This is all 32 parts of my recent fiction serial in one complete story.
It is a long read, at 25,360 words.

George Corcoran was always called ‘Corky’ by his schoolfriends. He didn’t mind that, as it made him feel he belonged. By the time school was over for him, Britain was at war with Gemany. Too young to join up, he got a job at a wharf next to the Thames near London Bridge, working in the office learning how to be a ledger clerk. His older sister Frances was already married, and it wasn’t long before she got the news that her husband had been captured in France, and was now a POW somewhere in Germany. What with that, and the terrible bombing endured during the Blitz, George made his mind up to do his bit, and volunteered for the infantry.

By the time he had finished training, D-Day had been a success, and in the autumn of that year, aged just nineteen, he was in action with his regiment in Holland. He proved to be a brave soldier, and popular with his comrades too. When the fighting got into Germany itself, there was a mood that it might all soon be over. But the Germans fought back hard, and he lost many a good friend on that slow advance. By the time his regiment got to the British Sector of Berlin, George had made a decision. He wouldn’t be going back to being a ledger clerk, not on your nelly.

After some time in the army of occupation, he had made sergeant, and been asked to stay on as a regular. But he had no intention of doing that, and applied for his discharge, arriving home in 1946 with a good war record and a chest full of medals.

Where he lived in that part of London, not many people joined the police. If anything, most men his age were on the sly. Black market, petty criminal activity, or just outright robbers. Some of the boys he had been at school with were already doing long stretches in the clink, and he wanted to take a different path in life. So he joined the Metropolitan Police. There wasn’t a lot of money in it of course, but if you did it properly it was a job for life, and a good pension at the end of it.

And George did it properly.

He met Brenda when she was working part-time behind the bar in the local pub. He noticed that she kept glancing over at him and his drinking buddies, and gave her a big wink that made her smile and blush. Germany had made him familiar with women. There was not much a German girl in Berlin wouldn’t do for three packets of cigarettes and a small jar of coffee, or a pair of nylon stockings bartered off the Yanks. Not that he was proud of it, but everyone was doing it, and he had been a young man with needs.

Brenda said yes to his invitation to the pictures and after that they were inseparable. He got posted to the West End, working the beat around Soho and Mayfair. It was a busy time, as there was a lot of crime to deal with. They got married in the late summer of 1947, and moved into a small flat in Kennington. In good weather, George would walk to work over Lambeth Bridge, or get a bus in the winter.

Children didn’t happen, and neither of them sought to find out why. They were happy enough as they were, with Brenda working at Lambeth Town Hall as a typist, and George doing well as a copper. He didn’t see his old friends that much though. The time away in the war, and then becoming a cop, they had all drifted apart. He didn’t mind so much, as he knew a couple of them were definitely up to no good, so he might well have ended up having to arrest them.

They went to the Festival of Britain in 1951, a time full of hope for the future. Walking along the riverside, they marvelled at the Skylon, and looked inside the Dome of Discovery. It felt like the world was changing so fast, and everything was going to be alright. As they wandered home eating fish and chips from the paper, George made another decision. He would apply for plainclothes, and become a CID officer. He had already had his fill of struggling with drunks in pubs, arresting illegal street traders and prostitutes. He wanted to do some real police work, something serious.

The Team Inspector approved his application, the interview went well, and he was accepted onto the detective’s course, with a view to being posted to Scotland Yard when he qualified. Once he got his start date, he bought some new clothes to replace the uniform he would no longer wear, and arrived keen and excited for his first day. He was going to be a real detective, just like in the old films.

If only it had turned out that way.

Tommy Summers didn’t have to serve in the war. That was because he was already serving five years hard time for stabbing some old bloke in the arm during a burglary that had gone wrong. He learned a lot while he was in prison, mostly how to look after himself, but also who to contact once he got out. Back on civvy street in 1946, he was immediately bored. His dad had left years ago, and his mum was an alcoholic, traumatised by the bombing. He moved back in with her in the house in Camberwell, but didn’t have much to do with her other than occasionally stealing money from her purse.

Rationing was still in force, and that was good news for Tommy. Petrol could change hands for a lot of money, and everyone wanted other stuff they couldn’t buy in the shops. So Tommy joined Alfie Rogers’ gang and set about keeping the customers happy. When Alfie decided to start running girls, he gave Tommy the job of collecting the money, and along with two other blokes, providing the muscle to make sure the punters paid up and the girls didn’t skim off the top.

A year later, and Tommy was doing okay. Running around in a nice car, paying off the local coppers, and moving into the territory of other gangs with ruthless intent. When Alfie called him in and told him to calm down, Tommy smiled his wicked smile. “You’re yesterday’s news old man, if you know what’s good for you, you will think about retiring to your house in Catford”. Alfie saw the writing on the wall, and three weeks later, it was Tommy’s gang.

There followed a move out of his mum’s place into a nice house in Nunhead. He took up with a girl called Pauline who used to dance in a nightclub up west. As long as he kept her in nice dresses and make-up, she was going to stick around. Besides, if she gave him any grief, he would just slap her around a bit to let her know who was in charge.

The big money was in protection. Send some blokes around the local pubs, drinking clubs, shops, and businesses. Things were going well as the decade changed, and nobody wanted to have their windows smashed, their delivery trucks wrecked, or their shops burned down. Regular money coming in, week in, week out. Just how Tommy liked it. But he was still young, and easily bored. he craved a bit of excitement, so started to go out on jobs. A couple of bank raids, a few factory payrolls, and some warehouse break-ins. It got to a time when he had around twenty men working for him, a dozen or more coppers on his payroll, and more money than he knew how to spend.

If anything went wrong and the bent coppers couldn’t cover his tracks, he could easily get a few old blokes to say he was playing cards in a pub, and the publican and his wife would swear blind he hadn’t left the bar all evening. If they knew what was good for them.

Success came with danger. Other gangs north and south of the river envied his slowly-growing little empire in that part of south-east London. Their first move was to try to convince him to become part of their organisation, but he wasn’t having any of that. So they upped the ante, carving up a few of the boys who worked for him, shooting up his car when it was parked outside, that kind of thing. Not to be intimidated, Tommy fought back, surprising them by taking over three drinking clubs and a brothel in Vauxhall over one very tense weekend, which resulted in one of their henchmen being thrown out of a fourth floor window in the process.

Then it turned nasty.

The Police don’t like gang wars, as they attract the attention of the newspapers. Then before you know it, reporters are asking questions about why all these gangsters are allowed to run around London murdering each other, and putting innocent people in danger as they do that. So when the body of one of Tommy’s men showed up floating in the river near Lambeth Embankment with his throat cut, Scotland Yard got involved.

A Chief Inspector on Tommy’s payroll came to see him one Saturday afternoon. “I’ve done my best to keep a lid on it, but now there’s a squad looking into your activities, Tommy. I will have to play along, so for the time being I’m washing my hands of you, matey boy”.

Trying to appear unconcerned, Tommy shouted at his back as he walked away. “Good riddance, I don’t need you”.

Corky knew that the new boy would get the boring jobs at first. You had to learn to fit in, be accepted, then you might get out and about and see some action. Everything was on index cards and paper records back then, and photos and mugshots had to be searched through routinely. But he was surprised to arrive at a time when there was a flap on, and he was barely introduced to the team before he was on an active case.

A man out of a window. Did he jump, or was he pushed? Hard to prove the latter. Then a body floating in the Thames, a man with his throat cut. That was almost certainly not suicide. In a room full of cigarette smoke and the smell of clothes that needed dry cleaning, he sat and listened to Chief Inspector Mayhew, very aware that he was the new boy, so expected to keep schtum.

“Okay lads, the top brass want us to jump around a bit on this one. The newspaper boys will be all over it, and clamouring for a quote. Say nothing to any of your contacts on the papers, until we can be sure of what’s going on. Give your snitches a poke, wake ’em up. Someone must be talking, and we want to hear whatever it is they are saying. Right, you know what to do, so piss off and get on with it”.

Most of his colleagues in that room scattered, grabbing coats and hats. Some dragged their chairs back to their desks and started to make phone calls. Corky had received no direct instructions, so went back to basics. He had the names of both dead men, so went to dig out their files. After an hour, he could hardly believe it was so easy. The window man was a Maltese gangster, well-connected with prostitution. The body found in the river was associated with Alfie Rogers’ gang. He made the jump to the conclusion immediately. Rogers was moving against the Maltese, trying to take over their drinking clubs and brothels. One dead on either side, possibly the start of a gang war.

Because it seemed to easy, he sat on it for an hour. Then he went and knocked on the door of the Chief Inspector’s office and presented his findings. He expected to be dismissed out of hand. Surely his experienced colleagues would already know all this just from the names of the dead men? Mayhew flicked through the files, giving them the most cursory glance.

“Good work. Corky, isn’t it? You will do well on this team young man. For now, just leave these with me, and I will make some phone calls. I doubt you have many contacts just yet, if any at all. Why not have a wander around the manor? Chat to a few shady characters, see what they have to say. Be back by five for the debrief”.

Pleased with what he had done so far, Corky was a little confused about what to do next. Which manor should he wander around? Vauxhall? The area surrounding The Yard? He had been too embarrassed to ask, so decided to wander over the bridge to Vauxhall, and see if he could speak to Alfie Rogers. That should impress someone, if only his team sergeant.

Naturally, he had no idea that Mayhew was the same Chief Inspector who had already had a conversation with Tommy Summers.

According to the file, Alfie Rogers’ address in Kennington was listed as the offices of an ‘Importer and Exporter’. The man who answered the door on the fourth knock looked more like a professional boxer. Corky flashed his I.D. and asked to see Alfie. The big man grinned, showing a full set of obviously false teeth. “Alfie? Hmm, Alfie? Oh, you mean Alfie what’s retired? You better look him up in Catford, Detective Constable. He’s probably growing roses in his back garden by now. There’s no Alfie here”. With that, he slammed the door.

Making some notes, Corky jotted down about Catford, to remind him to look it up when he got back. With his one plan of action foiled, he ventured into a local pub to try to ask a few questions. But he stood out so obviously as a cop, half the drinkers left, and the other half turned their back on him.

Later, He told Sergeant Mackay about the man saying Alfie had retired. In his strong Scottish accent, Mackay mocked him. “You went all that way to find that out, laddie? You could have asked me and saved the shoe leather. Now, after the debrief, it’s down the pub, and the first round’s on you. New boy always buys”.

Not for the last time, Corky got home late that night, and Brenda had put his dinner in the oven to warm up.

The ex-boxer walked into Tommy’s office and hesistated as he saw him loading a Webley revolver. Tommy looked up. “Never know when you might need it, no point in having an unloaded shooter lying around. Who was that at the door?”. Lighting a cigarette, the man blew out a cloud of smoke before answering. “Some copper, never seen him before. He wanted to speak to Alfie, I told him to go to Catford.” Tommy spun the cylinder. “Get a name?”

“Corcoran, Detective Constable from The Yard. Like I said, never seen him before. Reckon he’s new. He didn’t have no motor, ‘spose he must have walked.” Tommy looked unconcerned. “I will make a call later, find out what he’s up to”

But Tommy knew he couldn’t make that call. Not at the moment, not until things calmed down.

Before things got out of hand, Tommy had two choices. First choice was to say sorry to the Maltese for what had happened, and give back the drinking clubs and brothel. That was never going to happen. His second choice was to join up with another enemy of the feared Maltese, and increase his defences with an alliance.

That evening, he got Norman his driver to take him to a pub in Rotherhithe. If he wanted to bump into Cliff Collinson, that was the place. Pauline had asked to come along, but he told her it was business. She got in a sulk, so he walked out without telling her where he was going.

Cliff was getting on a bit. He had made a fortune on the black market during the war, and he was one of the few villains in South London who had never done a stretch. He kept his manor small, and everything was sewn up. But sooner or later he would also attract outsiders, so Tommy showed up to make him a deal.

“It’s like this, Cliff. If they start on you, you can count on me and my blokes to back you up. Then the same applies when they give me grief, you help me out. Neither of us touch each other’s business, and sooner or later the Maltese boys will get the message”. Collinson was unimpressed. He downed his Scotch in one gulp, and raised his glass to get the attention of the timid barman. “Thing is, Tommy, I aint’ got no trouble with anyone. I’m a small operator, and that’s how I like it. Word on the street is that you are looking for muscle to expand your territory, and you ain’t getting that from me old son”.

Trying to seem unconcerned didn’t really work, but Tommy went with it anyway.

“Well, when they come after your operation, don’t come crying to me mate”. The barman brought the Scotch over, but there was no second drink for Tommy. He took that as his invitation to leave, and did so without saying another word.

Norman could see his boss was in a bad mood, so kept conversation to a minimum. “Where to now, Tommy?” He sat with the engine running, waiting for a reply. After what seemed like ages, Tommy finally spoke. Norman looked at his face in the rear view mirror as he replied, and he didn’t like the look of his sickly grin.

“Let’s go to Soho, Norm. I want to have a word with the Maltese”.

As he drove over Tower Bridge, Norman was feeling troubled. You didn’t front up the Maltese in their own clubs, not unless you had a death wish. If Tommy was intending to cause uproar in Soho that night, he should have brought more men. Norman reckoned at leat ten would be needed. But he also knew that if he suggested to Tommy that he was wrong, at best he would be looking for a new job tomorrow. At worst, he might end up in a shallow grave on Hackney Marshes.

When he got to Berwick Street, Tommy told him to park up. “Leave the engine running, I ain’t gonna be long”.

He disappeared into an alley up ahead. Norman knew the area well enough to know that there were a couple of strip clubs and a few clip joints down there, as well as prossies working from flats above. He exhaled deeply, trying to calm down.

