 
## The Retainer

### By Ernest Marlin

A Wegworld Ltd ©2013
The Retainer

By Ernest Marlin

A Wegworld Ltd Publication

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Ernest Marlin 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publishers.

Events in this work are based loosely on real events, but have been changed and compiled to create a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents have been changed and are used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50
CHAPTER 1

A SOLICITOR'S OFFICE IN WATFORD IN 1972

The phone sitting on Geoff Wilkinson's desk rang. Geoff yawned and picked up the receiver. 'Yes?' he said shortly and then, when the receptionist announced that his next client had arrived to see him, added without much enthusiasm, 'Show him up.'

Prompted by the imminent arrival of the client, whose name he quickly checked in his diary, he pushed aside the file he had been working on and then quickly opened the sash window of his office. He hoped that that might remove the lingering smell of the fish and chips that he had not long ago consumed for lunch. His fingers, he noticed as he straightened his tie, still smelt of vinegar.

It had been raining for some time and the sound of traffic swishing along the wet High Road floated in through the now partially open window. A sudden raucous burst of laughter caused him to glance out of the window and across the street were a group of teenagers loitering in a shop doorway. _Yobs, with nothing better to do_ , he thought.

Then he noticed that one of them was a youth he recognised and groaned inwardly. _Oh no_ , he thought. _Don't tell me he's out already_.

The last time that he had seen the youth he had just been sent down by the local quarter sessions judge, a miserable old git with an explosive temper, not helped by the fact that the youth in question had made up a story about having fathered a child and having a job, neither of which proved to be true when a suspicious police officer looked into the story.

Unfortunately for Geoff and the barrister who had appeared for the youth, they had believed his story. As a consequence, the story had been advanced in mitigation of the sentence the youth was to receive. The barrister thought the circumstances were such that it might even prevent the client receiving a prison sentence. Things seemed to be going that way when the police officer crept into the court and whispered something in the prosecuting barrister's ear.

That gentleman at first raised his eyebrows and then, with an expression cast carefully between regret and indignation, rose to his feet and said,

'I regret the need to interrupt my learned friend,' he began, referring to defence counsel. Barristers always referred to their opponents, if barristers, with elaborate respect as 'my learned friend'. Solicitors were referred to in a markedly different manner as 'my friend'. Not so learned then.

In any event, learned counsel for the prosecution continued with an exaggerated look of concern on his face to impart the news that he had received from the police officer. The judge's face flushed a delicate shade of puce. The officer was called to give evidence and, having been sworn, he proceeded to relate the outcome of his enquiries. There was no job. There was no baby. There wasn't even a girlfriend.

The defence barrister and Geoff were allowed to speak to the defendant who, in the cells, ruefully admitted that it was all a cock and bull story. Geoff couldn't believe his ears. He had believed every word of it. The youth had drip-fed the story to him over a period of time and he had believed him. He was staggered. The youth hadn't seemed capable of making it all up and yet, with a bashful look on his face, that was exactly what he was telling them he had done.

Now they were for the high jump. The client would go inside. That was his problem. The trouble was that the judge had been hoodwinked as well and that spelt trouble. It did indeed. Having sentenced the client to a custodial sentence with a few short words, the barristers and Geoff were summoned to the judge's chambers where they were given a severe dressing-down which they had been obliged to listen to as respect for the man's office required.

Nobody escaped censure, not even the prosecution, and all because the learned judge had been taken in, just like the rest of them.

As a consequence, the sight of the youth in question in the proximity of his office, obviously at liberty again, was not a cause for rejoicing as far as Geoff was concerned.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door. 'Come in,' he called and looked as the new client entered the room. The new arrival smirked at Geoff and winked at Geoff's secretary as he made an over-elaborate display of squeezing past her. _Pathetic,_ thought Geoff, but the secretary giggled and then left, shutting the door behind her.

_This new arrival is not dissimilar to myself_ , thought Geoff as he looked at the man. He was probably in his mid-twenties with blond, shoulder-length hair and fashionably dressed. Geoff, too, had shoulder-length hair. He may have been a solicitor, but he was as susceptible to the fashions of the day as anyone else.

Even police officers, particularly if they were in the drug squad, had long hair, as did probation officers and even barristers. It could be quite comical at court sometimes as uniformed officers, who invariably had short hair like squaddies, tried to distinguish the defendants to be put in the dock from their own CID colleagues or the lawyers defending them.

Geoff invited the client to take a seat.

'Ta, don't mind if I do,' he said, sitting down and placing cigarettes and lighter on the edge of Geoff's desk with heavily nicotine-stained fingers with the nails bitten down to the quick. They were heavy, labourer's hands with the scarred knuckles of a fighter and the words 'love' and 'hate' tattooed on the fingers. A strong smell of tobacco had wafted in with him which even the pungent smell of the man's aftershave failed to conceal.

Geoff's visitor immediately lit a cigarette and offered one to Geoff who did not smoke and who, in fact, had never been able to stand cigarette smoke. He declined with a strained smile and despite the fact that there was now a cold wind blowing down the High Road and rattling the window frame, he pushed the window wide open. His visitor didn't seem to notice. Geoff apologised anyway. He felt that good manners required it.

'Hope you don't mind,' he said, gesturing at the open window as he did so.

'Not a bit of it, mate,' said his visitor grinning. 'I'm used to it. You want to be in Bedford nick on a winter's day!' Geoff didn't want to be in Bedford, nor indeed in any other nick whether in winter or any other day and tried to move matters on saying, 'Right, Mr, er, Shepherd, what can I do for you?'

His visitor casually flicked his cigarette ash out of the window and with a grin said, 'Call me Jack. I'd like to retain you as my brief.'

Geoff noticed that Jack had the throaty voice of a habitual smoker which of course dove-tailed in neatly with his appearance. _He must have lungs like a smoked kipper_ , he thought acidly.

'Are you in trouble with the police?' he asked, feeling a trifle foolish as he did so. Normally, in his experience, people only consulted him if they had already been charged or were about to be. His visitor laughed as if the very idea was preposterous. _Cocky too_ , thought Geoff morosely.

'No,' said Jack. 'It's just a precaution you might say – a bit of forward planning.'

Geoff realised now that he was dealing with a professional criminal. He had met enough in his years in the profession. He could by now tell the difference between a real pro and the flotsam and jetsam of society that made up most of the clientele of Her Majesty's Court Service that washed up regularly on his doorstep.

Pros, in his experience, did not usually get caught in the first place despite the fact that being apprehended by the boys in blue was an obvious occupational hazard. On the rare occasions, however, that they found themselves as involuntary guests of the constabulary, even they required the help of those urbane pillars of society, the bulwark between the citizen and the State, the legal profession.

If, regrettably, in the clutches of the police, the pro was normally calm, knowledgeable and self-possessed. They knew the rules as well as the police and lawyers did, and they knew how to work the angles. Even the police seemed to recognise this and invariably treated them with the respect of one professional to another. Pros formed a kind of aristocracy of the criminal classes. Geoff decided that the man in front of him, sitting confidently in his office and filling the room with smoke, was just such a man.

'Why me?' Geoff asked, waving his hand in front of his face in a futile gesture to move the smoke away and in an effort to embarrass his visitor.

Jack either didn't notice or chose not to, and simply said, 'You come well recommended as a good defence brief and I always like to use the best.'

It was a suitably slick answer, but despite himself, he was flattered at the thought of the reputation that he apparently had. He suddenly found himself quite drawn to Jack. He reminded him of some of the lads that he himself had grown up with and who were doubtless even now being supported by Geoff and the rest of the tax-paying society at some expense at one of Her Majesty's establishments for those who infringed the laws made in her name and who were also no doubt still protesting their innocence. If the prisoners were to be believed, there were no guilty men in jail.

'Sure I will act for you if you need me,' said Geoff smiling, warming to the man. Nothing like a bit of filthy lucre to create a warm sense of wellbeing.

'Good,' said Jack, and to Geoff's surprise produced a large wad of money in an elastic band. 'How much would you like on account? Will a grand be enough?'

Geoff was staggered. A grand. In 1972 that was more than six months' salary for an assistant solicitor such as himself.

'Er, sure,' he said as Jack counted out the notes on the table.

The pile of used fivers sat there on the desk between them. Geoff just looked at it for the moment, lost for words. Jack was pleased by the impact his gesture had made. He watched Geoff carefully whilst Geoff sat there and stared blinking at the money. Jack decided to take the initiative to move things on and he said with an elaborate wink and a smile, 'Don't worry about a receipt.'

'No, I insist,' said Geoff quickly coming to life again and scribbling out a receipt on a piece of headed notepaper. He handed Jack the receipt, but left the money where it was for the present. He felt rather nonplussed at the pace at which things had developed. The man was so confident that he actually felt rather awkward and at a disadvantage. This was unusual for him. People were supposed to feel ill at ease in his presence, not the other way round.

Partly to cover his embarrassment and partly because he wanted to know more about this new client, he asked him whether or not he had lived in the States. He had noticed that Jack's accent mutated from estuary English to American and so it presented an obvious line of enquiry. Given the likely nature of Jack's work, he could hardly ask him about his work.

'Sure,' said Jack grinning. 'I was there until recently,' he continued and before Geoff could ask him anything else, he added, 'I was a bodyguard for a pop star – well a band,' he corrected himself and he then mentioned a name that even Geoff had heard of.

'Wow,' said Geoff only partly feigning surprise. 'You must have seen a bit of life.'

'Yup,' said Jack emphatically. 'Yup' would normally have sounded off-key and naff to Geoff, about as convincing as a Manchurian pretending to be a country and western singer complete with a southern American drawl, but somehow when Jack said it, it sounded perfectly in character. Jack guessed that Geoff was principally interested in the perks of such a lifestyle and added tantalisingly, 'Plenty of sex and drugs and rock and roll – boy, those guys know how to party.'

'Spare me the details,' said Geoff hastily. He was not concerned about being shocked. He was rather more concerned that he might be jealous. The man before him gave every appearance of being as free as a bird. He was a rolling stone that gathered no moss, a wanderer who had lived life on his nerves free from the encumbrances and responsibilities that weighed down lesser mortals whose lives must inevitably seem pedestrian by comparison. _How_ , he thought, _could you compare his life, a life of predictable normality with that of a soldier of fortune?_

So, although he would have quite liked the details, he tried to change the subject slightly.

'How on earth did you get a work permit? I thought you had to have a job lined up to go to. Aren't the immigration controls really strict?'

_God_ , he thought to himself, _how pompous I sound._

'They sure are,' Jack answered willingly enough, again with a grin. 'Although, to be honest, I decided to sort of,' he searched for the words, 'bypass them.'

'Well, how did you get in then?' said Geoff, his curiosity aroused and, although Jack was making him feeling incredibly naïve, he did not care, he genuinely wanted to know. He was intrigued.

'Well,' said Jack with the air of a man imparting a confidence, he was after all talking to his solicitor, 'When the plane landed and we had got down the stairs, I just did a runner right through the airport. I ran all through the customs sheds and just kept going. One bloke tried to stop me and I just smacked him one and carried on legging it until I got off the airport.'

'Good grief,' said Geoff impressed despite himself by the sheer audacity of the man. 'You were taking a chance.'

'Maybe, but it was worth a try and it came off. I then hitched and worked my way around until I ended up in Nashville where I got a job as a roadie, and then one night when there was a fight with some bikers and they saw how tasty I was with me fists, I became a bodyguard – piece of piss!' he laughed.

Geoff, looking at the well-built man in front of him, could well imagine that he was able to look after himself in a fight. He felt a certain grudging respect despite himself.

'What brings you to Watford then? It must seem a bit tame after where you have been', adding ruefully as he gestured out of the window at the street and rooftops glistening in the rain as the street lamps came on, 'Not to mention the weather,' he added emphatically.

Jack lit another cigarette. 'Fag?' he said adding hastily, 'No, sorry, I forgot – any chance of a coffee?'

Geoff rang through to his secretary and asked her to make a couple of coffees for them. After a short interval, she came into the room and put them on the desk in front of Geoff and Jack.

'I hope there's enough milk in yours, Mr Shepherd?' she enquired looking at him with doe-like eyes. She blushed slightly as Jack leered at her and answered, 'No, that's just how I like it, thanks darling.' The secretary smiled and left without looking at him, Geoff noticed. Surely she couldn't fancy this tough, he wondered silently.

'Nice bum,' said Jack approvingly as the door was closing behind the secretary, not loudly but so that she might hear. Geoff considered that she plainly did hear because he noticed her blush again. She was very fair-skinned and blushed easily anyway. He began to fell irritated, but chose to ignore Jack's remark. He did not want to get drawn into a conversation about how attractive his secretary might or might not be.

'You were saying,' he said a little stiffly.

'Why Watford?'

'No special reason,' answered Jack after nosily slurping some coffee. 'It's as good as anywhere. I got no family. I was in a children's home near Watford when I was a kid. I hated the place. I was always running away, but they always caught me. I had nowhere to run to so, after living rough for a while, I would get nicked pinching sweets or something. Anyway, they would take me back and I had to stay there more or less until the SS...'

'SS?' interrupted Geoff.

'Yes, the SS, Social Services, let me out of there – anyway, so when I came back from the States, Watford was the first place I thought of, so here I am.'

Geoff was keen to ask why it was that Jack had left the States in the first place, but decided he had learned enough for now. It could all be a cock and bull story, but the bit about the care home sounded as if it might be true. He had begun to feel sorry for Jack. Behind that confident, brash exterior lay a tough past. Perhaps that explained the chain-smoking?

Jack asked for and was given Geoff's home telephone number in case of emergency and then excused himself saying that he had somewhere to go. He stood up. They shook hands and then Jack left the office.

After Jack had gone, Geoff sat looking at the cash on the table. That and the half-empty coffee cups, now with Jack's dog-ends floating in it, were evidence enough, if he needed it, that Jack had really been there. Outside it was still raining. His room reverberated slightly with the sound of the traffic still crawling up the High Road, the vehicles stuck in the usual queue, engines turning over and occasionally revving as the drivers became more impatient. A cold wind continued to blow in from outside, but he didn't shut the window. The room was still full of smoke from Jack's cigarettes. He scowled. He knew his clothes would stink of tobacco smoke. He could smell smoke on his upper lip.

Geoff turned the light on and took a couple of paces around the tiny room which contained only the desk now with the pile of cash on it, two chairs and a filing cabinet, the whole now dimly illuminated by the single light bulb.

On the wall there was a picture of Snowdonia. It had been the front page of a calendar which would now have been years out of date, but Geoff kept it there attached to the wall by safety pins. It was a picture of one of his favourite places, the valley of Nant Ffrancan seen looking towards the Ogwen Valley and dominated by the huge submarine-coning tower shape of Tryfan, a large and quite forbidding rocky mountain. He loved that view. He had had some happy times there in the past, rock climbing with friends. How many years ago now was it? Too long certainly.

When he was alone in his office, he would often just sit there and stare at it until the phone rang or somebody knocked up his door and disturbed his reverie. He looked at it again today with a thoughtful expression on his face.

From a nearby room came the sound of typing. _Good_ , he thought. _The secretaries are hard at it_.

He and his colleague, another assistant solicitor who did all the land transactions and conveyancing, effectively ran the practice for the man for whom they worked, a much older solicitor who was rarely there. Geoff assumed that that was because he was pursuing his property interests elsewhere, but his colleague, who was also older than Geoff and who had a little more experience of life, assured him that it was because he had a woman somewhere. Whatever the reason for the boss' absence, Geoff, his colleague, the secretaries and an attractive middle-aged woman who did the bookkeeping had the office pretty much to themselves and kept the show on the road.

In twelve months, Geoff and his colleague, who both kept a running tab on the bills they produced, reckoned that they had between them earned their employer a substantial sum of money, so much so that he was able to buy a very large and very expensive car. Neither Geoff nor his colleague resented that at first. They were both hard workers, but they both anticipated that they would in the circumstances receive a rise in their salaries. This did not happen and, as far as Geoff was concerned, this rankled.

Geoff again looked at the money on the desk. A dangerous thought suddenly came to him. What if he was simply to pocket it? Who would know? It was cash. Perhaps he could pay in part only of the money into the firm and keep the rest? He shook himself. What was he thinking of? The phone rang again. He answered it.

'Yes,' he said briefly.

'It's your last client today, Mr Wilkinson.'

'Last client?' he said absentmindedly.

'Yes, the Russian lady.'

Geoff remembered he had agreed to see the woman at the end of the afternoon because she had trouble taking time off work to see him. He was dealing with her divorce. So, she was here and obviously he would have to see her, but he didn't really feel like it. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him. He wanted to ask his secretary what she had made of Jack, but stopped himself and simply said, 'Ok, send her up,' as he scooped up the money and placed it in a drawer. He would decide what to do with it later.

It was just as well that he didn't ask his secretary about Jack. If he had asked, he might have learned perhaps that Jack had spent some time after he had left Geoff's office in the typing pool chatting up the secretaries. As Jack left Geoff's office, his path took him past the typing pool. Leaning nonchalantly on the door frame, he leered into the room at the secretary's busy working in there. 'Hello, girls,' he said, 'keeping you busy are they?' The girls smiled. They were all young. Jack was handsome. His blond hair and smart clothes gave no indication of the life he really led, a life of squalid bed-sits, loneliness with only the occasional companionship of the public bar to relieve the monotony of life in between crimes, a life so lonely that as an adult at least prison had seemed like a fraternal club, comfortingly warm and compassionate.

On seeing him, Geoff's secretary blushed. Encouraged by this and ignoring the other girls, Jack walked up to the table and said, 'Fancy a drink this evening?' The other girls tittered and Geoff's secretary, after a momentary pause, simply said, 'Yes.'

Jack smiled and said he would meet her after work. As he turned to go, he bumped into Doris, the rather older lady who did the bookkeeping at the firm. She, too, was subjected to the Jack-the-lad chat-up line before Jack eventually left. To the secretary's chagrin, he had also left with the middle-aged bookkeepers' telephone number.

The Russian lady entered Geoff's room. Geoff invited her to sit down and she did so, plumping herself down on the chair as if she was exhausted. She had been in England so long that she had almost forgotten her native language. She had told Geoff her history. Apparently, she had been sent by the Germans during the war to work in Austria. She was still there when the British and Americans had arrived. She had not wanted to be repatriated to Mother Russian, which in the light of what happened to other Russian prisoners who did go home was clearly a sensible decision. She had married a Pole serving in the British Army and got her ticket into Britain that way. Fate had brought them to Watford where they had worked hard and fought regularly. The Pole beat her up often, she complained, but now it was she who was being prosecuted for assaulting him. During one particular evening of domestic bliss, she had during the course of a running fight defended herself rather too enthusiastically, stabbing him through the hand with a pair of very sharp scissors. When the police arrived, most of the blood was on the husband and so she had been nicked. She was no going to stand trial in the Crown Court for causing injury to her husband.

Geoff had a sneaking regard for her. She was a fighter and a survivor and she had stabbed the bastard of a husband that she had for good reason. She was quite different from other clients, the sort that was involved in completely casual violence for no reason other than that it simply happened. One young yob in particular came to mind who had a broken leg and who was actually on crutches at the time of the assault. This hero had left the pub late one night and then belted the first bloke he came across with his crutch, of course. Unfortunately for him, the prat had then gone through his victim's pockets and had taken a few shillings. That had been very ill advised. Assault is one thing, but taking the money then made it robbery with violence and he got three years. Watford Magistrates Court was full every day with idiots like that, individuals who seemed to have no control over events or themselves and who, as a consequence, were victims of events. Professional criminals, on the other hand, made things happen. This is what made professional criminals like Jack Shepherd different.

Geoff realised and was uncomfortably aware that in Jack he saw what he himself might have been had he not been what his friends called 'the brainy one' and gone to college. Jack reminded him of where he himself had grown up and the fact that he too might have chosen an entirely different life to that of the legal profession.

When he was still a schoolboy, he had been offered a job on a tar-spreading gang. He had politely explained that he was staying on at school. But the man had persisted. The money offered was attractive and he had been tempted, but in the end he turned it down. What would he have been doing now had he accepted? A futile question, but wet winter afternoons in Watford sometimes prompted dull introspection of that kind.

He did not reflect on life very often. He preferred not to. He just got on with it. From dawn to dusk, and often much of the night, he lived in a world of dimly-lit police cells, smoke-filled court waiting rooms crammed full of human debris, squalid bed sits and dives where the gullible hazily lived out their illusion of the so-called swinging sixties, surrounded by wrecked furniture and bits of old toast.

These places were usually an old house divided up into bed sits, which the police, on effecting entry on a drugs raid, would do so to the accompaniment of the sounds of lavatories being flushed as people tried to get rid of the incriminating substances. If there were not enough toilets or there was not one handy, the usual expedient was to chuck the drugs, usually cannabis, out of the window into the back garden much to the discomfort of whichever Drugs Squad officer had been stationed there and who would find himself being showered with pieces of cannabis cut into handy deals.

He had built up quite a following of drug offenders. Word gets around and he soon found himself regularly at the Magistrates Court with a haggard looking following of the latest group of largely middle class youths who had fallen foul of the local Drugs Squad. Possession of drugs was one thing. Supplying was infinitely more serious and meant the Crown Court, rather than the Magistrates. He was much the same age as most of them, as indeed were the local police officers on the Drug Squad. All were equally long haired and dressed in the style of the time. It was silly really. There they all were just playing different parts in the same game. The trouble and the tragedy was that everybody took themselves so seriously. The clients saw themselves as rebels against the old order, an order of which no doubt one day they too would be a part as soon as they got a job and a mortgage. The police saw themselves as guardians, not merely of law and order, but also to a degree of public morality. The magistrates affected a world-wearing tolerance in so far as they could. And the solicitors? Geoff couldn't speak for them. His musings were directed less at the philosophical aspects of the situation and more towards getting off with the girls, one of whom in particular was very attractive and to whom he was particularly solicitous. Fear, though, prevented him from translating his salacious thoughts into action and he was compelled as a result to remain merely an observer.

When he thought about it all, he thought it was funny. Why take it so seriously? Very few people in his experience could claim to occupy the moral high ground. Life was a tightrope. Wobble one way and you win, wobble the other and you lose. That applied to everything in his view, honesty/dishonesty, success/failure, win/lose, moral/immoral. It was all really a matter of chance, a spur of the moment thing. It was almost as if the Fates decided.

Probation officers were perhaps an exception, young ones anyway. He had a soft spot for probation officers, particularly if they were young, earnest and pretty.

Probation officers who, when young and before time and the people they dealt with had soured their view of humanity, were a well spring of human optimism who could generally be relied upon to find something positive to say about the most abject human ruin to appear before the Court.

Geoff hated pleas in mitigation before sentence. His heart was rarely in it when it came to presenting a sob story. He much preferred a fight.

However, even in the most hopeless of cases where there really was absolutely nothing positive that could be said about a defendant, there would be a report for the court from the Probation Service which would have some crumb in it, some morsel to offer the court and, if all else failed, Geoff, like many of his professional colleagues, would rely heavily on the contents of the report for something to say and at least give a semblance of respectability to the sentencing process. It was a case of saying exactly what the report said, but not so it sounded as if you were simply reading it.

The Russian lady had gone. The end of the working day was drawing near. The office would be closing soon. He checked his diary for the following day. He tidied up the files - that is he moved them around the desk. There were always some files that he would rather not deal with and these, to solve his conscience a little, he would move to a different part of the desk to trick himself into thinking that he was not ignoring them.

He was dealing with them, hadn't he moved them? He signed the post brought to him by his secretary, the small red-headed girl. _Jack was right_ ; he thought as she left with the letters, _she did have a nice bum_.

He reluctantly forced himself to think about the money and opened the drawer. Why couldn't he just hand it to the office bookkeeper to pay it into the firm's account? He was reluctant to dent his own self-image by taking it. He shut the drawer. He would leave the money there overnight. Someone might find it, in which case he could hand it over explaining that he had not had time to do it before or someone might find it and pinch it. He would then be spared the need to make a choice at all. This, he knew, was all pretty unlikely and rather stupid, but he was tired. He went home.
CHAPTER 2

Home Sweet Home

He lived with his mother, who was an invalid and who doted on him. The unconditional love of a mother for her offspring is fine up to a point but it quickly becomes stifling, and, in any event, in Geoff's experience was most certainly not unconditional. It imposed its own obligations on the recipient. He had learned that there was a price on everything.

You had to pay for your pleasures in life, preferably, he had eventually decided, in advance. He owed his mother a great deal. She had been the lioness who had defended him against the world after his father had died when he was still very little. She had been father and mother to him and his brother, and had cheerfully and selflessly put her children first, no matter how hard the circumstances. They had been very poor, but he had never gone hungry.

