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### A Hanging Job

W H Oxley

Copyright 2013 W H Oxley

By the same author

Hitler's Banner

Steam: rocking'n'railing

An Accidental Millionaire

The Missing Gun: Hawker of the Yard

Table of Contents

The Long Drop

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

By the same author

## The Long Drop

Whereas the American fondness for democracy decrees that executions should be semi-public events complete with an audience seated in a theatre, the British would conduct theirs in a cramped little room with a couple of official witnesses. There would have been no stroll along death row as the other inmates called out their farewells: all British condemned cells came equipped with an en suite gallows.

There are many ways to hang a man, and the method favoured in Britain, the long drop, relied very much upon the skill of the hangman. How far a man needed to fall in order to have his neck snapped by the jerk of the rope would vary according to his weight and other factors, and it was the hangman's job to control the extent of the drop by adjusting the length of rope in relation to bodyweight etc. If he got it right, the neck would be broken and death instantaneous, but if he miscalculated the weight/drop ratio the result would vary from decapitation to strangulation. However, the one thing that all British hangmen prided themselves on was speed: the object being to have the prisoner out of the cell and dangling at the end of a rope before the prison clock had finished striking eight.

The prisoner awaiting execution would be held in the condemned cell, a cell adjoining the execution chamber. It always contained two doors, one of which led directly to the gallows. On the day of execution, the prison governor, the padre and the official witnesses would assemble in the corridor outside the condemned cell at seven-thirty in the morning. Just before eight they would enter the cell, and the governor would read the notice of execution to the prisoner. A moment later, the prison clock will begin to strike the hour...

At the first stroke, the door to the execution chamber flies open and the hangman marches in with his two assistants. A leather belt is fastened around the prisoner, pinning his arms to his body, while another secures his legs. Then it's out of the cell, into the execution chamber and onto the trapdoor. A hood is placed over his head and a noose around his neck. Having expertly adjusted the angle of the noose to ensure that the neck is snapped by the drop, the hangman pulls a lever, the prisoner disappears through the trapdoor – and the prison clock is still striking the hour...

## Chapter 1

The afternoon of the 18th of August 1939 was warm and sunny. Police Constable George Robinson plodded along the sleepy suburban High Street at regulation pace. He barely glanced at the placard propped up outside the newsagents. Scrawled across it in capital letters was the headline: HITLER WANTS PEACE.

Robinson had been pounding this beat for twelve years. On leaving the army in 1919 he'd been one of the lucky ones. Jobs were scarce at the end of the war, but the medal he'd won for attacking a German machinegun post had smoothed his way into the ranks of the Metropolitan Police. Steady, reliable, unimaginative and always respectful to his betters, his bovine qualities matched his physique: he was built like an ox. When it became obvious to his superiors that he was not destined for promotion, he'd been posted to one of the new suburbs that had sprung up around London after the war. He'd taken to it like a duck to water, becoming a well respected pillar of the community.

Freddy Fox, known to one and all as Foxy, kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road. Once reputed to be the best in the business, he hadn't been on a job in four years and had been reluctant to go on this one – but when Big Sid asks a favour... Ten years ago he'd enjoyed the thrill of the chase but now, past thirty, he considered himself to be a businessman not a tearaway. Admittedly, he did cut corners and most of the stuff he handled was a bit iffy, but the risks were low, unlike this little outing.

Seated next to him, chewing gum and wearing a trilby hat, was Jack Parsons. A taciturn man, he rarely spoke, and when he did, it was in a slow, monosyllabic manner, as if he had to rummage around in his brain to locate the words. He fingered the sawn-off shotgun and frowned, wrinkling the crisscross pattern of razor scars etched on his face. A hard man he came from a hard place – the Elephant and Castle may not have been London's answer to Hell's Kitchen, but in his street if you didn't own a cut-throat razor by the age of fourteen you were a sissy.

In jail he'd befriended Alfie Peck. There are a lot of unpleasant things that can happen to you in jail, and that nothing happened to Alfie was largely thanks to Jack. A prison is the ultimate capitalist jungle – what are you worth; what have you got to trade – and Alfie's market value had been his family connections: he was a nephew of Sid Weston who controlled a large slice of the East End of London. To Jack, who'd always been a small-timer, Alfie represented an opportunity of promotion to the first division.

Alfie sat hunched up on the back seat nursing a revolver. This was his job; he'd planned it; he'd show them. Small and weedy, with a sallow complexion and permanent shaving rash, he was the runt of the litter. While he was growing up the family called him little Alfie, and when he'd grown up it changed to Little Alfie. His standing in the family firm had fallen even further after the fiasco that earned him a twelve month stretch. Sid had refused to arrange protection for him in jail, leaving him to his own devices in the hope it would make a man of him – though it was only thanks to Jack that someone hadn't made a woman of him.

As the Wolseley 8 cruised along Holloway Road in the direction of Archway, Foxy effortlessly changed gear without using the clutch. He chuckled to himself...

Nice to know I can still do it. Who needs a clutch? Don't think I'll ever lose the knack, comes from starting young. How many other kids of sixteen could go up and down a gearbox without a clutch just by matching the engines revs to the car's speed? Handy little trick to have up your sleeve, especially if you happen to have a copper up your arse, and I'm gonna need every trick in the book on this little caper. That Alfie couldn't organise his way out of a paper bag, let alone a piss up in the proverbial, probably why Sid put the squeeze on me to do the driving. If Alfie screws up, I'm the one that's supposed to get him out of the shit – ta very much, Sid.

Half an hour later, as the car glided to a halt outside the National Provincial Bank, Foxy cast an expert eye up and down the High Street. It was quiet and peaceful. He sighed. He'd been half hoping to see a patrol car or at least a couple of coppers, any excuse to abandon this little effort, but the High Street was practically deserted. Instinctively, he pulled the brim of his hat down low. The other two did likewise, before pulling their scarves up above their noses so that only their eyes showed. Nothing happened for over a minute. Foxy listened to the sound of Alfie's heavy breathing, hoping he'd lost his bottle. He was about to ask if it was okay to drive away, when Alfie, in a voice a couple of octaves higher than normal, announced, 'Right, let's go.'

As the two of them marched into the bank, Alfie did his best to sound authoritative. 'This is a hold up!' he shouted, waving his gun. 'Everyone put their hands in the air!'

The butcher who'd been paying in his takings wet himself and a little old lady fainted, but nobody put their hands up. They just stared open mouthed. Alfie was about to repeat the command when the door marked manager opened and Mr Parker emerged. He may have only been in charge of a petroleum depot in the war but, nonetheless, he'd been a British officer.

'What on Earth do you think you are doing?' he asked in the haughty tone he always used when turning down a loan application.

Confused, Alfie hesitated. 'Er, robbing your bank.'

'How dare you!' Parker turned purple.

'I bloody well do dare!' Alfie snarled, pointing the gun. 'Stick 'em up!'

'Certainly not.' Parker folded his arms across his chest.

'I'll shoot!' Alfie blustered.

'Go ahead.' Parker's arms remained folded. 'I am a British officer and I would rather die than–' As the butt of Jack's shotgun smashed into the back of his head, Parker collapsed to the floor and fell forward onto his face.

Muttering, 'That's all we needed, a bloody hero,' Jack kicked the inert figure. It didn't move. He glanced around the bank. They all had their hands raised high above their heads.

Alert to the slightest hint of irregularity, Foxy sat in the car listening to the sound of the ticking engine. It was purring as smoothly as a well fed cat. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and froze. The silhouette was unmistakeable: a helmet – and Foxy knew exactly what sort of helmet it was.

PC Robinson was on his way back to the police station. He fancied a nice cup of tea and maybe a bacon sandwich. The High Street was always quiet just after lunch. There were only a dozen or so people about and one solitary car. It was parked outside the bank. Another quiet day, nothing ever happened here. He paused to mop his brow before plodding on in the direction of the bank, watched by an apprehensive Foxy...

Stuff this. He's coming our way. What's happening in that bloody bank? Why are they taking so long? It's only a bloody bank raid, for Christ's sake – just point the gun, grab the money and get the eff out of there. Something must have gone wrong. I knew I should never have taken the bloody job. Now what the hell do I do? If I sit here I run the risk of getting nicked, but if I piss off and leave those two arseholes behind, not only is my reputation stuffed but Sid will send a couple of his boys round with razors. I don't fancy ending up with a face like a patchwork quilt – and that's if I'm lucky. If I'm not, the only thing I'll be left with after they've finished circumcising me will be my foreskin. So I'm just gonna have to sweat it out.

Hello, what's the copper up to now? He's stopped to talk to that old biddy pushing a pram. Oh my Gawd, I don't believe it, he's admiring the baby. Now he's patting her little boy on the head. Whatever happened to the good old British Bobby who could always be relied on to give you a clip round the ear? He's on the move again. Now what's he doing? Shit, he's taken his notebook out and he's looking this way... don't like the look of this. Yeah, thought so. He's writing something down: my bloody registration number I'll bet. All I need now is for those two clowns to come marching out of the bank waving their bloody guns...

At that moment, Alfie and Jack emerged. No sign of the guns, but the scarves still covered their faces and Alfie was carrying a bag. At the sight of the policeman they hesitated, unsure what to do. Jack was the first to move. Ignoring Robinson, he strode swiftly across the pavement to the waiting car, but Alfie remained frozen on the steps of the bank. Robinson also paused. Having not been gifted with a great brain, anything outside of the normal routine rarely elicited a rapid response. He thought it odd that the two men had their faces covered, but it never occurred to him that someone would rob a bank. That was something that only happened in big cities or cowboy films.

Alfie was still hesitating when the solid oak door of the bank slammed shut behind him. It was another one and a half seconds before the alarm went off.

As Jack screamed at Alfie to shift his arse, PC Robinson drew his truncheon. Jack's shotgun appeared from inside his jacket, and he pointed it at Robinson. Alfie remained frozen to the spot as Robinson started moving forwards, truncheon held firmly in his hand. Jack pointed his gun in the air and pulled the trigger. BOOM! The deafening roar momentarily drowned out the sound of the alarm, but Robinson continued advancing at a steady pace. Four years in the trenches on the western front had inured him to the sound of gunfire. He was back in his element: ignore the guns; don't hesitate; don't run, just keep marching.

'Let him have it!' screamed Jack.

Alfie threw the bag. It landed about twenty feet ahead of Robinson.

'Not the money, you bloody idiot! I meant the rozzer! Shoot the bastard!'

Alfie pointed his revolver at Robinson, and shouted, 'Stop where you are. One more step and I'll blow your brains out!' But the copper kept on coming.

Alfie looked to Jack for guidance. Robinson had almost reached the bag.

'Shoot the bastard! Pull the fucking trigger!'

_Crack crack!_ Police Constable George Robinson clutched his chest, twisted round and collapsed on the bag of money.

Jack grabbed Alfie, threw him into the back of the car and leapt in after him. Down went Foxy's foot on the accelerator and the car roared off.

'What the fuck happened?' Foxy screamed as they raced away. 'You killed a copper! That's a bloody hanging job!'

'I didn't mean to.' Alfie had turned green.

'Didn't mean to? You pointed a bloody gun at him and pulled the fucking trigger!'

'I didn't think that–'

'And I didn't think that you were using live ammo! You told me you'd be using blanks. I wouldn't have taken the bloody job if I'd known you had live ammunition! Now we're all gonna swing!'

'B-b-but I thought they were blanks.'

'What d'you mean, thought? Didn't you bloody well check?'

'I didn't think to. I got them off of Taffy Davies. He told me they were blanks.'

'He's a bloody pimp! You trusted a Welsh pimp? You're more bloody stupid than you look.'

Jack remained silent throughout the exchange. He sat there thoughtfully feeling his neck. He'd been in Pentonville prison when they hung Jimmy McBride. There'd been rumours that the hangman had miscalculated the weight and the length of the drop, resulting in Jimmy being decapitated. It was said that the screws who'd been obliged to clean up the mess were on sick leave for months.

# Chapter 2

The Riley Continental had been parked in the quiet back street since early morning. There was nothing remarkable about it. Solid and respectable, its chrome headlights gleamed in the afternoon sun and the black cellulose paint was shiny enough for you to see your face in.

At the far end of the street where it joined the main road, stood a greengrocer's shop. Bert Claridge's family had been hawking fruit and veg in street markets all over London for generations. Having spent the war as an observer in the Royal Flying Corps, he'd taken on this shop shortly after leaving the army. Like his business, life in the ensuing years had been steady but dull with little of interest to observe.

Bored, he watched a wasp as it buzzed around his pears. He was wondering how best to kill it when he caught a glimpse of a black car as it flashed past his shop.

'Now remember,' said Foxy, bringing the Wolseley to a halt behind the Riley, 'don't rush, look casual, don't look back, just look down and walk nice and slow, like you were on your way to church – and don't forget to keep your gloves on.'

Three car doors opened and three men got out. Hat brims low and heads well down, they strolled along to the Riley, opened the doors and slid in.

Gently, at a dignified pace, Foxy eased the car along the street. On reaching the main road he turned left and started back in the direction they'd just come from.

'Oi, what's the big idea?' Jack warily scanned the road ahead.

'I'd have thought it was bleeding obvious, Einstein, change of plan.' Foxy slipped smoothly into third gear. 'After that bloody balls-up, the coppers'll be checking every car heading into the Smoke – and some of 'em will have guns – so I'm doubling back.'

'My name ain't Einstein. Who's Einstein?'

'A scientist; he invented relativity.'

'How would you know?'

'Went to grammar school, didn't I?'

'Rozzers,' hissed Jack, at the sight of a police car racing towards them. He griped the seat with one hand and fingered his Adam's apple with the other.