The first shot made him jump out of his skin, and the next four had him revving the engine like mad, his eyes scanning around for Tommy. The last thing he could do was to drive off and leave him. That would be a death sentence, and leave Edna a widow.

The passenger door suddenly opened, and Tommy got in clutching the Webley.

“Lets head home, Norm. Message delivered”.

“So, a shooting in a strip club, you might have heard about it. Mario the doorman got the best part of his jaw shot off. He’s still alive, but I doubt even his mother would recognise him. A barmaid got a flesh wound in the hand, and some other shots missed everyone but broke a mirror. I’m guessing the gunman is no marksman. The Faruggia brothers were the likely target, but only Guzeppi was in the club, and he wasn’t hit. We have a passerby in Berwick Street who gave a description of a man getting into a car holding a gun. He said the car was either black or dark grey, the man was wearing a raincoat and hat, and appeared to be under thirty years old. More or less useless, then. As far as I am concerned this is gangsters frightening gangsters, and hardly worth our time”.

Corky had been the only one in the room taking notes, so Mayhew singled him out.

“Corky, you worked Soho in uniform, so I’m told. Why don’t you take yourself over there later and ask around. Don’t try too hard, we’ve already got enough on our plate. Make sure to be back by five for the briefing, then we’ll be taking you somewhere special”. The other detectives were trying not to laugh when he said that.

From his time on the beat, Corky knew the club well. It was well-managed, and there had never been much trouble there. Sometimes a tourist would complain about being overcharged for watered-down beer, but because they were usually married, they didn’t want to make a statement that would place them in a strip club, probably with an overpriced hostess sitting on their knee negotiating a price for taking her to a room upstairs.

The door was closed, and a hand-written sign stated ‘Open later’. But someone answered the door on the first hard knock. She looked about eighteen, and her left hand was heavily bandaged. He asked to see the boss, and she let him in. As she closed the door, she said “But he ain’t here. You can see the manager though”. He was shown to the door of an office that turned out to be one of the smallest offices he had ever tried to walk into. He gave up, and stood in the doorway. The manager wasn’t a Maltese, which was unusual, and he didn’t wait to hear any questions before speaking.

“Officer, there was some trouble last night, an excitable customer fired off his gun for some reason. Our doorman is in hospital, and the young lady who showed you in got a small wound on her hand. That’s all I know”. Corky took out his notebook and asked for a description of the so-called customer. Unable to conceal a grin, the man was happy to describe him. “Fat, forty to fifty, with a Yank accent. Reckon that’s why he had a shooter, you know those Yanks”. He was obviously taking the piss, but Corky wrote it down anyway. The bloke had done nothing wrong, and he had no cause to give him a hard time, as much as he would dearly have loved to.

On his way back to The Yard, he thought it over. There was no chance that the Maltese didn’t know who it was, and even less chance that they would ever involve the police. They would deal with it themselves, he knew that. This had all the makings of a gang war, and he was certain that Mayhew must be aware of that. That could only mean one thing. Mayhew was on the take, and not to be trusted. He was going to have to walk on eggshells around the Chief Inspector from now on.

Following the debrief, he had guessed they intended to stitch him up with something. That taking him somewhere special was likely to involve women and booze, and he wasn’t about to play along. Slipping away to the toilets, he avoided Sergeant Mackay on the stairwell and made good his escape. He was not going to be unfaithful to Brenda, and he was not going to get drunk every night. Whether that made him unpopular on the team or not, he just wasn’t having it.

Unknown to Corky as he walked home, Mackay was in Mayhew’s office talking about him. “Not sure about the new boy, guv’nor. Don’t think he’s one of us. Far too keen for my liking”. The older man nodded, and sat on the edge of his desk.

“Give him a few shit jobs to keep him busy, see how he likes that”.

Norman was wondering what mood Tommy would be in as he drove to pick him up. The thing in Soho the previous night had shaken him up. Norman was old-school. He had done a bit of time in the past, avoided the war with a fake medical exemption, and enjoyed a few years raking in the money from the black market while working for Alfie Rogers. But this Tommy was a new breed. Act first, think later.

At least he got to drive the grey Jaguar that Tommy had swiped from Alfie. It was a lovely car, and he had taken Edna out for some nice country drives in it when Tommy didn’t need him.

At the junction with Peckham High Street, he had to stop at a red light. One man got out of the Humber in front, and Norman saw him lift a double-barrelled shotgun to his shoulder. Before he could react, the man fired both barrels through the front windscreen, straight into Norman’s head.

The Maltese had claimed their revenge.

Tommy was still asleep when the knocking on the door woke him up. He pushed Pauline to one side, and went to answer the door holding the Webley behind his back. He had sunk a few Scotches after getting home last night, but he was aware of being careful as he opened the door. It was Old Alec, a local drunk. “Tommy, there’s been a shooting up the road. Your bloke, you know, Norman. Dead he is. The coppers are everywhere”. Tommy got his wallet, and gave two pound notes to Old Alec, to thank him for the warning.

Then he went upstairs and shook the life out of Pauline to wake her up. “Get packed, throw some stuff in a suitcase. We are moving, and I mean NOW!”

Less than an hour later, Patsy showed up driving the big Standard Vanguard. “I reckoned you might need a motor when I heard the news, Tommy. What d’ya want me to do?” Tommy dragged Pauline into the car, and Patsy threw the two small cases into the boot. “Take us up to Essex, Patsy. Walton-on-The Naze, or Clacton. I need to lie low for a few days.”

Once they got to the Essex coast, Tommy had Patsy drive around the caravan sites until he found one with a vacancy. He paid cash for a week, and told Patsy to go home and wait until he got a phone call. Pauline was unhappy with the accommodation. “S’pect me to stay here? The toilet’s across a field, and there’s only gas mantles for lights. For Christ’s sake, Tommy, what have you bleedin’ done?”

He slapped her so hard, she didn’t speak to him again for the rest of the day.

After a long walk along the seafront, Tommy returned with fish and chips and some basic groceries. He also had three bottles of Scotch. Pauline sat in the corner on the uncomfortable furniture, glowering at him. He pushed the food across to her. “Eat it, or don’t eat it. It’s all the same to me. You can piss off if you like, get the manager to call you a taxi to the station, and get a train back to your mum’s”.

Pauline didn’t reply, but slowly began to eat the food with her fingers. She knew what side her bread was buttered on, and the thought of going back to her mum’s in Camberwell made her shudder.

Halfway through the first bottle of Scotch, Tommy was talking to himself, knowing by then that Pauline wasn’t going to join in the conversation.

“Can you beleive the brass neck of those Maltese bastards? Shooting poor old Norman in my motor, and he didn’t even have a gun. What did he ever do to them? He was only a driver. I’m telling you. they’re gonna be sorry. You wait ’til I sort things out, I’ll have ’em, I bloody well will”. Pauline was relieved when he finished the bottle and passed out. She left him on the furniture, and went into the bedroom to get some rest on her own. Her face was still stinging, but it would be alright in the morning.

When Tommy rang in from a phone box the next morning, nobody answered. He was furious, believing that his men had deserted him overnight. If that was the case, they would all be sorry too. He would make all of them pay. When he got back from the phone box to the caravan,there was no sign of Pauline.

She had changed her mind during the night, and was already on her way to the station to get a train.

When Corky was told he wasn’t required at the briefing he sat in anyway, right at the back. Mayhew was as laconic as ever.

“Okay, South London hoodlum shot dead in a car. Probably by more gangsters from across the river. Do we care? What do you think? One less to worry about, and a record file that can be marked with a red X. Let’s move on. As far as we know, Alfie Rogers is back in harness, and has done a deal with the Maltese, thanks to Mackay’s informants. Looks like it was tit for tat, and is all over for now. We can forget about the Soho incident too, and consider it cleared up. You must have other stuff to do, so piss of and get on with it”.

Sergeant Mackay sought out Corky after the briefing.

“Corky, we need to sort out the files. Half of the scum on them are either long dead, or doing long stretches. Get yourself down to records, and start at A. Get rid of everything that’s no longer relevant, and arrange for it to be taken down to the archives. I expect to see you in the New Year, if not later”.

It didn’t take Corky longer than two seconds to realise he had been sidelined. So be it, he wasn’t going to play their game. Give it time, and there were many other options in the detective branch. He would wait out Mackay until he had enough time in to apply to transfer. At least winnowing out records was a nine-to five job, so Brenda would be happy.

He didn’t speak to Brenda about his job. She had made it clear she didn’t want to know about all the organised crime in London, it just made her afraid. So when he got home in the evenings they would chat about nothing much over dinner, then watch a bit of telly after on the small set that was on hire-purchase for the next four years. Brenda was a good wife. She did her own job without complaint, always had a clean shirt ready, and the dinner cooked when he got home. Nobody could have asked for more.

Deep down though, he knew he was a real copper, one of the good guys. He wasn’t interested in planting evidence, or doing deals with hardened criminals for them to take the blame for robberies and burglaries they had never done, in return for a reduced sentence. And he was never going to pocket the brown envelopes that appeared on every detective’s desk once a month, their share of the payouts from the big gangsters. Mayhew and Mackay seemed to have realised that, and he knew that was why they had stuck him in a mindless, boring job.

Corky also knew that it wouldn’t be too long before they tried to force him off the team by constantly ridiculing him, and giving every petty job short of cleaning the toilets. But he had both youth and determination on his side, and he also had an idea that was brewing in the back of his mind. It was a big step, but he had a mind to take it, and to hell with the consequences.

A10 was the investigation branch, run by Superintendent Lang. The teams at The Yard called them the ‘rubber heelers’, because you never heard them coming. They dealt with corrupt policeman, and complaints from members of the public. They were so hated, their cars had been smeared with human excrement, and nobody would willingly speak to them, or make a statement. On the plus side, joining A10 was a wise career move, guaranteeing quick promotion. Even it it meant having your car tyres punctured in the car park.

And he didn’t have a car, not yet.

He gave it a year of Mackay’s shit jobs, and never being involved in any arrests or investigations. Then he went to speak to Mayherw about his future. The Chief Inspector’s tone was sarcastic. “You have to be a team player, Corky. You are most definitely not a team player. You don’t understand how the system works, and you won’t even have a drink with the lads after a busy day. To be honest old son, I reckon you would be better off in Traffic Division, nicking hard-working motorists”.

That was all Corky needed to know. The next morning he rang A10 on the internal number, and asked for an appointment with Superintendent Lang. The man on the phone sounded suspicious, but took his details and the phone went silent. As Corky waited to hear whether or not he was going to get an appointment, the man suddenly came back on the phone.

“He will see you at close of play tomorrow, about six. Be ready to explain why you want to see him”.

By the third day, Tommy was furious. There was no answer on the phone, and he had worked his way through five bottles of Scotch. He was determined to keep trying, and after the long walk to the phone box the next morning, Patsy answered on the fourth ring.

“Tommy mate, you need to keep your head down. Alfie Rogers is back in charge. The coppers did a deal with the Maltese, and the war is over before it started. Alfie will keep to our side of the river, and not interfere with the Maltese north of it. He’s brought in some new faces from East Dulwich, and if you show up, you’re gonna end up in cement, old mate. Time to move on, find yerself summink new. It was good while it lasted”.

Tommy slammed the phone down so hard, he smashed the handset.

Those bastards had stitched him up, but their day would come. Even Patsy would get what was coming to him for welcoming Alfie back into the fold. For the time being, he had to find another source of income. The cash he had run with was unlikely to last him more than six months. He phoned a taxi to the station, and packed up his stuff as he waited for it to arrive at the caravan site.

Once he arrived at Liverpool Street Station, he already knew where he was heading. Eric Linklater was someone he had met during his time in prison, and he was the sort of man Tommy needed. All he remembered was a pub in Shepherd’s Bush, but that was enough for the cabbie, who said he knew it.

He had to wait for almost two hours until Eric came into the pub. Fortunately, Eric recognised the younger man, and accepted the drink that Tommy offered to pay for. Eric was not attached to any gangs, he was an independent. His speciality was armed robbery, and he had done a lot of prison time as a result. When Tommy told him his story, Eric swallowed the rest of his beer, and nodded.

“Okay, Tommy. You can stay at my place, but you will have to sleep on the sofa. I have something in mind, a cash-in-transit job. One of the guards is a bottler, and when I threatened his family, he agreed to give me the route. I will expect you to step up on the day, and we will be using sawn-offs. You okay with that?”

He was okay with it, and already counting the cash.

Eric was an old time hard man, with a reputation not to be crossed or messed around with. Independents like him were becoming rare at the time, and he was running out of accomplices to use on his jobs. Although he would never admit it to Tommy, the young thug had come along just at the right time. More and more companies were using armoured vans to transport payrolls to companies and cash to banks. Before the war, it was usually just a bloke with a briefcase secured to his wrist in the back of a company car. Easy money.

Now they had to deal with security guards wearing helmets, and armed with clubs for protection. That meant you had to use shooters to intimidate them into opening the doors, or dropping the cash bags in the street if they were walking to and from a bank or office. That couldn’t be a one-man job, backup was necessary. Eric was a dab hand at stealing cars too, and he knew where to dump them after the job, or get them crushed in a scrap yard. Tommy was surprised by how meticulous the planning was. Eric could just about read and write, but when it came to robbery, his mind was like a steel trap.

They hit the security van on the North Circular Road, close to Edmonton. It was on its way into The City with cash for a bank. Eric’s inside man had given him the route, and it proved to be good information. Using an old breakdown truck, they rammed the vehicle into a lay-by to force it to stop. Jumping out waving the shotguns, their faces covered in nylon stockings, Eric put the barrels of the gun against the driver’s side window, and they got the message.

