’ll play noughts and crosses on your face and I’ll get a concrete overcoat.’

  ‘He’s going to find out about us,’ Josie’s voice was a whisper, ‘if you don’t do as you’re told.’

  ‘Told by who?’

  ‘Alfie…’ A tear rolled down her cheek.

  He reached out and brushed it away. ‘What’s that idiot got to do with it?’

  ‘He knows about us. He said so.’

  ‘He’s probably bluffing. Did you deny it?’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘Did he say what proof he had?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Sid’ll tear his balls off if he dares slag you off.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘So, don’t worry, he can’t prove a thing.’

  ‘Ah, but I can prove it now!’

  ‘Blimey, it’s Alfie! How the heck did you–’

  ‘Followed her didn’t I.’ A gloating Alfie slid into the seat next to Foxy. ‘You may have gone to grammar school, but you ain’t half as clever as me.’

  Josie began to sob, ‘Oh, Foxy, oh, Foxy, what have I done? I could have sworn I wasn’t followed.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love, I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Yeah, push off, Josie, and let me and Foxy talk business.’

  ‘You’d better go, love.’ Foxy gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort this out, even if I have to kill the creep.’

  ‘No you won’t. I’ve left a sealed letter with my solicitor to give to Sid if anything happens to me.’

  A week later, another suburb, another high street, Foxy pondered his situation as he followed Alfie along the pavement…

  I s’pose it could have been worse, at least it’s not armed robbery. Jack refused point blank and nobody else was daft enough to volunteer for Alfie’s little caper. I was beginning to think my luck was in, but he had another little scheme up his sleeve: smash and grab.

  ‘Here we are, Foxy, there’s the jeweller’s.’ Alfie pointed to the shop up ahead.

  ‘Ah, here comes Peck and Fox is with him.’ From his vantage point at the first floor window of the chartered accountant’s office across the street, Hawker had a first class view of the jeweller’s shop opposite. He applied a match to his pipe and struck a Holmesian pose. ‘I’m really looking forward to nabbing this one, Brightwell. I’ve been after him for years.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘I told you my source was impeccable.’

  ‘But we still don’t know when the robbery will take place, sir.’

  ‘I don’t know now, but I will when the time comes.’

  ‘What do you plan to do in the meantime?’

  ‘Do you fancy a pint?’

  ‘Are we off duty, sir?’

  ‘We are now. Come on, it’s your shout.’

  Three days later, Hawker received his tip off.

  ‘It’s first thing Monday morning, Brightwell.’

  ‘What is, sir?’

  ‘Alfred Peck’s smash and grab. It’s time for me to get on the blower and arrange a little reception committee.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘No. My source has assured me they will not be carrying firearms. A car and a couple of coppers to seal off each end of the High Street should do the trick.’

  Sunday night found Foxy in the Travellers Return, a pub in Plaistow. Blackout regulations being in force as a precaution against air raids, the lights were dim and the windows heavily curtained. The place was packed and the tobacco smoke as thick as a London fog. The piano was belting out We’re Gonna Hang out the Washing on the Siegfried Line, and the crowd were singing lustily.

  Foxy leaned on the bar, sipping unenthusiastically at a Whisky Mac as he listened to Alfie issuing last minute orders.

  ‘Right, is the car organised?’

  ‘Of course it bloody well is.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A Morris 8.’

  ‘A Morris 8? That’s a car for old ladies: it’s not fast enough.’

  ‘I ain’t planning on driving fast. I’m planning on switching number plates fast. That’s why I’m using a Morris 8. There’s so many about it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack. The law can’t stop every Morris 8 in London.’

  ‘Mmm…’ Alfie was impressed but did his best not to show it. ‘Even you can’t change a number plate that fast.’

  ‘I can if it clips on and off.’ Foxy blew a smoke ring. ‘It’s dead simple. Just before we get there, we nip out and clip a number plate over the existing one. Then, assuming you don’t make a cock up of it, as soon as we’ve got away, I stop somewhere quiet and we whip ’em off again – then, like I said, needle in a haystack.’

  ‘Not bad, Foxy, not bad, I did the right thing taking you on. Next time–’

  ‘There ain’t gonna be no next time. That was the deal.’

  ‘Yeah yeah, of course not. What I meant to say was, next time, when I get another driver, I was hoping you might give a bit of advice.’

  ‘So long as it’s just advice.’

  ‘Of course of course, just advice…’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Have you made sure the tank’s full? I’ve been hearing the war’s causing petrol shortages.’

  ‘Don’t worry it’s all sorted.’