She had always worked, which meant that she left the house before they went to school and returned home long after they had, struggling cheerfully into the house to be greeted by her sons calling, 'What's for tea? We're starving!' Poor woman, she had barely got through the door, but such is the selfishness of youth.

His father had been a prisoner of the Japanese during the war. He had been captured at Singapore. His regiment had just been shipped out there and when Singapore surrendered shortly afterwards, they had all entered captivity and a living hell as prisoners of the Japanese.

He had survived, but died whilst still young from the affects of his captivity.

Geoff did not remember him very well. That is, he had no mental picture of him. He was a presence that one day was no longer there. According to his mother, he had not told her much about his experiences, but as Geoff grew older, his mother would tell Geoff how his father would have nightmares and she would sometimes wake up at night and lie there listening to him sobbing quietly.

One story he had told her, though, and that was that just before the atomic bombs were dropped and Japan surrendered, he and the other prisoners had been digging their own graves. The Japs had ordered them to do so. They must have realised that the end of the war was not far away. The dropping of the bombs saved the prisoners. 'Saved our bacon,' he had apparently said and then added, 'still, you can't help feel sorry for them'. Whether this was meant seriously or said ironically, she had never been able to decide.

His mother's consequential loathing of the Japanese had been passed on to Geoff who had, however, never met one, that is he had never met one until, whilst he was still a student, he had gone to Paris for a few days. He had been standing on the terrace of the church at Sacre Coeur, looking morosely over Paris and feeling hungry, when two Japs had appeared at his elbow. He recognised them from that doss house of a youth hostel that he had been staying in near the abattoir district of Paris. They had stood out in a sea of German youths who had otherwise occupied most of the bunks and carpeted the floor with their bodies and belongings.

They apparently recognised him as well and smiled at him, which made him feel quite guilty about the thoughts that had been running through his mind and the fact that he had recoiled at the sight of them.

He had felt even more guilty and a complete hypocrite, when they had then offered him some chocolate which he had gratefully accepted. He had briefly considered a lofty rejection of the proffered gift acting with a degree of dignity and restraint that would be bound to impress them if not crush them utterly, but he was hungry.

_Oh well_ , he thought. _We are all mates now._

He apologised silently to his father as he ate the chocolate.

He had known from a very young age that they were poor. What does a small child know about being poor? He does not know anything, of course, in the intellectual sense. He senses rather than understands, and cringes with embarrassment for his mother over her anxiety about whether or not she can afford to buy a cup of tea in a café, wishing grimly that she would not twitter on nervously at the waitress. As a result, humiliation was something that he experienced at an early age.

There had been an occasion when the school he attended organised a trip by coach to see Nelson's ship, the Victory, at Portsmouth. He had a passion for history and adventure which was fuelled by the comics he read. The idea of walking around the very ship on which Nelson had fought and died made him tremble with excitement. He knew his mother would let him go. He knew that if he asked her, she would pay for him to go on the trip to see Nelson's flagship. It was precisely because he knew that she would, he could not bring himself to ask her and he knew she could not afford it.

He did not ask her and when the day of the excursion came and the coach laden with his class mates pulled out of the playground, he was the only one left standing there, a small figure in the middle of the asphalt watching the coach disappear down the road.

Somehow, somewhere along the line as he grew older, embarrassment and humiliation changed into determination. A steely determination to earn money. A determination to set his mother up and then to move on. The burning question was how?

The opportunities open to boys on council estates attending local secondary modern schools were limited. He had been unaware of that when he was little or, indeed, that there were people who did not live in precisely the same circumstances that shaped his and his school friends' lives. Awareness is limited by who you know and where you grow up. As a consequence, it takes a person a long time to get any perspective on life and to find out where a person fits in in the scheme of things.

Most of his friends opted for a trade of some kind, which parents, who had known the rigours of the Depression before the war, encouraged their sons to pursue as a route to what experience had taught them would be a secure future. Many followed that path, taking an apprenticeship in the print industry or aircraft and other industries where fathers, uncles and brothers already worked.

The restless souls among them joined the army or went to sea or got into trouble and finished their education off at an approved school or borstal.

One lunchtime in the school library, Geoff discovered the answer. He was wondering what on earth he should do when his eyes fell on a pile of career pamphlets on a shelf. On impulse, he grabbed the stack and quickly sifted out any that had anything to do with maths or science, both of which subjects he loathed. That left a rather smaller stack. Then he turned the remaining smaller stack upside down and opened each pamphlet at the end where it helpfully mentioned the salary you could hope to earn. He quickly identified the largest salary, the one that he hoped would enable him to set up both his mother and, having achieved that, then to continue on and lead his own life, duty done.

He turned the pamphlet over and read – solicitor. Solicitor? One of his mates had told him he had had to go and see a solicitor when he got into trouble with the police. He could not have been much good because the mate got sent to borstal.

Despite this, he did not even know what a solicitor actually was, but decided there and then that that was the job for him.

Then the girls from his class had come running into the library. One of them, Cheryl, as usual had suggested putting the record player on and, the momentous decision having been made, he found himself jiving with the obligatory deadpan face to Joe Brown and the Bruvvers until the bell went for afternoon classes. It was important to maintain an attitude of casual indifference where mere females were concerned.

In the fullness of time, he had succeeded. This had initially been in the face of his mother's objection who, when he had gone home one afternoon after school and announced his intention of becoming a solicitor, had said 'Oh Geoff! That's not for the likes of us.'

He had had no idea what she was talking about and it was only in retrospect that he had come to understand. Despite her initial shock, his mother supported him through the long years of study and, at the end of it; he had helped her to buy her own home. It was a modest but quite reasonable little house. He was still paying the mortgage and, contrary to his original intention, still living there.

Now, however, he found himself faced with an altogether different problem. His mother's health had declined. His brother had married. He later told him that the reason he had married had been to get away from their mother, whose emotional dependence upon her sons had increased rather than declined with the passing of the years. Geoff then found himself alone at home with a mother from whom he could not make the break.

His father's death had left him with a responsibility – his mother. When his father had died, his mother had said to him, 'Now you're the man of the house' and at some point, without being consciously aware of it, he had accepted that. He had always planned to go once his mother was settled, but he could not bring himself to do it, particularly after his brother left. How could he leave her on her own? The responsibility he felt for his mother paralysed him. The longer he had stayed, the harder it had become. Instead of releasing her son and encouraging him to go, his mother clung to him. If he went away for a weekend, she would look at him from her chair and ask plaintively, 'What about me?' or 'What, you're going away and leaving me?' She would then quickly add 'Oh, but you must go. You deserve a break' _,_ but the words had been said. He knew she loved him but she could not help herself and she did not love him enough to free him. He felt, and was, trapped.

He briefly considered marriage, and then discarded that idea. None of the girls he had grown up with would even go out with him. His education now separated him from them like the width of the Grand Canyon. He had moved from one room of the house into the next and the door had shut firmly behind him. He would never be able to re-enter that room that he had left.

Not only that, but as he had grown older he had looked at those around him and seen in marriage only the shackles of obligation and expectation. What people called happiness or love seemed to end at the wedding photographs. The problems started when the film ended. Boy gets girl, beginning of nightmare, like putting two cats in a sack and watching whilst they tear at each other in their frustration and fury and desire to escape. Was that all that life held? What about this happy ever after lark that everybody subscribed to?

In his late teens, whenever he met any of his mother's friends, the women anyway, they would ask if he was married yet or going steady. As time went by and he was in neither happy position, these same people would stop asking, but look at him askance. 'Was there something perhaps wrong with him?' their look seemed to say.

It was as if there was some gigantic, unconscious conspiracy to ensure that everybody was encouraged and obliged to conform to some generally accepted path through life and about which people were invariably sentimental, despite the evidence of their own eyes and experience.

His emotional life was lived largely through books. Just as his earlier youthful desire for adventure had been constrained by the hard reality of his life, he led an existence of quiet desperation.

As he drove home that night, he reflected on the drabness of his life and the powerlessness he felt at not being able to change it. The drabness stretched on and on into the future as far as he could see. He felt that he was due something. He was not sure what he was due, but surely there was something more?

Over the years, he had sometimes imagined that some great event would come along like a war, for example and as a consequence he would have no choice but to go away. His burden of responsibility would be lifted from his shoulders by events he was powerless to control and in a sense he would be freed even of the need to make a decision.

The years went by and nothing had happened. No bugle had blown. No great cause had claimed him.

In his heart he still felt that he was a rebel, but if that was right, he glumly acknowledged to himself he was a rebel without a cause. Why he felt so gloomy, he wondered. Then he realised that it was because of Jack Shepherd. He might be a criminal, but Jack's appearance and everything about him had suddenly presented to him the man he might have been and the life he might have led had things been different. Jack Shepherd was free.

As he shut the car door and made his way up the path to his mother's house, he felt suddenly angry and resolved that whatever it was, he was bloody well going to get it.

As he entered the fuggy room in which his mother was sitting watching television, the smell of dog hit him in the nostrils. He mother had an old cocker spaniel that she treated as some kind of auxiliary human being to the extent that Geoff felt the dog did not live with them rather that they lived with the dog. The dog bowl and towel were kept on the kitchen sink, the dog shared his mother's bed, its head on the pillow next to hers, and she often fed the dog with her fingers whilst preparing food. In effect, he felt that they lived in a dog kennel.

'Your meal's on the table,' his mother said as he came in without looking away from the television. He went into the kitchen and inspected the plate, carefully removing several strands of dog hair from the food before putting the dish in the oven to re-warm it.

His mother called to him querulously from the sitting room.

'Aren't you going to give me a kiss?'

_No_ , he thought. Ever since he was a small boy, he had loathed being kissed by his mother and refused to kiss her. Nonetheless, he went into the sitting room and gave her a quick hug around the shoulders and turned to go and have his dinner. She frowned.

'What about Dinky?' she said referring to the dog on her lap.

'Sod the dog,' he said leaving the room.

'There's no need to be like that,' she said with a hurt tone in her voice and putting her hands over the dog's ears protectively. 'You'll upset her.'

He ignored her and went and had his dinner in the kitchen accidentally treading in Dinky's water bowl as he carried his plate from the oven to the table. He swore, but otherwise ignored the mishap. He was hungry and even though the delicacy before him was fatty, stuffed calves' hearts swimming in gravy with a film of grease on the top, he devoured the lot. After he had eaten, he decided to go for a walk. He couldn't face watching television in the fuggy sitting room.

Poking his head quickly around the door, he announced his intention of going out for a stroll and, to avoid being cross-examined about his intentions; he said he would pop round to see Nan. He hadn't seen her for a while and it got him out of the house.

His grandmother, a woman in her eighties, lived not very far away in an old folks' bungalow rented from the council.

The town was shrouded in a wintry fog made denser by the smoke from hundreds of coal fires. He could smell the coal in the cold air. When he arrived at his grandmother's bungalow, she, too, of course had a fire burning. It was a cold night and it was the only form of heating apart from a smelly paraffin stove that she put on in the bathroom to take the chill off the air.

He let himself in. His gran, seated by the fire with a shawl around her shoulders, was pleased to see him. She rose from the chair, farting gently as she made her way into the scullery to put the kettle on. Since there was no dog to blame, she dealt with the potential social embarrassment by ignoring it, or perhaps she didn't notice or was past caring.

Geoff sat there on his gran's sofa; the draught gradually froze his ankles. _Just a well there was a draught_ , he thought.

The next day at work, he pocketed the money.
CHAPTER 3

THE ALIBI

Christmas came and went. The weeks slid by in a steady dismal downpour. It was a grey world. Geoff had heard no more from Jack and he was almost able to persuade himself that he had imagined the whole thing.

He had stifled any feelings of guilt and even managed, to a degree, to put out of his mind the fact that he had taken the money. Another part of him knew that he had the money which he had not yet spent, and that part of him felt a thrill of excitement. It was his secret.

He had no close friends. By becoming a solicitor, he had found that he had left them all behind. Their paths had separated as completely as if he or they had emigrated. He might perhaps in other circumstances have made new friends, but since he and his mother still lived in the same area in which he had grown up, his life had not moved on. As a consequence, he had no one to talk to and so occasionally, when he had something on his mind, he talked to Albert. Albert was his imaginary friend.

He had originally had a friend called Albert that he had been close to. They had been in the same class together when they started school. As they grew older, they used to go to dances together. These were held at local schools and were tense occasions. Despite the fact that they were only about 14 or 15 years of age, Albert and he would dress carefully for the occasion with winkle picker shoes, drainpipe trousers, bum freezer Italian jackets and DA haircuts. Albert would have a fag on the go at all times which, of course, added a degree of maturity and had the cocky swagger of the streetwise, working class youth who was, after all, about to enter the world of real work, as adults termed it, and who would within a few years have a wife and a couple of nippers of his own.

Most dances ended in a fight, so the first thing Albert did on entering the hall where the girls jived in groups and dangerous groups of teenage boys stood in clusters and eyed each other and the girls warily, was to greet people he knew in those different groups.

Turning first to the left, he would nod and casually call 'Wotcha, Pete!' and then, nonchalantly looking to the right as he slouched across the hall avoiding the dancers, he would shout 'Wotcha, Geoff!' to another lad in a different group.

The monosyllabic acknowledgements he received took the heat off both Albert and, by association, Geoff. Albert was one of the boys. As a result, when the punch up started, Geoff and Albert would not be the main target and had time to exit by the nearest window and scarper before the police arrived.

Once, when in an unhappy case of mistaken identity, Geoff had been grabbed by the tie by some huge youth and lifted off his feet, dear old Albert had saved his bacon by rushing up and grabbing the big lad's arm, drawn back ready to knock the living daylights out of Geoff, saying 'No! No! Lel! Not 'im – that's Wilkie. He's alright.' _'_ Lel' was pronounced like 'bell' and reflected the working class habit of shortening names beyond recognition, 'Lel' being short for 'Leslie'.

Mercifully, Lel had paused and relaxed his grip enabling Geoff not only to breathe again, but also to get away.

'Sorry, mate,' he said. 'Thought you was another geezer.'

'Think nothing of it' said Geoff, trying not to look as if he was terrified. Good old Albert.

Albert had joined the Merchant Navy and sailed away out of Geoff's life. Geoff missed him, but found he could recreate him for his nocturnal rambles along the Grand Union canal which ran through Watford.

The canal was surprisingly close to the busy centre of Watford. All Geoff had to do was walk up the High Street to the park by the Town Hall and then through the park to the canal, shielded on its far side by the Whippendell Woods.

It was gloomy there and the canal banks on either side were heavily wooded. He liked it. It was quiet. He came here when he needed to think and the atmosphere, as often as not, reflected the way he felt.

Thinking was all very well but he found that his thoughts took him in circles. He discovered that it sometimes helped if he expressed himself out loud. That was where Albert came in. Albert, as his imaginary friend, acted as his sounding board. He knew that Albert existed only in his imagination, but he found Albert a great solace. He was someone in whom he could confide his innermost thoughts. Not that Albert was uncritical of him. He could be very hard, but Geoff somehow felt that Albert understood him and that he would get an honest answer from him.

One evening, he was walking along the towpath talking quietly to Albert. There was not much daylight left and there was already a mist hovering over the still, dark, water in the canal. Geoff stopped by a small bridge and sniffed the air like a dog. There was an upturned pram half submerged in the water and something that looked like a dead dog near the bank. The smell of rotting leaves and mud filled his nostrils. It was dark and dismal.

'I hate this time of year Albert,' he said aloud. Suddenly, there was a rustling sound in the undergrowth behind him and a figure emerged from the gloom.

'It's a bad sign, Wilkie, talking to yourself,' said a voice he recognised, calling him by his boyhood nickname. Geoff had jumped at the sound and had taken a pace backwards as he peered through the gloom at the figure advancing towards him. Then he smiled as it dawned on him who it was that had startled him.

'Tom! _'_ he exclaimed as the figure drew near enough to be recognised.

'Fancy meeting you here.'

It was true. It was a coincidence.

'Of all the people!' smiled Geoff, pleased to see him.

They shyly shook hands. They were both pleased to see each other. They had been childhood friends living as boys in the same village. They had lived with their parents in adjacent prefabs, part of an area of post-war emergency housing on the edge of the old village and right next to the fields which surrounded the village, an old enclosure landscape of hawthorn-edged fields with the hedgerows full of oak, ash and elm trees interspersed with copses, spinneys and woods.

In fact, they each had only the one parent. In Geoff's case, it was his mother, and in Tom's case, his father, a dustman whose wife had left him many years before. There was an older brother too, but he was doing his National Service in the army and was only occasionally to be seen at home on leave outside in trousers and vest, cleaning his motorbike in the garden, strong arms on show for the benefit of the girls.

The term garden, when used in relation to Tom's back garden, was entirely misleading. The area surrounding the prefab was a wasteland of car and motorbike parts, pigeon lofts and chicken runs, as well as an old shed that housed the ferrets. Nature forced its way through wherever it could, branches poking through bits of rusty old metal and the whole covered by grass and weeds like an extravagant, unkempt beard. Such fences as remained served as somewhere to rest bottles and cans for whenever Tom's brother let him have a go with his air rifle which, fortunately for the neighbours, was not very often.

A prefabricated house, or prefab as it was called, was a factory-made house, or rather a bungalow, constructed in sections which could be erected quickly to provide cheap, if ugly, accommodation. People had to live somewhere and prefabs provided a temporary solution, a temporary solution that lasted many years.

Geoff's mother's prefab had a fireplace with a back boiler that heated the water, a small refrigerator in the kitchen and a toilet and bathroom. The refrigerator was a luxury. It was the first they had ever seen. For furniture, each of the two bedrooms had a bed and a small wardrobe. There were two armchairs in the living room and a radiogram, a radio that had a drawer you could pull out and which contained a turntable for playing records. They only had two records, a scratched 78 record of Elvis Presley singing ' _Hound Dog'_ and Paul Anka singing ' _Diana_ '. This was the single most important piece of furniture in the place with the radio providing the only diversion for the family on long winter evenings.

At least they were spared the agony of choice. It was one or the other and often mother felt like a dance and when a neighbour called round, the prefab would shudder as everybody bounced up and down to the sounds of exotic far away America.

The floor was covered not with carpet but linoleum and there was a small rug in front of the fireplace.

Tom's prefab, by comparison, was all but indistinguishable from the shed that contained the ferrets. The lino in front of the fireplace was burned and you could see the base scorched boards underneath. The room contained one battered armchair and Tom slept in a bed that was essentially a pile of rags, from which he would emerge in his underpants each morning before pulling on his trousers and accompanying Geoff to school, cramming a slice of bread and jam into his mouth as they walked along the road together.

Tom was half wild, a creature of the countryside. He knew where birds nested and hence where you could find their eggs which you carried home carefully and which, after piercing with a thorn at each end, you then 'blew' to clean them of their contents so you could add them to your collection. He knew where the rabbits ran and the pheasants perched. Like a fox, he knew the way into the chicken run at the local farmer's place and never returned from a foray without half a dozen hens' eggs as well as his other booty.

The two men looked at each other, adjusting their vision to the changes that the intervening years had worked. They had not seen each other for years, not since they had left school.

'You a hippy then these days?' asked Geoff, smiling at his friend who wore striped trousers under a kaftan shirt and whose hair was even longer than Geoff's.

'Well, you gotta blend if you want to sell a bit of dope,' replied Tom, smiling.

'For Christ's sake, don't get caught supplying, Tom, old mate. You'll get put inside for sure' said Geoff, slightly alarmed.

'Na,' winked Tom. 'You know me, blink and I'm gone. Anyway, since I've got a brainy lawyer mate, I'll be alright! _'_

Geoff laughed.

'You can't afford me!'

Geoff was relieved and pleased. Here was a real friend, a link with the past and one who was happy to accept him as he was.

They went and had a drink together and caught up on what had happened to them both since they had last seen each other. Although it was years since they had had any contact with each other, their friendship simply resumed from where it had left off. The intervening years and whatever had happened in them were unimportant.

Tom now lived on a small barge on the canal and made his living repairing boats and buying and selling. He bought and sold whatever came along. He had an eye for a bargain. He knew the value of even a bit of old timber that you would not think anybody would want or give tuppence for. As he said 'If you get something for a quid and you sell it for two, you're made a 100% profit.' He lived by his wits from day to day without care and without responsibility. Geoff envied him.

'You got a bird in tow?' asked Geoff, who had by now reverted to the language of the childhood they had shared.

'Na, birds are alright for a bit, then they sort of get in the way. Anyway...' Tom grinned 'I'm not an easy man to live with.'

Geoff had no doubt that that was true and hardly surprising, given the man's impoverished and scrappy childhood.

As Geoff made his way home that night, he reflected on their meeting. Meeting Tom had reunited him with the happy part of his past. Happiness. He pondered the meaning of the word. What the hell was happiness? For him, it was mixed with anger somehow. In Tom, he was being presented with another example of a kind of freedom that he didn't possess. All his old mates, Tom included, would think that now he was a solicitor he had it made. Nothing, he felt, could be further from the truth. The truth was he envied Jack and Tom for the freedom they had and which he didn't. Or was it perhaps just their sense of freedom? He didn't know. He felt confused and unsettled.

He gave up the struggle to unravel the philosophy of happiness, shrugging his shoulders and turning up his collar as he made his way homewards.

That night, he was awakened from a deep sleep by the persistent ringing of the telephone. By the time he was awake, the phone had already awoken his mother and it was she who had got to the telephone first. As he arrived, she passed it to him. She did not have her teeth in and so she slurred the words as she said, 'It's for you.'

He watched her shuffle back to bed, her hair in curlers, as he pressed the telephone to his ear.

'Yes?' he said, yawning.

A voice at the other end of the telephone line said with a certain sadistic cheerfulness, 'Good morning, sir. I think we have a client of yours with us who would like to speak to you.' Geoff groaned inwardly. A call from the police station. The custody sergeant would, of course, be as bright as a button. He was working shifts and had had his quota of sleep for the day already.

It was 2:00 am. Why the hell couldn't they arrest people at a sensible hour? It was either just after chucking out time at the pub, when the rabble, fortified by eight lagers or so, either attempted to drive home, nicked a car to get home in, fell through a shop window, or got into a fight for some real or imagined wrong.

They would then get nicked. You would be called out and turned up at the police station with your pyjamas on under your coat only to be told that the drunken misfit had fallen asleep and was not fit to be interviewed.

Alternatively, you sat on a stained rubber mattress in a cell which stank of vomit whilst a red-eyed, semi-paralytic inmate sat and stared at you and was only interested in how quickly you were going to get him out of there, or whether you had got a fag.

As time went by and he got to know many of the custody sergeants at local police stations, if called in the night, he would sometimes get away with attending until the morning by suggesting that the prisoner might be allowed to rest so that he would be sober by the time he was seen and then interviewed in the morning. After all, he reasoned, there was no way the police were going to release someone before morning anyway, so thinking 'let the bastards wait' he would go back to bed.

The police always removed a prisoner's shoes and if you were unlucky enough to find yourself in a cell with one of the great unwashed, then the stench of the prisoner's feet mingled with the other unsavoury smells that circulated in such places and upon which it was unwise to dwell.

This time, however, it was different. The client who wanted to speak to him was Jack Shepherd. He listened to Jack's calm voice asking him to attend at the police station. Geoff, of course, went. He was retained and obliged to go. The nick was miles away in Aylesbury of all places. It took him more than an hour to drive along rain-washed roads, the headlights of his car glinting in the puddles, the rain drumming on the roof of the car. He drove on full beam as there were not many cars about at that time in the morning. The journey had a certain dreamlike quality about it as he drove through the darkness of the night. What it all could be about, he wondered. Eventually, he reached Aylesbury. It wasn't difficult finding the police station on the main road and he turned into and bounced over the cobbles of the police car park behind the station where he left his car before yawning, stretching and entering.

He was mildly surprised to discover that unlike most police stations that he had visited at that hour of the morning, no chorus greeted him of inmates protesting at their fate or trying futilely to kick their way through their cell door. It was, in fact, an oasis of calm. Perhaps they did not arrest many people in Aylesbury.

He stood in the charge room and listened to the ticking of the clock. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the rattle of keys and a clang as a cell door shut, followed by measured footsteps along a stone floor.

A door opened and the neat figure of Jack Shepherd appeared, accompanied by the sergeant. Jack smiled at Geoff and said in a familiar way to the sergeant, 'Any chance of a cup of tea and a fag, Sarge?'

