by Jake Arnott
‘Great,’ says Beardsley in a huff as we drive off. ‘This means we’ve got to deal with the fucking hairies.’
‘Don’t worry about it, son,’ I tell him. ‘Business is business.’
A couple of days later Harry calls me up.
‘I’ve got a meet fixed with Mooney,’ he says. ‘Want to sit in?’
So Harry’s serious about moving into the porn racket. Wants me in on that as well. I’m flattered but also wary. Not sure if I want to be on his firm permanent. Prefer being freelance, me. Still, it’s worth sussing out so I say: ‘Yeah, sure.’
And I bomb over to The Stardust in the Zodiac. Harry’s on the top table all laid out dead flash. Champagne in an ice bucket.
‘Kid worked out on the drop all right?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, no bother.’
Beardsley’s working out fine. Don’t mention our little drug enterprise though. Never sure if Harry might be greedy and want his cut like the Other Two.
‘Seen the papers?’ he asks me all agitated.
Shrug.
‘Just looked at the racing page.’
‘Well take a load of this,’ he says handing over tonight’s Evening Standard.
TOP OF THE POPS COMPOSER AND A WIFE SHOT DEAD, reads the headline. Joe Meek in double tragedy at recording studio, in a line above it. I read on: Joe Meek, 36-year-old composer of the Top Ten hit Telstar and promoter of three pop groups, was found dead today at the Holloway, London, recording studios he always called The Bathroom.
Beside him on the landing of his flat was a 12-bore shotgun. Down the stairs nearby, dying from shotgun wounds in the back, was Mrs Violet Shenton aged about 52 . . .
I put the paper down.
‘Well, Harry,’ I say. ‘He finally flipped.’
‘Yeah, poor old Joe. Thing is, I’m sure he knew something. He was trying to tell us something. Just something. That’s what he kept saying. “Just a just a . . .” I don’t know what it all means.’
‘You think he had anything to do with it?’
‘Joe? Nah, I don’t think so.’
‘It’d explain him topping himself like that.’
Harry shakes his head. Mooney arrives. Strolls in with this superior copper look on his face like he’s above it all. He ain’t fooling nobody. I hate dealing with filth like him. I know Harry ain’t keen himself but he can fake it better than me.
Harry’s all gracious charm, pouring out the expensive bubbly for this bent DI. A few pleasantries exchanged then we’re down to business.
‘Well, if I can speak freely,’ announces Mooney, looking around him then looking at me.
‘Of course,’ says Harry. ‘You know Jack, don’t you? He’s in on this.’
Mooney nods in my direction, grudgingly. Gives a little sniff as if I’m dogshit on his well-polished PC plod shoes. I feel like giving him a slap but hold back. Easy, I think. Have to deal with scum like him. Take a sip of this posh fizzy stuff. Don’t know what all the fuss is about. Tastes like Tizer.
‘So,’ Mooney says. ‘The good news is that the Suitcase Inquiry is being wound up. We can all breathe easily now.’
‘They didn’t find anything?’
‘No. The Suitcase is closed.’
A little smile plays across Mooney’s lips. Harry frowns. He don’t get the joke.
‘What about Joe Meek?’
‘Yes, I heard about that. An unfortunate business. But he was eliminated as a suspect, I believe.’
‘So they didn’t turn anything up?’
Harry looks incredulous.
‘Well,’ says Mooney, all reasonable and shit. ‘As I’ve said, the Murder Squad are winding down their investigation. They haven’t managed to find any more tangible leads. There’s a considerable concentration of manpower required in maintaining a murder inquiry.’
‘And a seventeen-year-old rent boy isn’t really worth bothering about,’ mutters Harry.
‘I’m sure the Murder Squad have their priorities,’ Mooney replies softly. ‘The thing is, with this messy business out of the way the spotlight is off Soho for a while. We can get on with the main business in hand.’
‘Porn,’ says Harry bluntly.
Mooney coughs.
‘Quite. This permissive society that everyone’s talking about means that business is booming. The squad’s scale of operations has increased considerably.’
‘So have the kickbacks I bet,’ I chip in.
Mooney gives me a dull stare.