'Relax.' Foxy did his best to sound calm in spite of his stomach churning like a cement mixer. 'They're not looking for us they're after the Wolseley, and it's well tucked away in that side street.'

Jack breathed an audible sigh of relief as the police car flashed past and raced on in the direction they'd just come from, its bell ringing intermittently.

Foxy watched it disappear. 'Cheer up, Jack, there's a war coming, and with a bit of luck it'll start next week.'

'There ain't going to be no war.'

'How would you know?'

'Read it in the paper.'

'Oh, in that case it must be true cos...' Foxy paused and sniffed the air. 'Blimey, what's that?'

'What's what?'

'That smell.'

'Oh that,' Jack's voice was deadpan, 'that's Alfie. He shat himself when he saw that cop-car.'

'Oh my Gawd, Alfie, I don't believe it. Not satisfied with killing a copper, now you're trying to gas us.'

'Piss off, Foxy, it's all right for you,' whined Alfie. 'You ain't the one what done the copper in. It ain't you what's going to get hung.'

'Correction, it bloody well is. Thanks to your inability to do something as basic as check your ammo, we're all going to bloody well swing!'

'I don't see...'

'You tell him Jack. I've got better things to do than educate an ignoramus. I have to concentrate on getting us out of the shit.' Foxy returned his attention to the road.

Jack sighed. 'He's right, Alfie. We're all guilty, and being as it was a rozzer there ain't a cat's chance in hell of a reprieve: they always hang cop killers.' He shook his head mournfully and fingered his neck thoughtfully, before continuing in a monotone voice. 'I was doing a stretch in Strangeways when they hung Geordie Jameson. Geordie was a peterman, one of the best safe crackers in the business, a real craftsman and as gentle as a lamb, hated violence. The Blaine brothers had a nice little number lined up, this big factory that always kept the wages in a safe overnight. Geordie weren't too keen at first, but they offered to split fifty/fifty with him, so he agreed. He was nearly a half a mile away when the night-watchman snuffed it, but it made no difference, they still hung him. If three blokes does a robbery together and some poor sod gets topped, that's it: you're all guilty under the law.'

'Yeah, but they're gonna have to catch us first,' murmured Foxy as he took a right turn. 'At least they won't be looking for this car...'

Bert Claridge was eying the wall mounted telephone thoughtfully. He'd always wanted to do it, but now he wasn't sure. He picked up the earpiece, put it to his ear and dialled the first digit... then, hesitated. Replacing the earpiece on the hook, he went to the door, stood on the threshold of his shop and looked back down the street. The Wolseley was still parked there. Going back inside, he was about to pick up the phone but changed his mind and picked up an apple instead. Finally, after taking two bites of the apple, he made his decision. Marching purposefully over to the telephone, he dialled nine-nine-nine.

A calm female voice answered. 'Emergency: which service do you require?'

'Police.'

'One moment please.'

'Scotland Yard,' a male voice, 'can I help you?'

Bert hesitated. He hadn't been expecting to speak to Scotland Yard in person. Recovering his composure, he gulped in a lungful of air, stood to attention and announced, 'I wish to report a suspicious car.'

'I see, sir, and what is it that makes you think that this car is suspicious?'

'It's parked in the street. Just down the road from my shop.'

'Is it a jeweller's shop, sir?'

'No, it's a greengrocer's. It's on the corner of Watford Road and Hester Street.'

'I see, sir, a greengrocer's... Well, sir, if anybody reports a missing car we'll let them know where it is.'

'It's a Wolseley 8.'

'Did you say a Wolseley 8, sir?' The voice remained flat and unemotional but there was a slight change of tone.

'Yes, a black one. It was parked by three men who drove off in a Riley seventeen minutes ago.'

'You're very exact, sir.'

'I should be: I was an observer in the Royal Flying Corps during the war.'

'I see, sir. Would you happen to know the registration number?

'Of course I do. It is BHJ 812.'

'Thank you, sir. I take it then that you know the registration number of the Riley?'

'I most certainly do. It was a black Riley Continental, and its registration number is RUS 728. It turned left and headed north up Watford Road.'

'Are you sure that it headed north, sir?'

'Of course I'm sure. I told you I used to be an observer. You don't make mistakes in a war. It costs lives, you know.'

'Thank you, sir. You have been most helpful. We will be sending somebody round to take a full statement from you.'

'I suppose you know where your going, Foxy?' Jack peered suspiciously at the fields and hedgerows. He didn't like the country. He sniffed the fresh air through the open window. He didn't like that either: it smelt funny.

'Well, since you ask, I reckon the best thing to do would be to make for Potters Bar, dump the car and take the train back to London. We're in Hertfordshire and the local coppers are a bunch of swede-bashers. So we shouldn't be getting any shit from them. And look on the bright side, thanks to Alfie we won't have to waste any time sharing out the money.'

'It weren't my fault,' Alfie moaned. 'I thought that–'

'Don't make no difference, mate, once you topped that copper the stuff was more bloody trouble than it was worth. There ain't a fence in the country that'd touch it, even at tuppence in the pound. And if you were daft enough to try and spend it, sooner or later they'd trace one of the serial numbers back to you. Anyway, so long as you remember to keep your gloves on we–'

'You never said nuffing about keeping our gloves on after we changed cars!' Alfie looked confused.

'I bloody well did! Don't tell me you took the bloody things off?'

'I had to when I was trying to clean the shit off. I didn't want it on me gloves.'

'Yeah? Well, you're gonna have a load more shit in your pants when they hang you – but don't worry you'll die with nice clean gloves.'

'Stuff you, Foxy, you and your stupid jokes!'

'It's being cheerful that keeps me going, mate. If I'm gonna die, I'll die laughing. But if they wanna hang me they're gonna have to catch me. That's why I'm taking charge.'

'No you're bloody well not!' Alfie looked indignant.

'Yes I bloody well am! And if you don't like it you can bloody well lump it. It's not just your arse on the line, it's ours, and I for one ain't taking no eight o'clock walk.'

'Yeah, well I've got the gun!'

'Oh you do surprise me. I didn't happen to notice – and here was me thinking that copper dropped dead from a heart attack.'

'Fuck you, Foxy!' Alfie pointed the pistol.

'So what are you going to do, smartarse, shoot me? Neither of you can drive. Why not ask Jack what he thinks about it?'

Jack, who had been chewing gum, stopped chewing and swung round in his seat to face Alfie. 'What do I think?' he growled. 'I think it was thanks to me that you waltzed out of the Scrubs with your lilywhite arse intact, but if you don't put that shooter away I'm going to shove it right up your lilywhite. So shut the fuck up and leave it to Foxy. He's got education: he went to grammar school.'

Alfie wilted and descended into a sulky silence, Jack resumed his gum-chewing and Foxy pondered his new found position...

Blimey, this is a turn up for the books. I've been promoted to gang leader; that's if you can call this lot a gang. Jack's got some potential but Alfie... Yeah, less said the better. So what am I supposed do about this car? I can't just dump it. Not now that Alfie's gone and left his shitty dabs all over the bloody thing. I could never be sure of wiping it completely clean, and if the coppers find it you can bet they'll go over it with a fine tooth comb. Only one thing for it, it's gonna have to disappear – and I only know one person who can make a car vanish: Lil. So I'm gonna have to pay her a little visit and be nice to her. Meantime, as long as I drive nice and careful we shouldn't get pulled in by the local coppers.

In 1939 not all British police forces were equipped with radio patrol cars. The technology was still evolving and the wave bands used did not work well in built up areas. However, the Hertfordshire constabulary were justifiably proud of their radio communication system, from the tall mast mounted on the roof of police headquarters to the state of the art communications room with its massive transmitters packed with glass valves.

PC Rodgers was on duty. He'd spent the war in the signal corps and was happy to be back plying his old trade. It was a quiet day, and he was relaxing with a nice cup of tea when a young constable entered with a message. Rodgers glanced at what was written on the sheet of paper before grabbing the microphone and flicking a switch.

'Calling all cars, calling all cars, be on the lookout for a black Riley Continental, registration number RUS 728, containing three males. Approach with caution: they are armed and dangerous.'

# Chapter 3

'Do you have to drive so bleeding slow?' Alfie lit a cigarette and offered the packet to the other two. They both shook their heads: they knew where Alfie's hands had been.

Foxy sighed. 'Use your loaf, Alfie. The last thing we need is the local swede-force pulling us in for speeding. I don't want to go down in history as the only bloke who got hung for exceeding the limit. Relax mate, once we're clear of this dump I'll speed up a bit. Though not too much – always keep a low profile that's my motto.'

Dropping down to second gear, he drove along the main street of the small town. The afternoon sun shone on a sign hanging from the blackened oak beams of a timber framed building. The words The Kings Head and Whitbread Ales were painted above and below a portrait of Henry VIII. Outside the pub, a farmer was leaning up against a cart smoking a pipe while his horse quenched its thirst in a stone horse-trough.

Foxy felt an urgent need for a pint but settled for a cigarette. He was just lighting it when – 'Shit!' – he spotted something in his rear-view mirror.

'What's up?' Jack squinted at the road ahead. Alfie said nothing, but his eyes were darting about like frantic ferrets.

Foxy spoke slowly and carefully. 'Don't either of you two turn around, but we've got the busies up our bottoms.'

'What are you waiting for?' squawked Alfie. 'Get the fuck out of here!'

'I fully intend to, mate, which is why I ain't put my foot down. Cos what you don't know, and I do, is that there's a ruddy great radio aerial stuck on the roof of that car. I didn't know the local swede-force was that technologically advanced – I thought they were still using carrier pigeons.'

'I don't see why–'

'I'll tell you why: there's no reason for those woodentops to be interested in us. As far as they're concerned we're just three law abiding blokes tootling along minding our own business, but if we were to draw attention to ourselves by racing off they could end up radioing headquarters. So, just as long as they don't start taking an unhealthy interest in us, I'm gonna sweat it out and hope they piss off.'

'What if they don't?' Alfie waved his pistol.

'Then I'll cross that bridge when I come to it – and you can stop waving that bloody gun about. Are you sure the safety catch is on?'

'Course it is.'

'You're so bloody stupid I don't know whether to believe you.'

Jack said nothing during the exchange. He sat silently chewing gum before picking up his shotgun and slipping two cartridges into the breach. 'Sorry, Foxy,' he grunted, 'they're live ones. They can only hang me once, no matter how many rozzers I kill.'

'Take it easy, Jack. We don't even know for sure if that copper's dead.'

'He's dead: saw the way he went down. Seen it before.'

'Yeah, but still–'

'You got the brains, Foxy; I got the muscle. Your job's to get us out of here; mine's to sort things out if you don't, okay?'

'Okay, but in the meantime I'm in charge, agreed?'

'Agreed...'

Nobody asked Alfie for his opinion.

Foxy checked the mirror. The patrol car was still there, unhurried and at exactly the same distance. He glanced at the speedometer, just over twenty. Once out into open countryside, he increased the speed to forty; the gap between the two cars remained unchanged. He eased up to fifty; so did the police. He slowed down; they slowed down. It was as if the two cars were linked by an invisible force.

Having given the appropriate hand signal, Foxy turned left – and the patrol car followed. At the next opportunity he turned right; the police did likewise.

'Are the rozzers still there?' Jack's voice was grim. The afternoon sun lit up the scars on his face and glinted on the shotgun resting on his lap. Alfie said nothing. He just sat huddled up on the back seat clutching the revolver to his chest.

''Fraid so,' Foxy sighed.

'So what're you going to do then?'

'There's only one thing for it, I'm gonna have to find a convenient place to stop and... What was that?'

'I think Alfie's just shit himself again.'

'Erm... yeah, well, as I was saying, the only way to find out if the busies means business is to pull in somewhere and see what they get up to. Look on the bright side, this car can knock the spots off an Austin 10 in a chase. I'll pull in just past the next crossroads.'

'Why crossroads?'

'Cos, if they pull up in front of us and block the road ahead, I just reverse round the corner, put my foot down and bugger off back the way we came. By the time the boys in blue have finished doing a three point turn we'll be half way to Essex.'

'Look, crossroads.' Jack pointed ahead.

Foxy slowed down. So did the patrol car. The signpost read Waltham Abbey eighteen miles. In an adjoining field a reaping machine was cutting a swath through the ripe wheat, and neatly stacked corn sheaths covered half the field.

Foxy surveyed the scene. 'Can't stop here, Jack.'

'Why not?'

'Cos, in case you ain't noticed there are kids in that field. They're helping with the harvest – and the last thing we want is kids in the firing line.' He turned right, followed by the police.

'Oi, what's the big idea?' Jack glared at Foxy. 'We're going the wrong way.'

'I know.'

'So, what's the game?'

'Tactics, mate, tactics, you'll see.'

As the car negotiated a series of hairpin bends, Foxy slowed down after entering each bend, forcing the police car to brake suddenly when it came round the curve. By the third bend the police were reducing speed in advance so as to maintain distance. The fourth bend was exactly what Foxy was looking for: it ran through a wood.

'Hang on to your hats, boys.' Foxy spoke through gritted teeth as he hit the bend. Down went his foot, and the rear wheels griped the tarmac as he skilfully jiggled the accelerator peddle to maintain maximum possible speed without losing control. The car accelerated round the bend before rocketing along the hundred yard stretch to the next series of S shaped curves. As it screamed around the snaking bends, a rigid faced Jack gripped his seat and Alfie was thrown back and forth across the back seat: left, right, and left again.

Once out into the straight, there was a shout of triumph from Foxy. 'Our luck's in, boys!' In the distance a church tower rose high above a huddle of thatched cottages, but the object of Foxy's interest was not the chocolate box English village but a collection of ramshackle corrugated iron constructions and rusting farm machinery situated on a piece of land adjoining the road. In a flash he was off the road and weaving his way past the assortment of old iron before tucking himself in behind one of the sheds. After a brief wait for the patrol car to drive past their hiding place, he was back on the road leading to Essex.