To Geoff's surprise, the sergeant smiled and said, 'of course', before leaving the pair of them alone and going to put the kettle on. Geoff listened to the echo of his retreating footsteps as they retraced their way along the stone floor of the corridor. He looked at Jack.

'You have got things well organised.' He was impressed by the unruffled calm of the man and his apparent mastery of the situation. A professional indeed.

'Yeah, they're not a bad lot here, very civilised,' said Jack with a smile, adding, 'No rough stuff and play the game with a straight bat.'

Geoff was surprised at Jack's use of the cricket analogy, but before he had time to enquire, the sergeant returned with the tea and they were shown into a small interview room with a desk and two chairs and left alone.

'What's it all about, Jack? _'_ asked Geoff, yawning as the police officer locked the door of the room.

'Sorry to drag you out, but this lot seem to think I burgled a country house near here yesterday evening.'

'Did you?' asked Geoff.

'No, of course not, _'_ said Jack, looking pained. He knew that Geoff would not have expected him to admit it even if he had done it unless he had been caught as they say 'bang to rights' that is red-handed in which case there was no argument. 'But some old tart's picked me out of an ID parade and so I had some explaining to do.'

'What did you tell them?' asked Geoff.

'I told them it couldn't have been me because I was with you at your office in Watford.'

'You what?' said Geoff, waking up with a start.

Jack continued. 'I told them I had to see you about some business and that I came to your office and afterwards we had a meal together.'

'But you didn't,' protested Geoff.

'Oh yes I did, and I would like you to confirm that so that I can get out of this place.'

Geoff could hardly believe his ears. A retainer was one thing, but it did not cover putting up a false alibi. How could Jack think he would do such a thing?

'Look, I can't do that, Jack,' he said.

'You better had, _'_ said Jack, taking a long drag of his cigarette and then blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. 'Otherwise,' he said deliberately, emphasising each word, 'how do you fancy explaining what happened to that money I gave you?'

Geoff got up and paced around the room and then ran his fingers through his hair. How could Jack have known about the money? Surely he could not know that he had kept it. He must be bluffing.

'What?' he said.

'Look,' said Jack, growing impatient 'let's stop beating around the bush. Your bookkeeper is quite a good looking old tart,' he said and leered. 'And,' he continued, 'I've got the receipt, remember?'

Geoff was stunned and said nothing, so Jack continued.

'She and I had a thing going and so, to cut a long story short, I know that the dosh I gave you seems not to have reached the firm's account – odd that, innit?' He paused and looked at Geoff enquiringly.

'So, what's it to be then?'

Before Geoff had a chance to answer, Jack became suddenly conciliatory, leaning across the table and patting Geoff on the arm. He went on, 'Come on mate, it's not so bad and there is plenty more money where that came from. I have lots of money-making ideas and we could both do very nicely.'

Geoff was trapped and he knew it. He had effectively stolen the money. He had often pointed out to persons rather pompously that what they might regard as a perk or a fringe benefit to which they were entitled was actually theft. Now, he had fallen into the same trap, but what made it infinitely worse was that if it came to light, he would not only be prosecuted, but would undoubtedly be struck off as a solicitor. All that he had worked for would be thrown away. If life had sometimes seemed bleak now, it would be immeasurably more dismal as a struck-off former solicitor. He walked around the room like a trapped animal trying to find a way out. He felt a rising sense of claustrophobia. Then he stopped and shrugged. It was no good. There was no way out. He had no alternative and he knew it. He turned to Jack and said slowly, 'Alright. Where did we go and what did we do?'

Jack smiled.

'We nipped into an Indian and each had a vindaloo curry. You remember? It was a bit too hot for you and you had to swallow almost the whole of a jug of water to put the fire out.'

They rehearsed one or two other details briefly, then, after a pause, Geoff knocked on the door of the room and called for the sergeant who reappeared and unlocked the door. He told the officer that his client was ready to be interviewed.

A detective sergeant from the CID conducted the interview as the three men sat huddled around the table in the small room in a fog of cigarette smoke. For once, Geoff did not mind the smoke. His mind was so distracted that he did not even notice it.

When Jack, in reply to the officer's questions, smiled and said that there had to be some mistake about him being fingered for the burglary because he could prove that he had been nowhere near the place and then went on to explain that he had been with his solicitor, the officer's eyes opened wide. He looked enquiringly at Geoff sitting silently at the table staring unseeing into space.

'Are you alright?' the officer enquired.

Geoff nodded and said, 'It's true, officer, he was with me. We had some business to conduct and we had a bite to eat afterwards.'

There it was. A cast-iron alibi. The officer left the room to confer with his DI, but they did not have much option other than to release Jack on a refused charge. In other words, he was free to go.

It was slowly growing light as Jack and Geoff left the police station together. Jack was cock-a-hoop. Geoff was silent.

'For Christ's sake, don't look too bloody pleased! They may be watching us – no sense in rubbing it in,' said Geoff roughly.

'Any chance of a lift?' said Jack. Geoff nodded wearily.

'Nice little motor,' said Jack approvingly as they got into Geoff's MGB sports car. Geoff did not disagree; it was a nice little motor, autumn leaf in colour and with wire wheels. Geoff was very proud of it. No sooner was Jack installed than he lit up and was soon puffing away happily. Geoff rather pointedly opened his side window. Jack, however, was not deterred and probably did not even notice.

'Nice one, mate,' he said cheerfully as they drove out of the police station car park. Geoff said nothing and made only a non-committal grunt in reply. Not only was he trying hard not to breathe in the cigarette smoke, but he was aghast at the turn that events had taken. He felt shell-shocked. What had he done? Everything he had worked for was now at the mercy of Jack Shepherd.

When Jack finished his cigarette, he announced his intention of getting some 'shut eye'. Apparently, he had not got any sleep at the police station since the bunk in the cell had been too hard. _Shame_ , thought Geoff bitterly as Jack settled back in the passenger chair and was soon fast asleep. At least it meant he did not smoke.

As they drove towards Watford, it began to get light, but it had already dawned on Geoff just how unenviable his situation now was. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to put himself in this position.

How could he have been so stupid? He was now in the clutches of this man who could quite literally control him. He might as well be his bloody puppet. He went over and over it in his mind. He could scarcely grasp it. He felt stunned, dazed. He drove like an automaton.

He knew of bent solicitors, of course. There were a few who, by reputation at least, were known to be not just wide-boys but downright criminals or perhaps rather the willing servants of the criminal fraternity. Why they did it had always been a mystery to him. Once it became known widely, their professional career was ruined, so why do it? It occurred to him that perhaps somebody had some hold over them, just like Jack did now over him.

There was another danger potentially, of course, and one that he had tried hard up until then to avoid. This was the danger of over familiarity with the client since once it occurred; it was difficult to maintain distance and boundaries.

Geoff remembered from his days as a trainee in London, the firm he had worked for had employed a managing clerk who was not a solicitor to deal with the criminal clients. Geoff had noticed from time to time when present at conversations in cells between the clerk and the client how blurred the distinction between the two could become. The hairs would begin to stand up on his head as the conversation would become that of two allies rather than solicitor and client. He could hardly believe his ears sometimes and could not understand how they could talk about it so freely and in front of him until he realised that he was regarded by both of them as so inconsequential that he was invisible to them.

Now, thanks to his own stupidity, he had slipped into a worse position of not just familiarity but downright criminality. Jack might even hire him out to other criminals who needed a helping hand. He was completely at his mercy and it could only get worse.
CHAPTER 4

JACK'S DRUM

Jack came to as they entered Watford, rubbed his eyes, coughed throatily, hawked and spat out of the window.

'That's better,' he said and then gave Geoff directions to the small bedsit he occupied in Watford 'situated', as estate agents say when they want to embellish some rat hole with a degree of charm that it does not possess, 'twixt the station and the park.'

The truth was that west Watford was a dump, a wasteland of pre-war housing with run-down shops and smashed up bus shelters.

Geoff had never really understood the logic of smashing up a bus shelter. What was the point in destroying the very thing that sheltered you from the weather?

Jack lived alone in a small flat above a shop. The entrance was up a staircase at the rear through the back yard of the shop, strewn with soggy, empty cardboard boxes. A dilapidated shed occupied one corner. Disconsolate cats mewed at them from a wall. The two of them ignored the cats and went up the stairs and Jack opened the door of the flat saying as he did so, 'This is my drum. It ain't much but I don't stay in one place very long. It's just somewhere to lay my head for the time being.'

Geoff looked around the small sparsely-furnished room and made no comment. The room smelt of stale cigarette smoke and everywhere there were ashtrays full of dog-ends. Particularly unpleasant in his opinion were those cigarette stubs he noticed floating in half finished cups of cold tea. Clothes were strewn everywhere including, he noticed, a woman's or possibly, he reflected, women's underclothes lying on the grubby carpet near the bed, a confused heap of not very clean looking bedclothes. Jack saw him looking at the women's clothing and grinned.

'Bit of alright that bookkeeper bird.'

'What? Do you mean Monica, the woman who does our firm's bookkeeping?'

'Yup,' said Jack in his mock drawl. 'She'll do it for half a pint of lager,' he laughed.

Geoff was offended. He had always had the impression that Monica, who although admittedly quite attractive, was nonetheless quite timid and mousey.

'But she's married,' he said rather pathetically.

'Married or not, she's up for it and...' he added making thrusting motions with his hips in what Geoff found a particularly disgusting manner. 'What do I care so long as I get my end away?'

By this stage, Geoff had had quite enough of what he could see of Jack, let alone those parts that he reserved for his lady guests. Not only that, he felt sick, sick of himself for being such a fool and sick of these squalid surroundings and their equally squalid tenant. It was here, no doubt, that he had found out about Geoff not having paid the cash into the firm's account. How much did Monica know about that? He asked Jack.

'So, Monica told you I hadn't paid the cash into the firm's account?'

'Not exactly,' said Jack. 'I wouldn't drop you in it.'

_Not much_ , thought Geoff bitterly.

'No,' continued Jack 'I got it out of her in a roundabout way. She hadn't seen that amount of money in cash, so I just guessed you hadn't paid it in.'

'So, it was a bluff,' said Geoff surprised.

'Well, I like to think it was more of an intelligent guess,' said Jack.

_This man was no fool_ , thought Geoff and made as if to leave, turning towards the door and fishing around in his pockets for the car keys.

He had seen the dwellings of quite a few offenders and there was nothing remarkable about this one. Jack plainly did not put much store on the appearance or comfort of where he lived. Geoff had in the past been proudly shown pink leather furniture by the owner at a Watford address and once, in a Tottenham home, he had been proudly ushered into a room by an armed robber who, with an expansive wave of his arm, showed Geoff his collection of brass ornaments with the words, 'Bet you ain't seen nuffink like this before.'

Geoff, as he surveyed the walls, every inch of which were covered by horse brasses, pistols (he noted anxiously) and ornaments of every description, had been forced to agree that he had not.

So far as Jack's rooms were concerned, not only was there nothing of interest but he was keen to leave as soon as he could.

'Look,' said Jack as he opened the door 'I appreciate what you did and you won't lose out. There will be more work down the line and more money.' He smiled. 'I reckon we could make a good team – partners, you and me.'

One of the cats shot through the door as he opened it and Geoff was grateful for the diversion which freed him from the need to answer Jack.

'Your cat?' he enquired.

'No,' said Jack. 'He has sort of adopted me and comes in for some food occasionally.'

Geoff left. As he drove home, he was almost too tired to think. He was wrapped in a fuzzy blanket of tiredness. Perhaps this was all a dream, he wondered. He arrived home, found the dog on his bed and threw it out of his room. The dog farted loudly as it landed. He slammed the door shut, opened the window and went to bed.

It was not a dream, of course, and as the ensuing days went by, he saw his situation with increasing and terrifying clarity. What could he do? He racked his brains for a solution. He could leave Watford, quietly do a runner and go and work in some other part of the country. The idea appealed, but he quickly realised that Jack could easily find him. If he wanted to get away from Jack, he would have to give up law as a profession and that was the last thing that he was going to do after all these years of study and effort.

Briefly, he considered going along with Jack's suggestion that they work as a team, but dismissed the idea almost at once. There was no future in it. Jack would always have a hold over him. Who knows what he might have to do? He could end up at the mercy not merely of Jack but other criminals, too. He was trapped. He had stolen money and compounded that wrong by lying and giving Jack a false alibi. His palms went sweaty as he realised that that would amount to conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. It if ever came out, he would not only be struck off the Solicitors' Roll and never allowed to practise again but it would mean prison.

'Oh Jesus!' he said out loud.

He struggled to maintain the outward appearance of normality. He went through each day automatically, his mind elsewhere. He worked each day as if in a dream, permanently distracted by the weight of anxiety that he felt and the sense of doom that would not lift. In desperation, after work he walked and walked, lost in thought. What on earth could he do? His steps as often as not took him down to the canal.

One evening, as he lent on the bridge above the canal and stared gloomily at the water, Albert appeared in his mind unbidden.

'Wotcha, Wilkie' he said cheerfully. 'What's up, old mate?'

Geoff was so pleased at his arrival that he was almost delirious with joy. He told Albert all about it. He unburdened himself to Albert, who listened gravely. 'I just don't know what to do, Albert' he said as he finished and was leaning limply on the parapet of the bridge, quite exhausted by it all. Albert patted him on the shoulder and said 'There is only one way out of this, Will; you are going to have to top him.'

Geoff looked up, his mind suddenly clear.

_Am I going mad?_ he thought. But he then said quietly to the empty world around him,

'Mad or not, Albert's right. I'm going to have to do him.'

There was really no other alternative.

He smiled for the first time in days.
CHAPTER 5

THE CARROT

Detective Sergeant Green was a thoughtful and methodical copper. Not for him the Sweeney Flying Squad tactics, where the copper was all but indistinguishable from the villain. No, DS Green was a quiet man who thought about his job. The suspects he interviewed never complained about bullying or duress. He never tried to fit them up, that is put words in their mouths that they had never spoken to secure a conviction. He was a kind man, but also artful and intelligent and he found that plying suspects with tea and fags and showing them a degree of consideration, quite apart from asking them sensible questions, yielded results. Many a suspect was almost relieved to unburden themselves to him. For many individuals, he was like a father confessor figure. He knew from experience that many people in custody were actually glad of the opportunity to unburden themselves to a sympathetic ear, to get things off their chest. That sentiment was not to be underestimated and he exploited it to the full.

Not so, of course, Jack Shepherd. Jack was a professional. Polite and co-operative but only up to a point. When it came to answering questions, he was strictly name, rank and number only. He would only be forthcoming if the circumstances demanded it and, so far, that had not been the case.

DS Green had been obliged to release Shepherd in the light of what his solicitor said about his movements. It was a cast-iron alibi. He was uneasy about it though. The witnesses who had picked Jack out in the identity parade that he had held had pointed to him as the man that they had seen sitting in a car outside the mansion where the attempted burglary had taken place. They had seemed very positive.

Clearly, Jack could not be in two places at once and if they were right, that raised some awkward but interesting questions about his brief. He decided to make some enquiries of the Hertfordshire Constabulary and, in particular, the CID at Watford nick. What did they know about Geoff? Did he have a reputation for being bent? He picked up the telephone.

He spoke to the detective inspector in charge of the CID at Watford who gave Geoff what amounted to a glowing testimonial. Not only did Geoff regularly prosecute for the police in the local Magistrates Court, but he was regarded as being rather good at it. Although he was young, he was held in high regard and it was thought that one day he would assume the mantel of old Sam Satterthwaite, the now elderly, but much respected, Yorkshire man who had prosecuted locally for the police for many years and who was treated with great respect, even by the magistrates.

It seemed that in Watford, as indeed in other places in Hertfordshire, local solicitors were instructed privately by the police on a case-by-case basis, a system that they were very happy with, since they could choose the lawyer that they wanted to represent them on every case. They made their choice based upon experience and the calibre of the advocate.

By the time he put the phone down; DS Green was convinced that the witnesses who had identified Jack Shepherd must have been mistaken. He decided to have another word with them.

*

Geoff, in the meantime, was racking his brains in trying to work out how to get rid of Jack. Getting rid of him was one problem, but he knew that getting away with it was quite another. He was cross with himself. He had known that he was dealing with a professional and yet he had put himself in the position where he had let the man take advantage of him. He, of all people, should have known better. Now the stakes were much higher. He could not afford to make any more mistakes. Jack might be on his guard. He was no fool. He must not act too quickly, he decided. He would not go to Jack. He would wait until Jack came back to him and then appear to go along with whatever scheme he had. He would need to be in contact with him and that would surely present him with a chance. A chance not just to get even but a chance to get rid of him for good. He did not have long to wait.

A week or so later, Jack rang him at the office. He did not beat about the bush. He said, 'I have been talking to a few people and you could be useful to them. I would like you to meet them.'

Geoff's heart sank. That was just what he had feared, but he said, trying to sound cheerful, 'Sure, but I have been thinking, too. Do you remember the old adage that you might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb?'

There was an indistinguishable sound at the other end of the phone. Geoff continued in any event, pressing his momentary advantage.

'Well, I have had one or two ideas and if we can meet up, then I will run them past you. I would rather not talk about it just now.' There was a pause, then 'Alright' said Jack. 'What about a drink after work? I will meet you in that pub in the Lower High Street, the one opposite the Brewery.'

Geoff knew where he meant but said, 'I have a better idea. I think we should meet up somewhere well away from the town – how about Chipperfield?' he asked, referring to a village about fifteen miles outside Watford, and then continued. 'There is a pub there called The Two Brewers. What about that?'

_It was unlikely_ , he thought, _that we will run into anybody there who would know us_. It was also in the country and the beginnings of an idea were forming in Geoff's mind.

Jack said,

'I will see you there at 7:00 pm' and then he hung up.

_Good_ , thought Geoff to himself. It would not be sensible to be seen with Jack in Watford. Well out of town was much better and Chipperfield fitted the bill.

Jack was already at the pub when Geoff arrived. It was a beamed building, obviously old and, Geoff noted, lit only dimly which was an advantage. There was a roaring fire at one end of the room and the bar was full of customers. There was the happy hum of conversation with the odd guffaw of laughter and clink of glasses. They would not be overheard. The usual pall of smoke hung over the bar. He bought himself a drink and one for Jack and they sat in the corner together, away from the bar. Jack did not seem at ease. Did he suspect something?

'Well, what's this all about then?' he asked, lighting another cigarette.

Geoff proceeded to explain. If he was going to get out of this, and it was a big if, he felt that he had to take the initiative and he had come up with an idea of how to do it.

'You make your living from crime?' He did not wait for an answer, but pressed on whilst he had Jack's attention. 'In my experience, most people that I defend or prosecute take a big risk for a small return. If you are going to take the risk, then the bigger the return, the better. That is what I meant about being hung for a sheep as well as a lamb.'

Jack was listening. He had even put his cigarette down for a moment.

'So, what's the idea?' he said.

'Well,' said Geoff, 'the other thing is that the longer you carry on committing offences, the greater the chance must be of getting caught. Prison might not be what it once was, but I for one don't fancy spending any time there at all. It seems to me,' he continued, 'that you need a "job" or a series of jobs that pay enough so that you can retire and –' _he_ said, 'You need a good escape route with an alternative or a series of alternative identities.'

Jack was impressed.

'You've missed your vocation,' said jack quite seriously, 'and', he continued, 'You are right about prison. It's horrible, banged up most of the day if you're really unlucky with some psycho...'

'The boredom must be terrible,' said Geoff, trying to sound sympathetic, a sympathy which ordinarily he would not have felt, save perhaps at the prospect of ending up inside himself.

'Well, _'_ said Jack reverting to his usual joking manner, 'at least it gives you time to flick through old issues of _Country Life_ and read all about those lovely collections of antique silver that some people have. It's a bit like,' he added with a smile, 'flicking through a holiday brochure or a mail order catalogue – you get lots of ideas for when you get out.'

'So, that's why you were burgling that house?'

'Trying to,' said Jack ruefully. 'Anyway, what's your idea?'

Geoff took a swig of his beer and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing.

'Mortgage fraud' he said. 'We'll need a surveyor, but basically we go for loans on non-existent houses or, better still,' he said as he warmed to his theme, 'on houses that genuinely are on the market. We don't buy them, of course. We have them surveyed and apply for a mortgage but that's as far as it goes. The lender instructs me, you pretend to be the buyer, and we split the money.'

Again, there was a pause. Then Jack smiled. 'Alright,' he said. 'I'm game. If we can clear up, I'll head back to the States. What about you?'

'I don't know,' said Geoff. 'I won't be able to work again. I'll need a new life somewhere. I haven't really had a chance to think about it yet.'

They both stared into their drinks for a moment or two, each one occupied by his own thoughts. Jack was the first to speak.

'Well, I can find a bent surveyor,' he said, 'but what else will you need?'

Geoff forced himself to concentrate again on the fiction he was outlining.

'The first thing will be some more money. The firm will expect money on account to cover disbursements. Can you let me have, say, a thousand pounds?'

'Fine,' said Jack. 'Shall I drop it into the office?' and then added in an attempt at a joke, 'Will I get a receipt?' adding quickly when he saw Geoff's face, 'Sorry – no offence.'

'No,' said Geoff, ignoring the remark but inwardly seething. 'I would rather you kept well away from there. Meet me here again next Friday and we will have another drink at the same time. During the week, I will look out some likely properties and I can show you the details when we meet. I think some tasty properties in London would be best – the mortgage loans will be that much larger.'

'Right,' said Jack, draining his glass and standing up. 'I'll see you next week.'

Normally, he would have had another drink or two but they had both agreed that it was best not to push their luck and to run the risk however unlikely of being seen together.

Geoff waited a while and had another drink before he too got up and left the pub. He walked over to the car park opposite, but did not leave at once. First, he wanted to have a bit of a scout around. He walked into the darkness and was soon swallowed up by the night.
CHAPTER 6

During the next few days, Geoff debated with himself how best to kill Jack. He knew that despite what people might think, it was not actually easy to kill someone, and he needed not only to kill someone, but to do it silently and quickly. It was a tall order. He was not a martial arts expert. He was not a trained commando either, but he was determined. Jack was strong and knew how to handle himself. He had not been a bodyguard for nothing.

Geoff knew the location well and his recent visit had refreshed his memory. The pub was situated opposite the church in the village and people used an area of common land adjacent to the church yard to park their cars. It was unlit and, at night time, quite dark, although there was a certain amount of reflected light from the pub. There was always the danger that somebody might be walking their dog late on the common but much of the common was heavily wooded and he reasoned that not many people would be inclined to walk their dogs through a pitch dark wood at night. People preferred the light, fearful of what the dark might contain.

Would he have the gumption to do it? The thought struck him as he was walking along Watford High Street one morning. He stopped and looked at his reflection in the window of a shop. That did not help. His face peered back at him without answering the question. What does a murderer look like anyway? He would just have to suck it and see. He knew that he would only get one go at it. If he tried and failed, all would be lost. He had to carry it through. He had been through it in his mind a hundred times. Life under the control of Jack would be unendurable. It was Jack or him. Jack had to go.

Still, throughout what seemed an especially long week at work, he was on tenterhooks. He went through the dilemma that faced him again and again. Although his head told him he had no alternative, he still shrank from the awfulness of what he had in mind to do. It was easy enough to say casually that you would kill someone. It was altogether different to actually carrying out that threat, particularly in cold blood. Although he went about his business as usual, he did so automatically trying hard not to notice the passage of time, but acutely conscious of it nonetheless. A man in a condemned cell must feel that way, he mused, as the hour of his execution drew near.

Friday arrived. He did his work in a distracted way and found it hard to concentrate. He became tenser as the morning wore on. Luckily, however, he was in court during the afternoon and he had to concentrate to do justice to his client's case. The more he concentrated, the more it took his mind off what lay ahead and stopped him from worrying about what was to come.

In the afternoons in Watford Magistrates Court as in most other Magistrates Courts, there was often a list of domestic cases, as opposed to criminal cases, to be dealt with. These could be beaten up or deserted wives seeking Separation Orders and maintenance or, as on this occasion, it could be an Affiliation application on the part of an unmarried mother against what the law termed 'the putative father', that is the man who knocked her up, put her up the spout or tickled her fancy, the exact description of the poor girl's condition depending upon which denizen of Watford you happened to be talking to.

Geoff normally found the rather squalid evidence of these often casual couplings rather sad and depressing. It was the betrayal as much as anything else and the refusal to accept responsibility that depressed him. A man should face his responsibilities in life and accept the consequences of his actions. During the course of his work, he had come to realise that this in many circles was a minority view.

In this case, the lorry driver father in question, a bandy-legged man with blonde hair, denied even going out with the mother, let alone having known her in the biblical sense. He regarded the very suggestion as offensive or the product of a teenage girl's overheated imagination.