‘I prefer to see it as a work incentive for keeping the lid on things. We can’t afford to let things get out of hand. There are dirty bookshops springing up all over Soho and nobody’s controlling it properly from your side. The Maltese are so busy with clip joints and prostitution they don’t seem to realise what a growing market there is for pornography.’
‘So you want someone to take over the porn rackets?’
‘It would be a lot easier all round if we just had to deal with one firm.’
‘And what if some of these bookshops needed leaning on?’
‘That’s your business. I’m sure you could persuade them to come into line.’
Mooney’s green light on putting the frighteners on.
‘And what if the Maltese get riled that someone is taking over their pitch?’ asks Harry.
‘As I’ve said, that’s your business. You do your job and I’ll do mine. Your methods don’t concern me. The OPS wants to deal with an organisation that can control all of this. I’m sure, as a businessman, you understand the need for a balance of free trade and protection. Particularly protection.’
Harry grins and fills another glass of champers for Mooney. The bottle’s empty and he waves at a waiter for another bottle.
‘Well, I’m sure we can work something out,’ says Harry, giving me a nod. I grin back. Mooney catches the look and sighs.
‘I want all of this done quietly. I can’t afford to have some sort of gang warfare on my pitch. As I said, my job is to keep the lid on things.’
‘Don’t worry, George,’ says Harry with a grin. ‘We’ll be real subtle.’
‘Hm. Well make sure that you are. Then we can negotiate our percentage. Remember, if you work with us you’ll not only be immune from official prosecution, you’ll be immune from narks as well. Any grassing that comes our way can come straight back to you. It’s a bloody good deal and we’ll expect a reasonable share from it.’
Mooney slurps down his bubbly and gets up.
‘I really must be getting off,’ he announces. ‘We’ll talk figures once you’ve got your side of this arrangement sorted.’
‘Yeah,’ Harry agrees.
Then we all stand up together, handshakes all round and Mooney’s off. Harry slumps back down in his chair. A bit mad about the eyes. Picks up the champagne bottle.
‘Fancy another Jack?’ he asks.
‘Nah. Let’s have a proper drink,’ I reply.
Next few weeks me and Beardsley are putting the frighteners on a few porno bookshops. Offering them new terms and conditions, reminding them of their fire regulations, that sort of thing. Sticking up the Starks trademark helps but some of these filth pedlars aren’t playing. Fannying on about already having protection. So we firebomb a couple of them. Harry’s not pleased. We didn’t consult with him first. Doesn’t want things to get too lairy. I don’t know what he’s complaining about.
In the meantime me and Beardsley are dealing the funny drugs to the Beautiful People. Those chemistry students in Canning Town are knocking up this stuff on overtime since these hairies can’t get enough of it. Acid trips. Looking all lairy in their beads and kaftans and crochet knit dresses. It’s all Wow and Flower Power and Peace, Man. Which is fine by me. We don’t get anything unnecessary off these fuckers. No aggro, as Beardsley would put it. The weather’s getting warmer and everyone’s talking about the Summer of Love. Beardsley can barely disguise his contempt but business is business, I remind him.
‘I hate the Beautiful People,’ he say
s.
But we’re having our own Summer of Love. What with the drugs money and the Airport rackets earning us an easy life and the porn trade about to take off. It’s dodgy but it’s swinging. Can’t seem to do anything with all this bad money though. It all goes on the horses or on the dogs at Hackney or White City. And if I’m still ahead I usually find myself pissing it away in a casino. Get into a spot of bother at the 211 in Balham one night and pull a knife on a croupier. Silly really. Brown Bread Fred gets right narked. He’s in with the Twins so it’s bound to get back to the Other Two. I need to calm down.
Still, everything’s swinging in the West End so I don’t have to worry about the East End for a while. Harry should be happy too but he’s still brooding about this dead kid. One time I go around to his place I see Trevor’s sporting a black eye. Harry’s black moods. Been taking it out on Trev no doubt. No fucking good. Just makes him moodier and full of guilt. Trevor’s looking sullen. A sad, fuck-the-rest-of-the-world look on his bruised face. Same as the look on Madge’s face when I knocked her about.