PC Mills, the village Bobby, was sweating in his tunic as he stood among the moss covered gravestones discussing the details of the forthcoming church fete with the vicar. A passing car caught his eye. He frowned, pulled out his notebook and ruffled through the pages before interrupting the vicar in mid intonation.

'Begging your pardon, vicar, Oi hopes you don't mind me asking, but could Oi use your telephone?'

'Is it important?' The vicar sounded mildly irritated.

'It is, sir, urgent police business.'

'Oh very well then, follow me.'

'I'm getting pissed off with thatched cottages,' grunted Jack, as they left the village behind them. He sniffed the air. 'And I'm getting pissed of with cow shit. How much further?'

Foxy glanced at the signpost. 'Not far to go. We should be in Essex in a jiffy. Look on the bright side, mate, at least it's a nice sunny day.'

Five minutes later it began to rain. A few drops at first, but after the first clap of thunder it came down by the bucketful. Foxy switched on the windscreen wipers and rummaged through his pockets.

'Anyone got a fag?'

'Here.' Jack proffered a packet of Gold Flake.

'Ta.' Foxy took one, lit it and exhaled luxuriously.

Jack spat his chewing gum out of the window, shoved a cigarette in his mouth and asked, 'Where we heading for, Foxy?'

'I reckon the best thing would be to drop you and Alfie off in Loughton. Being as it's on the Central line, you can get the underground straight into town.'

'What about you, where are you going?'

'Me, I'll be making for Southend.'

'Blimey, we got half the bleeding Met looking for us, and Foxy's going to the seaside,' chortled Alfie.

'Correction: after that cockup of yours, we've got the whole bleeding Met looking for us. And the reason I've gotta go to the seaside is cos you were too bloody thick to keep your gloves on. I can't just dump this jam jar. It's gonna have to have to disappear – and I happen to know someone in Southend who can make cars disappear. Got it?'

'Why don't yer set fire to it?' Alfie sniffed.

'Use your loaf, Alfie. If we find a nice quiet spot in the middle of nowhere to burn it, how we s'posed get home? I don't fancy wandering around in the sticks in the pouring rain. And if we were to burn it outside the station we might just attract a bit of attention to... Oh, shit!'

'What's up?'

'Coppers ahead!'

The Austin 10 was parked at the side of the road under the shelter of an ancient oak tree. The five foot aerial on the roof was the giveaway.

As Foxy pondered the scene, he did his best to sound reassuring. 'Hmm, at least it's a different one. Could be a coincidence...' He paused as he caught a flicker of movement on the seat behind him. 'You ain't taken the safety catch off have you, Alfie?'

'Yeah, so what?' Alfie sneered. 'Like Jack said, they can't hang me twice.'

'Oh Gawd,' Foxy groaned, 'here we go again. Could you at least stop playing soldiers for a minute and pretend to be looking out of the other window – and make sure you've got your back to 'em as we drive past. You too, Jack, and get close to me. I don't want the coppers clocking my boat race.'

Once passed the Austin 10, Foxy kept a wary eye on the mirror, but the police remained unmoving under the oak tree. He breathed a sigh of relief as he rounded a bend.

'I think our luck's in. They ain't looking for us. So you can put that bloody safety catch back on, Alfie. You're making me nervous.'

'Are you bleeding sure?'

'Almost – but I'll pull in somewhere just to make certain. And relax for Christ's sake. If it comes to a chase there ain't nobody who can catch old Foxy on a nice wet road.'

Foxy waited until he found a suitable turning, a narrow country lane, and parked just past it. After less than a minute, the patrol car reappeared and halted about a hundred yards behind them.

'Stuff that, they're shadowing us. Only one thing for it, I'm gonna have to outrun 'em...'

Before the police had time to react, Foxy was accelerating up to sixty miles an hour, leaving them floundering in his wake. After going all out for five miles he eased back a little.

'Almost there, boys, we'll soon be– Shit!' As he slammed on the brakes the Riley went into a skid, waltzing all over the road like a skater on ice. Eventually, he succeeded in bringing it to a halt about five yards short of the level crossing gate. It was a very solid gate, a formidable barrier blocking the entire road.

Jack tightened his grip on the shotgun and Alfie released the safety catch on his revolver.

'Take it easy, boys. We've probably lost the woodentops and...' Foxy's voice trailed away as he caught sight of the Austin 10 in the rear-view mirror. It halted some way back. 'Why do they always keep their distance?' he murmured.

'They must know we've got shooters,' growled Jack. 'The bastards are keeping out of range. Come on, Alfie, let's sort 'em out.'

'Erm, yeah...' mumbled Alfie, sitting tight and making no effort to get out of the car.

'Hold on, Jack.' Foxy patted him on the shoulder. 'Don't do nothing hasty.'

'Don't worry, Foxy, if they're good little boys and behave themselves, I'll just shoot a tyre out.'

'Look, Jack, why don't you...'

'Sorry, Foxy...' Jack opened the door, got out and tucked his shotgun under his arm. Then he hesitated. Through the rain he could see a car approaching on the other side of the railway line. It halted a short distance from the opposite gate. Three doors opened and three policemen stepped out. One held a revolver in his hand; the other two were carrying Lee-Enfield rifles.

'Armed police!' shouted Jack as he threw himself back in the car. 'Get the fuck out of here!'

PC Bailey, the driver of the Austin 10, froze like a rabbit as the Riley hurtled towards him. He'd always enjoyed the thrill of the chase and run many a poacher to ground, but this was something new: robbers were supposed to run away from cops, not race backwards on a collision course. Nobody in their right mind reversed at that speed. He must be dealing with a madman. Instinctively, he threw the car into reverse, but the engine stalled and he was reduced to muttering a prayer he'd learned at Sunday school. At the very last moment the Riley switched to the other side of the road and flashed past him. The last he saw of it in his rear-view mirror was the chrome radiator and headlights gleaming through the curtain of rain.

# Chapter 4

'Blimey, Foxy, you're a fast worker.' Jack watched as Foxy attached the registration plate.

'Yeah, well you've gotta be in this game, ain't you?' Foxy stood up and brushed himself down. 'You never know how much time you've got to change a number plate when the old Bill's on the warpath.'

'What sort of place is this?' Jack gazed around at the decaying woodwork, bare brick walls, broken windows and concrete floor covered in bird droppings.

'Dunno, mate, and don't care. It's by a stream so it probably used to be a mill. I'm just bloody glad I spotted it just before we ran into the heavy artillery. The woodentops won't expect me to hole up this close to the level crossing, but sooner or later they'll be back sniffing around, which is why I wanna get going a bit sharpish. That's a point, where's that prat Alfie got to?'

'Cleaning the shit out of his pants.'

'Yeah, well so long as he remembers to keep his gloves on...'

'Don't worry, I told him I'd shove 'em up his arse if he didn't.'

'Good, then as soon as he's finished wiping his arse we can start shifting ours. Now where's my little bag of...' He paused as a shame-faced Alfie slunk in pulling up his braces. Foxy chuckled, 'Hello, look what the wind's blown in. I hope you've got a nice clean bottom, Alfie.'

'Give it a rest, Foxy. It's cos I been eating winkles.'

'Yeah? Well, next time you go on a job remember to eat a proper breakfast.'

'What next time?' Jack growled.

'Leave it, Jack.' Foxy held up a hand. 'First, let's get the hell out of here, cos if we don't...'

'How? We've got no chance against the rozzers, they've got rifles and all we've got is a sawn-off and a revolver.'

'As far as I'm concerned that's the good news: it means you two might just stop trying to kill coppers. And I don't care what you say, there's always a chance the copper ain't dead.'

'Hmm...' Jack frowned and ran his fingers over his scars as if counting them one by one.

'And,' Foxy continued, 'like you just said, we got no chance against rifles. You might as well be carrying peashooters. So I ain't driving if you're carrying. If you want to walk back to the Smoke your welcome – and you can take Alfie with you – but if you expect me to drive, you get rid of the guns.'

'I don't know...'

'Use your loaf, Jack. Even if they pull us in, if we ain't got the guns or the money they've got nothing to link us to the bank job. With a good brief we've got at least a fifty/fifty chance of getting off, but if you and Little Caesar start waving bloody guns about, then we're all for the long drop.'

'Yeah, I suppose...'

'Good. And make sure you wipe that shotgun clean, and I don't trust Alfie to clean his gun, so you do it. Then take the car plates and chuck the lot in that pond. Not much chance of them being found this side of Christmas – and even if they are, so long as there's no prints on 'em they'll have nothing on us.'

'What about the plates?'

'Cleaned 'em already.'

'I s'pose we ain't got much choice,' Jack shrugged his shoulders, 'but even with new number plates we'll stick out a mile: three blokes in a Riley Continental. If the rozzers spot us they're bound to pull us in.'

'Not if they think we've got guns. They'll have to radio for the heavy mob, and they ain't gonna do that if they see only one bloke in the car, which is why you two'll be lying down in the back covered with a blanket.'

'Mmm, worth a try... might work.'

'Don't worry, mate, it will work. Old Foxy's always got a trick up his sleeve. So, the sooner you two move your arses and get shot of the incriminating evidence, the sooner we can eff off out of here.'

With a sigh, Jack set about his task, carefully wiping every surface of his gun. Finished, he turned to Alfie. 'Right, hand it over.'

'What?' Alfie feigned innocence.

'Your shooter.'

'Bollocks.'

'If you don't, I'll tear yours off.'

'It ain't fair.' Like a sulky child, Alfie threw his revolver on the ground and stormed off.

Without a word, Jack picked it up and got to work. Satisfied, he asked, 'I just chuck everything in the pond, right?'

'Yeah, and make sure it's in the middle.'

Once he was alone, Foxy began his transformation. When Jack returned he had a sullen looking Alfie in tow. They both stared in amazement. Alfie was the first to speak.

'Blimey, you look like a vicar.'

'That's what the woodentops are s'posed to think.' Foxy adjusted his dog collar and tapped the horn-rimmed glasses.

'Yeah, but what if you get pulled in?' Jack looked thoughtful. 'Ain't it illegal to impersonate a vicar?'

'Not half as illegal as bumping off a copper. Come on, move your arses you two. Let's get the hell out of here.'

It had stopped raining and the sun was shining on the bright red telephone box that stood on the corner of Essex Road and Coleman Street. Police Constable Perkins was stationed next to the box. Notebook in hand, he watched the traffic. Twenty-one years of age, fresh faced and six feet three inches tall, he'd joined the police for the excitement, but the reality had turned out to be mind numbing boredom. Fed up and longing for adventure, he had resolved to volunteer for the army if war broke out.

But today was different. Something exciting had happened at last. His orders were simple. He was to keep a keen look out for a black Riley Continental, registration number RUS 728. This car was to be reported immediately. The registration number of all other black Riley Continentals was to be written down, and if it contained three males it was also to be reported to HQ by means of the telephone. For this purpose he had been given a special number to dial that would put him straight through, bypassing the need to insert coins.

The orders had been very clear: do not to approach; they are armed and dangerous. A tingle of excitement ran down his spine. A black Riley was approaching, a Continental, but there was only one person visible. He licked his pencil and was about to write the number in his notebook when he recognised the driver. It was William Pollock who ran a car hire business. With a sigh he resumed his watch.

The traffic was light, mainly Austins, Fords and Morrises. There was a Riley, but it wasn't a Continental. He was debating whether to visit the army recruiting office tomorrow, when he saw approaching a black Riley Continental on the opposite side of the road. His instinct told him that there was something about it – and it wasn't just instinct: it was splattered with mud. That was suspicious. He hesitated, unsure whether to lick his pencil or draw his truncheon. He was still wavering, when he realised that it was slowing down. His adrenaline went into overdrive and he reached for his truncheon, but all tension evaporated at the sight of the clerical collar.

Foxy stopped the car, wound down the window and called out in a singsong voice, 'I am very sorry to trouble you, officer, but I have come out without my watch. Would you happen to have the correct time?'

'It's ten minutes past five, sir.' Perkins snapped smartly to attention and saluted.

'Splendid splendid, then I won't be late for evensong. Thank you, officer, you have been most helpful.'

As Foxy drove away he heard a familiar sound from the back of the car.

'Is that what I think it was?'

''Fraid so,' grunted Jack.

'I can't help it,' moaned Alfie. 'I told yer, it was them winkles I ate.'

It was well past seven o'clock and sun was low over the hedgerows by the time Foxy finally deposited his passengers. It had been a tortuous drive, threading his way through the back roads and country lanes of Essex. Unsure what to expect from the Essex constabulary, he'd maintained his lone clergyman image, obliging the other two to remain hidden under the blanket. Jack had suffered in silence but Alfie had whinged and whined most of the way. It was only after Jack had threatened to throw him out of the car that he'd finally shut up.

A mile short of his destination, Foxy called out, 'Almost there. You can come out now.'

'And about bleeding time too.' Alfie emerged from under the blanket, blinking in the evening sun. 'Where the bleedin' hell are we?'

'Just approaching Shenfield.'

'And where the fuck's that?' Alfie peered at the handful of suburban villas lining the road.

'It's on the main line to London. The trains coming from Southend or Chelmsford all stop here, so you can hop off at Stratford.' Foxy halted just short of the railway station. 'Nip out a bit sharpish and walk along to the station. I don't want any nosey railway porters spotting you getting out of this car.'

Without a word, Alfie jumped out and sloped off in the direction of the station.