With six bags of cash stuffed into an old army kitbag, they ran across the road and up into a nearby football club car park where they had stashed a stolen car in the early hours. The whole thing was done and dusted in under six minutes, and they were on their way back to West London before the police arrived on scene in response to the radio call from the guards.

Sitting in the car chuckling, Tommy was amazed at how calm Eric was. He was going to enjoy being an armed robber.

Superintendent Lang did his homework on Corky before the young man was due to arrive. Just over a year as a detective, sidelined into some crappy job in records. No history of taking a bung from villains, or fitting anyone up for something they hadn’t done. Small wonder he had set his mind to transferring to A10. He could be just the sort of new blood they needed. But he wasn’t going to make it easy for him. After all, you never could tell if he was a plant.

“So tell me, Corcoran. Why A10? Why the most unpopular job on the force, the one that takes volunteer applicants only?

Corky looked him straight in the eye. “I joined up to catch criminals, sir. Not to help them avoid being caught. After just a week on the squad, I realised that my colleagues were writing their own rules, playing their own game. That wasn’t going to work for me, and when they discovered that, I was stuck in a non-job, whittling down the backlog of files. If there are as many criminals inside the job as outside it, I reckon at least I will be in the right place to finally catch some”.

Lang was impressed, but didn’t act like he was.

“Thing is, it’s not so easy. Yes, a lot of them are at it, especially in CID. But they cover their tracks, have good alibis, and always seem to get a sixth sense when we are after them. If you come to work for me, you’ll have no friends, not your A10 colleagues, and certainly not me. We play by the book, and that very book is so often what frustrates us. Bent coppers have the same rights as real criminals, and those rights constantly interfere with our investigations and prosecutions”.

He saw Corky nodding, and continued anyway. “If you think you can cope, I’ll give you a job here. But you have to make the move almost immediately. Once your squad finds out you have been to see me, and they will already know, the sooner you get out the better. Shall we say next Monday, eight sharp? Best not to discuss anything downstairs in your squad room. I will do the necessary paperwork, and do the decent thing by informing Chief Inspector Mayhew. I will give him the impression that I head-hunted you, okay?”

That was the end of the interview, so Corky thanked him and left. In three day’s time, he would be a rubber-heeler.

At home that night, he told Brenda the news over dinner. She may or may not have understood the implications of the move, but her answer would likely have been the same either way. “Ooh, that’s good to hear, love. I hope they don’t expect you to work late during the week, and it would be nice if you got most weekends off too. Is it a promotion? If there’s a bit more money, maybe we can buy a car, take some nice drives out in the countryside”.

As much as Corky loved his wife, her failure to grasp the real world often frustrated him. He told her his rank was the same, and there was no extra pay. She smiled anyway. “As long as you’re happy, love, that’s the main thing”. Corky had always known that Brenda was his ideal woman, and every time she came out with something like that, it just confirmed what he knew.

It was obvious that Mayhew and Mackay knew he was moving to A10. His last day on the squad was his easiest do far. Mackay spoke to him early, before the morning briefing. “So, rubber heels from next week then, Corky? Kiss goodbye to your career, such as it was, and you can look over your shoulder for as long as you stay in the job. You are not going to be involved in anything today, not even old files. The Chief Inspector doesn’t even want to see you, so unofficially you can piss of home, go to the pictures, go and get drunk, do whatever you like. Once you leave this room, you no longer exist to us”.

He didn’t wait for a reply, so Corky began to clear his desk.

On the Monday, he was in Superindent Lang’s office early. He had a file on Mayhew and Mackay that he had spent all weekend polishing up. Lang only looked at the front page, then grinned. “You think we don’t know about those two? In the pay of both the Maltese and Alfie Rogers. Playing one against the other, and who knows how many other slag villains. But they know the game, Corcoran, they are masters of it. No chance of nicking them, not just now anyway.”

He saw the downcast look on Corky’s face, but it didn’t soften him.

“Get yourself into the main office. On your desk is a pile of files of public complaints. Work through those”.

Tommy was pleased with himself. Teaming up with Eric had worked out well. The unmarked old notes had come to almost two grand each, after Eric took expenses for getting the stolen car crushed and paying off the inside man. And he had another job ready to go. A literal daylight robbery of a Royal Mail van delivering postal orders and cash to a main Post Office in Croydon, South London. The tip off had come from someone Eric knew, and with two employees manning the big lorry, they didn’t have to worry about security guards.

Trouble was, Croydon was a busy place, and the target premises was right in the centre. On the plus side, it had a rear delivery entrance out of sight of the public. Eric had already cased the place before hooking up with Tommy, and had been waiting for the right accomplice to help him. Someone who didn’t mind a bit of aggravation if the delivery men got handy. Once again, Tommy was impressed by Eric’s thoughtful planning. He intended to pinch a Post Office van on the morning, and drive it straight to Croydon. Royal Mail had so many vehicles on the road in London, another one wouldn’t attract notice, especially with false number plates.

He had even worked out where to plant a getaway car, which would be parked up the night before the job, within easy driving distance. After the job, they would drive the Post Office van to the location, dump it there, and make off in the stolen motor. The coppers would be looking for the van, not a regular family car.

With enough money to tide him over, Tommy rented a one-bed flat in Hammersmith, not far from Eric’s place. And he bought a legal car to run around in. It was a nondescript used Ford Popular, something not associated with the criminal classes. Eric had to wait for a phone call that told him when the delivery in Croydon would happen, so they would have to be ready to go with one day’s notice. In a local pub in King Street, Hammersmith, Tommy started to chat up one of the barmaids, a divorced woman named Sylvia. When he asked her back to his place for drinks one night after the pub closed, she accepted eagerly. A good ten years older than Tommy, she thought her luck had changed.

Sylvia became his girl, and her visits were regular enough to keep them both happy. She had enough sense not to ask what he did for a living, as a young man with nice clothes and lots of cash usually only meant one thing. But that didn’t bother her. After all, her ex-husband was doing life for murder in Parkhurst Prison. She knew the type.

Eric had to be convinced that there was no pillow talk. “You better not be telling your bit of skirt about me, or about anything we do. If she grasses us up, I will come after both of you, I swear to that”. Tommy knew he was serious, and promised him he was saying nothing. “She ain’t even asked what I do. Reckon she’s staunch Eric, and wise to it. Someone told me her ex-fella is doing life somewhere. She knows the score mate”. The good thing about Sylvia was that she didn’t ask for anything. Pauline had expected to be kept, everything paid for. Sylvia had her own place, a neat little flat in Fulham Palace Road. She asked the pub landlord if she could work mostly weekdays, so she had more time to see her new fella. At first he refused, and was arsey about it, so Tommy decided to pay him a visit.

Once he met Tommy, he agreed immediately.

When the phone call came, Eric was on it straight away. He got hold of Tommy, and they drove the old Ford out to the suburbs to nick a car in a station car park. Eric had plates to swap, and it wouldn’t be missed until the owner got home from work. Then they drove in tandem down to Croydon, stashing the car in a public car park in Wandle Park. The next morning, Eric was up when it was dark, pinching a Morris van from the Post Office depot in Acton. He had walked all the way, carrying his tools and false plates in a holdall.

Picking Tommy up ouside Sylvia’s really early, he drove across Putney Bridge and continued south.

It could all have gone well if one of the delivery blokes hadn’t decided to try to win a bravery award. At first they had done as they were told, once they saw the shooters. But as Tommy was flinging the mail bags and cash bags into the stolen van, one of them foolishly rushed Eric. Not a good decision.

Although he only fired one barrel of the sawn-off, it hit the man in the throat. He died four hours later in hospital.

Now they were wanted for murder, as well as armed robbery.

On his fifth day working through the complaints files, Corky was learning a great deal about the Metropolitan Police. From the hundreds of complaints he had read, there were so few prosecutions of the officers referred to in them. It was all there. Excessive violence during arrest and detention, beating confessions out of suspects, sexual assault of vulnerable witnesses, planting evidence, and receiving bribes. He started to wonder who were the real criminals in London.

Without exception, every officer of Inspector rank and above had been cleared of further investigation. They presumably had hidden secrets they might reveal, powerful friends in the job, or cast-iron alibis to refute the accusations. Every so often, one of the junior ranks would make a reluctant confession about something, but there was no formal charge, and the officer would be allowed to resign and keep his pension. In only seven cases was an officer prosecuted criminally, or dismissed without pension benefits. And not one of those had served any time in prison.

Corky was beginning to wonder if his new job was of any use at all. It didn’t catch criminals outside of the department, and it seemed to be failing to apprehend those in the wider force too. He went home on that Friday feeling a little despondent. But if Brenda noticed his mood, she didn’t mention it. “I told my mum we would go to her place for Sunday dinner, George. Okay with you, love?” He nodded, deep in thought about other things.

The following Monday, he still had dozens of files to search through. His few colleagues in what seemed to be a busy department had little to say to him, but Superintendent Lang came by to say something positive. “Well done, Corcoran. You have really applied yourself well to those old files. Keep it up, and we will no doubt find you something more interesting to get your teeth into soon”. Corky smiled and made the right noises, then picked up the next file on the stack.

It was a complaint by a woman named Pauline Ferris. She had passed information on to some detectives at the Yard, and they had done nothing about it. She stated that she was in fear of her safety, and wanted to know what the police were doing. As he read on, he made some notes. The person she had named was Tommy Summers. That rang a bell of course. Her allegation was that he was bribing officers to ignore any accusations about him, and that Tommy had been violent to her. She also alleged that he was being protected by police officers. Then she went on to name them. Mayhew and Mackay.

That made Corky sit up. Tommy must have been boasting to her.

Her statement had been taken by A10 officers at her mother’s address in Camberwell. It was nicely detailed, including an association with gangland figure Alfie Rogers that had gone wrong, a hideaway on the Essex coast, and threats against every one of the former gang run by Alfie. She wasn’t looking for any reward, but it was patently obvious that she was seeking revenge. The conclusion from the investigating policemen was that she was bitter about a failed relationship. Summers could not be linked with a specific crime, and the two detectives concerned appeared to have good alibis, and clean records that could not be contradicted. In their opinion, this was an example of a jlted lover taking revenge with no substance of time, place, or specific event.

Right at the end, Corky noticed something that had not been referred to above. ‘Allegation that Summers was involved in a strip-club shooting in Soho cannot be substantiated by witnesses or informants’.

Thinking on his feet, he went down to general records and looked up Pauline Ferris. She had no criminal record, and didn’t even have a driving licence. But there was a file on her, for a specific reason. She had been reported as a missing person by her mother, a long time ago. Cross-checking the date she was reported missing, Corky discovered that it was eleven days after the Soho shooting. He made some notes, and decided to keep it all to himself for now.

His next job was going to be seeing the mother in Camberwell, and he would get permission to do that tomorrow.

After dumping the stolen car, Tommy had to drive Eric to a contact who would buy the Postal Orders for a quarter of their value. He tried not to show Eric how worried he was about the shooting of the employee, but looking at Eric, you would have no idea what they had done earlier. To him, it was just another day at work, as if he was a train driver, or delivery man. They had worn the stockings over ther faces again, and gloves would stop any chance of fingerprint identification, but Tommy wasn’t stupid, and knew that the job had all the hallmarks of an Eric Linklater enterprise.

He had no doubt that Eric would be getting a visit before the end of the day.

Whether or not Eric got that visit from CID, he never found out. He wasn’t going to ask, and Eric sure as hell wouldn’t tell him. So he spent the evening with Sylvia, took her up west for dinner, and slept at her place after. The next afternoon, Eric came to his place to hand over his cut. “I’m off to keep my head down, Tommy. Got some relatives up in Scotland, and I will be staying with them for two weeks. They will swear on The Bible that I was with them at the time of the Croydon job, if asked. I have a nice bank job lined up for when I get back, but meanwhile you keep a low profile, and don’t flash any cash around, okay?”

Tommy now had enough money to last him for a couple of years at least. If the coppers stayed off his back, he could live well enough, and do the occasional job with Eric. But although armed robbery had its attractions in excitement, the real steady money was to be made from organised crime, and having a good-sized gang. Still, he was young enough to wait, bide his time before making a move on Alfie Rogers again. That old man couldn’t last forever, and he had scores to settle.

The Croydon job made the news of course, but with vague descriptions and no real suspects, it quickly dropped off the headlines. The Post Office had put up a reward for information and conviction of the perpetrators. No doubt a few grasses would be dropping names, but none of those names would come to anything. Other than him and Eric, nobody knew who had done the job. Eric’s contact who had shifted the postal orders would also know of course, but unless he wanted to end up in a shallow grave wih a bullet in his head, he would say nothing.

One good thing about working with someone as ruthless as Eric, people were terrified of him.

Sylvia was starting to get serious. She had already talked about Tommy moving in with her. “Why rent two flats when we are always together in one or other of ’em, love? Makes sense to me if we just shacked up”. He had ignored that, so she had upped the ante. One night in bed as she lay in the dark smoking a cigarette, she turned to talk softly to him.

“Don’t wanna sound soppy or nuffin, but the honest truth is that I’ve fallen for you, Tommy. Hook, line, and sinker, real love. Just so you know”. If she had expected him to say something romantic in return, she had a long wait. He liked her well enough, really fancied her curvy body and nice face. But moving in? Love? He had already had his fingers burned by letting Pauline move in, and had started to get feelings for her too. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake with a woman again, especially not one who was eleven years older than him.

But to keep her sweet, he suggested a week by the sea down in Brighton. A decent hotel on the front, but nothing too fancy. Walks along the pier, a few nice meals in restaurants, maybe a bit of shopping around The Lanes, buy her a nice trinket. She was over the moon. “Oh, Tommy. Brighton? I love it there. Thanks so much”.