  ‘And don’t forget to allow plenty of–’

  ‘For Gawd’s sake shut up. You’re starting to get on my tits. I was doing this before you’d learnt to masturbate, and I… Blimey, it’s the old Bill,’

  ‘Where?’ Alfie turned pale.

  Three policemen had just entered the pub. They started checking the papers of all men in military uniform, looking for anyone who had overstayed their leave. Satisfied, they were about to depart when one of them caught sight of Alfie.

  Marching over, he asked, ‘Is your name Alfred Peck?’

  ‘Could be…’ Alfie shuffled uneasily.

  ‘Is it or is it not?’

  ‘So what if it is? I ain’t done nuffin.’

  ‘You are being sought by the army.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For failing to report for military service. Did you not receive your call up papers?’

  ‘Yeah, but it just said that His Majesty requested my presence.’

  ‘So why did you not present yourself, when ordered to do so?’

  ‘Cos it didn’t say I was ordered to. It was just an invitation.’

  ‘When His Majesty requests your presence, you present yourself.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’ll present meself tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh no you won’t, you will accompany us now.’

  ‘What!’ Alfie looked aghast. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you are a deserter. You will be spending the night as our guest, and tomorrow you will be handed over to the military police.’

  ‘Can I at least finish my beer?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As Alfie sipped his beer, trying to make it last as long as possible, the pianist struck up an old recruiting song from the previous war, and the crowd sang it with gusto.

  We don’t want to lose you, but we think you ought to go.

  Your King and your country, they both need you so…

  Chapter 10

  ‘I’m bloody sure he was bluffing,’ muttered a voice, as Foxy raked in the pot.

  ‘So why didn’t you call my bluff?’ Foxy sat back grinning, thumbs stuck in scarlet braces. He was in shirtsleeves, tie loosened and collar undone, though his hat remained perched firmly on his head.

  It had been over a week since Alfie’s sudden departure, and life had returned to normal with only a few minor disruptions caused by the war. Foxy rarely missed the regular Friday night poker session at the back of Les White’s hardware shop. Not only was it a chance to win a bit of money, but also an opportunity to do a little business and pick up useful information.

  As Frankie Pool, who worked at the Town Hall, dealt the cards, Foxy dogged out his fag in the overflowing
ashtray and took a sip of Scotch. After a quick glance at his cards he folded. All the others folded except for Les who’d raised. Then the phone rang.

  Reluctantly rising to his feet, Les limped over and picked it up.

  ‘It’s for you. Foxy,’ he announced.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘He won’t say. He’s calling from a call box. Sounds a bit dodgy, shall I say you’re not here?’

  ‘Nah. I’ll take it. It’s probably some bird’s husband.’

  ‘Heh-heh, you’ll come unstuck one of these days. Here.’ Les handed him the phone.

  ‘Foxy speaking, can I help you?’

  ‘If you recognise my voice don’t say my name. If they find out I’ve phoned you I’m stuffed, got it?’

  ‘Er, yeah…’

  ‘Do you know who I am? Just answer yes or no.’

  ‘Yes.’ Foxy had no difficulty in recognising Jack’s monosyllabic style of speech.

  ‘Good. Now listen carefully. I owe you one for getting me out of the shit on that bank job, so I’m giving you a bit of advice: get the fuck out of town as fast as you can, and whatever you do don’t go home, cos they’re waiting for you there.’

  Foxy glanced at the poker players. They were all engrossed in the game.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he whispered into the phone. ‘Who’s waiting for me?’

  ‘Sid knows all about you and Josie. That little scumbag Alfie told him.’

  Cold fingers of fear gripped Foxy by the balls and prodded his stomach. ‘What about Josie?’ He whispered. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘You don’t want to know…’

  ‘But is she…’

  ‘A write off.’ The voice was emphatic.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Worse…’

  ‘Worse? Her face?’

  ‘Bride of Frankenstein…’

  ‘But but…’

  ‘Look, Foxy, I owed you one. Now we’re quits. So remember, next time I run into you I’ll be working for Sid … got it?’ Click

  Making appropriate noises, Foxy pretended that someone was still on the line, as he struggled to block out the image of Josie looking like a patchwork quilt.

  Think, Foxy, think, there’s always a way out; all you’ve gotta do is find it. But how the fuck do I do a runner when all I’ve got is the clothes on my back and all the money’s in the house. Nothing for it, if I’m gonna get my hands on my lolly, I’m gonna have to get inside my gaff. Risky, but if they don’t know I’ve been tipped off, they’ll just be watching the front. Maybe I could sneak in the back way…