Then Beardsley hears something from the Airport. The word from Derek the baggage handler is that a huge consignment of industrial diamonds is due in in a couple of days. A massive haul. Something we could all retire on.
Harry arranges a meet. Derek’s nervous, no doubt keen memories of the Crank Up. He goes through all the arrangements in great detail and we start to make plans. This is the big one. No discreet pilfering this time. We’re going to take the lot.
Me and Beardsley are in cargo loader overalls as Derek leads us out onto the runway. He’s straightened a couple of security passes with the British Airports Authority Police. We get into this little truck with a trailer on it and drive out to this big fat jet plane. It’s like a huge bus with stubby little wings on it. Don’t know how they get these things off the ground.
The truck’s got an electric motor, like a milk float, and it hums away and I hum along to it. A few nerves but nothing to worry about. It’s all been planned. We’ve been through it several times. Harry’s worked it out down to the last detail. Not that he’s had much experience at this sort of villainy. As I said, more used to just taking a percentage out of thieving. That and fraud and protection rackets is more his style. Still, this one’s too big to let pass, so Harry’s been playing the big criminal genius. Meetings at his place going over the MO. Maps, little Dinky toys, the lot.
Not that H is with us on the big day, of course. It’s just me, Beardsley, Derek and a couple of baggage handlers Derek can trust. They’re waiting for us in the cargo hold of the plane. I’m humming along to this electric motor. Look over at Beardsley. He’s got a manic grin on his face. Jaw clenched with nerves and maybe the black bombers we’ve downed this morning. Well, you need a bit of speed for a caper like this. Keeps you sharp.
It’s all worked out. We get into the hold and then this conveyer-belt truck pulls up and starts loading the loot. We get it passed through sharpish and drop it out onto the trailer on the back of our truck. Then we tie up Derek and the other cargo loaders. Give them a bit of cosh to make it look like we’ve overpowered them. Then we’re away with a truckload of industrial diamonds over to the maintenance vehicle yard where there’s a driver waiting for us in a transit van. We should be halfway down the Great West Road before the alarm’s sounded. Need to put the cosh about a bit lively to make it look convincing. Still, the cargo boys won’t mind a few lumps for the percentage they’ll be getting. We’re talking about hundreds of thousands for the haul if it’s fenced right. Maybe a million. But best not to think about that. The Train Robbers started to lose it a bit when they realised that they’d got a lot more than they’d been counting on. It went to their heads and they got a bit sloppy. Best not to think about it at all. Just get the job done and then wait. Then wait some more until the fuss has died down.
So we get into the hold with the loading crew. The conveyor-belt thing comes up and is connected into place. It starts moving and the first of the packages come up on it. It’s pass-the-parcel time all the way to the back of the plane and dropped out through a hatch onto the trailer. They’re a bit lighter than I expected and I suddenly feel something’s wrong. Like there’s nothing in them or something. I try not to worry about it. How should I know how much these things weigh? Everyone’s concentrating on getting it all loaded and unloaded as quickly as possible. Eyes down at the matter in hand. I happen to look up at the loading hatch for a second. I see a head appear at the top of the conveyor belt. Then a body. Somebody crouching on the moving belt. Somebody loading themselves into the cargo hold. I try to call out but the body beats me to it.
‘Police!’ he shouts.
He tumbles out into the plane, landing on the first baggage handler. He’s got a truncheon out and he’s trying to get a swing on the overalled body beneath him but he’s all tangled up. Then another copper follows him in and there’s a pile up. Shouting and bodies rolling around in the hold. One of the coppers is on his feet whilst the other is holding down a cargo loader. They’re plainclothes. They ain’t British Airports Authority, that’s for sure. Flying Squad or something. The whole thing’s a fucking set up. The one standing is whacking the next cargo loader with his truncheon as a couple more of this serious filth are pouring in from the conveyor belt. Beardsley’s nearest the exit hatch so I give him a shove towards it.
‘Out! Out! Out!’ I scream at him.
He squeezes himself through the little doorway and drops down onto the trailer below. Derek’s coming down along the plane trying to get to the escape hatch followed by all the filth in single file with their truncheons out.