She saw some gold earrings in a jeweller’s window, and remarked that they were unusual. When he said he would buy them for her, she was overwhelmed, and hugged him tightly on the street. He didn’t care for that sort of behaviour.

“Calm down, Sylvie. It’s only some earrings”.

Before travelling to Camberwell, Corky checked out Elaine Ferris. She had a criminal record, and it was quite a thick folder. Mostly for prostitution, whether running a brothel in her flat, or working the streets around Lambeth and Vauxhall. There were a couple of shoplifting convictions too, and she had served six months inside for attacking a policewoman who arrested her in Peckham. Nothing recent though, maybe age was beginning to limit her options.

Elaine only answered the door after at least six attempts at knocking. Her red eyes scanned his I.D, and relief showed on her face. “Christ almightly, I thought you was the bloody bailiffs”. As he looked down at her, Corky’s first thought was faded glory. Not yet fifty, she looked every minute of sixty, but there was still a vestige of a once glamourous woman ruined by lifestyle choices, including alcohol and cigarettes. He said he was investigating the disappearance of her daughter, and she told him to come in.

The sparse interior of the two-bed flat was surprisingly clean and tidy, save for an overflowing amber glass ashtray on a formica-topped coffee table with wobbly legs. Maybe she had more time on her hands to do the housework. The half-empty bottle of Vodka next to the sofa told its own story. She wasn’t even bothering to use a glass, just necking it. There was no television in the living room, just a Dansette record player on the floor where the TV might have once been, a pile of long-players stacked next to it. She didn’t offer tea of coffee, or a swig from the vodka bottle.

“Sit yourself down, and tell me what you want to know”.

He skimmed through his notes, but had no definite questions other than to understand more about what had happened to make Elaine report her missing. She was more than happy to elaborate.

“Well, she hadn’t been living here for a long time. She’d been working as a stripper, last I heard. She didn’t ever ring me, and I had a phone then, before they cut it off. She pissed off when she was sixteen, accused me of trying to put her on the game she did. I mean, I did entertain my regulars here, as I bet you know already, but never once did I suggest she did the same, and that’s the God’s honest truth Inspector”.

She paused to light a cigarette, and Corky didn’t bother to correct her about his rank.

“Anyway, then I get a phone call one morning. Says she been knocked about by her fella, some small-time gangster, Tommy summink, don’t remember his last name. She says she’s coming home by train and wants to stay here ’til she sorts herself out. ‘Course I said alright, well she’s flesh and blood, ain’t she?. She gets here in a right state, and without so much as a hello mum, she’s on the phone to Scotland Yard making a complaint about some coppers. They said they would come and talk to her two days later, and she asked me to make myself scarce when they came. She gave me a few quid to go down the pub for an hour or two”.

Corky sat waiting for her to continue, and after a long pause she picked up the Vodka bottle and took three big swigs before doing so.

“Sorry, love. Dry throat. So I did as she asked, and when I got home she said they had written it all down. On Saturday morning, she gets a phone call from someone, don’t know who it was or how they even knew my number. Then she tells me she’s had a job offer to be a club hostess, and she’s going to meet the bloke up west somewhere to talk about it. She got herself all dolled up, looked lovely she did, then she went out about four that afternoon to get the bus. She never came back, and I waited until the next afternoon before reporting her missing, as I reckoned she had probably copped off with the club owner. That’s about all I know, Inspector. But I’ve a feeling summink bad happened to my girl, you mark my words”.

He thanked her for her help, and said he would let her know how the investigation progressed. As he stood up, she gave him a sickly smile. “No need to rush off, handsome. If you want to hang around for a bit, I can give you a good time. No charge, honey”.

Feeling sorry for her, Corky gave her three pound notes from his wallet after declining her invitation.

When Eric got back from Scotland, he was very pleased to tell Tommy that they were not on the suspect list for the Post Office job. “I haven’t had a pull, but I have heard they are trying to fit up some hoodlum types from a housing estate in Croydon. No doubt they will manufacture some evidence and put those lads in the frame”.

Tommy didn’t bother to ask Eric how he knew that. Eric’s network of contacts was legendary.

He also had news of his bank job. “It’s a big one, laddie. My inside man tells me that it is the monthly stock of cash for one of the big banks in the City of London. The time to hit it is after the security van has delivered, and before they can put all the money in the safe. Some bugger is bound to activate the silent alarm, but I reckon we have at least seven minutes to get the cash loaded and get away. We are going to need a third man though, to cover the employees while we load. I have someone coming round in a minute, so you can meet him. He’s on a flat fee for the job, no cut”.

Felix Baptiste arrived ten minutes later. He had come over from Jamaica as a teenager, and soon realised that West Indians were very unpopular in London. He couldn’t find work, and had resorted to petty crime to get by. Now he wanted one big payday to get himself back to Jamaica and open up a beach bar. Tommy was stunned. Even with stocking masks, you could not disguise the fact Felix was black. And you didn’t seen any black armed robbers in London, not then anyway. Eric noticed Tommy’s expression.

“I know what you’re thinking, but we will get round that by using hoods, pillowcases with holes cut out. Overalls and gloves will hide his arms, and he won’t say a word during the job, will you Felix?” Felix grinned, showing enormous, perfect white teeth. “Yeah man, you can count on me”. Eric continued. “The notes will be new. Shame about that, as we will have to fence them at twenty-five percent. But I can arrange that easily, and one quarter of this haul is still gonna be enough to set us up nicely, believe me. You might wanna get a fake passport for you and that girl, Tommy. I can get those for a hundred quid each. Take a holiday abroad once it’s over, let the heat die down”.

As usual, Eric had it all worked out in great detail. The large van he would steal, the drop car for the escape, and second drop car for Felix to use so there wouldn’t be three men in the same motor. The money would be driven in the van straight to the contact, who would examine it, and pay the quarter of it’s value there and then. Felix would be paid in advance, with the flat fee he had agreed to be back-up. As well as the two sawn-offs, there was a revolver for Felix to use to keep the staff cooperating. The job was still awaiting a final date, but Eric seemed sure it would happen that month. Once all the details had been gone over, Felix left, and Tommy handed over the two hundred for the fake passports.

When he was about to leave, Eric reminded him again. “Don’t forget, passport photos of you and your woman. Get them done in one of them machines in a railway station, and drop them through my letterbox next week. And you better buy her a cheap wedding ring to wear when you go. Married couples attract less attention. Don’t change up any foreign money before you go either. Wait until you get where you’re going to change it. And don’t even mention to me where you’re thinking about, I don’t wanna know. Not America though, ’cause that’s where I’m headed. I ain’t telling you where, it’s a big enough country”.

That night, he had a chat with Sylvia. “Best jack your job in soon, we’ll be going away for a few weeks at the end of the month. I was thinking about Italy, what do you reckon?” Sylvia had never been abroad, and her smile lit up her face. “Really? Oh, Tommy I’d love that, but I haven’t got a passport”. He kissed her on the top of her head.

“Leave all that to me love”.

Back at his desk, Corky felt frustrated. He was convinced that Pauline had been lured to her death by the promise of the hostess job, and talking to Elaine confirmed his suspicions. But who did the deed? And who set her up? It seems likely that detectives from The Yard were the ones who knew where she was, and had found out Elaine’s phone number. Had they just passed it on to some criminals? Or had they actually intercepted Pauline and done away with her somehow? He wouldn’t put that past the likes of Mayhew and Mackay, especially as she had heard Tommy mention those names

Whatever the answers, one thing was sure. He had no proof of anything, and no witnesses. He was never going to get permission to instigate a full investigation, let alone charge anyone without evidence. One of these days, he knew that he would have to give Elaine the bad news.

The next day, he had to forget the Ferris case, as he was given a new job. A man had died in the custody cells of a North London police station some days earlier. The post-mortem had concluded that he had been beaten to death. The only suspects for that were the police officers involved. The three that made the arrest, the two acting as jailers for that shift, and the Custody Sergeant responsible for whatever happened on his watch. All six men had been suspended on full pay, pending an investigation, and Corky was assigned to accompany one of the A10 sergeants to Wood Green Police Station to interview them.

Superintendent Lang had some words before they left.

“You know that none of them are gonna cough to it. They will say he came in like that, after resisting arrest. The dead man had a lot of form, including assaulting police officers, GBH, and carrying a knife. Chances are he got a few good knocks in when they were arresting him, and they decided to give him payback in the cells. They went in mob-handed, and overstepped the mark. The bottom line is that someone has to pay for it. There will be no murder charge, more like manslaighter with a self-defence plea. But we have to be seen to not be letting the bad cops do what they want, and get away with it. I doubt the Custody Sergeant was involved, but you can bet your arse he turned a blind eye. Then he didn’t summon any medical help, just supposedly found the bloke dead in his cell the next morning. Pathology report stated he had been dead since before midnight”.

On the way there in an unmarked car, the experienced sergeant chatted to Corky. “This is a good case for you to pull when you’re new. You’re gonna find out we’re about as popular as a whore at a wedding. Don’t accept any offers of tea, as they will either spit in it, piss in it, or stir it with something that is definitely not a spoon. Don’t expect anyone to speak nicely to you. They will all be represented by the Police Federation Rep, and it will be his job to make them all appear to be little innocents who might well be singing in a church choir. I have read through their records, and one of them has had no less than seven complaints against him in the last four years. All for excessive violence during arrests. As usual, the supposed victims declined to give evidence once they were formally interviewed”.

Tommy felt he had to chip in. “So, do we look for the weak link? The newest officer, one with the least service? Or go after the Custody Sergeant as it was his responsibility?” The other man engaged first gear in the car and smiled as he drove off from the traffic light. “They will close ranks, Corky. Their best defence is to say nothing, and stick to the story they all gave in their original statements. The bloke resisted, they had some rough and tumble on the street, then they banged him up into one of the cells to calm down, and found him dead the next morning. It doesn’t get them off completely. We might get a couple for excessive force, even get them sacked off the job. But a criminal charge is going to be unlikely. We are flying the flag, old son. Looking good for the newspapers, and the dead man’s relatives. There has to be an investigation, but we will settle for the best outcome we can get in the shortest possible time”.

As they pulled into the car park behind the police station, the Sergeant had one more thing to say.

“You better tell your wife you’re going to be home late. This is bound to take us all week.”

On the day of the bank job, Tommy was tense. He had told Sylvia he should be home by early afternoon, and she should be ready to leave not long after. The drop cars had been dealt with by Eric and Felix the night before, and Eric stole the van just a few minutes before picking Tommy up for the drive into the city. False plates should divert attention until the job was over. Felix was in the back, loading the revolver. He was humming a song that Tommy had never heard, and acting like they were on a day trip to the seaside.

With its narrow streets and strict parking controls, they couldn’t just park up somewhere and wait, so Eric had to time his drive carefully. The City of London had its own police force, separate to The Met Police, but they could call on help from them if need be. The getaway had been planned with Eric’s usual care. They were not going to go far, just into East London, where the drop cars had been stored on some waste ground behind a big solid fence. That waste ground belonged to someone Eric knew of course.

Typically, the traffic wasn’t that bad on the morning you wanted it to be. As they got close to the bank, the security van was still in the process of unloading, nervous-looking guards walking alonside the trolley containing huge sacks of new notes. Eric saw that as a positive. “Oh, good, we can slide into their space as soon as they leave. Be ready, fellas”.

There was no way to pull it off quietly. As the security van left, Eric drove into the space, and bounced two wheels up the kerb so as to be as close to the bank as possible. Already wearing their hoods, the three men jumped out, Tommy and Eric holding sawn-off shotguns, and Felix following behind with his revolver. Eric was loud, firing one barrel of his shotgun into the ceiling and screaming orders at a terrified female clerk behind the door that led to the back. Tommy knew that the seven minutes was now counting down, someone would have hit the silent alarm.

As luck would have it, the bags of cash were still on the trolley, in front of the open vault. Eric threw his gun on top of the cash and grabbed the trolley handles while Tommy covered the clerk and the manager, who had both been told to kneel on the ground with their hands up. There had only been two customers in the bank at the time, and once the robbers had gone through to the back, they had both legged it. They were back out by the van in record time, with Felix covering the doorway as Eric and Tommy threw the heavy bags into the back.

People out on the street ducked for cover upon seeing three hooded men with guns, and nobody was brave enough to try to interfere. But one businessman ran back down the street the other way, finding a lone police officer directing traffic. He quickly told him what was happening.

Constable Stephen Murdoch had come all the way from his home in Scotland to join the City of London Police just over a year earlier. He had always wanted to be a copper, and to do the job in a big city, not the remote village in Scotland where he grew up. Twenty-three years old, very fit physically, six-feet three inches without his policeman’s helmet, he didn’t think twice. Abandoning his traffic point, he drew his truncheon, and placed the whistle in his mouth as he started to run to the bank.

Eric was laughing as he drove off the kerb. Felix was sitting next to him, and Tommy was in the back lying on the bags of money. It had all gone so much better than they expected, and they should be halfway to the waste ground before any cop cars showed up at the bank. Constable Murdoch was a fast runner, and when he saw the robbers’ van moving off the kerb, he accelerated. As Eric swung into the moving traffic, the young policeman reached for the handle of the sliding door on the passenger side and slid it open. He put one foot on the sill, and grabbed a surprised Felix with his free hand, pulling off the hood as he did so.

Whether by intention, or out of instinct, Felix raised the revolver and shot the copper once in the chest.

For Corky, the week had been tiresome. Sergeant Dinsdale was taking the lead of course, and all he was supposed to do was observe the interviews, and make notes. By Wednesday, he was losing the will to live. The first four officers who had been interviewed had reserved their right to stick to their statements, and make no further comment. But that didn’t stop Dinsdale dragging out each procedure, firing questions at the officers that they had no intention of answering.