'Wot? 'Er?' he had said contemptuously and offensively as the girl flushed red with anger. 'I wouldn't touch 'er with a barge pole!'

Geoff felt offended on behalf of the mother. What a scum bag this man was. He was determined to nail him.

Geoff's suggestion when cross examining him that it was not "a barge pole that he had employed" did nothing to rattle him and did not impress the Chairman of the Bench either.

'Mr Wilkinson,' he said peering over his glasses. 'I consider that that remark was in bad taste.' Geoff had had no alternative other than to accept that and to try another line of questioning. The lorry driver smugly denied every suggestion that Geoff put to him.

The problem that the mother had was that it was necessary to prove the fact of the relationship, some evidence for example that they met each other and socialised. In this case though, there was nothing. The child had been conceived down a dark lane in the back seat of a mini after a quick glass of Baby Cham at some pub where nobody knew them.

The case was not going well. The mother, a freckly-faced, brown haired girl with hazel eyes, did not make a good impression on the magistrates. The trouble was that she was not all that attractive. Had she been, the chairman would no doubt have been more attentive, but her appearance was not on her side. The Chairman of the Bench looked bored; the two lady magistrates sitting with him were looking disapprovingly at the girl. One might have assumed that the lady members of the Bench would have been sympathetic to the girl, but in Geoff's experience they could be more condemnatory and harder than the men.

It was time to pull the rabbit out of the hat – Geoff's last hope.

'I wonder if your Worships would permit me to call my next witness?' asked Geoff in a suitably obsequious manner. The Chairman glanced at his colleagues. He was finding the proceedings rather tedious and anxious to bring them to an end. He had already concluded that the girl was making it up for some reason related to the overheated workings of a teenage girl's mind.

'Will it take long?' he snapped.

'No, sir,' replied Geoff. 'It's a very short witness.'

With that and without waiting for approval, since what he intended doing was unorthodox, Geoff turned around and snapped his fingers at the mother who left the courtroom, only to quickly reappear leading a little blonde girl of about 4 years of age.

The mother stood the little girl next to the lorry driver as Geoff had suggested before the hearing she should if they got the chance. The lorry driver flushed crimson. If two peas were ever alike in a pod, then these two certainly were. The little girl was a miniature of her father. The magistrates looked at the little girl and then at the lorry driver and their faces announced that the case was decided. The Chairman of the Bench looked at his watch as he brought the case to an end. In his view, it had taken more than enough time already.

The magistrates unsurprisingly found that the lorry driver was the father of the little girl and ordered him to pay maintenance to the mother, pointing out to the scowling man that if he did not pay, he could go to prison. The money would be deducted from his wages by his employer.

Afterwards, when Geoff and the client came out of court, the lorry driver brushed angrily past Geoff and the young mother declaring 'You won't get any money out of me. I'm giving up my job and going on the dole.'

He both looked and sounded as if he meant it.

Geoff looked at the little girl and then at the disappearing figure of the angry lorry driver and wondered why anyone would not want to acknowledge his little daughter? The child held her mother's hand and innocently watched the receding figure of her father, the father she had never known, as he strode out of the courthouse, the door slamming behind him.

_Later in life_ , thought Geoff contemptuously, _when the child has been brought up completely without my help or contribution of any kind whether financial or emotional, I will no doubt be put out and offended not to be asked to her wedding._

Then Geoff remembered what the evening held in store. His heart sank within him. On the way out of the court building, he bumped into a colleague who invited him for a drink. He would have loved an excuse at that moment to avoid what lay ahead, but he forced himself to hold to his purpose. There was no ducking it, however unwilling he felt.

'No thanks, Pete,' he said with a smile. 'I have had rather a bad week and I need a bit of exercise. I think I shall go for a run.'

'Some other time,' said Peter and walked off. Geoff went home and changed into a tracksuit. He picked up money, a polythene bag and some string and thrust them into his pockets before leaving the house and jogging down the road. A short distance from home, he went into a phone box and phoned for a taxi. When it arrived, he told the driver to take him to Chipperfield.
CHAPTER 7

MURDER

Once in the car, he felt better. At least things were now happening. There was nothing worse than waiting and now the waiting was over. During the journey, he resisted any attempt by the taxi driver to engage him in conversation. Not only was he not feeling like talking, but he did not want the man to remember much about him. He was just another fare.

After receiving monosyllabic answers to a few tentative questions, the taxi driver gave up and turned the car radio on and Geoff was left in peace in the dark of the back seat. When they reached Chipperfield, Geoff made the taxi stop some distance from the pub where he was meeting Jack.

'Want me to come back for you, mate?' asked the taxi driver as Geoff got out and paid him.

'No thanks. I'm meeting someone,' he said as he walked off. He paused after a few paces and looked back, watching as the taxi driver drove off. _Probably thinks I'm a miserable sod_ , he thought to himself. Then he shrugged. _Who cares what he thinks?_

From where the taxi had dropped him off, the distance to the pub was a mile or so. It was already growing dark as he plunged into the woods. He jogged along a track and was soon swallowed by the gathering gloom.

As the light died, the owls began to hoot. Bats cruised past, turning in the air like fighter planes. A damp, leafy smell rose from the ground and stirred half forgotten, half remembered memories of other times and other places. He recalled times when he had been out at night as a boy across the fields near his childhood home with the moon shinning bright above big Pursley Wood. That, he reflected, had been a very long time ago. Then, he had been after rabbits. Now, he was after bigger game.

The spiders had already been busy and the gossamer strands of the webs they had begun to spin caught at his face and hands as he ran. The air grew cooler and mist was forming in the hollows. The dimming light and the soft pad of his feet on the leaf mould of the woodland floor created an air of dream-like unreality. The world had become a black and white negative. Was it really a dream? It felt like it.

It was no dream. He reached the edge of the wood breathing gently. He was alert and alive and, having started, determined to see it through.

That bastard, he reflected, stood between him and his entire life, everything he had worked for up until now. True, he hadn't been particularly happy. In fact, he had felt trapped and miserable, but now, now that he was in Jack's clutches, his creature to control, he looked back on life before Jack as an almost care-free time by comparison. _If only he had realised how well off he had been_ , he thought to himself. Then he pulled himself together. It was futile cursing fate. He had only himself to blame and the remedy was in his hands.

He stood under the trees and carefully inspected the scene before him. Ahead of him was the churchyard with the church itself barely distinguishable in the gloom amongst the funereal looking yew trees that surrounded it and which seemed to dominate the churchyard with its lichen covered old grave stones and grassy mounds.

There was a cricket pavilion nearby and then open common land on the far side of which he could see the lights of houses that lined a road. There were no lights on in the pavilion. There was nobody about. All was quiet as night settled in and the world went to sleep. The car park was just visible and the lighted pub sign beyond. Was Jack's car there yet? He could not see. He would have to move closer.

He looked around him on the ground. He was looking for a heavy lump of wood. He was going to have to silence Jack quickly and decided that the best way to do that was to hit him. He did not want to use anything too obvious like a hammer or something of that kind. _Nobody_ , he thought, _will pay much attention to a discarded branch on the woodland floor._

People might look for a pickaxe handle or a hammer but not, he reasoned, a branch in a wood. He sniffed again suspiciously. Dog shit! He had better be careful what he picked up.

After a short search, he found a short length of knobbly hornbeam which he knew was very hard wood. He held it by his side and moved quietly through the churchyard, taking a few steps and then standing still to listen. A dog barked in the distance. As he watched, the door of the pub opened and the sound of the clink of glasses floated across to him.

It was quite dark now. He made his way across the undulating ground of the graveyard, apologising mentally to its occupants as he stumbled over their graves. Eventually, he reached the churchyard wall beyond which cars were parked. It was a low flint wall that was quite easy to step over and he did so, but then sat on it for a while with his hand holding the club behind him, but concealed behind the churchyard wall.

He saw that Jack's car was quite close, an old Jaguar. He wished he drove something a little less eye-catching. He left the piece of wood there behind the wall and made a quick mental note of where it lay hidden from view and walked across the road into the pub on the other side. When he entered, he saw that Jack already sat in a corner of the bar. He blinked as he came into the light, even the fairly dim light inside the pub. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark outside and now had to get used to the light. He went up to Jack and greeted him.

'You alright?' he asked.

_Not got any terminal disease that will finish you off in the next hour or so thus saving me the necessity of smashing your bloody head in_ , he thought morosely as he smiled at Jack.

'Yup,' said Jack. 'I've been working on that idea of yours and I think I have found a surveyor who will fit the bill.'

Geoff bought a drink for himself and another for Jack and they went to sit out of earshot from the bar and the people standing around it. They would have had trouble hearing themselves speak there anyway. The pub was quite busy and there was a boisterous party of young estate agents out celebrating something or other. It did not matter what they were celebrating, it simply meant that Geoff and Jack could melt into the background. As they sat down, Geoff continued.

'Well,' he said, 'I have found about ten possible properties through various London estate agents. I have got the particulars in a file that I have opened at the office. You are now an American client interested in investment property in London, and I am your retained solicitor.'

'Great,' said Jack. 'So what's next?'

Geoff leaned towards him and spoke quietly, but confidently. He knew what he was talking about.

'You will need to go to see all the properties by arrangement through agents,' he said. 'Offer to buy them, but don't seem too keen, haggle a bit. Remember, you are a rich American and nobody's fool. If you can strike a bargain, give them my details and the seller's solicitor will write to me. The next step will be to find a suitable mortgage lender. I can do that for you, but you will have to meet them and apply for the mortgage in person.'

'What do I do with them?' asked Jack.

'Well, you won't expect to be that clued in with the process as an American living in London but you will have to demonstrate an ability to pay any mortgage you apply for. You won't be an existing saver with them either. I suggest you show them a bank statement with a healthy sum in it and some evidence of your earnings. You could be a director of an American parent company's subsidiary based in London or something of that kind. You can do the American accent, I know,' he added smiling.

'Piece of cake,' said Jack. 'Leave it to me, buddy,' he said with jokey emphasis. 'What next?'

Geoff continued speaking slowly and carefully.

'They will want a survey done to see that the property is worth the money that they are being asked to lend. You say that you would like a surveyor too and would they mind instructing the surveyor you usually use? That will be your bent one, of course. Provided he is a genuine surveyor and on their list of approved surveyors, then they will use him. The survey comes in and I will pretend to be the solicitor acting on the purchase for you. The mortgage lender will instruct me to act for them as well, so I will be in complete control. We can do that with each property we line up, each through different lenders. I call the money down on all of them, preferably at the same time and when the money comes in, we bugger off.'

He paused and took a swig of beer. Jack looked at him in admiration.

'You have got it all worked out, haven't you?' he said.

This was not said sarcastically but with a note of respect in his voice. Geoff felt almost flattered and replied 'I certainly have, and now what about that money you have for me?'

'It's in the car,' said Jack. 'Fancy another one first?'

This was exactly what Geoff had hoped. He had been wondering quite what excuse he could use to get Jack into the car park and there was also the problem of how to distract him whilst he found the piece of wood. Both problems were now solved.

Geoff agreed. The condemned man should be granted his last request. Why not? They both had a whisky chaser before leaving the pub together and walked towards the car parked on the other side of the road. Geoff shivered a little as the cool night air hit them.

'Getting colder, innit?' said Jack.

'It certainly is.' His nose felt tight and he forced himself to take deeper breaths to calm himself.

As they drew near to the car, Geoff said to Jack, 'Look, I just need a quick pee – it's the cold air. I won't be a second.' He hoped that Jack did not notice the quiver in his voice as he spoke. He did not appear to or if he did, he took no notice. He did need a pee in any event. He suddenly felt nervous.

With that, he walked to the wall of the churchyard and whilst Jack opened the boot of the car, Geoff relieved himself. He looked over his shoulder. Jack was bent over the boot of the car, his back towards him. Geoff leaned over the wall and his hand closed on the piece of wood. It felt wet and cold, but reassuringly hard.

He lifted it quickly and, holding it down by his side, he returned the few paces to the car. Jack was rummaging around inside the interior of the boot which was only dimly illuminated by a small light. He did not look up as Geoff approached.

Geoff was panting slightly not from exertion but from nerves, and the wood felt very, very heavy in his hand. He looked around quickly. There was no one about. At least he could not see anybody. It was now or never.

He raised the lump of wood and holding it with both hands hit Jack over the head. It was a hard blow, hard enough to knock Jack out instantly. He fell forward and slumped half in and half out of the boot.

Geoff dropped the lump of wood and then pulled him out and Jack fell to the floor, face downwards. Geoff was relieved about that. The back of the head he felt was somehow more impersonal. Quickly, Geoff pulled the plastic bag from his pocket and put it over Jack's head and then hit him with the wood again twice.

He averted his eyes as he did so and felt sick at the sound of the thump of the wood against Jack's skull. This was awful! He wondered how all those blokes had managed in the war, or did you get used to it after a while?

Breathing heavily, he took the string from his pocket and, with fumbling fingers, tied it around the bag and around Jack's neck. He stuck a small piece of wood in the loop and twisted it as tight as he could. Jack made no sound. Perhaps he was dead already?

Then, he lifted Jack's dead weight and bundled him into the boot of the car. He looked at Jack's recumbent form. He hoped that he was dead. Even if he was not dead, he reasoned that he soon would be asphyxiated by the bag or choked by the noose.

On the floor at the rear of the car he noticed a package. He picked it up and in the light from the still open boot and over Jack's recumbent form, he looked inside. It was the money. He shoved it inside his tracksuit.

He shut the boot and looked around. All was quiet. Had he got away with it? It was too soon to tell but so far, so good. He shook himself. He must concentrate. The door of the pub opened and someone came out. He must get a move on. He remembered the car keys. He quickly opened the boot again and found the keys in one of Jack's pockets. He shut the boot and got into the driver's seat. Now to get rid of the body.
CHAPTER 8

EPIPHANY

He started the engine and turned the car's headlights on and then drove slowly out of the car park. There were one or two people standing by the pub door, but otherwise there did not seem to be anyone around. Nobody looked his way. A little further down the road, he wound down the window and threw the lump of wood into some brambles. He was beginning to feel quite pleased with himself. Jack had wanted them to be partners. Well, now Jack was a partner, but he was a sleeping partner. He chortled to himself, but the laughter became hysterical and he then started to shake a little. His hands trembled on the wheel. He gripped it harder. Concentrate! He must concentrate! He took deep breaths and forced himself to relax his shoulders which felt very tense. His neck ached and he wished he was at home in bed and that none of this had ever happened. But it had.

His mood had swung from temporary elation to a kind of dread in a matter of moments. He stared ahead into the darkness as he drove along. He had, of course, given some thought to the disposal of the body. He did not want it to be discovered, so there was no good just dumping it in a ditch or a wood. Sooner or late it would be found. He wanted Jack to simply disappear. He did not want to start a murder hunt.

He had recently defended three Irish men who were charged with assault on police after a night's heavy drinking. He had ended up only defending two of them because the third, the worst offender among them who had tried to bite the officer's ear off, had failed to answer his bail and absconded.

In any event, whilst representing them, he had learned that they all worked on the road works for the new stretch of the M25 motorway being built between Watford and Rickmansworth. The road works were on a massive scale with huge quantities of aggregates and cement being used. He had it in mind to hide Jack's body under the new road. There had to be plenty of suitable holes. If he could get away with it, that offered the perfect opportunity to park Jack for eternity.

He drove slowly towards Chorleywood where he knew that a new bridge was to be constructed over the new motorway, both still in the process of construction.

He did not know the area very well and it was very dark. He just followed the road, which was largely unlit. Eventually, he reached obvious signs of road works. As he drove slowly onwards, it was apparent that only parts of the works were illuminated by temporary lights on long metal stands. In between the pools of light, all was lost in inky darkness. There did not appear to be any houses around.

He stopped just before the bridge began to span the vast cutting that would eventually carry the new motorway. He got out of the car and jogged over the bridge. It was possible to drive across the bridge and the road seemed to continue beyond, presumably into Chorleywood. He could see that much. There were no barriers of any kind. That was something. He continued to explore. There were gaping holes alongside the bridge and pits bristling with steel rods and wire mesh. There was no-one about.

_All the builders_ , he thought, _will be in their mobile homes and caravans having a meal or a can of beer._ He could faintly hear sounds of music from what looked like a trailer park a few hundred yards away by the side of the new motorway.

Eventually, on the far side of the bridge, he found what he was looking for. A deep shaft which bristled with steel rods and which already contained what appeared to be wet cement. He dropped a brick into it and it landed with what sounded like a 'gloop' noise. Clearly, the cement was still wet. Equally clearly, more cement would be added in due course. This was the place.

Now, all he had to do was to get Jack in there and depart as quickly as possible. The longer he was there, the greater the danger that someone might come along and see him. Heaven forbid that anybody should actually see him dumping the body!

He went back to the car and started the engine. He then drove the car very slowly over the bridge but without the lights on, making it all but invisible. He stopped adjacent to the shaft and got out. He went around to the boot and looked around. He could not see anyone or, indeed, anything much for that matter.

The boot of the car was slightly illuminated by a ray of light that touched it at an angle so that he could just see to find the catch and to open the lid. As he opened the lid and looked in, to his surprise Jack erupted from the boot with a growl of fury, grabbing Geoff around the neck with his hands and squeezing hard. The light caught Jack's face which was covered in blood and distorted with fear and rage.

For a moment, Geoff was himself paralysed by fear and shock. Then, as he felt himself suffocating from the stranglehold that Jack had on his throat, instinct took over and he fought for his life. He grabbed Jack's wrists, but could not prize the hands from his throat. Jack's face was so near that he could smell the blood and Jack's foul breath as they both struggled desperately. They were locked in a struggle for life itself and Jack had the advantage of surprise and the strength born of desperation. They rolled around on the floor behind the car, but no matter what he did he could not get Jack to release his grip.

'You bastard!' he was saying. 'You fucking bastard!'

His voice began to sound far away as Geoff felt himself losing consciousness.

With his last remaining strength, Geoff head-butted Jack viciously in the face and Jack's grip slackened momentarily. Another head-butt and the hands came off Geoff's throat. Now it was Jack's turn to be throttled with Geoff sitting astride him. Finally, he lay still.

Geoff slid off Jack sideways and leaned against the car, gasping and shaking. He could scarcely swallow because his throat hurt so much and it took him a long time to calm his breathing and to calm down. He stood up but immediately fell over the wing of the car and threw up. He lay half across the bonnet for a while listening. He could hear only distant muffled sounds from the site workers' caravans. An owl hooted. He felt the bonnet with his hands and made as if to lever himself up, but then collapsed forward again. He lay there for a while, his cheek pressed against the cold, wet metal of the car bonnet.

Eventually, he regained his composure. He knew he could not stay there all night. He looked around. All was quiet. It was a miracle that nobody had come along. He dragged himself to his feet and then took hold of Jack's motionless body. Lifting the body with a fireman's lift, he tottered to the edge of the shaft and, after a brief pause, rolled the body off his shoulder and into the depths.

There was a sound halfway between a splash and a thud as Jack fell into the cement. Had he gone? To make sure, Geoff scrambled down the embankment, slithering on the mud and gravel and scuffing his knees on unseen objects. Finally, he reached a point near the bottom of the shaft and looked in. Jack's body was not completely submerged. His back protruded like an island. That would not do. Geoff looked around and felt on the ground. Nearby, there were what appeared to be slabs of stone of some kind. He could not tell what, and he did not care. He grabbed one and lugged it over to the shaft, heaving it up to chest height and dropped it on to Jack's body. Jack's body and the stone both disappeared with gratifying speed. A few bubbles and then nothing. He waited a while, but it was over. Like some prehistoric swamp sacrifice, Jack was no more. He stood there in the darkness breathing in the cold night air until he felt a little calmer.

He felt suddenly sorry that Jack was gone. He had quite liked him, at first anyway. They were not unalike. In other circumstances, they could have been mates. Still, he reasoned he had had absolutely no choice. Jack had had to go. But to kill him? This is ridiculous, he said to himself. Pull yourself together; you are going around in circles.

Wearily, Geoff scrambled back up the bank, got in the car, turned the engine on, switched the lights on and drove off.

The inside of the car smelt reassuringly of the leather that covered the seats, although as always when in the vicinity of anything to do with Jack, there was a strong smell of cigarettes and tobacco. He drove with the windows open.

He travelled to Jack's flat in West Watford, but left the car a few streets away and again jogged. He let himself in. The key was on the car key ring. He pulled the curtains and switched on the light. Then he searched the place.

A large black cat appeared treading elegantly between the clothes scattered on the floor with its tail erect. It appeared not in the least abashed to find Geoff there and wandered over to greet him by rubbing itself against his legs. As Geoff moved around the flat, the cat kept getting in his way so that he was in danger of falling over it at every step. Eventually, Geoff realised that this was not affection. The cat was hungry. He went into the small kitchen. There, on the side, was an open tin of cat food with a fork stuck in it. He emptied some on to a saucer and put it on the floor. The cat approached it and sniffed, then looked at him as if to say, 'Is this the best you can do?'

Geoff decided to ignore it and continued looking around the flat. He peeped back over his shoulder and saw that the cat, which had clearly realised that this was it, was eating the food on the saucer.

Geoff did not know that Jack had a cat. He probably had not. This cat was no doubt just as much a stray as he was.

As he had expected, he found more money and, under a window seat, a considerable quantity of what to his untrained eye nonetheless appeared to be antique silver. In the bedside cupboard on the top of which there was an empty wine bottle and a couple of glasses, suggesting that Monica had perhaps made a further visit, he also found Jack's driving licence, a log book for the car and a passport. He winced slightly as he looked at the photograph. He was feeling shivery and so he put the kettle on to make himself a cup of tea. He washed out one of the less revolting cups and found a more or less clean spoon. Soon, he was gulping the hot, sweet liquid down and he began to feel better. He went over to the fireplace and looked into the mirror over the mantelpiece. He still looked the same and yet he could hardly recognise himself. It was unreal. He had killed a man! What in God's name had he come to? He clutched his head in his hands and staggered around the room moaning quietly. All of a sudden, he felt he was going mad. He panicked. What could he do?!

He went into the bathroom and stuck his head under the cold tap which he turned on full. The shock of the cold water calmed him a little and he forced himself to think whilst he leaned forward, his head in the sink with Jack's shaving mug by his ear. He knew that he would have to make it look as if Jack had moved out. Otherwise, although he was a loner, he would still soon be regarded as missing if all his things were still there. The landlord would find them. The police might be contacted and an enquiry began.

He would have to clear out his belongings and dump them. The silver he put in an old suitcase he pulled from on top of the wardrobe.

The cat had moved to the door of the flat where it turned and looked at him to be let out. He opened the door and the cat sauntered out, its tail held high. As he shut the door, a thought suddenly struck him like a bolt from heaven. Jack was dead. He had been a professional criminal with no fixed abode and, as far as Geoff knew, no family ties. What if he were to assume his identity and become Jack?! The thought intrigued him. His mind was reeling. He was giddy with the thought of the possibilities.

He sat down and thought about it. He had freed himself from Jack but in the process he had also become a criminal, probably a worse criminal than Jack had ever been. So how was he now going to go back quietly to the routine of a provincial, criminal solicitor who lived at home with an invalid mother, or was he going to find something else? A new life beckoned; a life of freedom, freedom from responsibility and freedom from himself. Everything he did, whatever it was, would be the actions of somebody else, not him! 'Three lives hath one life, iron, honey and gold' he recited from memory. It was time for a bit of the honey and gold.

He smiled. They would be partners after all, he and Jack. Partners in crime.

It was time for Jack to vacate the flat. Geoff packed a small holdall with Jack's clothes and personal items, and carefully put the papers and money that he had found in his pockets. Although it was chucked everywhere, there was not a great deal of clothing. He zipped up the holdall, having also put in the knickers and other bits and pieces he found. He took a last look around the little flat before leaving and posting the keys back through the letterbox. The landlord would have a key and sooner or later would go in and discover that Jack had gone. With luck, he would simply assume that he had done moonlight.

He retraced his steps to the car. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the rumble of an early morning train. It was growing light as he headed home.

On the way home, he chucked the holdall containing Jack's clothes into a builders' skip which other people had also used as an opportunity to discard any old, unwanted items they had and then he headed home. He parked Jack's car a little distance away from where he lived before continuing home on foot.

His mother was eating a bacon sandwich in the kitchen when he went in and Dinky, the dog, was curled up on a blanket by an oil-filled, electric radiator over which his mother had placed underwear to dry. The dog eyed him apprehensively as he came in. He need not have worried. He was quite safe whilst the mother was present.
CHAPTER 9

SETBACK

'Where have you been?' she asked not unreasonably, given that he had been out all night.

