The barge's prow bumped the wharf. He manoeuvred it alongside, switched off the engine, jumped ashore. Swiftly he roped the barge safely to the bollards, looked round for the dealer. Not here. He was always late and then he'd try to lower the price. Frig him. He would go for the five hundred nicker first.
He hurried along the crowded street. If he didn't get there in time Fitch would go down the chute. That didn't worry Mugger so much as the fact that he'd take the five hundred pounds with him.
Mugger was a big man, six foot one tall, fifteen stone, with a brutal face. He was in his forties: he had earned the nickname Mugger in his teens, christened by the police who had never brought him to justice. His technique in those days had been to prowl Mayfair and Regent Street, looking for well-dressed women, snatch their handbags and scarper. He'd made a lot of money that way, but gave it up when police patrols began to walk those areas.
Buying himself a large barge, he'd entered the drugs trade. He collected the cocaine packets from downriver, sailed back to the East End and charged his dealer three times what he'd paid.
Arriving at the padlocked entrance to the warehouse he took out a bunch of keys, which included a pick-lock. He was inside the place in minutes. Opening the door into the room where the chute was located, he bent down, grabbed the handle, hauled off the lid. Sure enough there was Fitch, a rope round his neck over a scarf. He'd agilely managed to use his exceptional strength to manoeuvre himself at right angles to the vertical shaft. Both his feet were rammed into the side of the shaft, both hands holding on to the rope. He knew he couldn't last out much longer. He looked up.
'Reach down, grab the rope and haul me up,' he ordered.
'I'll need my five 'undred nicker before I do any work,' Mugger informed him with a hideous grin.
Bastard! Fitch muttered under his breath. He let go of the rope with one hand. It was tricky, but he managed to feel inside his pocket for a sheaf of twenty-pound notes held together with an elastic band. He threw it up and sighed with relief as it shot up through the hole, landing on the warehouse floor.
Mugger picked up the bundle, counted it quickly. Then he shouted down.
'Only two 'undred and forty here. We said five 'undred.'
'You get the rest in my pocket when I'm up there with you. If you don't get me out fast I'm going down – with the money.'
Mugger reacted quickly. He knelt down, stretched one long arm, grasped the rope. Despite the awkward position and Fitch's weight, he hauled him up. Fitch flopped on the floor, worked his stiff legs, clambered to his feet.
He was wondering whether to catch Mugger off guard, tip him down the chute. He changed his mind as he used a dirty handkerchief to wipe sweat off his forehead and face. He had thought that Mugger could be useful to him.
'Money. Now.'
Mugger was holding out a huge hand, working his fingers in the money gesture. Fitch took a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one with a jewelled lighter. He stared at his saviour.
'Like to make a lot more? Say two thou?'
'Talk about that after the two 'undred and sixty you owe.'
Fitch reached in his other pocket, took out another roll of twenties. He gave it to Mugger, who counted it carefully. While he was doing this Fitch replaced the lid over the chute. He wouldn't send Mugger down to the pearly depths. He could use him, he'd finally decided.
'What job?' Mugger demanded aggressively.
'To put away – permanently – a woman and a man. Use any method you like but they must both disappear.'
'For two thou? You must be jokin', mucker. For five thou I'd consider it.'
'Four
'I said five!' Mugger roared.
'OK,' Fitch agreed, after a long pause. 'Five.'
'So who are the bodies?' Mugger asked.
'A man and a woman.'
'I could have fun with the woman before we finish them…'
'No!' Fitch shouted.
He leapt forward, grabbed Mugger round the throat with both his strong hands, pushed him over backwards, fell on top of him, his hands still round the neck. Mugger was stunned. He'd not realized before how strong Fitch was. 'NO!' Fitch yelled again. 'This has to be a quick job. You can get up now.'
Fitch jumped to his feet. Mugger climbed upright more slowly. His hands were soothing his neck. He was scared now. Fitch realized this and set about making him forget what he'd done.
'Five thousand nicker,' Fitch repeated. 'How long would it take for you to earn that drug dealing?'
'A little while,' Mugger admitted. 'I only deal in small packets. Then if I'm stopped by the river patrol they'd never find it even if they turned the barge upside down.' He regained his toughness. 'Name of these parties?'
'Tweed and Paula Grey. I'll be with you when we grab them. Take them in the back of my car – no, the boot.'
'Then dump them in the river? We'll need heavy chains.'
'No we won't.' Fitch grinned sadistically. 'Chloroform first to knock them out, then a trip to the burner.'
'The burner?'
'I have a pal further east who operates a metal foundry -with a huge furnace. He clears out of the place for a consideration. He'll think I'm getting rid of dud banknotes.'
'I'm still not sure I know…'
'Stupid! We take the bodies and shove them into the furnace. You can watch them burn. Only takes a minute. OK?'
'I guess so.'
17
Marler was 'prowling'. He had returned to Covent Garden, and was standing on the opposite side of the street to the building where he had seen the small woman with Paula say goodbye and then enter her flat.
Earlier he had witnessed Newman's fiasco in his attempt to get on with Coral, had seen him emerge and wave both hands in frustration. Then Paula had entered Popsies. Strolling past he had seen the back of Paula's head as she had talked to the woman.
Marler was shrewd. He'd realized this must be Pete Nield's secret informant. He was always suspicious of informants, mistrusting half his own sources. He now stood, watching the door to the flat, on the street under a striped blind projecting from a bar entrance. In his hand he held a mug of coffee. He sipped it occasionally. It gave him a reason for hanging about.
It was dark when a tall woman, good figure, brown hair neatly coiffeured, well dressed in a silk frock and expensive shoes, pressed the bell to the flat. Marler perched the coffee on a nearby ledge, took out a miniature camera which was non-flash, pressed a button for bad light since by now it was dark.
Paula's friend from Popsies appeared, smiled, shook hands with her visitor. As the visitor turned her head Marler took three quick shots of both of them. He followed them until they went into a good restaurant. He immediately returned to the building, checked the bell he'd seen the visitor push. A small card alongside had the owner's name. C. Flenton.
Marler then continued his prowl. He hailed a cab, asked to be dropped in the East End. He got out near a pub called the Pig's Nest, not the most salubrious establishment in London. Mixing with the crowd, he was strolling towards the pub's entrance when he nearly stopped short. His instinct and his training saved him. He continued to stroll.
Marler was startled. For him the immediate reaction was rare. Its cause was hurrying towards him, then turned into the Pig's Nest. Before he did so Marler used his camera to take two shots. His target was Amos Fitch, the man Newman had 'dealt with'.