The Police Federation Rep kept repeating the same thing too. “They have made statements, and have no more to add. If you have evidence to bring disciplinary charges against my members, then let’s hear it. Otherwise, this is a fruitless exercise and I can see no point in continuing with it”. Each time he said that he added something, looking at Corky. “Detective Constable Corcoran, I would like you to write down my response in your notebook please”.

On Thursday, the same thing happened, and Corky was starting to wonder if Dinsdale was really trying to pursue charges against these men. At least they were leaving the police station at a reasonable time each day, so he wasn’t getting home late to Brenda, as his sergeant had predicted. On the way back from Wood Green in the car, he made a decision. The next morning they would be interviewing the Custody Sergeant who was on duty the night in question. That would be their last chance, and if he played the same game, the process would be over, and they would be going back to A10 with their tails between their legs.

With almost thirty years service, the Custody Sergeant had accumulated not only a good pension, but a lot of experience. However, this was the first time in his career he had ever been interviewed by A10, and the nerves were showing on his face. If Dinsdale hadn’t noticed, Corky had. As usual, they went through the motions. A barrage of questions, with the uniformed officer repeating that he had no more to add. This time, before the Federation rep could say his piece Corky spoke up, to the surprise of everyone in the small room.

“Sarge, you’re a whisker away from a thirty-year pension. Almost fifty-one years old, and married for the second time with two young children. You know we are not going to just give up and walk away, don’t you? A man has died, almost certainly killed on your watch, in your custody cells. Those younger officers are bound to either blab to their mates, or crack under the pressure, if not now, then one day. Do you really want to throw everything away to protect the real culprits? Lose that pension, and what? Driving a delivery van? Working in a warehouse? Your young wife won’t be happy about that, and your kids will be ashamed of their daddy being a criminal instead of a copper. So before I close my notebook, I want you to think about the future”.

Dinsdale’s face was red, and it was obvious he didn’t appreciate his junior taking over. But he said nothing. The Custody Sergeant opened his mouth to speak, and the Federation rep beat him to it. “I am advising the sergeant not to respond”. He was too late, as the other man spoke over him, and Corky began writing.

“The bloke was walking when they brought him in. He was too drunk and uncooperative to be interviewed, so I told them what cell to put him in. Then I went for my refreshment break and didn’t feel the need to check on him until the morning before I went off duty. Anything that happened in that cell after I left the Custody Area is down to them. That’s the god’s honest truth, and I am willing to change my statement to reflect that”. Dinsdale was delighted. He reached into a file folder and took out a new statement form. “Shall we begin then?”

Without the Custody Sergeant backing up their story, the other officers would heve to be re-interviewed, and told about the changed statement. Then it would only be a matter fo time before cracks appeared in their versions of events. After driving silently for the first twenty minutes, Dinsdale turned to Corky. “You did well there, I just wish you had told me what you were going to do, so I didn’t look so surprised when you started talking”. Corky said nothing, so the sergeant continued.

“Another busy week next week then, but you laid the foundations for charges today, so good work. I will be informing Mr Lang, you can be sure”.

Eric was driving like a maniac, but made time to grab Felix’s head and push him down into the front well of the van so he couldn’t be seen from the street. When they got to the waste ground, the gate was open, and he drove straight in. A man standing inside closed the gate, and Eric dragged Felix out of the van, shouting at him and punching him repeatedly. “You stupid bastard, you never had to shoot that copper!”

Across the waste ground was another van, next to the two drop cars. Eric’s contact stood casually next to it, flanked by the heavy who had closed the gate. With Felix sensibly staying on the ground and nursing his wounds, Eric walked over to talk to the man. He came back, still raging. “Okay, Tommy. They are going to examine the bags to make sure they are not being stitched up. Then he will pay us our percentage in used notes. You say nothing, and once it’s done, take the Zephyr. I will sort Felix out. Just leave the car on the street somewhere close to where you live, then get a bus the rest of the way home”.

Tommy was feeling sick. Shooting a copper changed the rules. No police or criminal contacts could be relied upon now. They were on their own.

It seemed to take ages for the casual man to rifle through the cash bags, but he emerged satisfied. His helper took Eric over to the other van and gave him two large holdalls which Eric carefully inspected. He brought one over to Tommy, unzipped it, and showed him the money inside. “That’s forty grand. Don’t leave it on the bus, and get out of the country tonight, tomorrow at the latest. It’s been nice working with you, and I’m sorry about Felix. But not as sorry as he’s gonna be”.

Taking the long way home to avoid driving through The City, Tommy headed for the North Circular Road in the Zephyr. Dumping the car in a college car park in Acton, he walked to the main road and got a bus back to his flat. He packed most of the cash into his suitcase under the clothes already inside, and put the rest into a smaller bag he would carry on to the plane. Then he placed a toiletries travel bag, a towel, and some swimming shorts on top. It would have to do. If he got a pull, so be it, but he wasn’t going to leave the money in England.

Sylvia was excited when he got to her flat. Packed and ready, she didn’t ask him why he was being so quiet, almost grumpy. He flagged down a taxi on the street nearby, and asked to be taken to London Airport. In the back, she was dying to ask him where they were going in Italy, and what sort of hotel they would be staying in. But one look at his face staring out of the window, and she decided to stay quiet. When they got out at the airport and Tommy paid the cabbie, he reached into his pocket and gave her something. It was a plain gold band.

“Here, put this on. According to your passport, you’re my wife. But don’t get any ideas, and don’t ask me any questions ’til we get where we’re going. Okay?” He handed her a passport, and she looked inside. There was her photo, but the date of birth wasn’t right, and her name was Mrs Alice Durham. For the first time since she had met Tommy, Sylva was scared of him.

She sat waiting with her small case while Tommy walked up to different airline desks. He came back with two tickets. “Nothing to Italy until tomorrow morning, so we’re going to Spain. Malaga is not far from Marbella, and it’s s’posed to be nice there. We’ll get a cab from Malaga Airport after we change some money up”. He gave her a handful of crumpled five pound notes. “Here, get yourself something from the Duty Free shop, perfume or whatever. The flight leaves in two hours”.

As they sat on the aircraft later, Sylvia was looking at the lights of London and Southern England through the window. It was the most amazing thing she had ever seen.

But Tommy wasn’t looking out of any windows, he was thinking about what Eric was going to do to Felix.

Alfie Rogers sat at his desk, looking across at Chief Inspector Mayhew. The detective was not taking no for an answer.

“We’ve got a City copper fighting for his life in hospital, had a bullet removed from his lung. He came round long enough to describe a black man as one of the robbers, and that’s the one who shot him. Then by coincidence, they find a suitcase in the Grand Union Canal the same night containing the body of a black man. Only he’s missing his head, and both hands. So you’re gonna give me a name, or you can kiss goodbye to your business, Alfie.”

Nobody liked to be a grass, but shooting a copper was like kicking a hornet’s nest. If he didn’t give a name, the coppers would never leave him alone. Worse still, they might fit him up on some false charge and put him away for a ten-stretch. At his age, that would be a death sentence. So he lit a cigar, and started talking.

“Off the record, and no statement, that goes without saying. I can’t help you with a name for the black man, honest. But he’s bound to have form, and there ain’t many black robbers around are there? But the name you want is Eric Linklater, Eric the loner. He’s an independent, ruthless bastard too. He has more inside contacts than you can shake a stick at, and he’s been put up for that bank job by everyone who knows anything. Find Eric, and you’ll find your money. And it’s a pound to a pinch of shit he did for the black geezer too”.

—————————————

Corky was in Superintendent Lang’s office. The Wood Green job had been completed. Three sacked, the Custody Sergeant allowed to retire early on full pension, and one charged with manslaughter that might not stick in court. The last one was let off, but transferred to South London. All in all, a decent outcome for A10. Lang was in a good mood.

“You did well. Dinsdale was genuinely impressed. You have a few years in now, Corky. Don’t you think it’s about time you took the Sergeant’s Exam? I’m sure you would pass it, and I would definitely have a job for you here on promotion”. Corky was surprised, he hadn’t been expecting that. He agreed to apply for the exam, and Lang shook his hand before he left the office.

That night at home, he told Brenda the news. She was pleased of course, but had an agenda.

“Ooh, if you get that promotion and extra money, we could think about buying a nice little house in Brockley. We would be able to get a two-bed with a little garden, and you could get the train to work from Brockley Station, or even buy a little car”. Brenda never asked for anything, but he knew she had her heart set on a house of their own one day, and this could be their chance.

——————————————

The hotel in Marbella was nice. Not too flash, not silly expensive, but classy. The weather was good too, and Sylvia was soon complaining about how hot it was. Tommy felt relieved to have got there without any search of his bags, but he was going to have to find somewhere to stash the money. Although he didn’t speak a word of Spanish, he quickly discovered that where money was concerned, everyone spoke some English. Cab drivers, waiters, hotel staff, and a bank manager at the quiet bank along the street from the hotel.

“I recommend you use one of our safe deposit boxes, Senor Durham. Easy access to your funds, and no questions asked by the authorities. The fee for renting a large box is very reasonable too, and seeing your passport is all I need to arrange that”. An hour later, Tommy had stashed the bulk of the money, and had a key in his possession. He wasn’t about to tell Sylvia where he had left the dosh, that was for sure. She hadn’t asked him anything at all, and seemed happy to be posing as his wife and wearing the cheap wedding ring.

Walking along past the expensive boats in the marina, he stopped for a beer at a waterside cafe. His next job was to find a little house for them. Property was dirt cheap compared to England, so they wouldn’t have the bother of renting, as long as he could pay cash for a place with no hassle. The waitress smiled as she brought the beer, and he tipped her double.

He was going to like living in Spain.

Corky had passed the Sergeant’s Exam on the first try, and Superintendent Lang made good his promise. Now detective Sergeant Corcoran, he became the right hand man of Inspector Drury, on the team specialising in corrupt detectives. No more dealing with public complaints, or uniformed coppers, this was real detective work.

Then he also made good his pormise to Brenda, and they took out a mortgage on a three-bed semi in Honour Oak, in the nicer part of Brockley. And he got a small car too, not that he had much free time to take Brenda on drives to the country at weekends. But he was able to drive her to some nice seaside towns for their annual summer holidays, where they stayed in a good bed and breakfast or rented a caravan.

Brenda had never been happier. Although she didn’t appear to be outwardly snobbish, she genuinely adored being a home owner, and being able to mention to her work colleagues that they were living in Honour Oak and had a fifty-foot back garden as well as a parking space for their car where the front garden had been paved over. It was an expensive time, as moving from a rental meant they had to buy everything from scratch. With the deposit on the house too, all of their savings were gone. But they both felt they had finally got somewhere in life.

———————————————

Tommy Summers, now known as John Durham, was also happy. He had used his new connection of the bank manager to arrange a house purchase in a nice street not far from the seafront in Marbella. It had a garage, and a roof terrace, two large bedrooms, and a lovely outside shaded seating area at the back, ideal for when the weather was hot. Sylvia was equally happy, and still hadn’t asked him a single question. They ate out most nights, becoming familiar to some locals in the small restaurants they favoured. Every now and again, Sylvia would get something nice at the local market and cook a meal, feeling like she was part of a married couple.

But Tommy knew the money wouldn’t last forever, no matter how cheap the house had been. He had also bought it in a false name, so future discovery of who he really was might negate the legality of owning the property. It hadn’t been long before he had been introduced to some other British ex-pats who lived in and around Marbella. Although he didn’t know any of them from England, they had mutual acquaintancies back in London, and were also hiding a criminal past. One of them was Patrick O’Brien, known as Paddy O’B. He was originally from Kilburn, and had been languishing in Spain for over five years following a particularly lucrative heist at London Airport.

Chatting over a few beers one late afternoon, Paddy O’B had some advice for Tommy.

“There’s no future in armed robbery. D’ya know they’re thinking of putting dye packs in the money now, John? That will colour it all, and nobody will fence it as it can’t be spent. Cameras too, Closed Circuit they call it. Most places worth robbing will be getting it installed, it’s all the rage. Your work will be filmed, just like in the movies, my friend. No, forget going back to the old country and carrying on where you left off. Stay here, and think about the future”.

He pointed at the sea. “On the other side of that is North Africa. They have boats over there, and they can bring in Hash, Cocaine, even Heroin. You just have to know who to talk to, and have some money behind you”. Drugs are the future”.

______________________________________________

Eric Linklater had waited a year until he started working again. He had made his way across America after flying to Newark, and was temporarily based in Texas. He lived in cheap motels off the grid, eating in diners, and rarely speaking to anyone. If bothered by someone, he would explain that he was a tourist, and had always wanted to see America after meeting American soldiers during the war. He travelled on Greyhound buses, and always kept his cash nearby in a holdall. He was aware that going back to England was not an option for a long while, so he had to make some kind of life for himself in the meantime.

He started by buying a gun with no questions asked in a sleazy bar in San Antonio. Then he stole a car from the car park of the same bar and drove to Huston. The next morning, he held up a bank as soon as it opened, and got away with eight thousand dollars. Dumping the car and stealing a different one, he bought a map of Texas in a gas station, and planned his next move.

Two days after the previous robbery, Eric Linklater was staying in a motel on the outskirts of Austin, Texas. He had stolen a Buick, and changed the plates on it. During a breakfast stop at a nearby cafe, he noticed a quiet-looking bank on the opposite corner. He felt that would do nicely on his way out of Austin the next day.