He made himself a cup of tea and some toast and explained that he had stayed over at a friend's place after they had been circuit training, had a drink or two and made an evening of it. His mother accepted that. He kept such strange hours, she thought, what with all the police stations and prisons he went to that staying at a friend's house seemed tame by comparison. Fortunately, he had left the suitcase with the silver in it in the locked boot of the Jaguar.

After breakfast, he took a bath and changed. His mother went with the dog to see a friend. After she had gone, he was suddenly struck by a feeling of intense anxiety that came from he knew not where. He thought some air might help and so partly for some air and partly to take advantage of his mother's absence; he went quickly back to the Jaguar and fetched the suitcase containing the silver which he put in the loft.

He was aware that that would not be easy to get rid of. He would have to give that some thought. He then started to prepare some breakfast for himself thinking that some more food might help, but as he did so, he felt himself becoming increasingly agitated. He could not stop thinking about what had happened. He had killed a man! At first, he had felt relief after the stress of the preceding weeks, and then there had been the elation he had felt of the prospect of a new life, but now that had abated and was replaced by the enormity of what he had done.

Waves of anxiety began to sweep over him and he became increasingly agitated. He could not sit still. He had to walk around and around the kitchen. He tried taking deep breaths, but he still felt stifled. He opened the windows. What was it? He was suddenly terrified. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Was he going mad? He was shaking. He wanted to cry out for help. He did not want to be alone and then, after a little while, the feelings eased a little and he was able to think a little more clearly. He went into the bathroom and put his head under the cold tap. That too helped a little.

He decided he needed some sleep. He rang the office to say he had been called out to a police station the night before and had had no sleep. He would be in later, he told them. He was tired, he told himself, that was all. But, when he lay on the bed, he realised that he was afraid to close his eyes. He would close them and then almost at once open them and look fearfully around the room as if demons lurked in the corners and were only waiting for him to close his eyes before throwing themselves upon him. He knew that was ridiculous and anyway it was broad daylight, but he could not help himself. He peered into the corners of the room and looked suspiciously at the cupboard doors as if expecting them to burst open and demons to pour forth into the room and attack him.

He looked hard at the ceiling which seemed somehow strangely distant, the room now at a queer angle. It did not look right somehow. Was it the room that was unbalanced or was it him?

Am I going mad, he said aloud? At last, thankfully, exhaustion took over and he fell into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke some hours later, he felt as if he had been poleaxed. His head felt as if he had the worst hangover of his life it ached so. He struggled off the bed and staggered into the bathroom which he reached with difficulty leaning against the door frame as he arrived and staring at his haggard countenance in the bathroom mirror.

'I need a doctor,' he said to his reflection in the mirror. 'Either that or a shrink.'

He washed and shaved and then he telephoned the office again and said he would not be in that day and that he was unwell. He certainly felt unwell.

He rang the doctor's surgery and was told that he could come round and wait to see if the doctor would have time to see him at the end of his surgery, but it might be a long wait.

Geoff had no choice. He needed help from somebody and so he went and waited. The waiting room was full of the usual collection of sick, lame and lazy that are to be found the length and breadth of the land in doctors' surgeries, sniffing and coughing. Normally, he would have felt a mild contempt for them, but now he felt sympathetic towards them. They were now, after all, all sufferers together. They shared a common misery. Their physical presence was a comfort to him and somehow exuded a kind of warmth that seemed to ease his sense of aloneness and pain a little. Pain it was too. Physical pain. He ached so much that he was certain that he had some dreadful illness and might die. Anxiety, anxiety pure and simple, swept over him periodically in waves making him grit his teeth and clasp the arms of the chair he was sitting in to stop himself running away. He did not know what he was anxious about. It was a kind of nameless dread and a feeling of acute claustrophobia.

He suddenly felt that he had to get out of the waiting room. He went into the loo and shut the door, then silently shook with sobs, pulling the chain to disguise the sounds that might otherwise be noticed. Then, he sat on the lavatory seat until he had calmed down a little. He was beginning to see a pattern, a sense of disquiet and rising agitation followed by waves of anxiety that would then ease, leaving him for a period at least in respite from the demons that seemed to be tormenting him. He hoped the doctor could come up with something. Frankly, he did not feel that he could live like this. He had no defence. Nothing that he had, no reserve of strength or character seemed to help. What was going on?

His turn finally came to see the doctor who had plainly had a busy day. He looked bored.

'What's the problem?' he enquired in a disinterested voice as he wrote up his notes from the previous patient. He did not even look up at first.

Geoff explained in a strangled voice whilst his shoulders shook slightly that he did not feel well and tried to explain the physical symptoms he was experiencing. The doctor looked at him distrustfully. Geoff suspected that the doctor was concerned that he might be yet another lead swinger wanting time off work. Such was the faith that people invested in the medical profession that a word from the doctor or perhaps touching the hem of his jacket might affect a miraculous cure.

'What's your job?' he asked curtly.

'Solicitor,' responded Geoff, at which point the doctor's attitude changed and he assumed a benevolent smile.

'Ah!' he said. 'So was my father. Where do you practise?'

There then followed a short discussion on private practice in Watford – not the most desirable of places, but plenty of work - by the end of which the doctor was fully sympathetic to Geoff's plight.

'Sounds like stress to me,' he said and then continued whilst scribbling something on a pad 'I imagine you have been working too hard and I'm going to recommend a complete break and a rest for two weeks.'

So, although Geoff did not glean any real clue as to what was actually happening to him, he was at least going to have a couple of weeks in which to try to recover. He had been granted a breather.

He thanked the doctor and left and arranged for his mother to notify the firm.
CHAPTER 10

A NEW LIFE

He did not go away. There was nowhere that he wanted to go, but he could not face going away anyway, even though by staying at home he had to face his mother's anxious clucking around him. He was the one suffering from anxiety, but in the end it was he who had had to reassure her.

'I'm fine, Mum, the doctor just says that I need to rest.'

That did not do much to stop her fussing and after a day or two, largely to get away from her, he started going on long walks by himself in the surrounding countryside.

That actually was what he needed to do, he discovered. The exercise made him feel better and he could think better whilst he was walking. At other times in his life, both exercise and nature had had a soothing effect at times of stress and now walking acted as a balm, gradually soothing his tormented feelings and causing the feeling of anxiety to abate. The doctor had prescribed some pills, but he did not want to take them.

He would set off immediately after breakfast and leave the town behind him as quickly as he could. The road at the edge of town acted as a kind of frontier for him. Once he had crossed it and entered the first familiar field, he would become aware of a sense of escape and of leaving his problems behind him.

The landscape was very familiar to him. He had explored it since he was a boy and he could find his way through it even on the darkest night. He was familiar with the hedgerows and ditches, woods and fields. Even the folds in the ground were familiar and comforting and seemed to welcome him.

Gradually, he explored his boyhood haunts, visiting again the ditches where he had gone birds nesting with Tom and familiar landmarks like the concrete pillbox, now all overgrown in the corner of Pursley Wood, a relic of some defence line created in case the Germans had ever invaded England. There were others in the area as well, but this one was out on a limb, all on its own, miles across the fields, hidden half overgrown in the corner of the wood where a colony of rooks in the trees above squawked and chattered and shat on the pill box from on high.

He wandered the many hedgerows of the ancient enclosure landscape and in one of them he found again the ash tree he had climbed when he was ten years old. The nail was still driven into the bark of the tree where he himself had hammered it to give himself a leg up an otherwise unclimbable tree trunk, at least for a small boy. The fact that it was unclimbable had been important to him. This was his tree. Nobody else must be able to climb it. It was his and his alone. Often, on a summer day, he had visited the tree and climbed right up to the giddy height of its crown where the branches splayed sufficiently to allow him to sit secure and hidden high above the ground whilst the wind gently rustled the trees' leaves until hunger drove him down and home. That particular tree was his secret place, his alone.

Now, he contented himself with patting the trunk and looking upwards, marvelling at how a small boy had been so daring. He did not fancy climbing it now, although he assured himself he would be able to if he wished to do so.

So the days passed and gradually he began to feel better. He went through events again and again in his mind and eventually managed to persuade himself that what he had done was sensible, albeit regrettable. He knew that he'd simply had no choice but it still upset him deeply.

As his feelings subsided, he began to consider again the possibilities that a dual identity now offered him. As Geoff, the solicitor, he was locked into a conventional life as predictable and as boring as everyone else. But, as Jack, he could do whatever he liked wherever he liked and still return to Geoff's life as and when he chose. It offered him the perfect cover.

_In for a penny, in for a pound_ , he thought to himself as he brightened up. He felt quite excited as the kaleidoscope of possibilities began to dawn on him.

He would have to be careful to keep them strictly apart, of course. His life as Jack, which he already knew would be the life of a professional criminal, would need to be lived elsewhere.

One of the first problems he had was to get rid of both the Jaguar car and the silver. He had been moving the car to different roads in the town from time to time so that nobody got too curious, but sooner or later somebody would see him in it and start asking questions. There was also the silver. Although on the one hand he could hang on to it for a long time if he wished, on the other hand if it was discovered, then the chances are it would be checked for fingerprints which would be likely to throw up Jack's prints and, as a consequence, link him to Jack which he would find difficult to explain.

He got rid of the car first, driving it over to Barnet and selling it for cash to a second hand car dealer down the road towards East Barnet.

Whilst he was walking back up the long hill to High Barnet, he was wondering what to do about the silver and then suddenly remembered a small jewellers shop that he had come across whilst he had been serving his articles as a trainee solicitor in the East End. One day, he had been sent to take witness statements from some West Indians charged with possession of drugs offences and, since like most of the old firm's clients they lived not far from the office, he had walked, his route taking him along cobbled lanes which in places still had the old Jewish shops with the shutter on the front that, when lowered forwards and downwards, formed the counter and the shop was then open for business.

The statements he took were from a group of sphinx-like West Indians in a cellar of Old Montague Street which was used as some sort of club. On the wall behind the men, bare save for the notice, was a hand written note declaring that the use of drugs on the premises was forbidden.

_Outside, therefore_ , thought Geoff cynically to himself, _is possibly alright_.

It was in any event a clear case of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted because one of the charges the proprietor faced was permitting the use of drugs on the premises. The notice was probably too little too late and a belated attempt to convince a sceptical world of the owner's innocence.

In any event, after he had finished the statements and taken his leave, he went back to the office by a different route and on the way came across the jeweller's shop who in fact was also a silversmith. That had attracted his attention and he had paused, going down some steps into the gloomy court where the shop was situated to have a look. He had not stayed long. Articled clerks earned very little money and there was no point in lingering or longing. He had, however, peered through the window into the interior of the little shop which, like the old man inside, appeared to have been there forever.

He decided he would take the silver there, but first he wanted to find somewhere for Jack to live. Whitechapel, the area where the jeweller's shop was situated, seemed to him to be as good a place as any. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it appealed to him.

Whitechapel, as he remembered it, was a place which in his view was synonymous with all that was squalid and depraved about human existence. Given what he had become and what he proposed to do, it seemed a fitting place for Jack Shepherd. Here, he would be in Jack's natural element.

From a practical point of view, it was also in the centre of London, a stone's throw from the City. This would be his lair, a retreat from which he might sally forth and a refuge to which he could return.

His familiarity with the area would be an advantage. This was where years before he had spent part of his training in a local solicitor's office. This had been situated in Whitechapel High Street. The office, reached by a creaking wooden staircase, reverberated with the unending roar of heavy traffic heading towards Commercial Road. Upstairs, the walls of the waiting room were devoid of pictures of any kind and were greasy with the fingerprints of the unwashed. It smelt of stale cigarette smoke, the fug made worse by the presence of an electric heater grudgingly turned on, on cold days. Apart from the heater, the room, which had no windows and the one door, contained only a few wooden chairs.

The reception door next to the waiting room was always kept locked and anybody wishing to gain admittance had to ring a bell and eventually a girl would slide back a small partition, rather like that found on cell doors, to inspect the caller and to enquire, 'Yeah?'

If the visitor passed muster, which if they did not have an appointment meant waving a wodge of fivers through the hatch, he would be invited to take a seat in the waiting room to await being summoned into the presence of the solicitor.

If the solicitor, Monty, was too busy, Geoff would stand in and many were the occasion when he would find himself facing a man whose eyes flickered nervously around the room and who spoke in a voice tense with strain as he leant back on the office door as if afraid he was pursued.

'What can I do for you?' Geoff would enquire politely.

'Er,' the man would begin hesitantly, 'I think the police at Commercial Street police station want to see me and I was wondering if somebody could come with me?' If the price was right, then obviously they would, and very often did.

The office was a relic of the past, but reflected the harsh reality of the present. That is, it was a relic of the firm's partners' pasts, since Whitechapel was the womb from which they all sprang. As far as their present was concerned, none of them lived in the East End anymore, having long since prospered and moved on largely to salubrious, leafy suburbs.

Their parents or grandparents had congregated in the East End of London and particularly in Whitechapel, following the Czarist pogroms against the Jews living in Russia and Poland. Thousands had left and travelled to England or America. Those that arrived in an already overcrowded Whitechapel came in such numbers that they very soon dominated the whole area. They too had had their criminal elements, of course. There had been Jewish razor gangs at race courses in the 1930s but, by and large, the hard working family-focused Jewish community pushed and encouraged their children to better themselves. The father or grandfather might sell matches on the High Street, but the son or grandson was going into one of the professions. By the time Geoff was articled there in the 1960s, all the solicitors firms in the immediate area were Jewish, that is Jewish partners, solicitors, articled clerks and even, often, most of the secretaries. The clients were largely Jewish, except for the criminal clients, which at that time had been mainly the 'goys', or gentiles, drawn almost exclusively from the East End working class where crime was a career option adopted by many.

Already though, more recent waves of immigrants were beginning to appear in the firm's clientele including, for example, the West Indian who had chased a man down Brick Lane with an ex-army bayonet or the two Pakistanis charged with rape that the firm had defended. Was it the area that had this effect on people or was it just that all people behaved like that, wondered Geoff without coming to any conclusion. He would shrug his shoulders and simply accept that that was the way it was.

These days, of course, the bulk of the firm, although it still kept on the East End office like a tiny outpost in some far flung empire, was now lodged in plush premises 'up West'. They had risen in the world, like most of the firm's Jewish clientele who had long since moved to pastures new in other parts of London. There were, it was true, still a few Jewish businesses in Whitechapel. There was the tailor's shop nearby with the Mezuzah, the Hebrew prayer scroll on the door frame. There was Bloom's restaurant and even the occasional sweat shop still in Commercial Road with its humid atmosphere and dusty particle-filled air where old Jewish tailors shaped like turnips worked in their vests. These though were relics of the past, like the Jewish soup kitchen in Alie Street. Time had moved on and so too had the former Jewish immigrant community.

The new immigrants were also going into the rag trade, particularly those from the Indian sub-continent. By degrees, Jewish sweat shops would become Bengali sweat shops, employing people from their own community.

The whole area had always been, at best, poor and, at worst, a slum, even before Hitler's Luftwaffe added their two pennies' worth.

The visible signs of their efforts were still all too visible right through the sixties and early seventies with levelled bombsites everywhere, the haunt of weeds, rubbish and vagrants.

He remembered that there had been a bombsite opposite the old office, one of many. It was a boarded-up wasteland of levelled house bricks strewn with rubbish and other debris. Every morning he had watched from the office window as some piles of rubbish stirred on the opposite side of the road and stood up, assuming ragged human outlines, before shuffling off to the Salvation Army centre for a cup of tea and a piece of toast carrying their possession, such as they were, in polythene carrier bags or tied up in bundles. The next stop would be the reading room of the Whitechapel library for a snooze in the warm. In inclement weather, it would be difficult to find a seat in the reading room due to the numerous fetid bodies damply steaming in the closely packed room and the smell they jointly generated was a powerful disincentive to linger.

Once Geoff had asked Monty, the resident solicitor in the East End office, why no effort was made to improve the firm's waiting room with a lick of paint perhaps and a few magazines. Monty had raised his eyebrows and looked aghast at Geoff saying, 'What? You want it to be like the reading room at the library? We won't be able to move for the bastards if we make it too comfortable.'

Geoff realised he had a point. As much as possible, however, he avoided going into the waiting room.

Monty, who was the junior partner in the firm, was a sage individual, wise beyond his years with an expressive, lugubrious face who liked to give dictation with his feet on the desk whilst pulling reflectively at his beard.

He found it hard to get started in the mornings and would spend at least half an hour bemoaning the amount of work he had to do whilst his Secretary and Geoff both waited patiently for instructions. As a consequence, he was always taking work home with him to his house in the suburbs where his wife would often enquire mildly why it was he had to do so much work at home. Monty would pause, look at her over his glasses and say 'You still want three meals a day?'

Monty was a modern man who dictated instructions to counsel in the terminology of a liberal social worker.

'The defendant is a recidivist and a member of the criminal sub-culture of the East End of London' – pause for reflection and beard pulling before continuing, 'the defendant...' where upon the phone would ring and he would be on the phone for the next ten minutes whilst the secretary inspected her nails and Geoff divided his time between gazing out of the window and trying to make the secretary laugh.

Monty voted Labour and shopped in The Burlington Arcade.

Over the years, Monty had become Geoff's mentor and the East End had become a familiar place. Now it was to become home.

As Geoff left Aldgate East tube station, he cautiously sniffed the air. He knew from experience that it did not do to inhale too deeply. There it was, that familiar smell, he remembered, just like the inside of a dustbin on a warm day. The familiar sights and sounds embraced him as he walked toward the docks, or at least towards where the London docks had been.

The predominant sound was the roar of the traffic thundering, not towards the old docks, but past and away down Commercial Road. The docks had recently moved down river to Tilbury to deal with the new container ship traffic which was not able to come right up the Thames to the old Pool of London. Their departure did not just leave a hole in the East End; it tore it apart leaving behind acres of empty docks like St Katherine's Dock next to Tower Bridge with its huge, now empty, bonded tea warehouses. The dockers went too. With their departure, the exodus of the respectable working class was complete. The sense of decay was palpable.

It was to this wasteland that Geoff was now returning.

For Geoff, returning to Whitechapel felt like diving into a cesspit but he did so from choice. He pinched his nose, shut his eyes and jumped. _I must remember to keep my mouth shut_ , he thought.
CHAPTER 11

HOME FROM HOME

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself walking along Leman Street. His feet must have known where he wanted to go because he was heading for an all-night café-cum-doss house run by an old tom called Juanita.

The lady in question, a rotund Portuguese woman of short stature, was, despite her sex and size, a formidable character. Her husband had been stabbed to death before her eyes in the café one night, and she had dealt summarily with his attacker with a hammer. When Plod had arrived from the nearby Leman Street police station, all that was left for them to do was to pick up the bits.

Juanita had been unrepentant and it was only with difficulty that the hammer had been removed from her grasp.

Behind the fat knees and corpulent body, it was still possible to discern the attractive woman she may once have been. She was a warm-hearted woman as well and had numerous children to prove it. Although they were all undoubtedly hers, it was equally clear, from their cosmopolitan appearance, that the fathers were not all the same, an occupational hazard from her point of view. Her late husband, a Maltese, seemed untroubled by this. Either he had not noticed or he did not care. Her earnings, in any event, were what enabled them to acquire the lease of the café in the first place. He would not have been alone in the East End if he had enjoyed the financial fruits of her labours. Poncing, as it was known, was, for some men, a line of income that not only paid the bills, but kept the drink flowing. If you ran out of money in the pub, you just sent the missus out the back with a punter and when she returned looking slightly more dishevelled than usual, the drinks would keep coming.

As a young man, Geoff had, when witnessing the trial of one of those arseholes, often wondered of the depths of degradation that it was possible for someone to sink to. Now, of course, he was no better than they were.

So far as Juanita was concerned, now with her husband gone, she ran the café surrounded by her children and, indeed, grandchildren, for a number of her teenage daughters had followed in their mother's footsteps. It was to this oasis of domesticity that Geoff now made his way.

As he drew near, he saw that the café was lit by strip lighting which, together with the neon sign above the entrance, gave the place a ghoulish, amusement arcade appearance. Inside, it was normal enough and there were even a couple of pinball machines. There were rows of tables with red and white chequered plastic tablecloths, each with a plastic tumbler containing inevitably, it seemed, a plastic flower. A swing door led to the kitchen through which one or other of the daughters would emerge carrying plates of food or return with empties.

The café was only half full when Geoff went in. The smell of warm food greeted him. _At some of the tables, there were shiny, black faces probably_ , Geoff thought, _Somali seamen from the nearby Red Ensign Club, who were in the café playing cards._ At other tables, unkempt, long-haired youths sat staring vacantly into space smoking, perhaps listening to the music from the radio on the counter – _Roy Orbison,_ Geoff thought, _unless I am mistaken_.

Juanita was behind the counter spreading margarine from a large plastic tub over crusty rolls cut in half before adding greasy looking sausages and a squirt of brown sauce whilst wobbling up and down to the music as the singer crooned, Pretty woman, walking down the street.

'Two dog rolls!' she called out to nobody in particular and a man who looked like a tramp shuffled over and took the plate extended by Juanita containing them.

'Don't mention it,' she said sourly as he turned and took the food to a table without saying anything. 'Don't come back in here again!' she said with emphasis. She looked as if she meant it.

She carried on working and ignored Geoff who cleared his throat to attract her attention.

'Yeah?' she said, looking up at him, knife containing a large dollop of margarine held still for a moment, suspended over the next bread roll.

'I need a room. Do you have any vacancies?' said Geoff, being careful not to sound posh. Respectable was alright. Posh was not. Posh stood out too much and would attract attention because what would a person like that be doing in a café in Leman Street of all places?

'Maybe,' she said looking him up and down. 'How long for?'

'Oh, I guess a month or two depending on work,' he replied.

Her inspection of Geoff had plainly satisfied her, for without another word she stuck the knife in the tub of margarine, told a daughter to take over and led Geoff through another door and up some linoleum-covered stairs to a corridor which ran towards the back of the building.

There was a room free on the first floor at the rear of the building. There was no separate entrance. You had to go through the café on the ground floor but, he reflected, there were always the windows in case of emergency. He opened the sash window of the room and looked out at the squalid yard below, full of dustbins and what appeared to be used Durex discarded carelessly on the ground. _Couldn't even be bothered to put them in the bins_ , he thought. The yard stank of cat urine, the smell rising to greet him.

'Not as warm as I thought', he said shutting the window firmly.

He took the room and paid a month's rent in advance. He told Juanita that he needed somewhere to stay when he was working in Dock Street, which was nearby. There were some freight forwarding firms that still had offices there and he told her that he worked for one of these. He was a booking clerk. He would not be staying the whole of each week, he explained, because his work took him to other ports, Southampton in particular where his family lived. Juanita was happy enough with the rent, never mind the tale. What did she care what he did so long as he paid the rent and gave her no trouble?

She gave him two keys, one to the room and the other to the front door of the café so he could come and go as he pleased.

She left him in the room and he sat there for a while savouring his new situation. He felt at home already. This little shoebox, a box above another box, completely divorced from any contact with the ground, part of a pile of crumbling bricks built upon the detritus of previous generations of people and property who had long since disappeared into the sludge that passed for earth in this part of the world. It was true that some of the brick parapets of the rotting buildings nearby had weeds and buddleia growing out of them, incongruous roof gardens ahead of their time in this pre eco-friendly era. Apart from the weeds, the only link with nature was the sky which, where visible, seemed to be grey most of the time. In fact, Geoff preferred it to be grey, as grey as the paving stones that formed the pavements. It provided a confirmation of just how dull life could be. He found this strangely reassuring. There was nothing to remind him of his humanity or to suggest that life might somehow be better.

Well pleased with the arrangements he had put in place, Geoff made his way with the suitcase of silver directly to the jeweller's shop where he hoped to dispose of it, leaving another case with clothes and other items in the room.

As he walked, he reflected on the twists and turns of life. He was now the accepted tenant of a room in an establishment that was a cross between an all-night café and a knocking shop. His fall from respectability could not have been more complete.
CHAPTER 12

MANNIE

He was not disappointed in his hope to dispose of the silver. The elderly gentleman was alone when he entered the shop with the suitcase which at first he placed on the floor by his feet.

He knew that he was taking an incredible risk, at least in Geoff's terms, but he was now Jack and he could not care less. The risk was the thrill.

The old jeweller put down the necklace he had been examining and looked at him over the top of his half-moon glasses balancing on the end of his nose. He was quite little and round and of indeterminate age, but as far as Geoff was concerned, he was simply old. Tufts of hair sprouted from his ears and nose, together with a large, grey beard grown perhaps as compensation for his bald head.

