Here Comes Charlie M

enlarged Ruttgers.

Wilberforce’s smile broadened and he reached out for an unfortunate pipe.

‘It’s getting better,’ he said.

‘I’ll go,’ said Ruttgers, quickly. ‘I went before … know the apartment and the woman.’

He looked up, alert for any opposition.

‘All right,’ agreed Wilberforce immediately. He couldn’t remain in complete control any longer, he decided. Didn’t want to, either. Finding Charlie Muffin again was the only consideration now. That and spreading some of the blame if anything went wrong.

‘Yes,’ accepted Smith, doubtfully. It was going to be a difficult tightrope, he thought. So it was right that someone of Ruttger’s seniority should be in charge.

The American Director looked back to Snare.

‘It’s still vital to find out what’s in that bank,’ he said. ‘Even though the idea of a third entry offends me as much as it does you.’

‘I’ve already got men obtaining detailed drawings of the houses on either side from the architects involved and all the protection systems from the insurance companies,’ said Wilberforce.

So it had been a pointless objection anyway, Snare realised. They were bastards, all of them.

‘Could we be ready tomorrow night?’ asked Smith.

‘It would mean hurrying,’ said Wilberforce.

The American looked at him, letting the criticism register.

‘Isn’t that exactly what it does mean?’ he said.

When it became completely dark in the office garage, Charlie eased himself up gratefully from the floor, stretching out more comfortably on the back seat of the car. He catnapped for three hours, aware he would need the rest later, then finally got out, easing the cramp from his shoulders and legs. His chest hurt from being wedged so long over the transmission tunnel, he realised. And his new raincoat had become very creased. It seemed more comfortable that way.

Using the key that Willoughby had given him that morning, he let himself cautiously out of the garage side door, standing for a long time in the deep shadows, seeking any movement. The city slept its midnight sleep.

He walked quickly through the side-streets, always keeping near the buildings, where the concealment was better. He’d used the cover like this in the Friedrichstrasse and Leipzigerstrasse all those years ago, he remembered, when they’d tried to kill him before. They’d failed that time, too.

The mini, with its smoked windows, was parked where Willoughby had guaranteed the chauffeur would leave it.

The heater was operating by the time Charlie drove up the Strand. Gradually he ceased shivering. It was 12.15 when Charlie positioned the car in the alley which made the private bank so attractive to his purpose, aware before he checked that it would be completely invisible to anyone in the main thoroughfare.

Quietly he re-entered the vehicle, glad of its warmth. It probably wouldn’t be tonight, he accepted. But the watch was necessary. Would they be stupid? he wondered.

‘If they are, then it’ll be your game, Charlie,’ he said, quietly. ‘So be careful you don’t fuck it up, like you have everything else so far.’

TWENTY

Superintendent Law accepted completely the futility of the review when a detective sergeant from the Regional Crime Squad seriously suggested that the bank robbery had been Mafia inspired.

He sighed, allowing the meeting that had already lasted two hours to extend for a further fifteen minutes and then rose, ending it. He thanked them for their attendance, promised another discussion if there had been no break in the case within a fortnight and walked out of the room with Sergeant Hardiman.

‘Waste of bloody time, that was,’ he said, back in his office.

Hardiman waited at the door, accepting tea from the woman with the trolley.

‘Bread pudding or Dundee cake?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Neither,’ said Law.

Hardiman came carefully into the room, his pudding balanced on top of one of the cups.

‘Mafia,’ he echoed. ‘Jesus Christ !’

‘Funny though,’ said Hardiman. He pushed an escaping crumb into his mouth.

‘What is?’

‘The dead end,’ said the sergeant. ‘We get the biggest job we’ve had in this manor for years. Indications of a professional safebreaker are everywhere and after almost a month, we’ve got nothing. No whispers, no gossip, no nothing.’

‘So it was someone from outside. We decided that days ago,’ Law reminded him. He had spoken too sharply, he realised.

‘So who?’ asked Hardiman, unoffended. ‘Who, a stranger to the area, could set up a job like this?’

Law threw his hands up, wishing he’d accepted the bread pudding. It looked very good and he’d only had a pickled egg and a pork pie for lunch, he remembered.

‘It’s in there, somewhere,’ he said, gesturing towards the files stacked up against the wall. ‘All we’ve got to, do is find it.’

Hardiman carefully wiped the sugar from his lips and hands.

‘That was nice; you should have had some,’ said the sergeant. He looked towards the manila folders. ‘It might be in there, but we’re going to need help to see it.’

‘One hundred and twenty boxes,’ reflected Law. ‘And carefully hidden in one of them was something that would make it all so clear to us.’

‘But which one?’ said Hardiman. ‘We’ve interviewed the owners and they’re all lying buggers.’

‘Crime is not solved by brilliant intuition or startling intellect,’ started Law, and Hardiman looked at him warily. The superintendent had a tendency to lecture, he thought.

‘… it’s solved by straightforward, routine police work,’ completed Law. He looked expectantly at the other man.

When Hardiman said nothing, Law prompted. ‘And what, sergeant, is the basis of routine police work?’

Hardiman still said nothing, aware of the other man’s unhappiness at the lack of progress and unwilling to increase his anger with the wrong answer.

‘Statements?’ he tried at last.

Law smiled.

‘Statements,’ he agreed. ‘Good, old-fashioned, copper-on-a-bike statements.’

Hardiman waited.

‘So,’ decided Law, ‘we will start all over again. We’ll turn out those bright sods who spend all their time watching television and admiring the Mafia and we’ll go to every box-holder and we’ll take a completely fresh statement, saying there are some additional points we want covered. And then we’ll practise straightforward, routine police work and compare everything they said first time with everything they say the second time. And where the difference is too great we’ll go back again and take a third statement and if necessary a fourth and we’ll keep on until we shake the bloody clue out of the woodwork.’

‘It’ll take a while,’ warned Hardiman, doubtfully. ‘That scruffy bloke with the home in Switzerland, for instance. The one we saw last? Telephoned yesterday to say he’d be in London for at least a week, on business.’

‘Don’t care how long it takes,’ said Law positively. ‘I want it done. If he’s not back in a week contact that firm he gave us and get him back. I want everyone seen again. Everyone.’

‘Right,’ said Hardiman, moving out of the room. Law called, stopping him at the door.

‘If you pass that tea-lady and she’s still got some of that bread pudding, send her back with some, will