Texas Ranger Kevin Cobb had joined up when he came home from service in Korea. Before going into the office or working a case, he liked a good breakfast of pancakes and bacon in his favourite cafe on Main Street. He parked his sedan round back, and being well-known to the owner, he would enter through the staff entrance and sit at the same table every morning.

That day he was running late, but was still determined to eat before starting work. He noticed a Buick parked outside the bank on the opposite corner. It didn’t look right, too close to the curb, the driver’s door not fully closed, and the engine was running. There was nobody in the car though. He felt the cropped hairs stand up on the back of his neck, picked up his hat, threw some money onto the table, then walked outside and strode over to the corner of the bank building.

Crouching low, he drew the heavy pistol from its shoulder-holster, and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. The bank alarm sounded, a loud bell ringing out on the street, and a man emerged carrying a heavy backpack in one hand, and an automatic pistol in the other. The lower half of the man’s face was covered by a bandana, and he looked lean and purposeful, a professional no doubt.

Cobb acted on instinct, firing his revolver instantly.

The soft-nosed bullet hit Eric in the pelvis, entering his bladder and making him fall onto the sidewalk. As he raised the automatic and looked to his left, Cobb stood up and fired an aimed shot that hit the man in the throat.

Eric’s career as a bank robber, and his life, ended that morning on the sun-warmed street of a Texas suburb.

Once backup had arrived because of the alarm, and the body of the robber examined, they found a British passport in the name of Alexander Reed, and a bag in the trunk of the Buick containing over thirty thousand in British money, and seven thousand US dollars. During the autopsy, they fingerprinted the corpse and sent details of the passport and prints to the British police in London. The reply eventually came back that the prints matched a career criminal named Eric Linklater, currently wanted for bank robbery and murder in London.

Arrangements were made to return the British currency to London, and the case was closed by the authorities in Texas. Eric’s body was buried in a pauper’s grave in an Austin cemetery, marked only by a reference number printed on a small piece of wood.

————————————————————-

Chief Inspector Mayhew and Sergeant Mackay were sitting in an office discussing the file on the desk in front of them. Mackay was smiling as he spoke.

“That’s Linklater done and dusted, the City bank robbery case solved, and we can close the file on the murder of the black bloke too, I reckon. Still, it would be nice to know who the third man was, any news on that Boss?”

Mayhew shook his head.

“Nobody seems to know. I have rattled a few cages, made lots of threats, and talked to everyone involved in that type of job. But I drew a blank. I suppose only Eric will ever know who he took along that day, and that information has died with him. Come on, lets go for a quick drink before I head home”.

————————————————————–
In Marbella, Tommy Summers was having dinner with a man named Mario. He knew it wasn’t his real name of course, as for one thing he was an Arab. But he spoke perfect English, and fluent French too.

“Mr Durham, if you have twenty thousand pounds, I can make some good arrangements for you. I am well-known in this region, and can double your money in six weeks, believe me. I only ask for ten percent, which is very fair, you will agree? I can lay hands on the best stuff, and it can be cut and re-cut according to the requirements of the customer. I also have good contacts who can move the goods north for you. France, Holland, Belgium, even across to England. You can choose the destination, and the price varies accordingly”.

Tommy didn’t trust the Arab as far as he could throw him, but Paddy O’B had made the introduction, and he would have to answer if it went bent. He slid the briefcase containing the twenty grand under the table, and stood up.

“Nice doing business with you, Mario”.

As Corky and Brenda celebrated five years in the new house by having new double-glazing installed, Inspector Drury called him into the office one evening before he went home.

“You may be aware I am considering retirement next year. Get out while I can still live long enough to spend my pension, that’s the plan. Me and the wife are thinking about going to live over in France. She favours Normandy. Anyway, heads-up for you, Corky. Apply for the Inspector’s exam, and when I put my papers in next year, you will get my solid recommendation to be my replacement”.

Encouraged by his boss’s words, he promised to do just that. The department had done well in recent years, breaking corruption in the Vice Squad, and securing convctions of long-serving officers. They were finally sending out the message that coppers who were criminals would face justice. With the surpise conviction of a Chief Superintendent, they had proved that nobody was above the law.

Of course, wth that success came more hatred and suspicion of their department, but funding had been sourced to expand, and Corky’s team was twice the size it had been when he started there. When he told Brenda over dinner she seemed cagey at first, and when they had finished eating, she had something to say.

“George, if you make Inspector next year, do you think it would be okay for me to stop working? The commute on the train wears me out a bit, and it’s not as if my salary makes that much difference. And truthfully my job is so boring, I dread going in most days. It would give me more time to make the house look nice, and maybe I can finally do something with the garden”. He hadn’t realised she was so fed up in her job, and it made him feel guilty that he never really asked her anything. Other than talking about his work occasionally, and routine stuff concerning their extended family, it hardly occured to him to ask her about herself.

“Brenda love, if I get that promotion next year, you can give your notice the following day, that’s a promise”.

———————————————————

Those same five years had been boom years for Tommy in Spain. Mario had been right about doubling his money in six weeks, and Tommy reinvested forty grand immediately. The joy of it was he wasn’t in the frame for anything. Diego, the bank manager he had befriended, was now working for him, as his right hand man. He had front companies set up in Spain and Holland to launder the money through, and to make the business look legitimate.

In Spain, they ostensibly traded in Olive Oil, in Holland it was Tulip bulbs. Both companies actually existed legally, employed staff, and sold the products they were supposed to. But inside the boxes of genuine products were extra weights of cocaine, heroin, and marajuana.

Two years in, and Diego came to Tommy with a problem.

“This Mario, word on the street is that he is talkimg too much. Boasting about cutting the quality of our stuff before shipment, and taking much more than his ten percent off the top. I have been asking around, and I can get a Frenchman named Michel to operate the same contacts in Morocco, and cut out Mario completely. This Michel is vouched for, and he works on a fixed rate, no percentages. Even better, he used to be in the Foreign Legion, so has a lot of heavies on his payroll. That means we never have to get our hands dirty. What do you think?”

Tommy sat sipping some Anis.

“Mario knows too much though. If we cut him out of the business he will either set up with someone else in competition, or grass us up”. Diego smiled. “Of course, Michel could arrange for Mario to disappear. Perhaps some of his Foreign Legion friends could take the Arab on a pleasure cruise into the Mediterranean?”

Four days later, Tommy was shaking the Frenchman’s hand in a seafront cafe as Mario was dropped off the back of a speedboat into the sea, his hands and feet tied together behind his back.

After that, business really took off. Tommy was going up in the world, and there was not a single shred of evidence to connect him with any of the criminal activities. To celebrate his new status, he sold the two-bed house and bought a four bed villa above the town, with a full-size outdoor swimming pool. Then he employed one of the ex-Legionnaires as his driver-bodyguard to run him around in his new Jaguar.

Sylvia was blissfully happy too, and determined to hang on to her younger lover.

Chief Inspector Mayhew retired from his career of being one of the most corrupt officers in the Metropolitan Police. His leaving party was well-attended, with one joker quipping, “I only came to make sure he was actually leaving”.

Corky had been promoted to Team Inspector six years earlier, and kept his promise to Brenda. She handed in her notice the next day. He had also kept his promise to keep Elaine Ferris updated. But when he went to see her, a neighbour told him she was in hospital with some sort of lung problem. He said he would come back another time, but then became sidetracked.

Sergeant Mackay couldn’t afford to retire, despite his long service. He was paying for his two kids after an acrimonious divorce some years earlier, and now they were both talking about going to university, he feared he would have to work until they told him he had tp stop. It didn’t help that the new Chief Inspector was something of a reformer. He had asked for details of all the paid informants, and every underworld contact each detective was currently using.

That was not only going to give him potential aggravation at work, it was also going to cost him money. A great deal of money. Before the deadline, he made a hurried tour of all the known drop-boxes where the brown envelopes stuffed with cash would be left to buy his silence, and his ability to look the other way. On top of cisterns in pub toilets, under particular parked cars in random car parks, or taped to the underside of the directory stack in a phone box near Victoria Station.

It was going to be his last unofficial payday for a very long time, if not for good.

—————————————————————-

In Spain, Tommy and Sylvia had enjoyed over seven years in the nice villa with the swimming pool. But even though he did his best to keep a low profile, his new-found wealth attracted attention. The wrong sort of attention. One day his bodyguard came to talk to him. “There’s a man at the gate, wants to talk to you. He’s Italian, says he’s from Sicily. I’ve searched him, and he’s clean. His passport looks real, and he’s old. Maybe sixty-five, even seventy. Shall I let him in?”

A cold shiver ran up Tommy’s back. Italians from Sicily could only mean one thing, and everyone knew what that was. He shook his head. “No, tell him I’m sorry, but I am not feeling well”. The bodyguard shrugged, and went out to tell the stranger. When the Frenchman came back, he looked unusually concerned. “He says okay, but he will come back on the same day next week. And if you are too unwell to see him then, he will come back the week after with some friends”. Tommy felt a clench in his gut, but managed to stay looking relaxed in front of his employee.

Later that night, he chatted to Sylvia as they had drinks on the terrace after dinner.

“I’ve got to go up to Holland, love. Check on some stuff in the Tulip business. I reckon some of the men working for me are skimming, so I should go and crack a few heads. No need for you to come, it’ll be cold up there. I’ll leave my driver to run you around and look after you, it will only be for a few days”. Syliva nodded. She never asked Tommy about anything, but she was far from stupid. If he had businesses in Spain and Holland, that could only mean one thing, drugs. But her lifestyle was more luxurious than she could ever have imagined, and she wasn’t about to spoil it by becoming a nagging girlfriend.

Amsterdam was cold, but it was also a nice change of scene for Tommy. He was staying a nice quiet hotel overlooking a canal, and much preferred the beer and food to what he had been eating and drinking in Spain for all those years. The trip to the Tulip company was a formality, just to be seen. Nobody was skimming, that had just been a story for Sylvia. Walking along the red light district one evening, Tommy smiled at the girls in the windows. But he wasn’t a man who ever paid directly for sex. He liked this town though, and seriously started to think about moving there.

At the hotel, there was a message for him. Only Diego knew where he was, and the message was to ring him back at any time, however late.

By the tone of his voice, Tommy immediately knew it was bad news.

“Earlier today, in the shopping district downtown, your Jaguar was blown up outside a dress shop. The Frenchman was in the driving seat, and I am sorry to tell you that your lady was in the back. They are both gone, I’m afraid.”

Taking in what Diego had said, Tommy considered his options. As he had no crew, no heavies to speak of, and couldn’t count on Michel and his Legionnaires to go up against the Mafia, those options were limited. In fact they were non-existent. The Sicilian had sent him a message, and he had received it loud and clear. Shame about poor Sylvia, but at least it had been quick. He acted on instinct, telling Diego what to do.

“You have to get a message to them, and you had better warn Michel too, before he finds his men in pieces all over Marbella. It’s been good while it lasted, but I’m in no position to go up against the Italians. Their web is too wide, so America would be out of the question, and staying in Europe isn’t going to be healthy for long. Get my money transferred into the Luxembourg account, take what you are owed for yourself with a hundred percent bonus, and make your travel plans. Leave the house closed up for me, I will worry about that later. Tell the eyeties they can have the business, all of it. There’s no point even negotiating a deal, as they will kill me anyway”.

He hung up without waiting for a reply. He was going to have to trust Diego not to steal all of his money.

Halfway through a bottle of Scotch in his hotel room, with dawn only an hour or so away, Tommy felt better. He was actually relieved not to have been blown up, and losing the business wasn’t so bad. After all, he would have enough money in Luxembourg to last the rest of his lifetime, and that bank had an office in England where Mr John Durham could go to arrange his finances. He wasn’t wanted on warrant by any police force, as far as he knew, and certainly not under his new false identity. Handing over to the mob guys might have been the best thing, as it would save his life.

At least he hoped it would.

When he woke up later that day, he phoned his bank. If Diego had stitched him up, he would spend as much time as necessary tracking him down and making him suffer before he killed him. Luckily, all the money had been transferred by two Spanish banks that morning, and Tommy was officially minted. As far as he could tell, Diego had only taken around ten grand in US dollars. He must have been too scared to push his luck further than that.

After dinner, Tommy asked the hotel concierge about flights to England, and managed to arrange to fly home at just after three the next afternoon.

————————————————————–

Corky soon came to notice as a Team Inspector. He pushed his men hard, but was liked and respected by them nonetheless. Every case he was given was pursued efficiently and relentlessly, even though the conviction rate continued to be very low. At least they managed to persuade a lot of bent coppers to see the light, and resign to take their pensions. It wasn’t real justice, but it removed them from the system, and solved the cases one way or the other.

One day, he remembered about Elaine Ferris, and went to see her. The new tenant told him she had died in King’s College Hospital the previous December. Even though he hardly knew her, Corky felt both sadness and guilt. He hadn’t found out what had happened to her daughter, Pauline, and had then forgotten to go back to look her up to tell her that. If he ever got some spare time, which seemed unlikely, he might look back into that case again.

Then something happened to take his mind off that, and everything else.

Brenda was enjoying being at home. She had lots of pots dotted around the garden now, all containing some nice flowers. Then there was a big mallow bush that he had helped her plant, and a wooden bench that he had to assemble one Sunday afternoon. The house was immaculate, and even though she kept dropping hints about having a more modern kitchen, she didn’t nag him about it.

One Saturday afternoon when he was at home, she came in from the garden rubbing her chest.

“I think I might have overdone it out there, George. Pulled a muscle or something. I just rubbed my chest and found this hard lump under my arm, it’s on the side of my left tit, have a look”. He told her to go to the doctor on Monday. By Wednesday she was having tests at the hospital, and when he got home from work that night, she was crying.

“It’s cancer, love. They want to cut it off, the whole thing”.