'Yes, young man?' he enquired quietly.

'I'm told that you have an interest in objects of value, well I've got some,' said Geoff and with that he picked up the suitcase and placed in on the counter and opened it.

The old jeweller's eyes opened wide, but he said nothing. He simply shuffled around the counter, locked the door of the shop and placed a closed sign on it.

'Come into the back,' he said.

Geoff followed him into the rear parlour where a fire burnt in the grate and an elderly woman sat in an armchair.

'Make us a cup to tea, my dear,' said the jeweller to her, and the old lady got up and left the room. On impulse, the old jeweller called after her, 'On second thoughts, go get us some salt-beef sandwiches! Leave the tea until you come back.'

Geoff heard the sound of a door closing as the old lady did as she had been asked.

'What's your name?' the jeweller said.

'Jack.'

'I'm Emmanuel, but call me Mannie. Now let's see what you've got.'

By the time the old lady came back with the salt-beef sandwiches, Jack and Mannie had done a deal. Geoff did not know if Mannie had paid him a good price or not, but for some reason he trusted him. Strange to tell, he had liked him as soon as he had seen him. Whether he could really trust him or not he neither knew nor cared. He had got rid of the silver.

The old lady made a fuss of him, raising her hands in the air and saying how handsome he was. Geoff was mildly embarrassed, but also flattered.

He finished his tea and salt-beef sandwich, shook Mannie's hand and left.

It was time to return to the café for his first night in his new home.

At the cafe, he went straight through the dining area. He wasn't hungry. He had just eaten. On the stairs he bumped into a teenage girl in a tight blouse and short skirt with a broad figure-hugging leather belt around her waist. He passed to let her pass and the better to observe her as she swayed her hips from side to side as she descended the stairs. She was very attractive and smiled at him.

'You the new lodger?' she enquired with a smile as she drew near him. He nodded.

The stairwell was small and he may have been mistaken, but he felt certain that she brushed past him a little more closely than was strictly necessary. Then she was gone, the door to the dining room swinging shut behind her leaving a lingering scent of some cheap perfume or other mingled with the smell of fried bread. This, it turned out, was Lola, one of Juanita's many daughters, all of whom Geoff discovered over time were in great demand.
CHAPTER 13

THE LONG ARM OF THE LAW

DS Green had not been idle. Despite the good opinion of the constabulary at Watford police station, he was not satisfied. He felt in his bones that something was not quite right about Geoff and as for Jack Shepherd, where had he disappeared to?

He had spoken to the witnesses who had picked Jack out of the ID parade. They were still certain that he was the man that they had seen. One of them, the gardener at the house, had identified him partly by his shoes, which he had seen protruding from behind a bush. He had heard the sound of glass breaking and gone to investigate. He had found the broken window pane with tape on it. He had looked quickly around about, but seen nothing else. Then, whilst he was standing there not sure what to do, he had heard a slight noise and, on looking in the direction of the noise, he had noticed somebody's shoes protruding from beneath a shrub. They did not move and he did not move. The shoes were all that he could see. They were quite distinctive. They were brown and scuffed, more boots than shoes with large leather straps and buckles. They reminded him of cowboy boots. They were definitely more American looking than European. After an interval, he had decided that discretion was the better part of valour and noisily made sounds of leaving, dropping his spade in his wheelbarrow and stomping off. Then, from a distance, he had paused and hidden. Shortly afterwards, peeping cautiously around the edge of a greenhouse, he had seen a blond-haired young man wearing a short leather jacket emerge from the shrubbery and walk quickly in the direction of the road. He had gone at once to alert the lady of the house who, whilst he telephoned the police, had gone to the lane which ran past the house in time to see a Jaguar car being driven off by a blond-haired man. She got part of the index number which she remembered and gave to the police. Jack had been stopped about 10 miles away. The part of the index number which had been given to the police matched the index number of his car. Was that a coincidence?

Although the attempted burglary had been just that, an attempt only, DS Green had ascertained that there had been a spate of burglaries of isolated dwellings in the area which had plainly been carried out by a professional, since only high value items of silver had been taken – antique for the most part. It was almost as if items were being stolen by order. Someone somewhere had a shopping list.

He was certain that it had been Jack. Not only was he arrested nearby, but he answered the description given by the witnesses and had been picked out by them. True, identification evidence was notoriously unreliable, but there was the car as well and Jack had form which included burglary. None of that, of course, was conclusive, but his copper's instinct told him he was on the right path.

DS Green decided to follow up on Jack Shepherd. If he was the professional criminal he thought he was, then they might be able to pin something else on him and arrest him again. He had an address for Jack in west Watford and decided to call in on him. You never knew what an unexpected visit might turn up.

He found the place where Jack had lived without much difficulty. He was not there now, it appeared, and the present occupant of the premises, a young woman who had moved down to Watford from up north to find work, did not know where he had gone. No forwarding address had been left. She did remember that the landlord had said that he had left suddenly and still owed him rent.

DS Green did not doubt what she said, but he checked with the landlord anyway and he confirmed what the young woman had said.

So, it appeared that Jack had done a moonlight flit. DS Green recalled that when Jack had been arrested, he had had plenty of cash on him, so why would he have left owing rent? It was a mystery, but it did not look as if he was going to get much further at the moment. As he drove back to Aylesbury, he decided to circulate a request for information, any information, about Jack Shepherd through police intelligence. That might turn up something. He had form, so his fingerprints and a photograph were on record. If he was nicked for anything else, he should be advised even though there was no warrant out for him. Anyway, he could but hope.

He also decided to circulate a request amongst other police forces for details of any silver thefts or burglaries in other parts of the country. If there were any, then it might help him to locate Shepherd that way. As time went by and no new leads surfaced, he had little option other than to leave his suspicions where they lay. The files were full of unsolved crimes. This, he felt, was simply another one of those.
CHAPTER 14

A SCHIZOPHRENIC EXISTENCE

As the weeks went by, Geoff slowly eased into his new life. Living with two identities might have proved more difficult were it not for the fact that he divided his time quite rigidly between his public face during the week of hard working solicitor, and the weekends. The weekends were for Jack Shepherd.

At first, his mother had been very difficult about him not being at home at the weekend. He could not say that he was going for any recreational reason. She would have made a fuss about that. So much for leading his own life! No, he told her that he was helping to cover a central London police station at the weekends to help a London solicitor friend who had had an accident and who was paying him well for it. Work was always regarded as a satisfactory excuse for absence.

As he left the office on Friday evenings, he would slough off his weekly skin to reveal Jack Shepherd, his sleeping partner, the wolf in wolf's clothing. On Monday mornings, the transition was reversed. All this he found very agreeable. It added spice to an otherwise dull existence. For him, there was no need to live vicariously through books or the cinema. He lived through Jack.

Despite the fact that he had had a life-long dislike of smoking, he quickly found that, as Jack, smoking was not only part of the persona but actually enjoyable and he came to find that cigarettes not only gave him something to do, but also that they relaxed him.

This particular transition carried through to his everyday life as Geoff, since he found that once he had acquired the habit, it was difficult to limit it to the times when he was Jack, and although it surprised colleagues at first, they soon became accustomed to the sight of him smoking. Once accepted, these things are quickly forgotten and so it was with him.

The only exception he made was that he did not smoke at home. It would have been bad for his mother's health, but it hardly mattered, since these days he was seldom there.

On a Monday morning, he would find himself now striding with more purpose than before towards the Magistrates Court. His parallel life, a life about which nobody knew, made him feel elated. He found it gave him a feeling of detachment from his old life, a distance, an objectivity that came from knowing that no matter how frustrating and dismal this ordinary every day existence might be, a quite different world awaited him at the weekends, a world in which he was absolutely free from any kind of restriction or boundary. All of that came from the anonymity that Jack provided him with and which liberated him from his old self and his old life. It wasn't that he had any particular desire to commit crimes. No, what appealed to him was the freedom that he had at last acquired.
CHAPTER 15

THE NEW WORLD

Geoff enjoyed his new lodgings. Juanita proved to be a good cook, albeit of the fried egg sandwich variety, and asked no questions. She would even, for him, fry up a bit of cabbage to have with his breakfast, a particular love of his, even though she regarded his taste for cabbage as at best eccentric if not actually bizarre.

'Still,' she would say, shovelling fried cabbage on to his plate with his bacon, 'I suppose it's good for you.' Whether or not it was good for him did not concern Geoff. He simply liked it.

He came and went as he pleased without receiving a second glance which was exactly what he wanted. He would lie on his bed in his room smoking and listening to the sounds around him, the crash of plates from the kitchen below when somebody had an accident and dropped them, the distant slamming of a door, the night time caterwauling of a cat, a barking dog. Gradually, he came to recognise, and to be able to identify, the sounds around him until the place fitted him like a glove. He relished his new-found sense of freedom.

He had to share a bathroom with the other residents, that is Juanita and her daughters and their occasional visitors. This he did not mind, but, having once inadvertently walked in on a daughter and guest in a foam-filled bath together, he had suggested the use of a simple sign outside if the facilities were engaged. That had been agreed and so further embarrassment was avoided. Later, he had learned that the punter had been enjoying a Swedish massage, that being one of the services on the menu. Geoff was not entirely sure what that entailed, but chose not to enquire further. Certainly, the bath seemed a good idea.

When he went out, he walked purposefully. He did not dawdle and he did not loiter, particularly not in shop doorways. You could get nicked under the Vagrancy Act if a copper saw you, particularly at night time, as a suspected person. He did not want to run that risk so he always walked as if he was going somewhere.

By degrees, he grew familiar with the area, the bombsites, the street markets, Petticoat Lane market just up the road at Wentworth Street, the pubs, the all-night cafes, the old wastelands of deserted docks and warehouses that flanked the river, the dark, dimly lit streets, the river inky black at night and grey by day.

He soon felt quite at home and slept soundly at night. Even the professional activities of Juanita's daughters did not disturb him, although he marvelled at their stamina.

They were also quite friendly. They soon realised that he was neither a potential punter nor judgmental. He accepted them for who they were and they accepted him. He soon felt part of the family but was careful not to be drawn into conversations that might enable them to learn too much about him. He concentrated on keeping it cheerful and general.

By and by, he felt it was time for a little rumble. What to do? He did not want to do anything silly. The crème de la crème of the prison fraternity might be the armed robbers, but their presence in prison illustrated the perils of the trade and the heavy penalties that it carried. For a first armed robbery – going across the pavement, as it was sometimes termed – you were looking at a sentence of 5 years. With subsequent convictions, it got steadily worse. Even the driver of the getaway car got 3 years on average, even if he had no previous convictions. No, that would not do. He did not see himself as a modern Dick Turpin.

It was not too long before the beginnings of an idea came to him. It was time, he felt, to explore some of the darker areas of Jack's life. During the short time that he had known Jack, he had come to admire the man's nerve in particular. It was that rather than gain that appealed to him. Gain was certainly a factor, but what really motivated him was the thrill, the thrill that came from being outside of the boundaries of society in all their stratifying restrictiveness. He wanted to see what he could get away with, and if he made some money at the same time, then so much the better.

CHAPTER 16

A LONDON PIED-A-TERRE

London lawyers of the superior sort often divided their time between town and country. In the week, they stayed in town in a flat or pied-à-terre, as they termed it, there being no reasonable English equivalent. It was what Jack might have termed a 'drum' or 'gaff' in that rather common way that he had with the English language. At weekends, the successful barrister headed for the family home in Wiltshire or Northamptonshire or some such place. Geoff did the opposite, heading into the heart of the City at the weekends.

This idea, when it occurred to him, pleased him enormously. It pleased him particularly because it meant that the barristers' London pads would be empty at the weekends. He sensed an opportunity.

His daily work brought him regularly into contact with barristers and, just as importantly, with their clerks, many of whom he had known since he had been a trainee. He had actually been described as an articled clerk, which is a kind of apprentice bound to a solicitor for five years whilst he learned the trade. Trade! Good heavens, no! The Profession. Solicitors were never in business, let alone a trade. They were professionals and made of different clay to other mortals.

Geoff had once been told by a philosophical dustman with whom he had worked during a school holiday job, that if you wanted to know how people lived, you could do little better than look inside their dustbins. He had never put that to the test, but he did know from experience that the repository for most of what there was to know about a barrister was their clerk. Barristers' clerks invariably knew most of what there was to know about their 'guvnors' as they called them, somewhat misleadingly. The barrister's clerk was the human equivalent of their dustbin.

The clerk was at the very centre of the barrister's professional life. It was he who accepted or rejected work, negotiated fees, chased payment from tardy solicitors and generally did all he could to advance the barrister's career. He had a direct interest in this because he earned a percentage calculated on the fee that the barrister earned. This ancient practice meant that many clerks earned as much or more than many of the barristers in their set of chambers. Moreover, the barrister's clerk, as a result of their unique position, was a powerful and sometimes tyrannical figure, ruling over not only the junior clerks but also the 'guvnors'. This time-honoured and entrenched practice had the practical effect of keeping learned counsel at a respectable distance from all things to do with filthy lucre and enabled him to maintain a certain lofty aloofness from the affairs of mere mortals.

The senior clerk presided over the clerk's office where there would be a second clerk, who might hope to become senior clerk one day, and then one or more junior clerks whose opportunity to become the senior clerk was too far in the future for them to be even able to imagine that exalted state.

Geoff had met a good many clerks, particularly in the Temple, one of the Inns of Court in which barristers had their chambers. All barristers belonged to one of the four Inns of Court; Grays Inn, Lincolns Inn and the Middle and Inner Temples. The nature of their work tended to determine the Inn that they joined. What were described as 'common lawyers', those dealing with crime, matrimonial work and civil litigation, tended to be found in the Temple.

As part of Geoff's duties, he had had to do a lot of footwork in and around the various barristers' chambers, delivering sets of instructions, collecting papers, attending with the client at chambers to see the barrister instructed in a particular case in conference and, of course, dropping off cheques in payment for work done.

During even the busiest day, there was often time to linger for a cup of tea and a chat. Not much went on in chambers or the Temple that the clerks did not know about. He had listened and learned. Now, he would put some of that knowledge to good use.

He knew, for example, that a certain leading Queen's Counsel, a very senior figure at the Bar, had acquired one of the new flats built on the vast development site of London's Barbican. This was not far, in fact, from Jack's lair in Leman Street. It was time, he felt, for Jack to do a bit of work. The barrister was always very busy and commanded high fees. What might an inspection of his flat reveal?

CHAPTER 17

THE VISIT

During the week, Geoff telephoned the barristers' chambers and spoke to the clerk whom he knew. After the usual pleasantries had been exchanged, he casually enquired as to the barrister's availability. The barrister, it seemed, was unavailable just at the moment. He was engaged upon a long enquiry in Hong Kong, as the clerk said, a nice little earner.

Apparently, he would not be back for weeks, possibly six to eight weeks in all. His absence presented Geoff with an obvious opportunity.

Geoff determined that the next time he was in town, the following weekend in fact, he would pay the QC's flat a visit. He already knew where it was. He had had to arrange for some papers to be sent there on one occasion so that address was no problem. He had no key, of course, but he knew that the porter did. The porter had keys for all the flats under his care. All that Geoff had to do was to get hold of it.

Early the next Saturday morning, he set off from Leman Street, foregoing the delights of Juanita's greasy breakfast which he would otherwise have eaten with relish, to get to the flat before the night shift porter went off duty at 8:00 am. He was expected, he explained to the porter when he arrived. He had come to collect important papers that the QC had been working on. That gained him entrance to the reception area and, when the night porter then went to greet the day porter as he arrived for his shift, it was quite a simple matter to stealthily lift the key for the barrister's flat from behind the porter's desk. There were a lot of keys and he was unlikely to notice it missing.

He took the lift up to the tenth floor and let himself in. Now to see how the other half lived. He sniffed the air. It smelt of stale cigarette smoke, but he decided not to open a window and left the net curtains undisturbed.

The flat was quite small, a room to the right with a large desk and a sofa, a bedroom to the left and a small kitchen and bathroom directly ahead. He could see most of the flat from where he stood just inside the door. The flat was sparsely furnished and rather untidy, which came as a surprise. He had imagined that it would be furnished with at least the odd piece of antique furniture or perhaps a Victorian watercolour or two but, in fact, the surroundings seemed quite Spartan. There was a masculine air about the place, which lacked any obvious sign of a woman's influence. Probably, it was only the barrister who came here. The wife would be in the country somewhere with the girls and the ponies and a house overflowing with dogs and wellingtons.

Although slightly disappointed, he thought that since he was there he might just as well have a look around. It clearly was not going to take long, or so he thought. In fact, it took rather longer than he anticipated.

The desk, when he looked at it, was littered with papers in no sort of order. An ashtray was full of dog ends, the smell of which cut across his nostrils. Yet more papers protruded from the desk's half-open drawers into which they had been unceremoniously stuffed.

There was a decanter of whisky on the side, but it was a little early for a drink, so Jack made himself a coffee in the none-too-clean kitchen and sat down at the desk to rummage through the contents. Somewhere nearby in an adjoining flat, a neighbour was listening to the radio.

He began to get a little bored. There were plenty of papers relating to cases that the barrister had worked on which were covered in rough notes and scribbles. There were domestic bills, paid and unpaid, and letters from his children's schools, but Jack found nothing that interested him until he came across a letter from an agent reminding the barrister about unpaid berth fees. It seemed that the barrister had a boat moored at a berth in Plymouth and had not paid the berth fees for about a year. This tied in with a photograph on the sideboard of a beaming, balding individual who was no doubt learned counsel, clutching the ship's wheel of an enormous yacht and looking very nautical. Then, Jack came across a letter from a stockbroker. The stockbroker had prepared an up to date valuation for tax purposes of the Barrister's share portfolio. Jack read it. The holding was very substantial indeed. The broker wanted to know if the Barrister had any instructions for him. Geoff's mind began to work on that one whilst his inspection of the flat continued.

Even more interesting were the photographs that Jack then found right at the back of one of the drawers of an attractive dark haired young woman who, to judge by her youth and lack of clothes, was unlikely to be the barrister's wife. The name Rita and a phone number appeared on a scrap of paper. Rita, he decided, might be worth a call.

The photographs tied up with what he found on his inspection of the bedroom. There were reflective panels on the ceiling and, under the bed, a carrier bag full of handcuffs, cords, a whip and some extraordinary magazines. On the front page of one of them there was a naked man with a hood on his head and a huge, heavy-looking padlock clipped to his scrotum. He winced. Surely that must hurt?

He briefly wondered if this might be the learned counsel. He concluded that it could not be. The figure was too athletic. _Was that though what being educated at Ampleforth or some such public school did to a boy? And where did he find time for all this?_ he wondered. He thought the bloke worked all day and every day. Perhaps he did? Perhaps he did both?

His search also revealed some quite substantial sums of money. These, however, he left undisturbed. He would prefer it if it were not to be realised that the flat had been burgled and, in any event, they were small beer by comparison to what he now had in mind.

He could not resist, however, taking a silver swan necked soup ladle which appealed to him by virtue of its exquisite shape. The barrister probably would not even notice it was gone and if he did would think he had mislaid it, the place was such a tip.

He made up his mind what to do. It was time to get on with it. He sat down again at the desk and typed two short letters on the barrister's headed notepaper using a little, ancient typewriter. The first was to the stockbroker instructing him to sell the whole share portfolio to enable him, he mentioned briefly, to pay tax and school fees. The second he addressed to the agent in Plymouth instructing him to sell the boat as soon as possible for the best price he could get and to deduct his commission and the outstanding berth fees before accounting to him for the proceeds.

Before he left the flat, he took a couple of utility bills. He also leaned out of the kitchen window and dropped two full milk bottles into the yard at the rear. They landed with an ear splitting crash and a cat catapulted across the yard and through the open window of a little old lady's flat to the sound of the screams of the occupant and breaking ornaments.

He took the lift down to reception. When he arrived, the porter was not there. Called by other residents to investigate, he had left reception and gone to do so. Jack replaced the key and quietly left; the ladle inside his overcoat.

He felt quite pleased with the morning's work. He would post the letters directly and open an account at a bank in London on Monday in the barrister's name. He would notify the broker and the agent where to send the money realised by the sale of the shares and the boat. Once the money was received, he would draw down the funds in favour of Jack Shepherd and then lose it in other accounts in other names.

He felt really pleased with himself, but he forced himself to walk and behave in a sober fashion. Skipping down the street might give vent to his feelings, but it would also be highly unusual and attract attention. He might get nicked for seeming to be drunk and disorderly and then, 'What about that silver ladle inside your coat, sir?'

CHAPTER 18

THE PRICE OF PROTECTION

As he strolled back towards the East End, he began to realise, however, that he had been rather silly to take the ladle. What on earth did he want with a ladle? If he was stopped by the police, how would he explain a silver, probably antique, ladle shoved up his sleeve? He could say that he had bought it, but he had no receipt and he could not point to a shop where he had bought it from.

You berk, he muttered to himself. He could, of course, always dump it. Instead, he decided to pay Mannie a visit again. He might as well get a few bob for it.

He headed in the direction of the jeweller's little shop.

The jeweller's shop was located in a little yard off the street and approached from one end down a flight of stone steps which were slimy and covered in litter, paper and old cans. It was not the likeliest place to find a jeweller, but the old boy had obviously been there for years, quietly earning his living and, as Geoff also now knew, with the shop as a front earning who knows how much by dealing in stolen property. He, like the barrister, probably did not need to work if he chose not to.

When he reached the door of the little shop, to his surprise he saw there was a closed sign on it. Was it a mistake? He pushed against it but the door remained shut. That seemed strange unless Mannie was conducting a bit of business with someone like himself in the back parlour. He stood there peering through the window and then a man appeared inside the shop and came to the door.

It was not Mannie. He was a young man with a body like a boxer dressed in a snappy suit whose face was an unusual mixture of African and Asian features. He opened the door, cast a baleful glance at Geoff, who pretended to be inspecting rings on display in the window, and then looked over his shoulder and said something to someone inside the shop along the lines of, 'Make sure you are not late next time – he's not a patient man,' or words to that effect. Then Geoff watched as he walked down the yard to the main road, turned the corner and was gone. He left without a backward glance.

Geoff went in. He looked around. Everything appeared to be normal, everything that is apart from Mannie.

Mannie was at the counter with his head in his hands.

'What's up, Mannie?' said Geoff, approaching him. Mannie looked up. He looked pale and shaken and very old and vulnerable.

'You alright?' said Geoff, knowing already that Mannie was anything but alright.

Mannie's wife appeared behind him and said quietly, 'He'll live. He's just been roughed up a bit and had the frighteners put on him.'

Geoff was appalled.

'What?' he said, 'by that young bloke who just left?

She nodded.

'What for?' asked Geoff.

'Put the kettle on dear,' said Mannie. _'Make a cup of tea,'_ and then, turning to Geoff, 'come through – I may as well tell you, you will make the acquaintance of the man sooner or later anyway.'

Geoff was relieved to see that Mannie could walk and that there did not appear to be any serious injury as a result of the visit he had received.

In the back parlour, Mannie told Geoff that he had had a visit from one of the collectors of a man called Scots Jimmy. It seemed that everybody in the area paid protection money regularly to Jimmy. That is, they did if they had any sense. If they did not, anything might happen, either they had an 'accident' or their premises were damaged. One newsagent, he related, had been burned out of his shop once when he refused to pay.

The problem Mannie had had was simply forgetfulness. His memory was not so good these days and he had been late in paying up.

His wife cut in on what he was saying, 'How many times have I told you we should give up this business and go to live near Estelle and her husband?'

Estelle, it turned out, was their only child.

Mannie was irritated. He raised his eyes to heaven and lifted his hands in supplication to some invisible deity exclaiming 'What you want that I should do? Give up my business and my home for this Meshuggina?'

His wife was not impressed. It was all very well to call the man a madman. That went without saying, but it did not solve their problem.

Although Geoff was relieved to see that Mannie was clearly well enough to have a shouting match with his wife, he was anxious to do his bit of business and go, so he interrupted saying 'I'm glad you are OK, but I'd better come back another time. You won't want to talk business at the moment...'

'Business? You got something to sell?' said Mannie, suddenly diverted.

His wife shook her head and went into the kitchen.

Geoff produced the ladle. Mannie took it from him and caressed it lovingly, running his fingers along the handle.

'Lovely, lovely,' said Mannie, holding it up towards the light in the otherwise dim room before adding authoritatively, 'Eighteenth century, I would say,' and then, having checked the silver mark, 'Yes, I thought so. Eighteenth century, London. How much you want for it?'