Before following him, Jack offered his hand. 'Thanks, Foxy, I owe you one. Anytime you need a favour...'

'Thanks, Jack, I appreciate it,' Foxy shook it, 'but you'd better get moving...'

# Chapter 5

It was dark by the time Foxy turned into the nondescript street off London Road in Southend. The beam of the headlights picked out the words painted on the heavy wooden gates: A H Farrow & Daughter Scrap Merchants. With a sigh of relief he brought the car to a halt and switched off the ignition. The dog collar and black shirtfront having been ditched somewhere near Wickford, he was collarless. A quick rummage around located his collar and tie, but he couldn't find a collar stud. 'Well she'll have to take me as she finds me,' he murmured, as climbed out of the car and stretched his aching body.

There was a light in the downstairs window as he rapped the door knocker. Nothing happened. He knocked again. This time there was a response. The frosted glass panel of the front door lit up as one of the internal doors opened.

Lil had been getting ready for bed when she heard the knock. Wearing a pink dressing gown, her blonde curls reaching almost to her bosom, she had been curled up on the sofa with a cup of cocoa listening to the radio. Her figure was a collection of well shaped curves that had ripened with age, but under the soft fluffy exterior lurked a tough interior. When her father had been conscripted into the army in the dying days of the war, never to return, it had fallen upon Lil, barely out of her teens, to take over the running of the family business.

The late twenties and early thirties had been tough going, but Lil's willingness to use her body to clinch a deal, particularly with local councillors, had ensured enough contracts to keep the firm afloat until German rearmament resulted in a massive increase in the demand for scrap metal. When the local trams were replaced by trolleybuses, it was Lil who'd shipped the old tramlines over to Germany to be converted into tanks and guns, having first secured a very good price from a rather randy Nazi official.

As she paused to check her appearance in the hallway mirror, there was an impatient rap on the glass door panel.

'All right, Foxy, I'm coming. You don't have to break the damned door down.'

'How did you know it was me?'

'How do I ever? You can't just knock, you have to play _Land of hope and Glory_.

When she opened the door and caught sight of him, she gasped, 'Cripes, Foxy, you do look a sight. What, on Earth are you doing wandering around at this time of night without a collar or tie? You're not on the run, are you?'

'Course not, Lil.'

'Hmmm...' She waved her cigarette holder. 'Don't tell me; let me guess. I suppose you've been on the piss and didn't fancy the drive back.'

'You're bleeding joking. I haven't had a drink all day. I'm gasping for one.'

'Then you'd better come in.'

'Er, yeah...' He hesitated on the threshold. 'Um, would you mind opening the gates? I don't want to leave the car in the street.'

'So that's it,' she chuckled. 'I should have known. You're a bit old for nicking cars aren't you, darlin'? That's a kid's game.' She frowned. 'How much is this going to cost me?'

'Nothing. It's a present. Just make sure it's broken up first thing tomorrow.' He stroked his moustache.

'Ahh...' She gave him quizzical look. 'You haven't been on a job, have you, darlin'? I thought you didn't go in for that sort of thing anymore.'

'I don't. I haven't been on one in years... Honest...'

'Haven't been on a job in years?' Lil reached out for the packet of cigarettes on the bedside table. She handed one to Foxy who was lying beside her, head resting on the lacy pillow.

'You can't fool me, darlin'. The last time you gave me such a hammering was after the Hatton Garden job five years ago.'

'Yeah, well...' Foxy lit his cigarette.

As he did so, she placed a hand on his chest and slid it down past his stomach. 'Thought so,' she whispered. 'You've definitely been up to your old tricks. It's the only thing I know that gives you a permanent hard-on... not that I'm complaining.'

'Yeah, I s'pose there's no fooling you, Lil. How long's it been now?'

'Twelve years; you were still young and innocent then... well maybe not innocent.'

'Heh-heh, you still taught me a few tricks, though.'

'Probably why you always come back to mama, either that or because you're in trouble. How hot's that car?'

'I wouldn't call it hot... lukewarm perhaps,' he tickled the inside of her thigh, 'unlike you.'

'So how did it go?'

'How did what go?'

'Don't play games with me, darlin'.' She brushed his hand away. 'You know dammed well what I'm talking about. How did the job go?'

'So so...'

'So it went badly?'

'It wasn't great.

'It wasn't?'

'No payday...'

'Mmm... d'you need a sub? I could give you something for the car...'

'Nah, I didn't do it for the money.' He slid his hand back up between her thighs.

'So, why did you do it?' She ignored the hand.

'Somebody asked me for a favour...'

'Ah, yes, you Eastenders...'

'I'm from Walthamstow.'

'Sorry, I keep forgetting. But you used to mix with that crowd in the old days, didn't you?'

'I still do a lot of business in dockland. Can't just rely on what falls off the back of lorries, ships are bigger.' He moved his hand higher and began to go round the edges with a finger.

'So who persuaded you to come out of retirement?' She opened her legs slightly.

'Retirement? You make it sound like I was pushing sixty or something. I didn't retire, I just moved on.'

'Don't worry, love, you've still got all your hair. But who was it?'

'It's best you don't know.' He inserted a finger and began to massage.

'Is there anything that the police can pin on you?' She opened her legs wider.

'Nothing I can't talk my way out of.' He bent over and ran is tongue along the length of her torso, from top to bottom.

'Ahhh... yes, you always did have a silver tongue...'

Bed linen, carpet, curtains and wallpaper, everything was pink, even the bacon. Foxy sat propped up in bed, eating breakfast off a tray in the rose tinted surroundings of Lil's bedroom. Foxy, however, was not feeling in the pink. It was a good breakfast, and it had been a good night. Lil, as usual, had been obliging, very obliging. But now, after the adrenaline of the chase and the exertions of the night, he pondered his situation...

I wish that paperboy would shift his arse. There was nothing on the radio last night. A copper getting gunned down, that should have been on the news. But all they were rambling on about was Germany and Danzig. There's bugger all else in the news these days. If they're going to have a bloody war, the sooner they get started the better. It's about the only thing that might save my bacon: who's gonna give a monkey's about one dead copper when the Germans start dropping bombs on London. Why can't that prat Hitler move his bloody arse? Come on, Adolf, I'm counting on you...

'Cripes, darlin', you look like the Queen of Sheba.' Lil, her blonde hair now piled up on her head, marched in waving a copy of the _News Chronicle_.

'Give us a break, Lil, and more important, give me that bloody paper.'

'You haven't made the front page, love; from the way you were behaving, I was starting to think you'd killed somebody.'

Foxy ignored her, grabbed the paper and snuffled his way through it like a pig hunting truffles – nothing. Watched intently by Lil, he repeated the process before tossing it away in disgust.

'I take it you didn't find what you were looking for? Lil folded her arms and tilted her head to one side.

'Nope.'

'Look on the bright side, darlin'. No news is good news.'

'Yeah, I suppose... What about the car? When are–'

'What car?'

'Already?'

'See for yourself.'

Foxy eased himself out of bed, padded over to the window and looked down into the yard. About the size of a couple of tennis courts, it was crammed full of unrecognizable chunks of metal, though there was something familiar about a set of headlamps perched on a bench, but other than that all trace of the Riley had vanished.

'Blimey, Lil, that was quick.'

'My boys finished taking that car apart before you'd awoken from your beauty sleep.'

'Heh-heh, that's my girl. What would I do without you?'

'What you always do, darlin': a bit of stuff about twenty years younger.'

'But I always come back to mama...'

The newsagent's white walrus moustache was stained yellow. One elbow resting on the counter, he puffed away at his pipe, sending vast clouds of smoke in the air. When Foxy asked for a copy of every daily newspaper except the _News Chronicle_ he didn't bat an eye. Laying down his pipe, he collected them together and took Foxy's proffered half crown.

'Are you trying to pick a winner, guv?' he asked, as he handed him his change.

'Nah...'

'Keeping up with the international situation, are you then?'

'Yeah, I s'pose you could say that...'

'You'll have a good read then. The papers are full of it. They keep saying that Hitler wants peace, but I don't believe it. You mark my words, there's another war coming and it'll be worse than the last one. That's why I always keep this handy.' He rummaged around under the counter and produced a gas mask. 'I was on the Somme; I know what gas can do to a man, nasty stuff gas. I never go anywhere without it. Have you got yours?'

'Er, yeah, I think it's at home somewhere.' Foxy gathered up his newspapers and began to beat a hasty retreat. 'But thanks for the advice. I'll bear it in mind.' He exited the shop, leaving the old soldier standing to attention behind the counter, holding his gas mask.

Once outside, Foxy made straight for the nearest pub. The place turned out to be almost empty, just a couple of old men playing dominos while a few bored bluebottles buzzed round and round in aimless circles. The full bosomed barmaid took his order with barely a glance. Foxy twitched with impatience as she took an eternity to pump out a pint of Mann's best bitter.

Having paid for his beer, he located a seat in the most remote corner of the pub before setting about his task. There was nothing in the _Mail_ , _Herald_ or _Express_. Desperation was starting to set in when he turned to the _Daily Mirror_. It was there that he found what he was looking for on page five. A photograph of a grinning PC George Robinson and the headline:

The Keystone Crooks

Brave Bobby Fools Bungling Bank Robber

Two men that had carried out a brutal armed bank robbery were escaping with their ill gotten gains when they were confronted by PC George Robinson, a decorated war hero. At the sight of the gallant officer of the law, the robber who was carrying the bag of money panicked and dropped it.

According to PC Robinson, when the masked robber fired a gun at him, he pretended to be shot and deliberately fell on the bag of money, forcing the villains to flee empty handed. Whilst nobody in any way disputes his version of the events, in spite of a thorough search, the police have been unable to recover a single bullet from the scene.

# Chapter 6

'It was Fox. This case has his grubby paw marks all over it. Nobody else in the business could drive like that.' Detective Inspector Hawker of the Flying Squad applied another match to his pipe, leaned back in his chair, plonked his feet up on the desk, stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket and puffed away furiously.

'Fox, sir, I don't think the name rings a bell.' Detective Sergeant Brightwell fumbled with a packet of Woodbines. Young, keen and recently posted to the Flying Squad, he was eager to make an impression.

'It was before your time, sergeant. Fredrick Cuthbert Fox, he's been retired for nearly five years, or so my informants tell me.' Hawker waved his pipe – it was a standing joke in Scotland Yard that he was an avid fan of Sherlock Holmes.

'When did you last nick him?'

'I've never managed to, and nor has anybody else. I've felt his collar a few times but could never get anything to stick. He's a slippery character, is our Fox, though I'm dammed sure that if the crafty blighter hadn't retired I'd have nabbed him sooner or later. I'd just love to pin this one on him.'

'I must say, sir, the robbery didn't exactly have the hallmark of a high class operation. The whole thing struck me as being a bit amateurish.' Having managed to extract a cigarette, Brightwell lit it.

'Yes, that's what's been puzzling me. Which ever way you look at it, it's not the run-of-the-mill bank robbery: small suburban bank, incompetent robbers but top rate driver.'

'Is it possible, sir, the Hertfordshire police have exaggerated the driver's abilities in order to cover up their own incompetence?'

'I doubt it. That bunch of farm boys would never have the imagination to dream up the escape by reversing at high speed ploy. That's got Fox's moniker all over it. I can almost smell the blighter.'

'What about the other two, sir, any idea who they are?'

'Not the foggiest – and, odder still, not even a whisper.'

'Nothing from the snouts?'

'Tried them all, not a single informer is talking.'

'Did you lean on them?'

'I most certainly did, but I got the distinct impression that someone else was leaning on them from the opposite side.'

'I don't quite follow, sir.'

'It all adds up, Brightwell, whoever the other two were they have to be connected to somebody high up in the criminal fraternity, somebody big enough to frighten off the snouts and influential enough to coax Fox out of retirement.'

'Any idea who, sir?'

'I could make an educated guess, but knowing is one thing, proving it, another. Come on, Brightwell, grab your hat. We're going to pay a little visit to an old friend of mine.'

'Mr Big, sir?'

'No, Mr Slippery. Have you ever been to Walthamstow, Brightwell?'

'I can't say I have, sir.'

'Well, now's your chance, come on...'

The platform of Southend Central station was crowded with day-trippers: children clutching buckets and spades, old men in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, young men in sports jackets and plump ladies with hats labelled _Kiss Me Quick_ perched on their heads, all heading homeward after a glorious day at the seaside.

In his well pressed, brown striped, double breasted suit and hat set at a rakish angle, Foxy presented a sharp contrast to the crowd. He'd taken the precaution of purchasing a first class ticket and stood well back from the hoi polloi. When the train finally squealed to a halt in a cloud of steam the mob parted miraculously, leaving the way to the first class section clear as they all clamoured around third class.

Having located an empty compartment, Foxy settled himself comfortably into the plush seat, pulled out a silver cigarette case and extracted a cigarette. When the guard blew his whistle, there was a soft chugging sound as the train began to ease itself out of the station. Once under way, he relaxed. Things were looking up: they can't hang him and, with a little bit of luck, Hitler will finally stop pissing about, start a war and give the police something else to worry about.

When he alighted at Walthamstow, dusk was creeping in. Once out of the station he set off at a brisk pace, threading his way through the side streets. On reaching his destination, he noted an unfamiliar car parked outside the terraced house.

'Ah, Fox, just the man I'm looking for.' A familiar bowler hatted figure stepped out of the car. 'Aren't you going to invite us in?'

'Sorry, Inspector, my dad doesn't like me bringing back strange men.' Foxy adopted an expression of wide eyed innocence.

'If I recall correctly, you do not live with your father. You are the sole tenant of this establishment.'

'Yeah, but still...'