After Brenda’s mastectomy, there were radiotherapy appointments to follow. Corky took lots of leave to look after her, and drive her to and from hospital. He could tell she had aged, what with all the worry and the pain involved. But he was determined to care for her, and his boss was very good about allowing him time off. “No new cases for you, Corky. You take all the time you need to help at home and look after Brenda.”

Before he went back to work, he made sure that she could cope. She didn’t like him to see her chest, or the scar, and became very private about using the bathroom, and getting dressed. He left her to it, not wanting to upset her further. She also started to talk about moving, not something he had considered at all.

“A nice bungalow by the sea would suit us. I always liked Worthing, or Bexhill. It’s nice down the south coast, better weather than London, mostly. The house has increased in value so much, and we can probably sell this and buy a smaller place there for cash now that our mortgage is paid off. Even if you retired early, your pension might be enough to get by on, or you could transfer to the police in Sussex”.

It wasn’t something Corky had ever considered, but he could see that it might make sense, given what Brenda had been through. And there was always the chance that the cancer might come back somewhere else, the doctors hadn’t ruled that out. He promised her that he would think about it.

——————————————————-

Tommy no longer had plans to remain in London. He was too well known south of the river, and couldn’t chance being seen in Soho. After a few nights in a hotel in Kensington, he had thought about buying a flat further north in London, but that was a different city to him, unfamiliar, almost strange. He remembered the weekend away in Brighton. He had always liked that seaside town. Nobody down there knew him, and property was cheaper than in London too.

He booked the same hotel there for a week, and got a train the next afternoon, after first going to the office of his Luxembourg bank in The City, and also arranging a new British bank account in his John Durham identity, into which he transferred some substantial funds through Luxembourg. The transfer showed they were from the Tulip business in Holland, where he was still shown as the owner. No questions were asked, even though he didn’t have a permanent UK address. He loved how money talked, as far as banks were concerned.

After wandering around Brighton for two days checking out the residential areas, he went into one of the bigger estate agents in town and said he was a cash buyer looking for a reasonable house. He named the areas he was interested in, and the flashy young man fawned over him like he was one of the Royal Family.

Extending his hotel stay to six weeks, he was in the process of buying a Regency-era terraced property in Kemptown, a lively area where he could go unnoticed in the crowd. His cash offer to the vendor was twenty percent less than the asking price, and was initially turned down flat. But ten days later, they came back and accepted fifteen percent less, as another potential buyer had dropped out.

Now Tommy Summers was a resident of Brighton, Sussex. Well, John Durham was. He didn’t even need a car. Parking was a pain anyway, the shops and restaurants he might need were all nearby, and the seafront was a short walk away.

———————————————————

Speaking to his boss, Corky was as honest as ever. “Brenda wants me to transfer to Sussex, guv’nor. What d’ya reckon? The Chief Inspector shook his head. “They hate the Met down there at the best of times, Corky. And include the fact you are a cop-hunter in this department, and my thoughts are that it would be a bad move. You are not getting any younger, either, so it is not such a good deal for them if you take retirement in just over five years. But if you are determined to do it, I can make some enquiries, and put in a good word”.

At home that night, he told Brenda about the conversation as they sat together on the sofa. She was surprised, but accepted it. “Okay, love. You finish your time in London, but let’s consider retiring down there anyway, once you can take your full pension. I was thinking about Eastbourne earlier. We had some nice days out there, and it has everything we might need”.

She went back to watching her TV programme, still holding his hand.

After four years in Brighton, Tommy was enjoying life there. He had made a few drinking buddies in some of the bars, stuck to his fake identity, and told anyone who asked that he had a Tulip distribution business in Holland that was run by a manager. There was one close call when he was asked by a florist who was sweet on him if he could get her cheap Tulips, but he fobbed her off by saying all his flowers were contracted out, and he was just leaving the running of the business to staff.

He also avoided having a live-in girlfriend. Although it was obvious that he had money, none of his new acquaintances had any idea about just how much he had. No more flash clothes, fancy watches, and no car all tended to confirm his story. He didn’t go short of female company for the odd night in bed, but if any of them got even remotely serious, he finished it. He ate out most of the time, paid a drab elderly woman to clean his house every Friday, and never contacted anyone he used to know in Spain, especially Diego.

One of his favourite places to eat was the China Garden, and at least once a week he would walk along the front to Preston Street and have a slap-up feed. The lady owner called him ‘Mister John’, and he always left it to her to just bring what he liked, never so much as glancing at the menu. He was a big tipper, so they never turned him away when they were busy, not even in the main tourist season.

It wasn’t the tourist season that night when he arrived at the Chinese place, and the lady was pleased to see him. She sat him at a window table looking out onto the street, hoping the sight of him tucking into his feast would encourage other customers to come in. He had munched his way through four different starters, and was awaiting the middle course of duck pancakes when he heard the motorcycle before he saw it.

Instinct told him it was too loud, and too close to the window, and when he saw the pillion guy on the back looking at him, he moved quickly, tipping over the chair next to him as he got up to run. The shots from the pillion guy’s pistol smashed the big window, and two of them hit Tommy in the back, sending him sprawling on the floor. Before everything went black, he heard the lady owner screaming something in Chinese.

—————————————————————

Those same four years had been kind to Corky. Brenda had her check-ups, x-rays and mammograms, and Corky learned more about medical terms than he had ever wanted to know. She had lost weight, but the doctors were sure that there was no other problem. They said they had got it all by removing the breast, and she should live a normal life span. Brenda was less convinced, but tried not to share her fears with Tommy. He had one year to go for his thirty year pension, and neither of them were young anymore. Best not to add any stress for no good reason.

With his time coming up, Corky had been sidelined in the department. He would retire on a good pension as an Inspector, but there was no more promotion for him. For two years now, he had been used as the Office Manager for the department, a nine-to-five job that meant not working active cases, doing all the admin and rotas, and checking paperwork. It wasn’t any form of punishment, more of a kindness to make life easier for him. So when the phone went late on a Saturday evening, he was surprised to find it was his boss calling.

“Sergeant Edmunds is driving over to pick you up, Corky. Some geezer has been shot in Brighton, and it doesn’t look too good for him. He is asking for you, says he knows you from the old days and has a story to tell you. I’m sending a tape recorder, and the Sergant driving you will take notes too. The victim refuses to tell the Sussex cops what it is, just said it is A10 business, to do with detectives in London years ago”.

Turning to Brenda, he raised his eyebrows. “Looks like I’m going to Brighton, love. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow morning from there”.

The sleepy local police detective was pleased to see Corky and Edmunds. “Over to you, mate. He’s not expected to see another twenty four hours. According to the doc who did the emergency surgery, both kidneys have had it, and he lost so much blood there’s not much more they can do for him. He asked for you by name, and wouldn’t tell us a lot more. Looks like a professional job , but he’s not coming up known on a name check”.

They walked into the side room, Edmunds was carrying the reel-to-reel tape recorder and placed it on the floor next to the bed, looking for somewhere to plug it in. Corky looked at the notes on the clipboard hanging off the bed rail. John Durham. He had never heard of him. The man in the bed looked reasonably fit, and had a full head of cropped grey hair. His eyes were half open, and an oxygen mask covered his face. He turned to look at them, giving a grim smile.

“You Corcoran? We never met, but you came to my place once and got brushed off by the doorman. I never forgot your name, for some reason. You were known for not being on the take, so it is no surprise you ended up in A10. Get that machine set up, and open your notebook. I’ve got stuff to tell you, and I ain’t got much time left to tell it”. Edmunds unravelled the microphone lead and placed it on the pillow close to his face. The man pulled off the mask and started talking.

“The name’s Tommy Summers. I used to work for Alfie Rogers at one time. Then I ousted him and took over, but that didn’t last, ’cause of two coppers from the Yard who stitched me up. Both bent as nine-bob notes, names of Mayhew and Mackay. They were on the payroll of everyone, including the Maltese in Soho. I reckon Mayhew pulled in more money than the biggest crooks in London, mate. He played us all off against each other, and walked away scot-free. Well, I ain’t letting him get away with that, so listen, and don’t interrupt”.

Corky pulled a hard plastic chair over from the side of the bed, and sat down. Edmunds made sure the recording was working properly, then started to take notes as Tommy carried on.

“I had this bird, see. Pauline Ferris her name was. Classy-looking, but a dodgy background. Her mum was on the game, and she had been a stripper and clip joint hostess before she took up with me. I really liked her, but never told her that. To be honest, I wasn’t nice to her. One night we was staying in a caravan, and I smacked her around a bit. She guessed I was hiding out from the shooting at some Maltese bloke’s club. But then she just left, reckon she was heading back to her mum’s. Trouble was, she also knew about Mayhew and Mackay. I was pissed off with her, so I rang Mayhew the next day and gave him the nod. I thought he would just put the frighteners on her, but I just know him and Mackay killed her”.

Holding up his hand to stop Tommy rambling, Corky spoke.

“Tommy, we need dates, times, other names involved. All of this has to be properly investigated, we can’t just go and accuse people of murder and corruption on your say-so. Especially as you are unlikely to last long enough to ever give evidence in court”. Tommy thought for a moment.

“Okay, I can remember some of the details, but you need to go after Mackay first. Mayhew will never crack, but that Scottish git Mackay is spineless, just the monkey to Mayhew’s organ grinder. You’ll see I’m right. Mackay will fold, and take Mayhew down with him”.

For the next thirty minutes, Tommy spilled the beans on as much corruption as he could remember, added one or two definite dates, and some juicy details that might even be able to be corroborated. Then a nurse came in, told them off for making him too tired, and put the oxygen mask back on Tommy’s face. As they packed up their stuff to leave, Tommy smiled. “It’s all for Pauline, you understand. I ain’t no grass, but she didn’t deserve that, and she should get justice”.

At the door of the room, Corky turned back. “Who shot you, do you know?” Tommy nodded.

“The Sicilians. It’s a long story, and I ain’t got time for that now”.

Before they left Brighton, Corky went into the main police station to let the local detective team know that John Durham was in fact Tommy Summers, a well-known London criminal. He also told them that the shooting was a Mafia hit, and they might want to interview Tommy before he popped his clogs. While he was there, he rang Brenda to tell her he was on his way home, then got his boss out of bed to tell him the news. He seemed very pleased.

“Well done, Corky. Sounds like you have got yourself a case to run after all. Go home and get some sleep, then come in fresh and get started on some background checks. Mayhew has retired of course, but Mackay is still around at The Yard somewhere. Get a warrant for their bank accounts and see if one of your team can’t find some payments-in that don’t tally with their salaries. Summers was right to tell you to concentrate on Mackay, but don’t tip him off until you have a solid case”.

With Edmunds driving, Corky was able to sleep for most of the drive home. Brenda made him some breakfast, then insisted he go and get some proper sleep in bed. When he got up, he went into the dining room to make some notes. If this was going to be his last case, he was going to make damn sure he didn’t mess it up.

The first week didn’t go too well. Tommy died on the Tuesday morning, the Sussex cops had phoned to let him know. He lasted longer than the doctors had given him.The available officers from his team were split into two groups, one investigating the corruption allegations, and the other dealing with the murder of Pauline Ferris. Team one had little joy with the bank accounts.

Both of those detective suspects were far too savvy to have deposited wads of cash into their bank accounts, or to spend too much of their salaries on expensive cars, boats, or exotic hiolidays. Corky knew how their minds worked. Stash it away for retirement, get out when they could, then they could live out their time in relative luxury, not having to rely on the police pension.

Team two had nothing to work with. The last known movements of Pauline were not much use, as they didn’t have the name of who she was supposed to be seeing, or the name of the club she was to meet him at. After a mammoth trawl through very old phone records relating to Elaine’s phone, they could only find calls from telephone boxes on the relevant dates. One was in Essex, which they already knew about, and the other from outside Waterloo Station. That would be the one, but it was impossible to prove the call hade been made by either Mayhew or Mackay. It was all too long ago, and too vague.

By the end of the second week, Corky knew he only had one option. Arrest Mackay at work, sweat him out in an interrogation room, and give him no chance to phone Mayhew. He could have a lawyer, and that would be all he would be allowed. He went to see the boss, and gave him a full update.

“Only to be expected, Corky. My decision is to drop the corruption charges. We will never be able to prove them in court anyway. Arrest Mackay when he shows up for work tomorrow. Make it for the murder of Pauline Ferrs, frighten the life out of him with that charge, which carries a life sentence. My guess is he will bottle it completely, implicate Mayhew by blaming it all on him. Then we can do a deal with him to give evidence against Mayhew for a lesser charge. If he refuses to say anything, play him the tape of Summer’s dying confession, and tell him that carries a lot of weight with a jury”.

As Corky and two others from his team walked into Mackay’s squad room just after eight the next morning, everything went deadly quiet. The detectives who were on the phone all hung up, and a couple chatting noisily at the front of the room stopped talking and both lit cigarettes. You could have heard a pin drop as they got to Mackay’s desk at the back. Corky made him stand up. “Ronald Mackay, I am arresting you for the murder of Pauline Ferris. Come with us quietly, and we won’t handcuff you”.

At first the sergeant laughed, an actual guffaw. Then he saw that they were serious, and the colour drained out of his face.

Mackay knew the name of a solicitor he wanted. Of course he did, thought Corky. Probably one of the same who specialised in representing gangsters. He was allowed to chat to the lawyer privately for thirty minutes before Corky and Edmunds came into the interview room. There was some colour back in his face, and he was looking more relaxed. The solicitor spoke for him.

“My client wishes to read out a short statement. I will do this on his behalf, and after that, he will answer no further questions.”

The sharp-suited man opened a folder.

