Authors: Mark Dawson
He had been busy. Spot had seen him before, albeit briefly, and he did not want to take the chance that he might be recognised. He had visited his uncle. They had drawn a bowl of water in the tiny bathroom and Jimmy had treated his hair with a rinse to make it darker. He had combed his hair across his scalp and then moved to the tray in his lap. It held what looked like barbershop floor sweepings but Jimmy shook it out and revealed it as a beard fastened to an almost invisible, flesh-coloured gauze. Jimmy fitted the moustache first and then the beard, fixing it in place with a light glue. It felt odd to have hair on his cheeks and lip but the effect was adequate. He had stuffed his cheeks with cotton wool to adapt the shape of his cheekbones, added a pair of heavy spectacles with plain glass lenses and then smiled at his reflection in the mirror, just gently so as not to disturb the still setting glue. His face was barely recognisable and he was pleased with how it looked. It would be good enough.
Edward parked the car near to the Boleyn Ground. This was deep in Jack Spot’s manor, the heartland of the criminal empire that he knew, with sombre conviction, was inexorably spreading west. Edward had made discreet enquiries and had learnt that Spot generally took his dinner in the working men’s club on Green Street, next to the Boleyn Ground where West Ham played. It was said to be his headquarters, a collection point for the mixture of East End toughs, Jewish heavies and gypsies who made up the majority of his strength. Edward got out of the car, shivering in the damp cold, and walked the few hundred yards to the club. The door was open and he went inside. The room was large, and thick with smoke. There was a bar at the opposite end, a series of tables scattered in between and two or three dozen men: some were drinking and eating, others were talking, others were playing darts or bar billiards. Edward paused at the entrance, his stomach seething with nerves. He was in unfamiliar territory and, suddenly, he felt out of his depth. The men at the nearest table had noticed him, pausing to regard him with unveiled hostility. Edward gathered his courage and went to the bar.
“I’m looking for Jack Spot.”
The barman was wiping a cloth over a dirty glass. He looked him over. “Who’s asking?”
He raised his chin and spoke firmly: “Dick MacCulloch.”
“What do you want?”
“That’s for me and Mr. Spot to talk about. Is he here? Can I speak to him?”
The barman put down the glass and stared at Edward for a long moment. Edward held his eye, the nerves still fluttering in his stomach. “Wait here,” the man said.
Edward stood at the bar and started to fret with the edges of a towel that had been spread over a spillage. He knew that he was taking a risk by coming here, a big one, but there had been no alternative. There was Spot’s reputation for violence, for one thing, but he was less concerned about that than he was about the Costellos. If he was spotted, and the news got back to them… well, that didn’t bear thinking about. He would have preferred to send someone else but who was there? Jimmy would have been a possibility, but he was still black and blue from the beating that Billy had dished out, and who else was there after him? No-one. It had to be him.
The barman returned. “This way,” he said. He led the way to a room at the back of the club. It was plain, furnished with a table and two chairs and a filing cabinet. Crates of beer were stacked against the wall. Edward recognised Jack Spot. He was alone at the table, eating a plate of liver and onions and drinking from a cup of tea.
“Sit down,” he said to Edward pointing to the empty chair opposite him.
Edward did as he was told. Spot was dressed impeccably, in an expensive suit with a bright red handkerchief folded in the pocket. A crombie had been hung from a hook on the wall and a trilby rested on the crates of ale. Spot himself was an impressive figure. Although he was sitting, Edward estimated that he must have been well over six feet tall. His face was ponderous and heavy, full of flesh, somewhat ruddy––his face might have been stone to Edward. He had large grey-green eyes that flicked and darted, or perhaps he was one of those people who never looked at anyone they were talking to. His shoulders were wide and his hands enormous.
He picked up the tea and sipped at it.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Spot.”
“Eric says you have something you would like to discuss?”
He flinched and touched his moustache with his finger. “I do. Business.”
He replaced the cup in its saucer. “I’ll let you have a minute. I don’t normally appreciate my dinner being interrupted, so you better make it interesting.”
“Thank you.”
“Fifty seconds. Get to it.”
“I work for a freight company.”
“Doing what?”
“Driving trucks.”
“I see. Freight?”