Geoff did not actually care but said 'I know nothing about silver, Mannie. I'm in your hands,' he confessed.

'Hmm,' said Mannie thoughtfully. 'Maybe I should teach you a little?'

So it was that over the ensuring weeks Geoff became a regular visitor to the shop.

Mannie had quite quickly made clear that he was not doing this for love or for Geoff's benefit. No, it was strictly business. He had contacts in the Netherlands particularly who would provide a good market for specific items. That was where Geoff came in. He was to steal to order.

Geoff wondered whether or not that was what Jack had been doing. He had never asked him though and Jack had never enlightened him.

Geoff was not greatly interested in Mannie's proposition. He knew that that was just the sort of risk that would sooner or later land him in prison, and that he was determined to avoid. He kept up the pretence of interest though. He liked Mannie. He liked listening to him speak and to hear the stories that he laced his conversation with. He liked the way he made light of the many difficulties he had found in life, the harsh experiences of the Jewish people, the wisdom and knowledge that he gained along the way. He learned from him. He learned from his lessons in life. He also, despite himself, learned a bit about silver.

For his part, Mannie, despite his early stipulation that it was business only whose own children had long since grown up and moved away mainly to America, seemed to enjoy Geoff's visits. He was a good listener and liked to tell stories. It was obviously a pleasure for him to be able to pass on some of the knowledge he had acquired. He called Geoff 'Jossel' but made no attempt to discover his surname or anything else about him. _Perhaps_ , thought Geoff, he felt instinctively that it was better that way. That was certainly Geoff's opinion. The less anybody knew about him, the less likelihood of discovery.

Mannie talked a lot to Geoff about silver. He told him about the Huguenots who, when just like the Jews, had been driven from their homeland and many had come to London bringing their skills and business acumen with them. They had brought silk weaving, they had started the Whitechapel Bell Foundry and they had been silversmiths, too. One in particular, a man called Paul le Laverie, was thought to be the best known silversmith working in London in the 18th century. He was very collectable. Mannie had clients, he told Geoff, who specialised in collecting fine ornamental plate by this particular silversmith.

Geoff recalled seeing old 17th century Huguenot houses in Spitalfields, near the market. They had plainly once been attractive, but now they were as run down as all the surrounding buildings. It was a pity they were not located in some leafy village in the Home Counties where they would probably be worth a fortune. _Still, you never know, one day, maybe, one day maybe never_ , he thought. It was impossible to imagine Whitechapel being anything other than the grot hole it was.

Still, Mannie was not merely an interesting talker. He was a good teacher and, notwithstanding his earlier lack of interest, he learned more and more about silver. Even so, he told himself that Mannie could talk as much as he liked, he was not going to get into a life of burglary. He had bigger plans.

CHAPTER 19 _m_

One day, as he returned to the café in Leman Street, he discovered that he was no longer the sole lodger.

'He's a young man like yourself,' Juanita observed as he digested the news of the new arrival. 'Perhaps you will be friends?'

Geoff wasn't looking for a friend and mumbled something noncommittal in reply before ascending the stairs to his room. He was sitting on his bed thinking of nothing in particular when there came a knock on the door. He opened it. A youth with long, greasy, black hair stood there grinning at him.

'Wotcha mate,' he said sociably as he stepped uninvited past Geoff into his room. 'My name's Tel.'

This, it transpired, was Terence Algernon Flanagan or, as he was more usually known, 'Tel' or sometimes by intimates as 'Algie'.

Tel opened the sash window, sat on the sill and looked Geoff up and down.

'Been 'ere long?' he enquired affably. Geoff gave up any outward signs of reserve and his ear, seduced by the accent of his childhood, allowed himself to warm to the new lodger.

Tel, it turned out, had a chequered past. He was, he admitted openly, 'a bit of a rascal' or in other words a man who made his living by crime, but in between times a merchant seaman, a convenient form of employment for anyone who needed to make themselves scarce for a while.

Despite his friendliness, Tel didn't give any concrete information about himself. Geoff was relieved, not only did he prefer not to know, but he himself intended to give the minimum of information about himself. It was strictly name, rank and number as far as he was concerned.

As if by mutual consent, after they had exchanged names, they chose to talk about their lodgings rather than anything more personal. Terry, like Jack, had realised that the café doubled as a knocking shop. They giggled about it like a couple of schoolboys.

'Some of 'er daughters aint bad, but I don't fancy Juanita,' said Tel, 'even if I'd been at sea for months, I don't think I could give 'er one'.

Geoff felt the need to defend her a little and said, 'No, I suppose not, but she must have been really good looking once.'

'Maybe,' said Tel with an exaggerated shudder, 'but I dread to think how many black cocks have been up 'er!'

Geoff changed the subject.

'Fancy goin' out for a drink?' he asked. It turned out that that suited Tel who responded with enthusiasm.

As they left the café, Geoff suggested a pub in Whitechapel High Street at which Tel frowned.

'Let's go somewhere else,' he said. 'Let's take the tube and go south of the river,' adding, 'I'll explain later.'

This he duly did over a pint in a pub in Bermondsey where, at Tel's insistence, they sat in a corner with a view of the door.

It turned out that Tel avoided the public in Whitechapel because he was keen not to come into contact with the current ruling hoodlum, a man called Scots Jimmy or any of his henchmen. It wasn't that they were after him exactly, he explained, it was more that he wasn't flavour of the month. The reason for this he said was that he had been friendly with the previous king of the patch, an ex-docker called Doherty, currently doing 15 years for his third offence of armed robbery. Scots Jimmy had filled the vacuum left by Doherty, since whose departure Tel had judged it best to keep a low profile and to remain as invisible as possible. That wasn't quite how he put it, of course, but that's what it amounted to. It was a sensible survival strategy.

Geoff, or of course Jack as he was to Tel, decided that Tel was alright, up to a point anyway. He had no intention of joining forces with him or of confiding in him, but he felt they would get along.

Over the coming weeks, Geoff spent some time considering how to progress his life of crime. He felt he had made an excellent beginning. He had obtained a substantial sum for the shares and the boat that he had sold in learned counsel's absence whilst working abroad. It was not enough, however, on which to retire. Jack's cash from his flat and the money Geoff was paid by Mannie for the silver came to a nice sum, but modest by comparison. It paid his living expenses, but it would not allow him to retire. He still needed the day job. He still had to practise law, not merely as a cover, but to earn a living and to keep the show on the road.

Crime was risky. The most exciting bits were the most risky and no matter how careful you were, sooner or later you made a mistake or your luck ran out. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that what he had said to Jack at the pub in Chipperfield was no more and no less than the simple truth. If you were going to be successful, you had to hit it big and then give up and disappear before your luck ran out.

He would mull all this over whilst waiting at court for his case to come on. He had spent a large part of his life hanging around at courts, at prisons, just waiting. Now, he had something to occupy his mind beyond the case in hand. He would smile inwardly as he looked at those around him, lawyers, policemen, magistrates, clients, witnesses and others, none of whom had the slightest inkling that Geoff Wilkinson was also Jack Shepherd and was at that very moment contemplating his next move whilst ostensibly leading a sober and honest existence.

He eventually concluded that his best bet was to settle for something that he could do alone. He wanted no accomplices, no matter how small a part they might play. That way it would be safer and if things went wrong, he would have only himself to blame.

He decided he would try the mortgage fraud he had proposed to Jack. This was an area where the returns would be large and where, as a solicitor with his special knowledge of the conveyancing market and the process, he would have an advantage. With his insider's knowledge, he would manipulate the process for his own financial advantage.

On the other hand, once the deals that he intended to arrange crystallised, all hell would break loose. Mortgage lenders would discover they had paid out vast sums of money to purchase properties that they did not acquire because they were fake transactions. It would not take them or the police long to beat a path to his door, the solicitor at the heart of the whole process.

Obviously, Geoff could not undertake this work as Geoff Wilkinson, since the trail would lead straight to him. He needed to do it as Jack Shepherd, but Jack was not a solicitor.

He pondered the problem. How could Jack Shepherd set himself up as a solicitor and get away with it? Then he remembered that on the south bank of the Thames in a grotty part of Bermondsey whilst visiting Tooley Street Magistrates Court some months earlier, he had needed to swear an affidavit. To say 'in a grotty part of Bermondsey' suggests that parts of Bermondsey were not grotty. Nothing could be further from the truth. The whole area was a dismal, depressed wasteland of whorehouses and poor dwellings and where the surroundings were so dingy that the prevailing greyness actually looked quite colourful. Anyway, at court, the court clerk had directed him to the nearest solicitors' office which he had found with difficulty, since it was so tucked away. The court clerk had said that it was an elderly solicitor and so it had proved. Was he still alive and practising, Geoff wondered?

There was only one way to find out and so he made his way across Tower Bridge and found his way again through labyrinthine little streets near the Thames to the door of the solicitor. The door, which was 18th century with a rope pull, appeared to be the newest part of the building, the outside of which was streaked with soot and in need of repair like all the other buildings in the vicinity from which, apart from the solicitor's name plate on the wall, it was all but indistinguishable.

Somewhere inside, a bell tinkled and eventually an elderly woman opened the door and peeped out and enquired what he wanted. He said his name was Shepherd and that he was a solicitor and he wondered if he could perhaps speak to Mr Bannister, for that was the name of the sole practitioner, his former partners having died or retired many years previously.

The door creaked open sufficiently to allow him in and he was admitted into the office which consisted of two rooms, one by the door occupied by the septuagenarian secretary who banged out letters on an ancient typewriter, and an inner sanctum, the office of Mr Bannister. His door was closed.

The office smelt musty and dank permeated perhaps by the dampness of the river, not many yards away. The walls were lined with shelves which contained books with dates on the sleeves going back to just before the Boer War. _Good grief_ , he thought. _Queen Victoria had been on the throne! My grandparents had been children then!_

The books which were, of course, in chronological order contained a copy of every letter that had ever been sent out by that firm during the course of each particular year. The secretaries in those days had produced a top copy letter and two carbon copies, one for the client's file and one to be bound up later in the year book. This apparently was still their practice, since he noticed that the year books came right up to the present time. The books for successive years now lined the walls, but did not keep the feeling of dampness out which was present, despite the little coal fire glowing cheerfully in the grate. A few ancient photographs on the walls and an old kettle, cups and a jar of Bovril completed the contents of the room.

Geoff was called into his office by Mr Bannister who, without question, was older still than his secretary. Geoff vaguely remembered him from his first visit, but looked at him more closely this time. Mr Bannister was a very old man with thinning, grey hair and translucent, shiny skin on his hands through which the blue veins protruded. His gaunt face and bony head were supported by a turkey neck which protruded from his collar and tie. He wore a waistcoat and had a watch and chain which he wore in the old fashioned manner still affected by members of the bar to add gravitas or pomposity to their presence depending upon your point of view. He sat on a high backed leather chair with his back to a window, through the dusty panes of which a little daylight penetrated into the cave-like room he occupied. His room, too, was full of books, but these were weighty, legal tomes made even heavier by the dust which lay upon them.

A cat, also ancient by the look of it, sat on the window ledge and looked at Geoff imperiously.

Mr Bannister motioned him to a seat, in fact the only seat apart from his own chair, and looked at Geoff over the top of his glasses.

'Yes?' he enquired.

'Shepherd's the name,' said Geoff brightly. 'You may not remember, but I came in some months ago to swear an affidavit.'

'No, I'm afraid not, but then my memory is not what it once was, I'm afraid,' said Mr Bannister in a wheezy voice.

There was a pause. The long case clock in the corner struck 3:00 pm which prevented any further conversation for a moment or two. With the sound of clock still ringing in his ears, Geoff got to the point.

'Look,' he said. 'I hope you won't take this amiss, but, well, you see, for some time I have been wanting to start a practice in London, but it's difficult to start from scratch.'

'Yes it is,' agreed Mr Bannister sympathetically. 'It's never easy to get an office in an area where you have no pre-existing client base.'

'And,' Geoff continued, 'if you don't mind me saying so, it occurred to me that you might at some point be considering retirement and, if so, might be prepared to sell me your practice?'

Geoff held his breath. _He can only say no_ , he thought.

Mr Bannister blinked a little, somewhat surprised. Retirement? He had not given it a thought, still perhaps he ought to. He had been on his own so long that he preferred not to think about it. That way, it did not trouble him. He certainly had not imagined that anybody might want to pay him any money for his practice, such that it was. On the other hand, he reflected, he held a lot of wills and deeds and so it might give a young man a basis from which to start. Retire? The idea intrigued him. And at his age, he ought not perhaps to dither.

He smiled, his mind made up.

'Sherry?' he asked, reaching for the decanter on the sideboard.

So it was that Geoff acquired the practice of Henry T Bannister Esq who was at last able to retire with his secretary, who coincidentally was also his wife, to Eastbourne to live out their twilight years together.

Both he and Geoff were pleased with this outcome which suited them both admirably as indeed it also pleased Mrs Bannister who had thought that this day would never come.

Geoff installed a dim, young secretary who lived close to the office and who held the fort for him whilst he continued to work in Watford where, of course, he was obliged still to be. Whenever he was in London though, he would call in at the office and check that all was well. There was not too much fort for her to hold, of course. Most of Mr Bannister's clients had died long before he retired, and those that survived had little need of the services of a solicitor, but at least it meant that there was someone to answer the phone if it ever rang and to type letters for him on the ancient typewriter.

None of that, of course, concerned Geoff who could now operate, for a short time at least with a veneer of legitimacy, under the mantel of Bannister & Co.

The next step was to find suitable properties for purchase. He was interested in high end only and so focused on Chelsea and Kensington. Acting as agent for fictional clients, who nonetheless had files for their fictional affairs, the firm of Henry T Bannister Esq negotiated deals over the telephone with the estate agents involved on behalf of their client, Jack Shepherd. Once deals had been agreed on a dozen properties, he made mortgage applications, as the purchaser, Jack Shepherd, to a dozen different mortgage lenders, each of whose surveyors inspected the property in question to advise the lender as to whether it was sufficient security for the loan or not.

The properties invariably were sufficient for that purpose and mortgage offers were issued with the long established firm of Bannister & Co acting both for the buyer and the lender as was the custom when a firm of solicitors was on the lenders' panel of solicitors for that purpose.

Once a mortgage offer had been issued, Mr Shepherd withdrew from each purchase. That is to say, the fictional client for whom he acted withdrew by instructing him to write to the sellers' solicitors and to return the draft contract and other papers. The lender in each case was wholly unaware of this. As far as they were aware, the transaction, in which of course Geoff was representing them, was continuing. All that Geoff had to do now was to call down the mortgage monies on a particular day, ostensibly to complete the purchase and then to abscond with the proceeds. By the time the lender realised there was something wrong, there would be no Mr Shepherd, and no solicitor. Unhappily for both the lenders and the retired Mr Bannister, he did not live long to enjoy his retirement. He died one day not long after in his deckchair listening to the band playing _Dear Old Sussex by the Sea_ on the promenade. His widow promptly went on a cruise.

Geoff, although regretting the need to do so, decided to obliterate all trace of Bannister & Co, and early one morning set a fire in the offices which consumed the premises so quickly that the fire brigade were not able to prevent the building and all its contents being reduced to ashes.

This little venture netted Geoff a very tidy sum indeed. He was now rich. He did not need to work. He did not need to commit offences. He could go where he liked. He could do what he liked. There was still his mother, that was true, but he had spent more and more time away from her and he had begun to think that it might not now be too difficult to leave. The umbilical cord had loosened. It was in any event only when he was Geoff that he worried about it at all. Jack could not care less and was urging him to go.

CHAPTER 20

The trouble was that he was now so enamoured of Jack and so relished the freedom that he had found that he did not want to stop. In a strange sort of way, he felt that he was getting his own back on life and by heavens, he was enjoying it! Why stop?

Outwardly, his life did not alter. He continued with the sober existence from Monday to Friday of the provincial solicitor in all its boring predictability. He still lived at home, but tried as far as possible to eat elsewhere. Given that he was often on call for police stations, he was seldom at home in any event. At weekends, he shrugged off his heavy overcoat of responsibility and conformity and relaxed in the freedom that came with being Jack, simply Jack, Jack Shepherd, a real Jack the lad of the kind he had always envied.

Although he had felt no particular desire for any further adventures, he still continued with his dual existence. One day, when he was enjoying a lemon tea with Mannie in the parlour behind his shop, he received a call to action when Mannie announced calmly that he had a job for him.

At first he was not interested, but Mannie was very persuasive. He had a rich client in Amsterdam who was an avid collector of 16th and 17th century silver and there were some further items he wished to add to his collection which he kept in a vault within his home and would pore over secretly.

'So, why doesn't he offer to buy them, this punter, if he has so much money?' enquired Geoff. Was that not a reasonably enough proposition?

'The items are not for sale, but this man is the kind who will not take no for an answer.'

'So, why me?' he asked.

'Jossel, I trust you,' said Mannie. 'Also, I know that you would do it, if not for the money, then for the fun of it.'

Geoff knew that Mannie had him there. It was true. For him, it was the challenge as much as anything else, the excitement, and the pure hell of it.

As he thought about it, his initial reluctance wavered and he began to feel more enthusiasm. Maybe a change would do him good?

'Alright,' he announced after a pause. 'Fill me in with the details.'

Mannie proceeded to do so.

The house that contained the items the collector wanted was a minor stately home in Warwickshire, an example of a medieval fortified house with steep walls and crenelated battlement, the whole surrounded by a moat. It was open for periods during the year to the public, but closed at the present time. The silver items that the collector wanted so badly were kept in the private family accommodation which was occupied throughout the year. They were never on display. They were part of the family's possessions, accumulated over many generations.

Mannie had a detailed knowledge of the layout of the place. It was obviously information that only an insider could have provided.

'So, why didn't they do the job?'

'Horses for courses, Jossel,' he said, smiling and added, 'a lot of people will be happy to give a bit of information maybe over a drink or two, but wouldn't have the bottle to do anything more.'

'So, if I pull it off, what do I make?' asked Geoff. It was not that he needed the money but this was nonetheless a business proposition.

Mannie replied, 'You fetch the items, you get £10,000 paid into a bank where you want – I would suggest Lichtenstein – and you win a powerful friend who could be very helpful to you in the future – this man has connections.'

Geoff was persuaded.

How he did the job was up to him. He looked at the map. The place was within a short distance of the Grant Union canal which ran to the centre of Birmingham. He decided he needed a holiday, took a week off work, hired a long boat in Berkhamsted, loaded up the barge with groceries, beer, a bicycle and other gear, and set off.

It was spring and as he chugged north at a speed not much faster than a walking pace, he enjoyed the changing countryside as spring unfolded all around him. At night, he tied up for a few hours only and did so away from any pub or regular mooring. He kept himself to himself and he made good time.

Eventually, he reached the vicinity of The Black Boy public house, an old canal-side inn deep in Warwickshire, and moored the barge before unloading the bike and cycling off down the tow path.

It was night time, but he had lights and anyway was soon able to leave the towpath for country lanes where, as he cycled, he had a shadow from the light of the full moon. It was a lovely bright moonlit night.

It was just getting light when he reached the hall. Fortunately, he had noticed on his map that a footpath ran across the site and he was able perfectly lawfully to cross it using the path, which he did slowly wheeling his bike whilst using the binoculars he had brought with him to inspect the building.

It was pretty much as Mannie had described. All he had to do now was to get in and then out again with the objects of a rich man's desire. _Pathetic really,_ he thought, but it was not the objects that held any attraction for him. It was the challenge. _Anyway_ , he reflected, _who am I to judge? Isn't my pursuit of money equally pathetic?_

He returned to the barge to wait for nightfall and put moralising thoughts out of his mind. Morals and Jack Shepherd were words that did not belong in the same sentence.

At dusk, he cycled to a public house a mile or so from the hall. There, he made a pint last until he judged it was sufficiently late to head for the hall which he reached after 11:00 pm. He hid the bike and then himself. After an hour or so, he noticed the lights going off in the hall and he carefully worked his way forward to a point on the moat where he had noticed a flat bottomed punt during his inspection that morning. It was still where he had seen it. He climbed into it carefully, pulled a balaclava over his head, picked up a pole and began to punt himself across the moat. There was no moon and the moat was not deep and he reached the other side without difficulty and, as far as he knew, without attracting anybody's attention.

When he reached the other side, he tied up the punt to a metal ring by a door that he was certain would be locked. He tried it anyway. It was locked. No surprise there. He knew there was an iron drainpipe which ran up to windows on an upper storey that were ajar. He could see it dark against the brickwork of the wall. Would it be strong enough to hold him? Testing the pipe before committing his weight fully to it, he pulled his rucksack on, which contained 100 metres of rope and set off up the pipe with his fingers behind it and between it and the wall and his feet flat against the wall. He was careful to move only one foot or hand at a time, to do otherwise would be disastrous.

This was strenuous, to put it mildly, but the adrenalin was racing and he made good progress up the pipe until almost at the windows when the pipe, which had begun to groan and protest under this rough treatment, suddenly moved in his hands. Guessing he did not have long, although he was not really high enough yet, he reached up and across with his left hand to the sill of the partly open window and grasped it firmly with one hand and then the other, swinging gently across to hang from it as he did so. He was now hanging full length from the sill, his body stretched downwards against the wall. From the corner of his eyes, he could just see the moat far below.

He knew his arms would not hold him for long as the blood slowly drained from them, particularly since they were tired already anyway from the struggle up the pipe. Holding on with his hands for all he was worth and feeling for any irregularities on the wall with his toes, he pulled upwards quickly with his arms. That, together with the friction of his toes against the wall, enabled him to pull his body up to a point where he could rest his chest on the sill.

He hoped to Christ that there was nobody in there. There should not be he reasoned, because the window, he knew from Mannie's briefing, opened on to a long gallery off which ran various bedrooms and other rooms.

Trying hard to control his breathing, he mantel-shelved on to the sill, that is he pressed down on it with the flats of his hands and brought his left knee and leg up flat against the wall until his left foot rested on the sill as well. Once he achieved that, he knew that he had made it. He remained in that position, now taking the weight of his body on his leg giving his trembling arms a rest, for a while until he got his breath back and then he eased through the window and into the building.

All was dark within, but there was some visibility. Chinks of light showed under doors and acted like the escape lights on the central walkway of an aeroplane, guiding him along the gallery.

He moved as silently as he could, the floor creaking gently from time to time. He was concerned that that might alert the occupants of the rooms, but he soon realised from the moans and gasps that came from within that whoever was in there was completely occupied and unlikely to distinguish or notice any slight noise that he might make.

As silently as he could, he reached the end of the gallery then he glided down a heavy wooden staircase, turned to the right, past the embers of a still smouldering fire and into a wood-panelled dining room. Again, there was a glow from the remains of a fire. Here, he should find the objects he had come for.

It was a large room with a stone flagged floor, an enormous chandelier, now unlit, hung over the long dining room table. Old portraits hung in various places but he did not bother to inspect them. He was not there for a painting.

The table was still laid for dinner. It had been quite a party by the looks of it. _Lord help whoever had to clear that lot up_ , he thought as he surveyed the debris and remains of food strewn across the table.

He took a candle from the table, lit it in the embers of the fire, and looked around. There, in the middle of the table, were the silver plate he had come for. He tipped the fruit and other bits and pieces of food off them and gave them a wipe with the edge of the tablecloth. They were heavy but just about fitted inside his rucksack.

He put the rucksack on his back and quickly retraced his footsteps. When he reached the gallery he had just passed, the last bedroom door opened and a naked young man emerged, staggering a bit, obviously drunk or at least it seemed so. There was now no light in the bedroom and so he could not see clearly. Maybe he was stumbling because it was dark? Either way, it did not really matter. Drunk or sober, he was in the way and Geoff could not get to the window and make his escape with him there. Furthermore, there was nowhere to hide on the gallery and it was probably only a matter of a few moments before the man became aware of his presence.

Geoff quickly pulled a cosh from his pocket, a heavy, hard length of rubber hose filled with lead which he carried for just this sort of eventuality, and gave him a hard belt behind the ear. The young man dropped at once and Geoff caught him under the arms and pulled him gently to a sofa against the wall of the gallery where he lay him down and left him to sleep it off. He was going to have a sore head in the morning.

He was about to set off to the window when a woman's voice called softly from the bedroom. She too sounded inebriated.

'Jeremy! Jeremy! Come back to bed. I want you.'

Geoff hesitated. She might get up and discover Jeremy on the couch. If she did, she would also see his rope because he intended abseiling down from the window to the moat. Also, despite himself, he was aroused. He paused, struggling with himself for a short while, but only for a while.