“I have never heard of a woman named Pauline Ferris, and have no idea why I am being charged with her murder. If you have evidence to prove my involvement in any crime against that woman, or of the fact that she is actually dead, then I will answer questions based on that. Otherwise, I will not reply to any other questions, such is my right not to do so”. Corky had guessed they would concoct something like that, short and sweet. But he was ready for them.

“We have the deathbed confession of a dying man, named Tommy Summers. He was a south London gangster known to you, and former Chief Inspector Mayhew”. He slid a copy across the desk. “We will give you time to read it, and come back later.”

That wiped the smirk off Mackay’s face. Corky switched off the cassette tape machine recording the interview, and left the room with Edmunds. The corruption allegations were also outlined in that paperwork, and Mackay and his lawyer had no way of knowing they were not going to proceed with those.

Twenty minutes later they went back into the room. This time, Edmunds was carrying the reel-to-reel machine containing Tommy’s recorded confession. He plugged it in, then both detectives ignored it. Corky spoke first, addressing the lawyer.

“You can see that the interview with Summers was both informative, and conclusive. If we get this to a jury trial, we will also play them the recording of him speaking. A dying criminal, confessing on his deathbed. I can see the Press and the jury members lapping that up. It’s goodbye to your client’s pension, as he will be sacked before he goes to court, with loss of all privileges. Then if he’s very lucky, he might only get twenty years as an accessory to murder. I’m sure my boss will do a deal if the sergeant agrees to talk. If not, he is going to have to take his chances in Crown Court on a charge of Capital Murder. Then the corruption charges might get him another ten years on top of a life sentence. Not easy being a copper in prison is it, Ronnie? Lots of men with grudges in there, just waiting for you”.

Trying not to show he was bluffing, Corky sat back and folded his arms. “Would you like to have another private chat, perhaps?”

Mackay was swallowing hard, and even the flashy lawyer looked to be wrong-footed. But he earned his money. “Inspector Corcoran, I think you know that the Crown Prosecution Service is unlikely to authorise a charge based on one thing, the dubious ramblings of a dying criminal. I am sure my client will be happy to take early retirement, and leave to enjoy his pension benefits without subjecting the State to the cost of a trial that could last for months. And if you were lucky to get a conviction on such flimsy evidence, I would drag you through the full appeals process that would probably extend well past your own retirement.”

Corky was well aware that the best thing to do was to let Mackay stew for a while. He would be much more agitated inside than he was prepared to show, and a long delay in the interview would start to toy with his mind. So he made a decision.

“Let’s break for lunch. Your client will be returned to his cell, where he will be fed and given a good long break. You can do whatever you want in the meantime, so shall we say a resumption of interview at fourteen hundred hours?”. The lawyer nodded, and Corky turned off the cassette machine.

As everyone stood up, Mackay was visibly trembling. Outside the room in the corridor, Corky allowed himself a smile. Turning to Edmunds, he patted the man’s shoulder.

“We’ve cracked him, sarge. I reckon he’s gonna fold this afternoon”. Edmunds grinned. “In record time too, sir”. Corky had a word of warning though.

“That brief will be on the phone to Mayhew as we speak, I’m sure of that. He will be tipping that bastard off, so we have to shut this down very quickly.”

They went back in fifteen minutes late, deliberately. Mackay was looking edgy, and the lawyer did the talking.

“Don’t start the recording yet, and I may have something to your advantage. Let’s say we could do a deal. My client will give a full statement, and appear in court as a prosecution witness. In return, he is not charged with anything, and is allowed to retire on his accrued pension to date. How does that sound?” Corky refused to be tempted.

“He has to be charged with something, no way is he walking away a victim. The very least I will settle for is assiting the disposal of a corpse with intent to obstruct or prevent a coroner’s inquest. But given he will be blaming Mayhew, then I am also going to add perverting the course of justice. I reckon we would be happy with a two year suspended sentence, but he gets fired before the trial, and no lump sum. He can live on the monthly pension, and he must have stashed away enough since the time he went on the take. I reckon no prison time is a result, and I’m not even sure my boss will be happy with that deal”.

Before they had time to reply, he mentioned something else. “And if I find out that either of you have warned Mayhew, I will be charging both of you with interfering in a murder enquiry and witness tampering”.

Edmunds reached over and switched on the recorder. Mackay looked at his lawyer briefly and started talking.

“Mayhew panicked when he got the call from Summers. He thought the girl was going to grass us up for all sorts of things. He said we had to scare her, to shut her up. Get her to move away, a long way away. Take a job in another city, another country too, preferably. He told me we could offer her money for travel expenses, and warn her not to come back to England for a very long time. I found her mum’s number from an old charge sheet, and he made the call, putting on a posh voice and saying he was an agent for club hostesses and dancers. She didn’t even ask how he knew about her, and agreed to meet at the back of a club in Soho. Mayhew knew the club wouldn’t be open that early, so we waited in the car in the alley. It wasn’t a job car, it was my private car, a Vauxhall. She was going to be the only good-looking girl showing up that early, so it would be easy to spot her”.

Edmunds left the room to get everyone a cup of tea, as it seemed this might drag on.

“She shows up on time, all dressed up and looking great. If I owned a club, I would have given her a job, I can tell you. The Chief Inspector gets out, all smiles. He walks up to her and tells her we are going to drive her to a better club, where she can audition to be a proper dancer in a chorus line. We had that spiel prepared, and it made her smile, but as she walked back to the car with him, something must have spooked her. Next thing I know, he has grabbed her hard, and waving at me to come and help him. But she wriggled out of his grip before I got there, and he turned and hit her with a cosh he kept in his overcoat pocket. What the Yanks call a blackjack.”

The tea arrived, and Mackay stopped talking as he guzzled it down piping hot.

“Reckon he hit her too hard, ’cause she was out cold. Mayhew says we have to put her in the boot of my car, drive her out to the sticks, and tell her the bad news before we let her go. So we do that, and I drive us to Surrey, some woodland near Bagshot. He knows the place as he lives not far from there. The problem starts when we open the boot to get her out, only to find she’s dead. He must have fractured her skull when he hit her. I suggest we just leave the body in the woods to be found. There was nothing to tie us to her, nothing at all. But like always, he plays the boss and has a better idea. You’re gonna like this next bit, Corcoran”.

Mackay sat back, a wide grin on his face.

“The chief was having an extension built on his house, and his wife was away visiting her sister in Salisbury, stopping overnight. So he tells me to drive to his house, where we wrap the body in a tarpaulin, and drop it into the hole where they are gonna pour the concrete for the foundations on Monday. Then the boss gets in the hole, spreads some hardcore and dirt around to cover it, and it’s job done. But you ain’t heard the best bit yet, can you guess?” Corky shook his head.

“He still lives in that house”.

Arranging for another detective to sit in with Edmunds to hear the remaining details of Mackay’s confession, Corky went upstairs to speak to his boss. After listening to the story, he shook his head.

“So Mackay didn’t get the deal offered to him on tape, that came after. I am not letting him have that, once he has made his statement in full and signed it, charge him with accessory to murder. He can recant that at trial if he wants, but there is no evdidence of any deal on offer, and the jury will be able to hear his taped confession in full too. Meanwhile, apply for a warrant to search Mayhew’s house for the girl’s remains. You are going to need drills to break up the floor in the extension. Mrs Mayhew can stay with relatives, or put up in a hotel at our expense, her choice. I want you to arrest Mayhew today, charge him with murder”.

Before going to get the warrant, Corky phoned Brenda, telling her not to wait up for him as he might not be home until tomorrow. She liked how excited he sounded, but was pleased that this would be his last case. Then they could get the house up for sale while they waited for the trial date, and start looking for a place in Eastbourne.

She didn’t tell him she had found another lump on her remaining breast. That might just take his mind off the case, and she wanted him to leave his job on a high.

By the time they had organised the contractors to do the drilling, clear the rubble and make good after, it was too late to start that the same day. But Mayhew had to be arrested as soon as possible. Corky went back into the interview room to make sure Mackay had signed the typed confession, then made him stand up and charged him with accessory to murder. The lawyer started to protest, and Mackay slumped back into the chair.

It was almost nine-thirty when they rang the doorbell and Mrs Mayhew answered. “Oh, my husband is having dinner at his golf club, I doubt he will be home until after eleven”. Corky asked her for the address of the golf club, apologised for disturbing her, and they drove off.

Despite all the years that had passed, Mayhew recognised Corky as he walked across the bar of the golf club. To avoid any unpleasantness in front of his friends and cronies, he put down his large Cognac and walked over to the two detectives. He had no real idea why they were there, but presumed it was some old corruption nonsense that had surfaced.

Corky didn’t smile. “Would you like to come outside to the car park? Or we could do this here in front of everyone”. Mayhew followed them out, already preparing his speech if they asked him anything about the old days. But when Corky turned and arrested him for the murder of Pauline Ferris, he felt his knees buckle slightly.

Asked if he had anything to say, he shook his head and got into the back of the car with Corky. He hadn’t been expecting that.

Driven back to a London police station at Westminster, he was taken into the custody area and told he would be detained overnight pending an interview the next morning. Allowed one private phone call, he rang Mackay, but there was no answer. Corky went back to the office, sent Edmunds home, then set about preparing for the interview the next day. As he went through the paperwork, it dawned on him that neither Mackay or his lawyer had tipped Mayhew off.

The next morning when Edmunds came in, Corky had changed into a clean shirt that he kept at work, and had a shave. He had only managed around two hours sleeping in a chair, but felt good. When they got to the police station, Mayhew was with a duty solicitor, a young man who looked as if he didn’t have a clue. Corky went straight for it.

“As we speak, Surrey Police officers are attending your house with equipment to rip up the floor in your kitchen extension. Your wife wil be allowed to leave while that goes on, and be given hotel accommodation at our expense. Your former colleague Sergeant Mackay has given us a full account of the murder of Pauline Ferris, and the disposal of her body in the foundations of the building work. He has been charged with being an accessory, and will be detained on remand. Do you have anything to say?”

Mayhew looked as if he was going to pass out, but managed to speak.

“I need to use the toilet, please”.

When the uniformed constable brought Mayhew back from the toilet, he was given some time to consult with the solicitor. Thirty minutes later, he made a short statement on tape.

“I was involved in the incident you refer to, but I did not hurt Pauline Ferris. It was sergeant Ronald Mackay who hit the girl, and put her into his car. As he was in such a panic after we later discovered she was dead, I allowed him to dispose of her body in the building work going on around my house. I am not proud of that fact, but my only involvement was sitting in his car and letting him to use my house. I refute the allegation of murder, and will defend it robustly”.

As Corky suspected, he was going with a tit-for-tat allegation, blaming it on Mackay. As much as he detested both of them he believed Mackay, who would never have had the guts to cosh the girl, let alone make Mayhew hide the body in his house. He sent Mayhew back to a cell to stew overnight, then phoned his boss at home to tell him the outcome.

“The very least I will accept is that Mackay pleads guilty to accessory to murder. We can suggest that the prosecutor offers him a ten-year stretch as an allowance for giving evidence against his old boss. Ten years inside at his age and no pension will be enough to finish him anyway”.

During the four months they waited for the trial date, Mackay changed his plea to guilty and accepted the ten years. He had a separate trial before Mayhew was up in court, and was brought from prison to give his evidence. By that time, Mayhew had a much better lawyer, and an expensive barrister too. But they had found Pauline;s remains under his kitchen floor, and she had been identified by her dental records. The cause of death was determined as blunt-force injury to the head, resulting in a fractured skull. As far as Corky was concerned, he was going down.

Once they had the trial date, Corky and Brenda had put the house on the market. Two day trips to Eastbourne had come up with a three-bed bunglaow on the western edge of the town that Brenda fell in love with, so they had offered the full asking price. He had been worried that Brenda was looking pale and had lost weight, but she assured him it was probably because she was concerned about him, and all the hours he was working preparing for court.

The trial attracted a lot of attention from the press and television news. Corky felt sad that Elaine Ferris had died without seeing her daughter’s killers stand trial, but he was sure the case would hold up. Mayhew’s wife didn’t show up in court. She had been remarkably calm and collected about the whole thing, and was staying with her sister after two nights in a hotel.

It was the usual legal hoo-hah, with Mayhew’s barrister slinging mud at Mackay, and Mayhew trying to paint a picture of himself as a dedicated thief-catcher who had made one mistake in his life. After a particularly strenuous cross-examination one morning, he did a theatrical collapse in the witness box and managed to get himself taken to hospital accompanied by prison officers.

Six weeks later, Corky was in court to hear the closing arguments before the jury was sent out. The defence barrister was floundering, trying to make the court believe that Mayhew was scared of his subordinate, and let him place Pauline’s body in the foundations of his extension so he wouldn’t be implicated in the murder. He tried to argue that his client was not an accomplice at all, merely a man simply caught up in a crime not of his own doing.

But the prosecuting barrister gave a storming address, mostly centred on the fact that Mayhew had not only stayed silent on the day Pauline was killled, but had allowed her to be buried under his own house then kept the secret to the day he retired, and beyond. And it seemed the jury members were unconvinced by Mayhew too.

They had been expected to be sitting for a couple of days to consider their verdict. But just five hours after being sent out that morning, they were back with a unanimous verdict of guilty. Corky knew Mayhew would get a mandatory life sentence, and he also knew he would never have got that conviction without Mackay telling him where the body was.

The celebration of the verdict by the officers involved also served as his leaving party, after many years of distinguished service as a policeman.

Three weeks later, they watched the removals lorry drive away from their house, then looked at it for the last time. After starting the car, Corky turned and smiled at his wife, thinking that she looked pale, and somewhat strained.

“Eastbourne, here we come!”

The End.