'Alternately,' Hawker jutted his chin forward as his companion moved round behind Foxy, 'I could ask you to accompany myself and Detective Sergeant Brightwell to the local police station in order to assist us with our enquires.'

'What enquires?' Foxy ignored Brightwell's breath on the back of his neck.

'Don't you read the papers?'

'Nah, they're full of rubbish about Hitler.' Foxy stroked his moustache.

'I am investigating an armed robbery.' Hawker resumed a pompous pose and waved his pipe.

'Bollocks! Do I look like an armed robber? I'm a respectable businessman.'

'I am not too sure about the respectable. Where were you at two-fifteen yesterday afternoon?'

'With a lady friend.'

'In the afternoon?'

'Only time we can fit it in: when her old man's at work.'

'Will she vouch for this?'

'Don't talk daft. He'd beat the shit out of her.'

'So, you have nobody who can vouch for your whereabouts?'

'If I'd done a robbery, I'd've made bloody sure I had an alibi. What was it, a jeweller's?'

'No, a bank.'

'Phewee, sounds classy. How much did they get away with?'

'Nothing, not a penny.'

'Must've been a bunch of amateurs, probably kids trying it on.'

'The driver was a real professional. You used to be an ace driver, didn't you, Fox?'

'Kind of you to say so, Inspector...'

'I'll bet there's nobody as good as you?'

'As the actress said to the bishop...'

'Don't get too clever.'

'As the art mistress said to the gardener...'

'Watch it, Fox!'

'Like I said, Inspector, I cannot assist you with your enquires,' Foxy took a step backwards onto Brightwell's toes, 'and I cannot invite you in.'

Hawker clamped his pipe firmly back in his mouth, and growled, 'Come on, Brightwell. We're wasting our time here. You can drive.' He climbed into his seat, closed the door and wound down the window. 'If you do have any information, Fox...'

'I won't hesitate to get in touch with you, Inspector.'

'I'm sure you will... Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention it, you had a visitor...'

'A lady?'

'No, it was Alfred Peck. I didn't know he was a friend of yours.'

'He ain't.'

'Then, why would he be calling on you?'

'Dunno, maybe he wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. Why didn't you ask him?'

'Isn't he a nephew of Sid Weston?'

'That's Sid's problem, not mine.'

'How well do you know Weston?'

'I've done business with him.'

'Have you done business with Peck?'

'Do me a favour, Inspector, piss off.'

Tut tut, temper temper, I do believe that I have touched a sensitive spot.' A grinning Hawker wound up the window as the car pulled away.

Silently cursing that idiot Alfie, Foxy waited for the car to disappear before he opened the gate. He was about to close it when a firm hand stopped him.

''Ello, Foxy, enjoy your cosy little chat with the Sweeney?'

The lapels of the double-breasted suit were turned up and the hat pulled down low, but Foxy had no trouble recognizing Sid Weston's number one enforcer, Slasher Thompson – so named on account of his expertise with a cut-throat razor.

'Blimey, Slasher, you scared the shits out of me. Where the hell did you come from? It was bad enough having the rozzers loitering on the doorstep without you sneaking up like that. I hope the pricks didn't clock you.'

'Nah, spotted 'em a mile away. I've been in the shrubbery of that empty house up the street, keeping an eye on 'em. They've been sitting there for over an hour, probably wanking each other off.'

'You need a cock to do that, and I ain't too sure Hawker's got one. Anyhow, what are you doing here?'

'Sid asked me to nip over and see if you got back okay.'

'Very considerate of him. You can reassure Sid I got back safe and sound.'

'What about the car?'

'Vanished into thin air.'

'Good, I'll tell Sid. '

'Anything else?'

'Yeah. Sid's wants to know if you can meet him in Benny's gym tomorrow.'

'What time?'

'About three o'clock.'

'Tell him I'll be there.'

# Chapter 7

Benny's gym smelt of carbolic, sweat and sawdust. Situated inside an old warehouse in a back street in Hoxton, it was dominated by the boxing ring. In it, two small boys were slugging it out watched by Sid and a handful of others. Foxy recognised Benny and Slasher Thompson, but of the rest of the cauliflower eared, broken nosed brigade the only one he could name was Lefty Muldoon, another of Sid's enforcers, though there was something familiar about the grizzle haired referee.

Sharply dressed in a three piece suit, a red carnation in the buttonhole, Sid was puffing away at a Havana cigar. Born into a poverty stricken household in Canning Town, he'd been blessed with two advantages: he was big and he had brains. Having built up a bit of capital by robbing a bank, he invested the proceeds in a pub and pool hall. When one of the local heavies had the audacity to ask for protection money the man simply disappeared – and Sid took over his territory. The number of disappearances increased as Sid expanded his empire, the task being simplified by the construction of the Southend Arterial Road, a twenty mile length of concrete stretching from Romford to Southend.

Keeping in the shadow of the doorway, Foxy took in the surreal scene. It was a moment before he realised that there something unusual about the boys: they were identical twins. As he watched, the two traded blow for blow with a skill that belied their years, egged on by Sid who was shouting encouragement and waving his cigar. Finally, the referee declared it a draw, everyone applauded loudly and Sid presented each of the boys with a one pound note.

Spotting Foxy standing in the doorway, he marched over to him and slapped him on the back. The smile was warm and friendly but the eyes, cold and alert as he shook Foxy's hand.

'Glad you could make it, Foxy. You just missed a bloody good fight.'

'Er, yeah, I caught the last bit.'

'Great little fighters ain't they, a real chip off the old block?'

'Old block?'

'Jimmy Lee's grandsons: Ronnie and Reggie Kray.'

'Jimmy Lee? Oh yeah, of course. I thought I recognised the ref: Cannonball Lee, he was a bloody good in his day.' Foxy ignored the smile and tried to read Sid's eyes. 'Anyhow, you didn't get me here to watch a couple of small boys beating each other up. If you're expecting me to do any more favours for Alfie you can forget it.'

Sid's smile vanished and the eyes hardened. 'Yeah, you can pick your mates but you're stuck with your family. I never thought the berk would be daft enough to chuck the money away.'

'And I'd never thought the prat would be thick enough to come banging on my front door when the Sweeny were parked outside.'

'Bollocks, I didn't know about that! What did he want?'

'Dunno. I wasn't there when he called. It was that that prick, Hawker, who told me.'

'Yeah, I heard the creep was hanging about, but I didn't know he'd clocked Alfie.'

'And Alfie didn't know he'd been clocked.'

'Yeah, well, like I said, he's family and I'm lumbered with him.'

'And you're bloody well welcome to him... But if you didn't get me here for that why did you?'

'Look, Foxy, I reckon I owe you one for looking after Alfie. I got a full report from Jack.'

'Jack's a real pro: knows how to handle himself, stays calm. He shouldn't be wasting his time hanging around with a twat like Alfie.'

'Don't worry, he won't be. The firm's expanding, and I can use a good bloke like him. He'll be working with Slasher.'

'Heh-heh, they'll make a good team. They can sharpen each others razors.'

'Jesus, don't you ever give up on the comedy routine?'

'Nah, it's being cheerful what keeps me going. Let's face it, I spent Gawd knows how much time nicking a couple of cars for a robbery that paid bugger all, almost got a formal introduction to the hangman, was chased halfway across Hertfordshire by the woodentops, and now I've got the Sweeny up my arse. About the only bright spot on the horizon is that there's a war coming – blimey, if I didn't laugh I'd cry.'

'Well, don't cry, I'm going to do you a favour.'

'Oh yeah,' Foxy eyed him suspiciously, 'what sort of favour?'

'A lorry load of radios – five bob a piece.'

'Five bob each...' Foxy licked his lips; then sighed and shook his head. 'Sorry, Sid, but thanks to that nephew of yours I'm a bit short of the readies at the moment. Shame though...'

'Don't worry, Foxy, no rush, you can pay me later.'

'Erm, thanks... So where are these radios then?'

'They're still in the factory. I've got a little arrangement with the lorry driver.' Sid tapped his nose. 'He's going to stop off for the night at a transport caff on the Great North Road, and the place ain't got a phone. So, when he finds his lorry's gone, it'll take him ages to report it. By which time–'

'Hold it, hold it! If you want me to do another driving job, you can bloody well forget it.'

'Relax, Foxy, I wouldn't expect a getaway man to drive a lorry, anymore than I'd send Slasher round to beat somebody up. You don't send a skilled man to do a workman's job, and Slasher's a real craftsman with a razor, just like you're a specialist in your game.'

'Er, yeah... thanks for the compliment,' mumbled Foxy, unsure of the comparison. 'When can I expect delivery?'

'Should be next Monday, is that okay with you?'

'Yeah, sure.'

'Right, it's a deal then.' Sid extended his hand. 'I'm relying on you. It's got to go like clockwork. I want that van unloaded and abandoned before the coppers have even heard it's gone missing.'

'Don't worry, mate,' Foxy shook the hand, 'when it comes to shifting dodgy gear, nobody can move as fast as old Foxy.'

'Yeah,' Sid winked, 'I heard you was a fast worker.'

'Don't tell me; let me guess. A little bird told you...' Foxy smoothed his pencil moustache.

'Just so long as it ain't one of mine...' Sid's smile remained fixed, but the eyes hardened.

'Don't worry, mate, I heard what happened to that Dago who fancied himself. They say he ain't been near a mirror since.' Foxy's voice remained calm but it had a slight edge.

'Yeah, lovely bit of workmanship that was.' Sid smiled like a friendly shark. 'Slasher's a real artist...'

'Like Picasso.'

'Picasso? Is he an artist?'

'Yeah. He specialises in pictures of people with their faces messed up.'

'Sounds like my kind of boy.' Sid waved his cigar. 'What are you doing tonight?'

'Nothing special. Why?'

'I'm having a little celebration.'

'What's the occasion?'

'An anniversary, me and Josie have been together a year.'

'Congratulations.' Foxy stroked his moustache thoughtfully. 'She's a lovely girl. Twelve months; doesn't time fly; seems like only yesterday...'

Benjamin's Banqueting Rooms were situated on the Mile End Road. The proprietor, Solly Benjamin, had very kindly laid on the evening for Sid (people were always being kind to Sid). As the assembled company waited for the guest of honour to put on an appearance, a small band played a foxtrot while a crooner in a white jacket sang _Smoke Gets in Your Eyes_.

Foxy checked out the scene...

Hmm, nothing fresh womenwise: a handful of tarts and a few of my old sleeping partners. If the worst comes to the worst, maybe one of 'em will oblige me for the night. Who else is here? Oh my Gawd, look what's coming my way...

'Wotcher, Foxy.'

'Evening, Alfie. I see you managed to find your way home. Are you on duty as a waiter tonight?'

'Nah, course not. What made you think so?'

'You're wearing a dinner jacket and black tie.'

'Well, it's a formal occasion ain't it.'

'Yeah, I s'pose you could call it that.'

'The happy couple...'

'Yeah, Sid's a lucky man.'

'Nice bit of stuff, Josie...' Alfie leered.

'I don't reckon Sid would like to hear you calling her that.'

'Come off it, Foxy. Don't tell me you ain't noticed.'

'Noticing one thing, talking like that about someone's old lady is another – as you will learn when you grow up.'

'Stuff you, Foxy! Just cos that copper fucked up my bank job, it don't mean I have to take shit from you.'

'If you don't want shit from me, don't come round knocking on my door when the Sweeny are parked outside.'

'How was I supposed to know they was the Sweeny?'

'If you can't spot a couple of coppers half a mile away, you'd better hang on to that outfit you're wearing, cos you're gonna have a great future waiting tables.'

'I won't have to, not after my next job.'

'About time you got a job...'

'It's a bank job.'

'I can't see you working in a bank. You've got to be able to add up and know your multiplication tables...'

'Ha-ha, very funny, I meant a bank robbery.'

'Blimey, you're a right little glutton for punishment ain't you. Well just make sure you don't have winkles for breakfast this time, though to be on the safe side you'd better wear a nappy.'

Alfie ignored the provocation and struck a defiant pose. 'Jack's already agreed.'

'Pull the other one. It's got bells on it.'

'If you don't believe me ask him.'

'I will, next time I... Hello what's going on?'

The band struck up _Here Comes the Bride_ , and Sid swaggered into the room like a heavyweight champion entering the ring. Josie was on his arm. Her shimmering white dress clung to her body, emphasising every curve, while the dark tresses of her hair contrasted with the creamy skin of her shoulders. Instinctively, Foxy licked his lips. He was about to smooth his moustache when he became aware that Alfie was watching him intently...

When the band had finished playing, Solly grabbed the mike. Plump and balding, he sweated profusely as he made the announcement.

'Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to welcome the guests of honour, Mr Sidney Weston and his bride-to-be Miss Josephine Hopkins.'

Moving swiftly, Foxy was at the head of the crowd that pressed forward. Grasping Sid's hand and pumping it up and down, he yelled, 'Well done, mate; I didn't know you had it in you. Permission to kiss the bride?'

'Yeah, but make sure you keep your hands behind your back.' Sid's tone was jocular and his smile, friendly, but his eyes remained cold and alert.

## Chapter 8

On the first day of the following week Sid sent the word, and Foxy swung into action. His lock up was situated at the back of a large rambling house on the edge of the Hackney marshes. To ensure that it could not be traced back to him he rented it through an intermediary from the elderly gentlewoman who owned the house.

The day had been a hot one, and the cool of the night brought the mist rolling in gently across the marshes. Clutching a darkened lantern, Foxy stood in the shadows nervously smoking a cigarette. When he heard the faint distant sound of an engine, he dogged out his fag and waited. As the truck approached it flashed its light. Uncloaking the lantern, Foxy waved it in reply and opened the doors of the lock up. When the truck crept to a halt, the passenger door opened and Billy McConnell leaped out. In his early twenties and built like whippet, he had a ferret's face and nervous eyes that darted about in the gloom.