“That’s right.”
“Valuable?”
“Sometimes.”
“And the opportunity?”
“There’s a consignment of whisky being delivered to the depot in the next couple of days. Very good stuff, Mr. Spot––it’s worth hundreds of quid, especially with the way things are.”
Spot stabbed a piece of liver and inserted it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “And what does that have to do with me?”
“I heard that you were the man to speak to about opportunities like that?”
Spot looked at him with a faintly amused expression, gazing at him as if he were some kind of animal which interested him, and which he could kill if he decided to. “And who told you that?”
Edward feigned to fluster. Spot was the kind of man who would beat up someone he thought was wasting his time, and here, alone with him in his club, in the middle of the East End, there could not have been a more propitious place. “I know some chaps who gamble in one of your spielers,” he explained, “they said it was right up your street.”
Spot noticed his anxiety and a smile spread slowly across the man’s red, fat lips. “I might be interested, Mr.––?”
“MacCulloch. Dick MacCulloch.”
“Mr. MacCulloch.” Spot put another piece of liver into his mouth and chewed. “But how do I know you’re not a stool pigeon or a detective?”
“Do I look like a detective?”
“No, Mr. MacCulloch, you don’t, but I didn’t get to be where I am by taking unnecessary chances and you can’t be too careful these days.” He watched him with the same neutral smile. Edward knew he was weighing up his proposal. “When will you have the goods?”
“I’m taking the truck to Scotland to pick it up on Sunday. I should be back down again with it a week tomorrow.”
Spot tapped his fork against the side of the plate. “And how much would you want for doing this?”
“Fifty notes. I’ll probably get my cards over losing the load, so it’s got to be worth my while.”
The neutral smile flickered and then disappeared. Spot’s eyes snapped into close focus, and Edward felt drawn into them. They were dark and unfeeling, with no suggestion of compassion or empathy, and impossible to read. “Alright, then, Mr. MacCulloch. Speak to Eric again on the way out. He’ll give you a telephone number. Call it when you are three hours away from London. I’ll have a think, maybe ask a few questions about you. If it is something I think I might be interested in, and if I think you can be trusted, you’ll be told where to go. If not, you will have needlessly interrupted my dinner.”
“Thank you, Mr. Spot.”
Spot nodded and concentrated on his half-finished plate. Edward took that to mean he was dismissed and, nodding his head deferentially, he backed out of the room and into the smoke and noise of the bar.
59
MONDAY MORNING. The hands of Edward’s wristwatch moved towards eight o’clock. It was cold and overcast, with wispy tendrils of river mist creeping across the breakers’ yard. It was to be the last run to Honeybourne, although only Edward knew that. He grabbed the rails with both hands and hauled himself up into the cab of the lorry. Joseph was waiting in the passenger seat, his feet propped on the dashboard and a selection of holiday brochures spread out across his lap. Jack McVitie was behind the wheel of the Commer Express delivery van parked ahead of them and behind them came the other lorries. Everything was as it normally would be.
Edward had spent the last few days refining the plan. He had persuaded Joseph that they should have George come with them this time. There was a lot of merchandise, he had explained, and it would make sense for him to see it all for himself. Edward had been wary of making too big a thing of the suggestion for he knew it was essential that it was not so obvious so as to be remembered later, after everything, nor that it was something that he had proposed. Joseph did not seem to make very much of it, and, after a little persuading, George had agreed to come. He was behind the wheel of the third lorry, the one directly behind theirs.
“What about the south of France, then?” Joseph was saying, stabbing his finger at the open brochure. “Still full of the French, no doubt. What about Eve? Think she’d like it? Her cup of tea?”
“The weather’s splendid, I’ve heard there are some spectacular beaches, the hotels are luxurious, the food will be out-of-this world. I should think she’d love it.”
Joseph looked at the brochure again. “We could fly direct from London Airport on BOAC––they have planes that go all the way down. It ain’t cheap, though, none of it. The whole thing’s a great big racket. You get them a ring when you get married, you pay for the wedding they’ve always dreamed of, then you have to stump up for a holiday. I ain’t even thinking about a house, clothes, a nice car. As soon as your woman realises you’ve got a little bit of folding about you, their taste gets expensive all of a sudden, and then there’s babies and the whole thing starts all over again. Chiara won’t be any different––believe me, I know. That one’s been brought up to expect the good life, always has. You better have plenty saved up if you’re planning on making an honest woman of her, that’s all I’m saying.”