‘Got you, you bastard!’ the leading one shouts as he grabs Derek by the scruff of his overalls and gives him a knock about the side of the head. Derek balls up and the copper nearly topples over him. I get my cosh out and clock the hunched-over copper right in the gob. He groans as he goes down, spitting teeth and blood as the filth behind him pile up, Keystone style, over him and Derek. I make it to the hatch and swing down onto the trailer. Beardsley’s at the wheel of the truck in front.
‘Come on son!’ I shout. ‘Get us out of here.’
He drives off as one of the Old Bill on the tarmac gives chase on foot. He manages to get to the back of the trailer and tries to jump on. I give him a whack with the cosh and he falls rolling onto the runway. (Madge falling onto the Great North Road, for fuck sake, Jack, don’t think about that now.) I climb back to the front. Get onto the truck. Sit in the little seat next to Beardsley. I’m facing backwards and I can see a little group of filth about fifty yards back.
‘Can’t you get this milk float to go any faster?’ I ask.
‘Jack,’ replies Beardsley nervously.
We’re starting to slow down. Plod are beginning to gain on us.
‘Come on son! For fuck’s sake, put your foot down!’
‘Jack,’ Beardsley repeats. ‘Look!’
‘What the fuck’s the matter with you?’ I shout as I turn around.
Then I see what the matter is. A huge VC10 is taxiing out on the runway in front of us. We’re heading straight for its front undercarriage. Behind us a load of filth are running after us.
‘Fuck!’ I say and grab the wheel off Beardsley. I stamp my foot on his and onto the accelerator. He screams, more from fear than pain as we go straight towards the big wheels of the landing gear ahead.
I slam the wheel over hard so we just miss the front undercarriage and then I zig zag around the two even heavier sets of landing gear behind. I’m laughing hysterical now, like a kid on the dodgems and we come out around the back of the jet. Its tail engines are screaming as it brings itself to a halt. We’ve lost the coppers for a while as all sorts of palaver breaks out behind us. We make for one of the loading bays, dump the truck and leg it back into the Airport buildings.
We slow down a bit and walk down one of the corridors. Try to act nonchalant. Give the old leer to a couple of stewardesses that pass. Somehow manage to find our way
out to Arrivals. Go into the gents and get out of our overalls. Normal clothes underneath as planned which is just as well. The place is swarming with filth, though. Uniforms at all the exits, plainclothes snooping around. Just as well the place is really crowded. Don’t know how we’re going to get out, though.
Just then we hear all this screaming. Sounds like some sort of a riot. High-pitched voices wailing by one of the Arrival gates. Decide to go with the commotion. Might give us some cover. Find a whole mob of teenage girls screaming at a pop group just arrived home from a European tour. Flashbulbs popping, placards saying WELCOME HOME THE STONES, MICK WE LOVE YOU. Me and Beardsley try and blend in.
‘Fucking hairies!’ Beardsley mutters.
But the police are lost in the crush and we manage to get out to the main exit amidst this gaggle of teenage tarts, screaming and calling out the names of their idols. I join in for the hell of it.
‘Aren’t you a bit old for this sort of thing?’ asks this girl in a mini skirt.
‘Nah, I’ve always been a fan of the boys.’
The uniformed coppers at the foyer are mostly crowd control now, so we manage to slip out unnoticed and grab a cab back to London.
‘We were fucking set up, Harry!’
I’m shouting. I’m bloody livid to tell the truth.
‘Somebody grassed! Or set the whole fucking thing up with the Old Bill!’
Harry’s trying to calm me down. Pours me and Beardsley another brandy. Waits for us to calm down a bit. He shrugs.
‘You reckon Derek stitched us?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘So what you reckon happened?’
‘Well, I heard something,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Bit of inside information from a friend on the force. Change of security arrangements at Heathrow. Airports Authority Police are out. It’s CID Number Two Area’s patch now. I think people were beginning to notice how much stuff was going missing.’
‘Well, it couldn’t last for ever I suppose. And would your bent copper happen to know who it was that stitched us, Harry?’