'Wotcher, Foxy, glad to see yer. The sooner we shift this lot and get the hell out of here the better. I've got old Ned driving; he's getting to old for this sort of caper; he's a bag of nerves.'

'So, why did he take the job?'

'Sid asked for a favour.'

'Ah yeah of course, Sid has a habit of doing that, probably why he sent you along to keep an eye on him. From what I hear you're on the way up in the firm.'

'Not much bloody longer.' The tone was bitter.

'Why, what happened?'

'I've got me bleeding call up papers: got ter report for the army.'

'Blimey, that's a turn up for the books.

'Yeah, well let's get shifting this stuff.'

As Billy rolled up his sleeves, Ned shuffled up. He was coughing, wheezing and moaning.

'A light just went on in the house,' he whined, 'let's get out of here.'

'Don't worry, mate,' hissed Foxy. 'The old girl usually gets up for a pee around this time. She's as deaf as a coot and her eyesight ain't that good either, so relax.'

Ned may have been old and wheezy but he could move fast when he had an incentive – and getting the hell out of here was the best. The operation took less than ten minutes, and before the last of the cartons had cleared the tailboard Ned was back behind the wheel. He didn't even wait for Billy, who had to jump onto the running board of the moving vehicle.

Foxy wasted no time in locking up and following them.

Not much happened for the rest of the week, apart from Hitler invading Poland. On Sunday, Britain and France declared war on Germany. But just when things were looking up, trouble struck in the form of Alfie Peck. He ran Foxy to ground in the Baker's Arms.

'Oh my Gawd, look what the wind's blown in,' groaned Foxy, when he caught sight of Alfie's reflection in the giant mirror behind the bar.

'Wotcher, Foxy, I thought I might find you here. What can I get yer?'

'No thanks, I've just got one.' Foxy eyed him uneasily. 'So what're you after then? You didn't come sneaking up behind me just to buy me a drink.'

'You sure you ain't going ter let me get you something?'

'Bloody sure. What do you want?'

'I'm gonna do you a favour and–'

'Piss off! I'm still recovering financially from the last bloody favour you did me.'

'That's why I'm going to help you out.'

'I need your help like a one-legged man needs an amputation.'

'Hah hah, I always did like your sense of humour.'

'I wasn't being funny...'

'Come on, Foxy, we're mates.'

'Are we?'

'Course we are. That's why I want you drive on my next job.'

'Get stuffed.'

'It's a piece of cake. A little bank that–'

'Ain't you heard there's a war on?'

'Course I have. Didn't Hitler invade some country or other?'

'It was Poland.'

'Was it? Where's that, then?'

'In eastern Europe.'

'Yeah, well I didn't go to grammar school, did I? But what's all that shit about the war got to do with my bank job?'

'I thought you might want to join the army and do your bit for King and country.'

'Stuff that! Do I look that stupid?'

'Are you sure you want me to answer that question?'

A brief scowl flickered across Alfie's face, before vanishing. 'Come on, Foxy,' he wheedled, 'think of the money.'

'I'm thinking of the hangman...'

'Bollocks!' Alfie's acne flushed. 'I didn't kill that copper, did I? It was a misunderstanding.'

'You can say that again.'

'I heard you was a bit short of the readies...'

'Yeah? Well you been hearing wrong, ain't you?'

'Mmm, yes of course, I was forgetting about that lorry load of radios you got stashed away.' Alfie grinned and his little eyes glinted with malice.

Foxy eyed him uneasily before silently finishing his drink. Then, placing his hat firmly on his head, he stalked out of the pub without another word – though he failed to wipe the smirk off Alfie's face.

In another pub on the other side of town, Detective Inspector Hawker downed another pint. His face was flushed, and he leered at the barmaid as he handed her the empty glass.

'Come on, drink up, Brightwell. Have another one.'

'I'd rather not, sir, if you don't mind.'

'Humph, you'd have not lasted long in France.'

'Er, yes, it must have been tough in the trenches.'

'Trenches, perish the thought, I kept well away from the trenches.'

'Really, sir...' Brightwell raised one of his eyebrows.

'Yep,' Hawker smacked his lips and winked at the barmaid as she handed him his pint, 'I was in the military police. Our job was to round up deserters.'

'What did you do with them, sir?'

'If they were lucky, they were shot...'

'And the ones that were not lucky?'

'Oh them... heh-heh... we sent them back to the trenches. Take my advice, Brightwell, if you do decide to do your bit in the present conflict, join the military police.'

'I see, sir...' Brightwell shuffled his feet uneasily and tried to change the subject. 'What were you just saying about Fredrick Fox, sir?'

'Fox? Ah yes, our slippery friend the Fox.' Hawker dragged his attention away from the barmaid's cleavage. I've had a whisper from one of my snouts that Peck has another bank robbery planned.'

'Are you sure your source is reliable, sir?'

'Impeccable: I even know which bank.'

'But he's Sid Weston's nephew. Surely no informer would dare...'

'I get the distinct impression that Mr Weston would be happy to see the back of his sister's son – like I said,' Hawker winked, 'my source is impeccable.'

'I see, sir, but what about Fox, do think he will be involved?'

'I'm hoping that Little Alfie will be able to use his persuasive charms...'

'Please, Foxy, please... yes, Foxy, yes... ah ah,... ooh ooh ooh... ah ah ah... yes-yes-yes... oh Yes!!!'

'Phew...' Kitty lay back on the brass bed as Foxy slid off her and began to cover her body with kisses. In her mid twenties, she was married to a middle-aged travelling salesman who's lack of interest in the more intimate side of marriage had created a void in Kitty – a void that Foxy was happy to fill.

Afterplay over, he lit a couple of cigarettes and passed one to her, asking, 'How long's the old man away for this time?'

'He's gone up north; won't be back 'til Friday; said it was his patriotic duty to help the war effort.'

'What's he selling?'

'Corsets.'

'Blimey, that really will help the war effort. Once all the women in England are equipped with corsets old Adolf won't stand a chance.'

'Silly bugger.' She gave him a dig in the ribs.

'Do you know what that word really means?'

'Um... no...'

He leant over and whispered in her ear.

'Oh...' Her eyes widened.

'So?'

'So, what?'

'So how about it?'

'Oh no you don't,' she giggled, leaping out of bed.

'You don't know what you're missing 'til you try it,' he laughed. 'And if you won't do that, then at least you could make me a nice cup of tea, cos I'm gasping for–'

'Yap yap yap... yap yap yap...'

'What's up with that bloody poodle of yours?'

'Mind your language, Foxy. Mitzi's a jolly good watchdog. She must have heard something. I'd better pop down and find out what's upset her.' Kitty reached for her dressing gown.

'I hope it's not your old man.'

'I shouldn't think so. She never barks at people she knows. It's probably a cat.'

When she reappeared, Foxy had just finished knotting his tie and was almost dressed. She had a worried expression on her face.

'Foxy, love, I don't want to sound like a nervous schoolgirl, but I think there's someone hiding in the shrubbery in the back garden.'

'Blimey, I hope it ain't one of them German paratroopers.'

'I should be so lucky – but I wish you'd just take a quick look. It could be a burglar.'

In the kitchen, Mitzi greeted him with a yelp, then trotted over to the door leading to the garden and gave another yelp.

'You see, she's trying to tell us something,' said Kitty.

'Maybe she just wants a wee-wee.'

'I don't think so.'

'Well there's only one way to find out.' Foxy gave a reluctant shrug. 'Could I borrow your rolling pin?'

'Here.'

'Thanks.'

With Kitty watching, he strode purposefully into the garden. Dusk was creeping in, and the smell of damp earth wafted into his nostrils. Mitzi trotted at his heels until he was halfway to the end of the garden. Then she dashed up to the rhododendron bushes, yapped twice and ran back.

'All right,' shouted Foxy, waving the rolling pin, 'if you don't come out at once, I'm going to come in there and beat the shit out of you!'

There was a slight rustling but nothing else.

'I'm going to count to ten, and if you don't– Blimey, it's you!'

The leaves parted and Alfie Peck emerged. 'Wotcher, Foxy.'

'Never mind that, what the fuck are you doing here?'

'I wanted to talk business.' Alfie brushed a couple of leaves off his jacket.

'Do you always do your business in the bushes?'

'Course not. It's just that–'

'And if you're going to start rabbiting on about that bloody bank job, forget it.'

'In my humble opinion you should reconsider my proposition.' Alfie did his best to sound pompous.

'I know you've got plenty to be humble about, but what makes you think I'd be daft enough to reconsider?'

'Well, what about her?' Alfie motioned toward Kitty who was standing in the kitchen doorway.

'What d'you mean? What's she got to do with your one-man crime wave? Do you need someone to make the tea while you're robbing a bank?'

'What if her old man finds out you've been banging her?'

'And who's going to tell him?'

'You never know...' Alfie smirked.

'Blimey, Alfie, this really takes the biscuit. I always knew you were a scumbag and a piece of shit, but I never thought of you as a blackmailer, the lowest form of animal life.'

'It ain't blackmail,' Alfie sniffed. 'It's a negotiating stance.'

'Blimey, who taught you that one? I bet you don't even know what it means.'

'Course I do,' Alfie mumbled.

'Anyhow, you're welcome to tell her husband: he won't give a toss. But write him a letter, cos I wouldn't recommend that you tell him in person.'

'Why's that?'

'Cos he's into small boys, and you being a small boy he might want to show his gratitude.'

'Oh...'

'And now, piss off. Cos if you don't I'm gonna take this rolling pin and shove where you'll get a foretaste of what her old man would like to do to you.'

# Chapter 9

The war continued at a steady pace. The Germans pushed on into Poland from the west, and the Russians attacked from the east – but Foxy had other things on his mind.

'Come on, Pete, they've got to be worth fifteen bob a piece. They can pick up medium wave, long wave and short wave. Lovely bit of furniture too. Once the war gets under way you'll have no trouble getting more than couple of quid each for 'em.'

'The war's over, Foxy. I'll offer you seven shillings.'

'Wad'yah mean, over? It's only just started.'

'Don't you read the papers?'

'Nah, never get the time.'

'The Russians have joined in the war on the German side, Poland's done for and now Hitler says he wants to make peace with us and the Frogs.'

'Blimey, you can't rely on anyone these days. All right, I'll make it twelve and six.'

'Nine shillings, take it or leave it...'

'Ten bob if you take a dozen.'

'Done!'

'Where have you got them stashed away?'

'Come off it, mate, you don't expect me to tell you that.'

'I just hope it's not some lock up in Hackney.'

'Er, why d'you ask?' Foxy's tone remained casual but a butterfly fluttered in his stomach.

'Because there was something about it in tonight's paper... Where is it... Ah here we are. Now let's see... Yes, I thought so. Here it is: "After receiving an anonymous tip off, the police raided a lock up in Pierpoint Street and discovered a cache of stolen radios." It seems they're now trying to trace the person who rented... Christ, Foxy, you've gone white! Can I get you a drink?'

Foxy sat in the billiard hall that served as the headquarters of the firm. He was awaiting an audience with Sid. It was ten o'clock in the morning and the place was deserted. Unable to sit any more, he began to pace up and down among the green baize tables, pondering his dilemma...

Let's face it Foxy, you're well and truly in it, up the creek without a paddle. And what's more, you know the name of the piece of shit that dropped you in it but you can't prove it. Meantime, you owe Sid a couple of hundred quid, enough to buy a house, and Sid ain't exactly known for his generosity... Oops, here he comes.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Foxy.' Sid strolled up to him with an outstretched hand. As Foxy shook his hand he scrutinised the face: friendly enough, though the eyes as usual were hard. 'I can guess why you're here,' Sid continued. 'I heard all about it. Any idea who grassed you up?'

'I could make a guess.'

'Hmm...' Sid looked thoughtful; then adopted a sincere expression. 'I can't let off the hook, Foxy, business is business. How much time do you need to pay?'

'Depends... If the worst comes to the worst, I could always take up Alfie's offer.'

Sid looked at him sharply. 'I didn't know the berk was trying to rope you in on his latest fiasco.'

'Has been since the night of your engagement party... By the way, how's Josie keeping?'

'She's fine; sends her regards. You're invited to the wedding. We're bringing the date forwards on account of the war.'

'Ta for the invite. What would you like for a wedding present, a radio?'

'Hah-hah, nice one, glad to see you ain't lost your sense of humour.' Sid laid a hand on his shoulder. 'I like you, Foxy; Josie likes you; we both like you. Take a bit of advice from me, don't do another job with that nephew of mine, just don't, okay?'

'Yeah, but what about the money?'

'Hmm, tell you what, just leave it for the time being. Don't worry about it.'

'Is there a catch?'

Sid grinned. 'You know me, Foxy, of course there's a catch.' He patted him on the back. 'You owe me a favour. Next time I need a driver, you drive. No questions asked, okay.'

'Okay.'

'Shake.' Sid extended his hand.

They shook...

Alfie was waiting outside the hall.

'Wotcher, Foxy.'

'Piss off!'

'I heard about your bit of bad luck.'

'I bet you did.'

'And I want to help...'

'I can believe that.'

'You can have half the take.'

'I'll tell you what, you little toe rag,' Foxy grabbed him by the collar and twisted it until his face turned red, 'why don't you keep a hundred per cent for yourself, cos I wouldn't touch any job of yours with a bloody bargepole.'

When he finally released Alfie, he was gasping for breath and whining, 'You'll be sorry... you'll be sorry...'

'Will I?'

'What about the money you owe Sid?' Alfie recovered his composure.

'Well, what about it?'

'How're you going ter pay it.'

