and mobile
the rest we’ll handle
ourselves.’
Seems God was listening. Then.
We must have got Him on a good day. Thing is, I reckon He enjoys a bit of villainy too. Else how to account for the Tory party. And mostly what we got was careful. Kevin Costner as Elliot Ness in
Learnt the shit as we went along too. Out with the wool balaclavas, got us some light cotton jobs. No cumbersome gloves either. Those surgical skin-fit ones that make people instinctively edgy.
Experimented with the art of deception. The Doc would wear a larger size shoe and we’re talking big here, and bring along flour or baking soda. Sprinkle some of that on our way in and leave a nice clear print. Jeez, the filth adore a cosy fat clue. I had some fun with tattoos, those washable chaps. Put ‘I Love Me Old Mum’ in bold letters on my arm and let the sleeve ride up as I scooped the cash. Some whiz-kid bank trainee was hot to trot. A major breakthru for the investigation. After that one, half the old lags who lived with their Mums were rounded up. Even the Krays got a shout. Accents too, throw in some rasta and half of Brixton got turned over. We didn’t fuck with the Irish though. Doc said, ‘The last… the very last thing we want… is for the boyos to get pissed with us.’
I took his word on that.
Neither of us smoked so we ensured we dropped butts on our exit and all over the abandoned motor. One raid, Doc procured insulin and left the half-empty phial under the seat. That made it to CrimeStoppers. Kept our mouths tight shut. No braggin’, no hints, nada.
Things got hairy too. An old dear had a heart attack on our Hatton Cross job. Doc wanted to send flowers and cash. I lost it.
‘The fuck you saying…? You want to be Robin Hood, is that it… have the public love us. Jeez, mebbe we could cut a record. We’re in this for cash, not friggin’ sentiment.’
He sent the cash anyway. I could have sent the flowers.
Arnold L. White. Is that a name or wot. Our accountant. I wasn’t going to prison for VAT or any of that sneaky crap. He had an office in Camberwell. I had to ask, ‘What’s the L for?’
‘Leopold.’
‘You’re winding me up.’
‘Do I look like a kidder, as if humour is my forte?’
He didn’t.
Looked like a sour priest and hey, that’s how it should be. Money is a sacred business. He had a cheeky secretary named Iris, a pushy blonde, all mouth and nastiness.
I gave her one. Call it duty, to keep tabs on Leopold. She was the worst kind of leg-over… loud, came roaring and shouting as if I’d murdered her. The French call orgasm the little death. Guess they hadn’t heard of Iris. No doubts with that lady, she knew what she wanted and rode the daylights outa me. After, she’d say, ‘I’d kill for a bacon butty.’
She’d had a husband, Patrick, from County Kerry who’d gone MIA. The worst criminal ever to come outa Camberwell. Not dangerous, just useless. He’d attempted to rob a Pakistani shopkeeper, using a replica. The man near split his skull in two with a brick… a real one. Patrick got ten years. Prior to that, he’d been in a pub one night. A fella named Mick had given him a ferocious hiding. All Patrick remembered was the name. So, he packed a meat cleaver in an Adidas holdall and returned to the pub.
No sooner had he ordered, when the barman roared to a customer heading for the loo, ‘How’s about ye Mick.’
Patrick followed, missed with the cleaver, it was embedded in the wall. Mick and five of his mates then attempted to fit the cleaver to Patrick’s arse-hole. After she’d told me this, she added drily, ‘I said to ’im, you pathetic wanker, you like sex and travel so fuck off outa here.’
What Arnold also provided was information. Of the banking variety. Doc had a chat with him, suggested it would be mutual if the skinny on obscure banks were available. Their days for ‘holding’.
Arnold was yer classic accountant. He asked no questions but one, a highly indignant tone, ‘You think I can be bought?’
Doc named a figure.
He was bought.
Networking. Wot a lovely word:
Hip
Contemporary
Sassy.
Arnold networked a series of clerks in the major banks. Not too many, but sufficient to provide the dates without arousing suspicion.
It had risk… sure. The old fall-out factor, but it worked. Plus too, a clerk blew the whistle he was on the bank ‘suss list’. Banks don’t rate loyalty, only profit.
I’d put a portion of map on the wall, let the Doc have a look.
Asked, ‘See anything you like?’
‘Never heard of that Bicester, means we’d pass thru Morse country.’
‘Put the wind up Sergeant Lewis, eh.’
Thursdays were best as the payrolls would be in but we didn’t want to establish a pattern. Sooner or later though, you had to figure on getting a tug. I’d only recently moved to Meadow Road, was burning money with the decorators. Jeez, what is it with those fucks, all that shouting. I’d said, ‘Hey… this isn’t the Grand Canyon, you don’t have to check for echo. Let’s keep the damn shouting to a minimum. How would this be… if a roar has to be made, and I don’t dispute the necessity, I’ll do it… OK I’m paying, so I’ll be roaring.’
Which I think put it across rather well. An informed and civilised outlay of the rules. They listened almost attentively and then continued roaring.
‘Hey Joe, where’s my hammer?… Cyril, wot’s gonna win the 3.30?… That Dettori ain’t worth shit… Three sugars and a sausage sarnie…’
Yeah, like that. I was contemplating a short stay in a hotel but I liked to keep an eye on the fucks. The doorbell rang. Would one of the decorators answer? Course not…
‘Not in my portfolio mate.’
I flung the door open, the hammerin’ behind me a decibel louder. Two men in raincoats, the hard-eyed look. You knew when they weren’t flogging double glazing or Mormons. Coats were too cheap.
‘Mr Cooper.’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr David Cooper.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry to trouble you Sir, I’m Chief Inspector Noble and this is Detective Sergeant Quinn, might we have a word?’
‘Not a quiet one I’m afraid.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
I gestured behind me. Noble gave a tight smile, humour not even distantly touching it. In his fifties, he’d the recent health of an ex-drinker and the tension it bestowed. I looked at my watch, said, ‘Down the road, there’s The Roebuck… very quiet at this hour, would that do… are ye allowed… fraternise in… public houses.’
A look passed between them said… ‘got a friggin’ live one.’
Quinn was thin, in his thirties. He’d the face of a grey-hound gone rogue, a rabid light in his eyes. This guy liked to sink his teeth and never let up. The worst kind of cop, it was always personal with him. Noble said, ‘In the line of duty, we could force ourselves I think.’
‘Okey-dokey then, you lads scuttle on down there, I’ll get my coat and be with you… in say… five, how would that be.’
‘That would be fine, five minutes.’