Jack McVitie hauled himself into the open doorway. “Where’s Billy?” he asked.
Joseph tossed the brochures down into the footwell and frowned. “No idea. He’s a bloody fool half the time, but it’s not like him to be late like this.”
“Strange,” Jack said. “We were supposed to be having a drink last night and he never turned up.”
“He’s not ill, is he?” Edward asked innocently.
“I saw him yesterday morning,” Joseph offered. “He was fine.”
Edward found a look of concern. “You don’t think––it couldn’t be Spot?”
“What? How?”
“I’m just saying––the fire at the garage, the attacks on the family’s business. And then there’s Lennie and Tommy, what happened at the Regal. I mean, let’s not ignore it, it’s not like he’s been shy of violence before, is it?”
Joseph dismissed the suggestion. “I can’t see it,” he said. “Billy’s too careful to get caught up in something like that.”
Edward did not want to press it. He knew very well what had happened to Billy. “Well, we can’t really wait for him. The longer we’re here, the less time we’ll have at the other end.”
“We’ll have to go without him,” Joseph said, his irritation obvious. “Go on––let’s get started.”
Jack McVitie jumped down and clambered into the truck ahead of them. He gunned the engine.
“What’s he playing at?” Joseph said.
“Billy? No idea,” Edward said. He felt a flutter of nerves despite himself as he cranked the ignition. “Away we go then.”
It started to rain as they pulled out. Edward switched on the wireless and tuned to the Light Programme. The forecaster warned that storms were expected across the country.
60
CHARLIE MURPHY CHECKED HIS WATCH. Eight-thirty. Four hours had passed already and no villains. Not anyone, just the occasional military policeman walking his lonely beat around the perimeter. The two lads he’d borrowed from uniform looked nervous. Charlie had seen the two of them around the nick before and could guess what they were thinking: probably reckoned this was their chance to impress, get themselves transferred into plainclothes. The C.I.D. lot looked sharp in their dark suits, white shirts, understated ties, polished leather shoes. Nothing too flashy. You didn’t want to attract chummy’s attention when you were on the job but you didn’t want to look like a two-bob steamer, either. The woodentops were awkward out of their blues, wearing their Sunday best, trying too hard.
Charlie had been receiving intelligence all day. He had left two of his best men behind to keep the salvage yard under surveillance. Because of them, he knew that four trucks had driven out at six that morning. They had been followed, heading west, until there could be no doubt that they were on their way to Honeybourne. The unmarked car that had tailed them all the way had dropped one of the constables at a telephone so that Charlie could be forewarned. That had been the cue for them to take up their positions.
They couldn’t be far away now.
The men were tightly squeezed into the small Nissen hut. Charlie’s space was bounded by the legs and feet of the two coppers opposite him. The air was hot and clammy. The men were grumbling. The two uniforms were the worst, whispering away with the aides as if they’d already been made C.I.D. Fat chance if they keep that up. They had a lot to learn. One thing they could bet their lives on was that a career in the Met would include plenty of sitting around in cold, ill-appointed surroundings waiting for chummy to make his move. That was the job.
“Gawd’s sake,” one of them said. “Who farted?”
“Should’ve brought your gas mask. Stop bellyaching.”
“Shut it!” Charlie hissed. The men quieted down
Charlie tapped Alloway on the shoulder again and took his place at the peephole. Cold air blew against his eyeball as he looked out, up and down the road that ran through the middle of the base. He could see the hut opposite that the Military Police had taken; another dozen men, some of them armed with Sten guns.
Apart from that: nothing.
He tried to keep his mind occupied. The busier the mind, the less the chance he’d fall asleep and bugger up the collar. He’d done that before––nodded off––back when he was a Winter Patrol, years ago, as green as the aides in the van. Forty hours freezing his arse off on the roof of a shop because his guv’nor had information it was going to be cracked. Chummy pulled the job while he was kipping. He woke up with the door open, the alarm going, the place ransacked. Copped a serious bollocking.