'Sid and me have come to an arrangement. Sid's a good mate.'

'Is he? There was a malevolent glint in Alfie's eyes. 'Are you sure about that?'

'Yes I bloody well am. So, piss off!'

Four days later the telegram arrived. It was terse and to the point: _meet me back row Odeon three thirty tomorrow urgent_. It didn't say which Odeon cinema. It didn't have to. Foxy knew.

Next day he set off bright and early, taking the train to Saint Pancras. Once there, he took the Circle Line underground train to Tower Hill. He wandered down to the Tower of London and spent a bit of time sitting on a bench in the shadow of Tower Bridge. After half an hour he set off again. Strolling past the crowd listening to the soapbox orator, he headed for Bank tube station. When he reached the platform there were only a few people waiting for the next train. He went to the far end, several carriage lengths from the nearest person. When the train squealed to a halt, he hopped in and stood in the doorway, one foot placed to block the sliding door. When the guard closed the doors, he jumped back onto the deserted platform and watched as the train whistled off into the tunnel. Then he caught the next train.

When he reached the cinema fifteen minutes early, she was already there sitting in the middle of the back row. A scarf covered her hair and she was wearing an old coat.

Sliding into the seat next to her, he asked, 'What's going on? I hardly recognised you. You look like a housewife. I thought we'd agreed not to meet. It's too risky. If Sid finds out, he'll play noughts and crosses on your face and I'll get a concrete overcoat.'

'He's going to find out about us,' Josie's voice was a whisper, 'if you don't do as you're told.'

'Told by who?'

'Alfie...' A tear rolled down her cheek.

He reached out and brushed it away. 'What's that idiot got to do with it?'

'He knows about us. He said so.'

'He's probably bluffing. Did you deny it?'

'Of course I did.'

'Did he say what proof he had?'

'No.'

'Good. Sid'll tear his balls off if he dares slag you off.' He kissed her cheek. 'So, don't worry, he can't prove a thing.'

'Ah, but I can prove it now!'

'Blimey, it's Alfie! How the heck did you–'

'Followed her didn't I.' A gloating Alfie slid into the seat next to Foxy. 'You may have gone to grammar school, but you ain't half as clever as me.'

Josie began to sob, 'Oh, Foxy, oh, Foxy, what have I done? I could have sworn I wasn't followed.'

'Don't worry, love, I'll take care of it.'

'Yeah, push off, Josie, and let me and Foxy talk business.'

'You'd better go, love.' Foxy gave her hand a squeeze. 'Don't worry. I'll sort this out, even if I have to kill the creep.'

'No you won't. I've left a sealed letter with my solicitor to give to Sid if anything happens to me.'

A week later, another suburb, another high street, Foxy pondered his situation as he followed Alfie along the pavement...

I s'pose it could have been worse, at least it's not armed robbery. Jack refused point blank and nobody else was daft enough to volunteer for Alfie's little caper. I was beginning to think my luck was in, but he had another little scheme up his sleeve: smash and grab.

'Here we are, Foxy, there's the jeweller's.' Alfie pointed to the shop up ahead.

'Ah, here comes Peck and Fox is with him.' From his vantage point at the first floor window of the chartered accountant's office across the street, Hawker had a first class view of the jeweller's shop opposite. He applied a match to his pipe and struck a Holmesian pose. 'I'm really looking forward to nabbing this one, Brightwell. I've been after him for years.' He rubbed his hands. 'I told you my source was impeccable.'

'But we still don't know when the robbery will take place, sir.'

'I don't know now, but I will when the time comes.'

'What do you plan to do in the meantime?'

'Do you fancy a pint?'

'Are we off duty, sir?'

'We are now. Come on, it's your shout.'

Three days later, Hawker received his tip off.

'It's first thing Monday morning, Brightwell.'

'What is, sir?'

'Alfred Peck's smash and grab. It's time for me to get on the blower and arrange a little reception committee.'

'Armed?'

'No. My source has assured me they will not be carrying firearms. A car and a couple of coppers to seal off each end of the High Street should do the trick.'

Sunday night found Foxy in the Travellers Return, a pub in Plaistow. Blackout regulations being in force as a precaution against air raids, the lights were dim and the windows heavily curtained. The place was packed and the tobacco smoke as thick as a London fog. The piano was belting out _We're Gonna Hang out the Washing on the Siegfried Line_ , and the crowd were singing lustily.

Foxy leaned on the bar, sipping unenthusiastically at a Whisky Mac as he listened to Alfie issuing last minute orders.

'Right, is the car organised?'

'Of course it bloody well is.'

'What is it?'

'A Morris 8.'

'A Morris 8? That's a car for old ladies: it's not fast enough.'

'I ain't planning on driving fast. I'm planning on switching number plates fast. That's why I'm using a Morris 8. There's so many about it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack. The law can't stop every Morris 8 in London.'

'Mmm...' Alfie was impressed but did his best not to show it. 'Even you can't change a number plate that fast.'

'I can if it clips on and off.' Foxy blew a smoke ring. 'It's dead simple. Just before we get there, we nip out and clip a number plate over the existing one. Then, assuming you don't make a cock up of it, as soon as we've got away, I stop somewhere quiet and we whip 'em off again – then, like I said, needle in a haystack.'

'Not bad, Foxy, not bad, I did the right thing taking you on. Next time–'

'There ain't gonna be no next time. That was the deal.'

'Yeah yeah, of course not. What I meant to say was, next time, when I get another driver, I was hoping you might give a bit of advice.'

'So long as it's just advice.'

'Of course of course, just advice...'

'Good.'

'Have you made sure the tank's full? I've been hearing the war's causing petrol shortages.'

'Don't worry it's all sorted.'

'And don't forget to allow plenty of–'

'For Gawd's sake shut up. You're starting to get on my tits. I was doing this before you'd learnt to masturbate, and I... Blimey, it's the old Bill,'

'Where?' Alfie turned pale.

Three policemen had just entered the pub. They started checking the papers of all men in military uniform, looking for anyone who had overstayed their leave. Satisfied, they were about to depart when one of them caught sight of Alfie.

Marching over, he asked, 'Is your name Alfred Peck?'

'Could be...' Alfie shuffled uneasily.

'Is it or is it not?'

'So what if it is? I ain't done nuffin.'

'You are being sought by the army.'

'What for?'

'For failing to report for military service. Did you not receive your call up papers?'

'Yeah, but it just said that His Majesty requested my presence.'

'So why did you not present yourself, when ordered to do so?'

'Cos it didn't say I was ordered to. It was just an invitation.'

'When His Majesty requests your presence, you present yourself.'

'Okay, okay, I'll present meself tomorrow.'

'Oh no you won't, you will accompany us now.'

'What!' Alfie looked aghast. 'Why?'

'Because you are a deserter. You will be spending the night as our guest, and tomorrow you will be handed over to the military police.'

'Can I at least finish my beer?'

'Of course.'

As Alfie sipped his beer, trying to make it last as long as possible, the pianist struck up an old recruiting song from the previous war, and the crowd sang it with gusto.

We don't want to lose you, but we think you ought to go.

Your King and your country, they both need you so...

## Chapter 10

'I'm bloody sure he was bluffing,' muttered a voice, as Foxy raked in the pot.

'So why didn't you call my bluff?' Foxy sat back grinning, thumbs stuck in scarlet braces. He was in shirtsleeves, tie loosened and collar undone, though his hat remained perched firmly on his head.

It had been over a week since Alfie's sudden departure, and life had returned to normal with only a few minor disruptions caused by the war. Foxy rarely missed the regular Friday night poker session at the back of Les White's hardware shop. Not only was it a chance to win a bit of money, but also an opportunity to do a little business and pick up useful information.

As Frankie Pool, who worked at the Town Hall, dealt the cards, Foxy dogged out his fag in the overflowing ashtray and took a sip of Scotch. After a quick glance at his cards he folded. All the others folded except for Les who'd raised. Then the phone rang.

Reluctantly rising to his feet, Les limped over and picked it up.

'It's for you. Foxy,' he announced.

'Who is it?'

'He won't say. He's calling from a call box. Sounds a bit dodgy, shall I say you're not here?'

'Nah. I'll take it. It's probably some bird's husband.'

'Heh-heh, you'll come unstuck one of these days. Here.' Les handed him the phone.

'Foxy speaking, can I help you?'

'If you recognise my voice don't say my name. If they find out I've phoned you I'm stuffed, got it?'

'Er, yeah...'

'Do you know who I am? Just answer yes or no.'

'Yes.' Foxy had no difficulty in recognising Jack's monosyllabic style of speech.

'Good. Now listen carefully. I owe you one for getting me out of the shit on that bank job, so I'm giving you a bit of advice: get the fuck out of town as fast as you can, and whatever you do don't go home, cos they're waiting for you there.'

Foxy glanced at the poker players. They were all engrossed in the game.

'What do you mean?' he whispered into the phone. 'Who's waiting for me?'

'Sid knows all about you and Josie. That little scumbag Alfie told him.'

Cold fingers of fear gripped Foxy by the balls and prodded his stomach. 'What about Josie?' He whispered. 'Is she okay?'

'You don't want to know...'

'But is she...'

'A write off.' The voice was emphatic.

'Dead?'

'Worse...'

'Worse? Her face?'

'Bride of Frankenstein...'

'But but...'

'Look, Foxy, I owed you one. Now we're quits. So remember, next time I run into you I'll be working for Sid... got it?' _Click_

Making appropriate noises, Foxy pretended that someone was still on the line, as he struggled to block out the image of Josie looking like a patchwork quilt.

Think, Foxy, think, there's always a way out; all you've gotta do is find it. But how the fuck do I do a runner when all I've got is the clothes on my back and all the money's in the house. Nothing for it, if I'm gonna get my hands on my lolly, I'm gonna have to get inside my gaff. Risky, but if they don't know I've been tipped off, they'll just be watching the front. Maybe I could sneak in the back way...

Replacing the phone, Foxy strolled casually back to the table and began to pocket his winnings.

'I hate to leave you, boys,' he grinned, 'but duty calls.'

'It sounds like iffy business.' Les shook his head. 'You'll come a cropper one of these days if you're not careful.'

Foxy winked. 'Don't worry, Les, I can look after myself.'

'Would you mind going out the back way? It's on account of the blackout. I don't want that bloody air raid warden having a go at me again, right little Hitler he is.'

'Okay, Les, anything to oblige. See you next week.'

'Yeah, see you, Foxy. Maybe you'll give me a chance to win my money back.'

'No chance, mate, no chance.' Foxy laughed as he headed for the exit.

Having negotiated his way to the scullery, he gingerly opened the backdoor and was about to step outside when he spotted the raincoat and flat cap hanging from a peg...

Hmm, just what the doctor ordered. I hate nicking something from a mate, but when it's a life or death situation...

Leaning on a walking stick, collar turned up and cap pulled well down, a stooping figure in a shabby Mac shuffled through the unlit streets of Walthamstow. When Foxy reached the end of his street he peered around the corner. Even in the almost total darkness, the reflected chrome radiator and headlights of the car parked outside his house was unmistakeable.

Sneaking past the turning, he carried on until he reached the alleyway that led to the rear of the house and crept along it to his back gate. On reaching it he paused and stood there five minutes, listening, watching and waiting – nothing: neither sight nor sound. Satisfied, he was about to open the gate when a tomcat began to yowl. There was an answering challenge, and after a few more vocal exchanges and a brief scuffle, silence. Having calmed his shattered nerves, Foxy was reaching out again for the latch when an upstairs window opened and a voice called out softly.

'Psst, are you there Jimmy?'

'Yeah, still here, Slasher.' The voice came from a few feet away on the other side of the fence.

'I thought I heard something.'

'It was nothing, just a couple of cats fighting.'

## Chapter 11

The first train of the day to Southend steamed on through the rain at a steady rate, its wheels clickety-clacking over the rails. In a third class compartment a crumpled figure covered by an old raincoat was stretched out across the seat, fast asleep.

'Wakey wakey!'

Foxy woke up, rubbed his eyes and found himself facing a man wearing a shiny peaked cap.

'Where am I?'

'The end of the line, sir, Shoeburyness. Where were you supposed to get off?'

'Southend Central.'

'Sorry, sir, but I'll have to charge you excess fare. It's company policy. No exceptions.'

As Foxy waited for his change, he glanced out of the window. A few stationary engines stood forlornly outside a soot encrusted engine shed, steaming gently in the rain.

'Is there anywhere I can get breakfast around here?' he asked.

'There's a café at the other end of the High Street, opposite the barracks.'

'Barracks?'

'Yes, sir, barracks, Shoebury is a garrison town.'

The café was situated a short distance from the barrack gates. It smelt of yesterday's boiled cabbage. At one table sat a handful of fresh faced young soldiers, clutching mugs of tea, smoking cigarettes and laughing and joking amongst themselves. The only other customers were a couple of workmen sitting at a table in the far corner and a mournful looking old man who sat fiddling with his bowler hat. The proprietor stood behind the tea urn polishing a glass. He eyed Foxy suspiciously as he strolled up to the counter.

'I'll have a sausage, egg, bacon and fried bead, please.'

The proprietor scowled. 'Haven't you heard there's a war on?'

'Of course I have. What's that got to do with my breakfast?'

'It means that for breakfast you can have: porridge _or_ a kipper _or_ a sausage and beans _or_ beans and fried bread.'

'How about an egg?'

'Sorry, no eggs. There's a–'

'Yeah, I know: a war on. I'll have a sausage and beans.'

'Tea?'

'Yes please. And two slices of bread and butter.'

'No butter: margarine.'

'Okay, margarine it is. How much?'

'A shilling.'

'A shilling!'

'There is a war on, you know.'

'Yeah, so you keep telling me.'

When he'd finished his beans and (almost meatless) sausage, Foxy sat mournfully contemplating his watery tea – and his future...

Blimey, I never thought it would come to this: the end of the line, literally – it's only a couple of miles from Southend but it feels like Siberia. Yesterday I had a business, a home, thirty suits, half a dozen willing women and a nice little wad of cash hidden under the floorboards. Now, all I've got is the clothes on my back and a few pound notes in my wallet – I haven't even got my ration book. Still, I s'pose I should look on the bright side, at least I've still got my dick – though for how much longer...

Foxy's reverie was interrupted by a new arrival, a soldier. He didn't march through the door, he swaggered. The proprietor's eyes lit up, and the fresh faced army lads greeted him respectfully before resuming their conversation. He didn't join them, but sat by himself at the table nearest the counter.

'I'll have a full breakfast please, George,' he called out, as he took his seat.

'One egg or two, Harry?'

'Make it two – and a couple of rashers.'

'I've only got streaky.'

'That's okay. We all have to make sacrifices in times of shortage.'

When the breakfast arrived – eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, fried bread and even a tomato – Foxy sat watching the soldier plough through it. He was curious as to what it was going to cost. But when the soldier had finished eating, he simply stood up, shook hands with his host and departed. Only Foxy saw the proprietor slip an envelope into the man's pocket with his other hand.

Once outside, the soldier set off at brisk pace, hands in pockets and whistling as he went.

Foxy caught up with him. 'Excuse me, Harry, I'm Foxy,' he announced, extending a hand.

Harry turned, looked him briefly up and down and, having categorised him as a kindred spirit, shook the hand and asked, 'So, wha'd'yer want, Foxy? You buying or selling?'

'Neither. I was just wondering what a bloke like you's doing in the army. Did you get called up?'

'Nah, didn't wait for call up. I volunteered.'

'Volunteered? But you could get killed.'

'Not much chance of that: I'm a driver in the Service Corps, same as my old man in the last war. He didn't go within twenty miles of the front line and,' Harry winked, 'so much stuff fell off the back of his lorry he was able to buy a couple of houses when the war was over.'

'Blimey, I never thought of the army as a business opportunity, but why volunteer?'

'Cos if I'd waited to be called up, I could've ended up in the infantry, but by volunteering I was able to wangle my way into the Service Corps, get it?'

'Yeah, I get it. I s'pose that slimy little café owner's in the market for groceries.'

'Heh-heh, you can suppose all you want, mate. Anyhow, I won't be in Shoebury much longer. I'm off to France next week.'

'France?'

'Yeah,' he winked, 'just think of the business opportunities over there.'

It was after six, and Lil was doing the accounts when the phone rang.

'Hello.'

'Hello, Lil...'

'Cripes, it's you, Foxy. What's going on?'

'I just thought I'd give you a ring and find out how you're keeping?'

'Are you in Southend?'

'Why d'you ask?'

'Don't play games with me, darlin'. Why did I have two gentlemen on my doorstep inquiring as to your whereabouts?'

'Coppers?'

'I doubt it. To well dressed for a start, and they didn't sound like the law. Tried to kid me they were lawyers. Said your auntie had died and left you some money.'

'What did you say?'

'I told them I hadn't seen you in years, said you preferred your women younger.'

'Thanks Lil.'

'How bad is it?'

'Terminal.'

'Cripes...' There was a pause before she continued. 'You can hide out here if you want to.'

'Thanks, Lil, but I wouldn't want to risk you losing your face.'

'I'm not easily embarrassed.'

'I meant, I wouldn't want them carving their names on it.'

'Crikey!'

'So remember, if anybody asks, you ain't heard from me in years.'

'But–'

'Bye, Lil. If I get out of this I'll come back and shag the arse off you for old time's sake, but meantime...' _Click_

Not far from Southend seafront, the sign in the window of the terraced house read Bed & Breakfast. Foxy rang the bell. There was a shuffling sound in the hallway before the door was opened by an old woman. The shawl covering her shoulders was pinned with a cameo broach. She peered at him through thick glasses, before asking, 'Are you looking for a room, love?'

'If you have one.'

'Single or double?'

'Single.'

'Sorry, love, I've only got a double.'

'How much is it?'

'I usually charge eight shillings, but I can let you have it for six.'

'I'll take it.'

Thirty-six hours on the run gives a man a healthy appetite, and Foxy had no trouble polishing off a bowl of porridge and a couple of kippers. He had just finished spreading marmalade on a slice of toast when the door opened and the man of the house shuffled in clutching a copy of the _Daily Mail_. He was wearing a dressing gown. Foxy had never seen medals worn on a dressing gown, but refrained from commenting.

'Morning, guv, I thought you might want a read of the paper,' he wheezed, handing Foxy the _Daily Mail_. 'It looks like the Poles have had it.'

'So the war's over then.'

'Oh, no it is not! The British Tommy will never quit until the Hun are defeated.'

'Were you in the last effort then?'

'Regretfully, no.' He shook his head sadly. 'The wound I received from Brother Boer in the South African campaign kept me out of the Great War. I wanted to go to France and do my bit, but...'

'Yeah, I wouldn't mind going to France,' muttered Foxy, thinking aloud, 'but I haven't got a passport.'

'What did you say about France?' The man cupped a hand to his ear.

'I said I wouldn't mind going.'

'Well said, sir, well said.' The old veteran grabbed Foxy by the hand and pumped it up and down. 'You're a white man, sir, a real white man. Don't delay; hurry down to the recruiting office today.'

'Er... yeah... where is it?'

'It's in Milton Street, round the back of Southend Victoria station.'

'Thanks, I'll bear it in mind...'

The jeweller's shop was situated in Southchurch Road, not far from Victoria Circus. Foxy spent some time looking in the window at the display of watches and jewellery before walking away. Five minutes later he was back. This time, after glancing briefly at the three gold balls suspended over the pavement, he directed his attention to the side entrance and opened the door. After passing along a grim passageway, he found himself in a shabby room at the back of the shop. The whiff of mothballs hung in the air. He took off his watch and rang the bell on the counter.

After a brief interlude the pawnbroker strode in, took one look at Foxy and stated very firmly, 'Sorry, sir, we are not accepting pledges today.'

'But it's a Swiss watch...'

'I regret, sir, but...

'Solid gold case...'

'I repeat, sir...'

'It's a Rolex.' Foxy's tone was pleading.

The pawnbroker sighed, shook his head and peered at him over the top of his gold rimmed spectacles. 'I really am very sorry, but we are not accepting pledges of any nature today – and that is final! Good day to you, sir.'

Foxy had no trouble finding the place. It stuck out like a poppy in a cornfield. In a street of drab yellowish brick, the riot of red, white and blue that festooned the army recruiting office hammered home the need to do one's patriotic duty.

The recruiting sergeant stood rigidly to attention outside his domain. The brass adorning his immaculately pressed uniform gleamed like gold as he scanned the street for a potential recruit. Initially, his eyes reflected curiosity when they latched on to the figure at the far end of the street, but as Foxy drew near, curiosity changed first to hope and then, eager anticipation.

'I say, laddie,' he called out. 'You, laddie, you have the bearing of a soldier.'

'Who me?'

'Yes you. We need men like you in France.'

'Hmm, France... but I haven't got a passport.'

'You wouldn't need one if you were in the army.'

'Are you sure I'd go to France?'

'I can guarantee it?'

'Hmm...'

'A fine fighting figure of a man like you should be in the infantry.'

'Infantry? Would that mean I'd have to kill somebody?'

'Only Germans...'

'I don't think I'd fancy that.'

'Are you by any chance a conscientious objector?' The recruiting sergeant's eyes narrowed with suspicion and his waxed moustache bristled.

'I am most certainly not a conchie.' Foxy's tone was indignant. 'It's just that don't like the idea of having to kill people. Maybe I should join the air force.' Foxy made as if to leave.

'Hold it hold it. Don't be hasty. How about the Pioneer Corps?'

'What do they do?'

'Dig ditches.'

'You've gotta be joking!'

'Sorry... I know! Can you drive?'

'Of course I can. I'm one of the best bloody drivers this side of the Hackney marshes.'

'Then you're just the man we need in the Royal Service Corps – and don't worry, we won't ask you to kill anybody.'

'Hmm, does that mean I'd be driving a lorry?'

'It most certainly does. You'll be ferrying vital supplies from the ports to our gallant lads manning the defences.'

'Hmmm, vital supplies... I like the sound of that... If I join up, would I have to stay in Southend?'

'Once you have accepted the Kings shilling, you will report to Catterick for basic training.'

'Catterick, where's that?'

'In Yorkshire.'

'Hmm, that's at least two hundred miles from London, isn't it?'

'That is correct. You will be issued with a rail warrant valid for a single journey, and will be expected to report for duty in five days.'

'Erm, can I report tomorrow?'

'You most certainly can. Step this way.'

*****

## 

# Epilogue

Foxy succeeded in reaching Catterick without running into anyone set on giving him a facelift. Having completed his basic training, he was assigned to a unit stationed at Tidworth before being sent to France. At the start of the war, the British Army was expanding fast and promotion was rapid. Thanks to his age and education, Foxy reached the rank of corporal within months.

France at that time was wide open for business – black market business – and Foxy wasted no time in exploiting the opportunities to the full. There was virtually no fighting during the winter of 1939/40, a period that became known as the phoney war: the Germans stayed politely behind the Siegfried Line, allowing the French to enjoy their lunch undisturbed behind the Maginot Line. This suited Foxy admirably as there was nothing to disrupt the flow of profits, but on the 10th of May 1940 Hitler decided to ruin everything by turning the phoney war into a real one, and Foxy found himself doing the one thing he had not planned to do when he enlisted: holding a rifle.

*****

# By the same author

Hitler's Banner

Set in 1940 at the time of the Dunkirk evacuation, a full length novel, it is the sequel to A Hanging Job and follows Foxy's exploits with the British Army in France, and the series of events that brought him to the attention of Hitler's SS.

'Oh what a lovely war! If I'd know it was going to be like this I'd never have enlisted. The German Army's trying to kill me and the British Army keeps shoving me into situations that'll get me killed, but what I want to know is: why have the Germans started putting up posters with my picture on them? I mean, there's a war on for Christ's sake; you'd think the Jerries would have something better to do.

Sorry. I was so busy trying to fight this bleeding war I forgot to introduce myself. The name's Foxy, I'm in the Royal Army Service Corps and I'm supposed to be driving a truck not playing soldiers.

So how did I end up as the number one pin-up boy for the Waffen-SS? It all started a few days ago when Mad Lenny killed those Jerries and I found that flag in one of their tanks...

*****

The Missing gun: Hawker of the Yard

Features Inspector Hawker: Foxy's adversary in _A Hanging Job_

London in the autumn of 1939: the early months of World War 2. Hitler has just conquered Poland, but life in London continues much as it did in peacetime, albeit a little more restricted since the introduction of petrol rationing. No bombs have been dropped on the city as yet, but the population go about their daily business under the constant threat of German air raids, and a blackout remains in force at night.

For Scotland Yard and the criminal fraternity, however, it is business as usual. When a pawnbroker's assistant is wounded by a gunman wearing a gasmask, it appears to be a straightforward case of a bungled armed robbery, but as Detective Inspector Hawker of the Flying Squad, a devoted disciple of Sherlock Holmes, proceeds with his investigation, the more facts he uncovers the more confusing the affair becomes. A red-headed soldier, a missing gun, a dead cat, an empty violin case and a damaged violin are only a few of the threads that have to be unravelled before he can wrap up the case.

_The Missing Gun_ is available for free download at this store.

*****

## Steam: rocking'n'railing

Southend-on Sea at the start of the sixties sexual revolution, Monte Carlo at the start of the millennium, a humorous rock'n'rail tale involving a steam engine, a carousel, a girl forever new, a situation prone guy, a rock band of hopefuls, a policeman's testicles, a couple of gangster twins, an Alsatian dog, a French poodle and a jukebox-full of songs.

Some people are accident prone; Ricky is situation prone. It was all a misunderstanding of course, he'd only been out walking the dog, and the situation would never have arisen if that copper hadn't had a bit too much imagination. But apart from the gossip, living in a village had another downside for an aspiring guitar-man: there was nowhere to plug it. So it was definitely time for him to hit the road in search of fame, fortune and an electrical connection.

Overnight fame being a bit impractical, he gets a job as a fireman on a steam engine while trying to build a rock band from scratch, but the situations just keep on coming and his past keeps dogging him.

*****

## An Accidental Millionaire

Once upon a time in Monte Carlo, there was an Englishman, an Irishman and a pig.

A conman's job is not an easy one, and defrauding a Monte Carlo bank can be a bit tricky, especially if you are trying to do it by phone from somewhere up in the French Alps. This is why Sean is delighted when recently enriched Albert wanders into his hotel like a nice plump piggy waving a mouth-watering collection of credit cards: this should be a piece of cake...

But it isn't! Money always attracts scavengers, and Sean finds himself in competition with Heidi. Whereas Sean presents Albert with an impressive business plan, she waves an impressive pair of tits. It's the start of a saga that stretches all the way to the Italian National Polo Club in Rome, taking in Marseille, Nice, Monaco and Florence on the way, while involving sheep-loving Flemish bikers, an octogenarian nymphomaniac, the Earl of Donegal, a Serbian butcher a Croatian cockroach and many others, with a little bribery and corruption _a la_ française thrown in for luck.

*****

Short stories available for free download in this store

Sherlock Holmes Revues the Case of the Ghostly Accident

Norsk Saga: the Shanghai policeman's daughter

Santa's Little Helper: a Christmas Carousal

Srebrenica: a Dutch fairy story