_Why not?_ he thought, _to the victor, the spoils_.

With that, he moved silently and quickly into the bedroom and without waiting for introductions which were hardly necessary, since he was of course presumed to be the now unconscious Jeremy, turned the lass on to her tummy and went to work whilst the young lady murmured appreciatively.

'Darling...' she said.

He was tempted to linger, but realised he was already pushing his luck.

With reluctance, Geoff tore himself away and tiptoed back to the gallery shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him. Jeremy was still spark-out on the couch. Quickly, he ran his rope around an upright and threw the ends from the window. He listened as they landed with a gentle splash in the water. That confirmed that they reached the bottom and that he would not descend and discover he had run out of rope whilst still hanging in the air. Then, he climbed out of the window and roped down to the moat and the punt. Having reached the punt, he pulled the rope down after him and then punted back across the moat.

_What a night_ , he thought to himself as he retrieved his bike and set off back towards the canal which he reached in the early hours.

Back on board the barge, he inspected the objects which he placed on a table. Frankly, he could not see what all the fuss was about. _Still_ , he thought to himself, _it was worth it._ He was glad he had been able to put in a good word so to speak for Jeremy. He hoped he had not let him down.

At dawn, he set off south back down the canal.

CHAPTER 21

At home again, he put the objects into a large cardboard box which his mother's latest television had been delivered in. She, of course, did not need it any longer and it enabled him to move the objects to Mannie's place inconspicuously. There was somebody in the shop when he arrived and Mannie was talking to him.

The man was little and portly with thinning hair. He was plainly anxious and ran his fingers through what remained of his hair as he spoke to Mannie. Neither man took any notice of Geoff when he arrived, who stood there feeling a bit foolish holding the large cardboard box. He did not know the visitor so he struck to the script about the contents of the box and eventually, tired of waiting, asked 'Where shall I put the TV?'

Without looking up, Mannie replied 'Just take it into the back, will you?'

_Why didn't he say sooner?_ thought Geoff, whose arms were beginning to ache.

'Sure,' he said out loud and disappeared behind the counter and into the parlour where he waited for Mannie. Whilst there, he thought it best to carry on the fiction.

'Do you want me to set it up and check the signal?' he called back into the shop.

'No, No!' answered Mannie impatiently. 'Just wait there until I'm finished and I'll join you.'

Geoff sat down and waited. He was pleased to see there was a fire in the grate since although it was spring; there was often still a chill in the air. Today was just such a day.

He relaxed and put his feet up on a small stool and wondered what the visitor had wanted. _Perhaps Mannie will tell me_ , he thought.

There was a pleasant small of bread cooking from the kitchen. Mannie's wife, he knew, baked her own bread. She was a good cook, Geoff knew, since he had eaten there at Mannie's invitation on more than one occasion.

After 10 minutes or so, he heard the bell on the shop door as somebody went out and then there was the sound of the door closing behind them. A couple of minutes later, Mannie joined him.

'He's gone,' he said shortly. 'Boy, has he got problems.'

'Yeah?' enquired Geoff, only mildly interested. He was planning an evening out and keen to deliver the goods and leave.

Mannie, though, seemed in no hurry to open the box and continued to talk about his recent visitor who he said was a Sephardic Jew saying in his best professional manner whilst peering at Geoff over the top of his spectacles, 'The Sephardic Jews have been here in London since the days of the Spanish Inquisition which forced many Jews either to convert to Christianity or to flee to avoid persecution, torture and even death... _'_

Keen to leave, Geoff who would normally have been very interested did not follow up on this potentially interesting digression and said trying to press on, 'Interesting! But what's his problem?'

Standing with his back to the fire to warm himself, Mannie explained swiftly how the man, a relation by marriage on his wife's side, had business problems. He ran a sweat shop running up shirts for the West End shops, but he was being forced out of business because Bengali competitors who had moved into the East End were employing large numbers of women from their own community and undercutting him on price.

'They must be paying them peanuts,' said Mannie wryly 'if they can pay less than him – he's as tight as two layers of paint.'

He had had a tough time, according to Mannie. He was just getting back on his feet after having previously gone bankrupt.

Geoff interrupted the tale of woe saying,

'You know what they say, Mannie? Two bankruptcies and a...'

'Fire!' answered Mannie with a smile.

'Yeah!' grinned Geoff. 'He'll be a very rich man!' adding 'Is he insured?'

In short, Geoff was suggesting, half seriously, that Mannie's friend should apply the old adage usually uttered with a laugh or with a wry smile about some individual or other who had supposedly fallen on hard times but who everybody knew had cynically arranged affairs to suit himself, giving rise to the joke 'two bankruptcies and a fire?! He must be a very rich man!'

Mannie then turned his attention to the box and its contents, holding them up admiringly to the light as he checked them before saying 'You have done a good job, Jossel. My client will be well pleased.'

'Good. Can you get him to open an account in Amsterdam with the money he owes me? He can send you the details and you can pass them on to me.'

He hoped to be able to travel to Amsterdam and maybe even meet the client if possible. From what Mannie had said, he sounded a good contact. He would have raised the subject then, but he was in a hurry and Mannie was engrossed in the details of the silver.

'Such workmanship!' he was muttering admiringly as Geoff took his leave and left him to it.

Whether or not Mannie had any further conversation with his forlorn friend, he did not know but he later learned that coincidentally there had been a serious fire at the friend's premises which, although it had not reduced the place to ashes, had nonetheless gutted it and consumed all his stock in the process. Quite how much stock had been there was something about which only the friend had any information. Whether or not the insurers paid out, he never heard.

CHAPTER 22

One evening not long after, Geoff felt like treating himself. Why not give Rita a ring? He had never followed up on the photo and the phone number, but now he thought he might do so. He rang from a public phone box. A woman answered.

'Hello.'

'Are you Rita?'

'Yes, who wants to know?'

'A punter.'

Her voice sounded pleasant on the phone, but that, he knew, counted for nothing. You could get an entirely false mental image of somebody by listening to their voice. She gave him an address. It was in Bayswater, not far, he realised, from the law school he had attended and where he had studied for his law exams. It had been odd and somehow appropriate as well that the college had been situated in an area full of seedy seamen's missions and surrounded by working prostitutes. _Two noble and ancient professions cheek by jowl! They ought even_ , he thought, _to have the same Latin motto, namely SUM TUA AERE – I am yours for money. Perhaps I should write to the Law Society and suggest it._

These and other random thoughts went through his mind as he made his way through the Bayswater streets to the address that Rita had given. As he walked, he remembered seeing batches of girls going into the Norwegian Seamen's Mission which was just opposite the college. Perhaps there were lots of female sailors in the Norwegian Merchant Marine? Perhaps not.

He remembered that most days he had arrived early at the college and gone to a study room at the top of the building. Rows of brown desks stood in ranks in an otherwise bare room, devoid of any kind of diversion. It was like a scene from some old public school. All that was missing was a severe-looking master in a gown standing at the front of the room flexing a cane behind his back. The windows overlooked properties at the rear and one such property contained the bedroom of a working girl. He had waved to her one morning as her most recent guest was dressing and about to leave. She had waved back in a friendly way. He had liked that.

Now he was walking through Bayswater again, this time to meet Rita. He felt a little nervous but he had had enough of the tyranny of women and enough of social obligation and expectation. This would be a strictly contractual arrangement with no strings attached.

He found the address located on the third floor of an old town house divided into flats and climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the door of Rita's flat. He was still nervous. He paused. What if she had bad breath or, worse still, what if she reminded him of the girls he went to school with? He suddenly felt dirty. Then he was angry with himself. It was absurd. He was a murderer and a thief or worse and here he was having scruples about visiting a prostitute.

Do it, he said to himself. He rang the bell. The door opened. A dark-haired young woman opened the door. He recognised her from the photographs even though just at the moment she had rather more clothes on. She smiled and stepped to the side, inviting him in. He entered the flat. He sniffed cautiously. The place smelt of joss sticks and incense. That was alright. He could live with that.

A budgerigar whistled in a cage. Geoff laughed, glad of the diversion. He went up to the cage and the budgie swung into an energetic demonstration for this new visitor, swinging on his perch, thwacking into his mirror and pecking furiously at Geoff as he put his finger against the bars.

'What's his name then?' Geoff said.

'William,' replied Rita.

'William!' he said in mock surprise, laughing nervously. 'That's a funny name for a budgie.' He stood as if frozen to the spot. She helped him out, stepping up to him and undoing his shirt. Thereafter, hormones did the rest. Afterwards, he wondered what he had been so nervous about. It was only a girl after all.

'Fancy a cup of tea?' she asked.

'Yes please, darlin',' he replied. He looked at her. She was not that different from any girl he had ever known. This one though did not expect to get engaged if you as much kissed her.

A contractual relationship, he said to himself as he descended the stairs on leaving. That's for me.

He had rather liked Rita. She was attractive and undemanding. She had lovely round shoulders and the sort of fluted nose he found irresistible.

CHAPTER 23

After he had gone, Rita had a bath. She had quite enjoyed Geoff's visit which had made a change from the usual podgy, middle-aged clientele with pasty skin and fingers like sausages. Geoff was young and lean and his body was hard all over. He also had had a nice smile. Maybe he would call again? You never knew. She had some regular punters and some people you never saw again. There were some regulars she could happily do without, but business was business. A girl had to earn a living and she was determined to earn a good living.

Rita had grown up on a new town council estate in the Home Counties where, like everyone else she knew, she had gone to a secondary modern school after failing the Eleven Plus exam, success or failure in which had divided those worth educating at a grammar school from the common herd.

She, as part of the common herd, would learn domestic science and be diverted with a bit of English and arithmetic until it was her turn to get a dead-end job in a factory and then, as quickly as possible, get married and have babies. Having babies was important. You did not get your own council flat until you had the baby, so to begin with you lived with his parents or yours. Once you were pregnant, you got the flat where you stayed until you had more children and needed more space. Best of all, if you had boys and girls, then you got a house because you needed the additional bedrooms.

She had gone through school with a strong sense of resentment. She had her crushes on boys, of course, but she knew quite young that she did not want to get married at 16. She wanted something better.

When she was 13, she had gone up to London with friends one New Year's Eve. In the hours that she had to kill before midnight, she went with her friends to Soho where, in dimly lit doorways, they had seen prostitutes standing and exchanging jokes and banter with passing men. _How dreadful_ , she thought. _I couldn't possibly do that. How is it possible_ , she thought, _for a woman to be able to demean herself in that way?_ It did not take her long to find out.

They had gone into a coffee bar and found themselves sitting next to two working girls who were having a fag and a break. They got talking and one of them, a girl of about 17 from Manchester, told Rita and her friends a bit about her life. It turned out that she was married! Not only that but she came down to London at weekends just to earn some extra money. Rita was staggered, particularly when the part-time prostitute divulged how much she could earn for a weekend's work. Crumbs! That was more money that her dad earned in a week!

Rita's school days had finished at the age of 14. She could have stayed on for an extra year but she did not see the point. Anyway, her mum and dad wanted her working and paying her way. Girls from her background did not stay on at school no matter how bright they were. It was unusual enough for boys, let alone girls. It was 'out to work and start earning'. She was not even asked if she would like to stay on at school. Her dad had already found her a job at a small local stocking factory where she started as a trainee machinist earning one pound ten shillings a week. After giving her parents a £1 for her keep, she had ten shillings to spend as she wanted. She stuck it for a couple of years and the moved up to London and went on the game.

She learned her trade firstly working out of a clip joint in Gerrard Street. Punters would come in and her job and that of the other girls was to be all over them like a rash and to get them to buy hideously over-priced drinks on the expectation of having sex with the girls. They would lead them on and then clip them. They would take a fiver and then go to the loo and not come back, climbing out of the toilet window into the alleyway behind. When, as often happened, the punter got angry; the big, Negro bouncer employed at the club would chuck them out. He was good at his job and nobody he threw out ever came back.

From this, she progressed to picking up men from a taxi which would cruise the streets of Soho enticing men to join her in the taxi and then taking them to a blocks of flats and taking their money saying, 'I'll just pop in to check the room is empty' and disappearing out of the back door of the block of flats. When the suspicious or impatient punter got out of the taxi to follow the girl, the taxi cab drove off leaving him to search fruitlessly for the missing girl.

She had found lodgings with an older woman, a retired tom who had, she learned, saved all her money to put her daughter through school. It was she who had warned Rita not to fall into the clutches of a pimp and rather to go solo, helping her to find a room in Bayswater from where she in due course began to ply her trade and where she still was some years later when Geoff appeared at her door. Rita knew that she neither wanted, nor would be able, to pursue this profession indefinitely. She, in any event, had other ideas. With the example of the older woman in mind, she had saved every penny she could, recording her earnings in a little black book that she had. This was not for the taxman. It was for her own satisfaction and so that she would know when she had reached the point where she did not need to work – not this work anyway – any longer. It was a kind of chart of her progress towards freedom. She kept the book in the drawer of a little cupboard by her bed and was scrupulous about the records she kept and disciplined and frugal with the money she earned.

She still kept in touch with her family, but they had no idea what she did for a living. They thought she worked for a travel agent and lived in digs in Loughton travelling into London every day to work. She didn't visit them that often. As long as she kept in touch, they made no demands on her and did not trouble themselves about her, taking comfort in the assumption that she was 'alright'. In short, both parent and child were happy.
CHAPTER 24

One evening when Geoff went back to Juanita's café on one of his London jaunts, he found it was empty apart from Juanita and her daughters. Juanita appeared upset and sat or rather allowed her corpulent form to overflow over several chairs whilst her daughters fussed and fretted around her like sows acting as midwives to a pregnant pig about to give birth. The air was heavy with anxiety. A hum of consternation hung about them which boded no good.

'What's up?' asked Geoff of nobody in particular. He would not normally have been particularly interested in other people's domestic dramas, but this shagged out blancmange of a human being suddenly seemed to have a vulnerability about her that drew him. He was both repelled and drawn by her. It was pathetic to see her quivering like a jelly with tears flowing down her jowls.

She turned to him as if to a friend.

'It's Arthur,' she sobbed. 'They've nicked Arthur for Paki bashin'.' Arthur was her shaven headed flabby son whose haircut made him look like a Russian army conscript or a prisoner of some distant Soviet gulag. Geoff listened as the tale was slowly recounted. Arthur had been nicked. He was going to be charged with GBH for kicking the head in of some hapless Bengali immigrant in Brick Lane.

Paki bashing was something of a leisure activity for the dregs of the working class left behind stranded like flotsam on a beach in the sump of the East End. Darkness and drink were the two essential ingredients. It helped if there was more than one of you as well. Then, you could take it in turns kicking so you did not get too tired. It is what you did when you were suitably fuelled up. It was the ultimate expression of your identity, or really your anger, trying to kick to death somebody who was every bit as much a misfit or castaway as yourself. Geoff understood that, but thought nonetheless that it was stupid. It was like fighting someone whilst the ship you were on rapidly sank beneath you. There was not a lot of future in it really.

There had been a time when somebody being beaten up in Whitechapel would not have attracted any attention, let alone action by the police, but the Bengali immigrant community was now sufficiently numerous and vociferous to make its voice heard and the police had no option but to act.

In any event, Arthur had been refused bail by the police at Leman Street police station. Arthur now languished in Ashford Remand Centre, a youthful academy for young offenders where he was lodged with like-minded fellows from whom he could learn a few more tricks.

That, however, was not the worst of it. How had he been nicked? Who had grassed him up? Juanita was in no doubt about it. She was certain that her son had been fingered by Scots Jimmy.

Geoff had heard of Scots Jimmy. His fellow lodger, Tel, had mentioned him as someone to avoid and he had been spoken about since in Geoff's hearing. When people spoke about Scots Jimmy, they lowered their voices and looked around them before speaking. Scots Jimmy, Geoff knew, was the lord of that particular manor, the king of the patch, the man to whom Mannie, amongst others, paid protection money for a quiet life and not, of course, for protection from some external threat, but protection from Scots Jimmy.

He was a man whose good points, if he had any, were well hidden. Geoff had even seen him once in a pub in Whitechapel High Street holding court surrounded by toadies and henchmen. He stood in the middle of the bar, snappily dressed in an immaculately tailored suit. His overcoat was draped around his shoulders and he tugged at it periodically with stubby fingers revealing an expensive watch and rings on his fingers. He smoked continuously and talked a lot. If you were wise, you simply listened. This man liked the sound of his own voice and contributions to any kind of conversation were entirely unwelcome.

You spoke when you were spoken to, but otherwise avoided eye contact. Geoff had learned that rule where he had grown up. If someone was looking for trouble, then simply looking at them gave them a sufficient excuse to thump you with or without a perfunctory, 'Are you screwin' me?'

This was not intended as an enquiry that you were expected to answer. Your answer, if you had one, was wholly irrelevant and nothing that you said was going to prevent what was about to happen, namely your imminent thumping. There never would be a reason, only a pretext, an excuse for a little mindless violence maybe to make a point, to demonstrate to the onlookers what a tough bastard you were or maybe even just for the fun of it.

The women, or rather girlfriends of such characters, were just as bad, little tarts full of themselves with a surly expression on their faces. Woe betide the hapless lad who asked them to dance or offered them a fag. An indignant squawk from this offended child of Mary would bring the wrath of the boyfriend swinging down upon him like some ape from a nearby tree.

So, when Geoff noticed Jimmy scrutinising him, he felt a degree of apprehension which increased when Jimmy walked over to him. He gulped nervously and flinched as Jimmy leant over towards him and took hold of his tie with both hands.

Instead of strangling him though, Jimmy simply straightened it saying 'Hope you don't mind, I can't stand it. It's like looking at a crooked picture on the wall. I just have to straighten it.'

'Er, no, not at all,' mumbled Geoff gratefully, smiling weakly, grateful that it was only Scots Jimmy's impeccable sartorial taste that had been offended and not something that might have brought Armageddon down upon him.

Despite his nickname, he learned that Scots Jimmy was in fact a Geordie, himself an immigrant just like any other in the East End. As the old saying goes 'scratch a Geordie and find a Jock', so maybe his family came from Scotland originally and his nickname was a faint echo of that. He contented himself with speculation. Enquiry, he knew, would be unwise and unwelcome.

Be that as it may, this man had a fearsome reputation. In an area where violence was endemic, he stood out by reason of his sheer viciousness. He was no stranger to the courts. He had cut his teeth in the usual way with random violence and then moved on to armed robbery and targeted violence. He was more intelligent than most thought and had been quick to realise that 'going across the pavement' with a sawn-off shotgun in your hands, was not the best way to earn money. It earned you status, of course. You were the crème de la crème of the criminal fraternity but you had to be prepared to do the time and that, in the end, is what you ended up doing. Seven years banged up was a high price to pay for status.

So, Scots Jimmy had hung up his shotgun, or more likely, chucked it in the Thames, and turned his talents to the less glamorous but also less hazardous pastime of protection. Why less hazardous? Largely because he had an army of thugs who did his enforcing for him. Geoff had already encountered one of these heroes, the one who had visited Mannie. He had seen him around as well and, in particular, in Jimmy's company at his favourite drinking hole, strutting and preening himself in the large mirror behind the bar. No, Jimmy did not get his hands dirty. He did not need to. His reputation was enough. If you ran any kind of a business in what he regarded as his territory, then you were required to pay him protection money or face the consequences. Most found it prudent to pay.

He ruled his manor with a paternal vindictiveness, but maintained a public face as a successful businessman dealing in scrap metal and cars. East End villains giving evidence at court and giving their occupation as a scrap metal dealer would find themselves being cross-examined by the prosecution barrister who, with a sneer on his face and an upper class accent heavy with sarcasm, would say, 'Oh, so you are a scrap metal dealer, are you?' _,_ before smirking at the Judge in a sycophantic way as if to say 'We all know that that's synonymous with being a villain.'

The fact is it usually was, but the jury would not normally be so knowing and the sarcasm would be lost on them. They would just think the prosecution was being a stuck up bastard, particularly if the trial was at the Inner London Quarter Sessions where most juries contained a good number of dockers and warehousemen. It was notoriously difficult to obtain a conviction, particularly against a docker, in front of a jury at Inner London. Warehousemen, for example, operated the ancient custom of spillage which regarded the contents of a broken tea chest as a perk. This was spillage and it was astonishing how often even the sturdiest tea chest might be so damaged as to require the rescue of its entire contents, usually by the warehouseman walking off site with the tea in cloth bags down the inside of his trouser legs. Even if caught in this most compromising of positions, a defendant thus caught red-handed who advanced the flimsiest of excuses would stand a fair chance of getting away with it so long as he had the right jury.

Anyway, this particular villain, Scots Jimmy, apart from the pains he took with his appearance, had a weakness for small, pretty boys and decorative lap dogs, although not, so far as Geoff knew, for the same reasons. He had heard that Jimmy had in the past even flown to Amsterdam to buy a diamond dog collar for his favourite poodle which he had with him at all times, tethered by a silver lead.

As always with such villains, there was a little old lady in a council flat somewhere who doted on him and in whose eyes he could do no wrong. She would never believe what people said about him. In her eyes, he would forever be her little Jimmy whose nose she had wiped when he came in from school.

In this case, it was his Auntie Alice who had brought him up and from whom he could not bear to be parted. He had dragged her down from her native North East and set her up in a small council flat in Christian Street, only a few streets away from Leman Street. Here, he would visit her each afternoon to make sure the old girl had all she needed and to have his tea.

Everybody needs a refuge from the world and this was his. Here, he could relax and be himself and just let the old girl fuss over him. Here, he would sit in the armchair by the fire reading comics while Aunt Alice prepared tea. Nobody else knew he read comics, only Aunt Alice. She kept a pile by his chair and bought them regularly for him from the newsagent. He liked most comics but especially The Beano. He was a member of the Dennis the Menace fan club under his real name, Jimmy Nicholson, and his pride and joy was his collection of Beano annuals, which his Aunt bought him each year at Christmas.

Not that his reading was limited to the Beano. He also had a pictorial knowledge of the world's classic literature which he had gained from his collection of American classic comics, which artfully reduced the world's literacy classics to comic books. His favourite was _The Last of the Mohicans_ by James Fenimore Cooper.

Tea would not be the genteel affair of the middle classes. It would normally consist of celery in a jug with salt and a plate of bread and butter and cheese with a pot of tea or, sometimes, a pint of winkles, bread, butter, salt, pepper and vinegar and a glass of stout. He loved that. In fact, he loved his Aunt Alice and she loved him.

Geoff suspected that Jimmy must have a fortune stashed away. It must be somewhere nearby. It would not be under the floorboards. Someone might nick it. Blokes like him were not into off-shore funds and companies. They normally tucked it away in accounts and bank deposits. He had seen Scots Jimmy sometimes going in and out of the High Street bank. Might it be there or was that too close to home? On the other hand, he would not go to the City or up West. He was of the breed who thought that you fell off the end of the world if you went past Aldgate Pump. No, the treasure would probably be on his patch somewhere. Wouldn't he like to get his hands on it! That would be a job worth doing!

Jack offered Juanita a cigarette. She took it gratefully and lit up, taking a deep drag. It calmed her down a bit. Jack offered the fags around and soon everybody had lit up. This little ceremony seemed to have a calming effect on them all and soon the group were shrouded in a comforting fog of cigarette smoke, each lost in their own thoughts, the silence broken by only the occasional throaty cough often followed unfortunately by a hawking sound and a violent expectoration of the assembled phlegm into some convenient receptacle, although not usually a handkerchief. Empty margarine tubs appeared to be the receptacle of choice. Geoff preferred not to dwell on it, nor for that matter on anything else to do with hygiene in the premises and simply stuck his thumb in his bum and brain in reverse, metaphorically speaking of course, although no doubt for a suitable consideration one of Juanita's plentiful daughters would have been happy to oblige.

Juanita had shut the café which was in darkness apart from the light behind the counter. That kept it private and made the place feel almost cosy, Geoff thought. He was pleased to be there and to be able to offer some comfort to Juanita. He felt sorry for her and she had never done him any harm.

There was not much that anyone could do for Arthur. He needed a lawyer. Juanita had already tried, without success, to get her solicitor, Monty, on the phone, but it was Saturday and, as an orthodox Jew, he might be in the Synagogue and would not be available for work anyway since it was the Sabbath. It would have to wait.

This particular firm of solicitors had acted for Juanita and her family for decades. They were the family solicitors and could be relied upon.

Jack did what he could to reassure Juanita. Arthur, he assured her, would be alright. The old firm would see him right. All she had to do was to contact the solicitor first thing on Monday. What about Scots Jimmy though? Why had he broken the unwritten code and put Arthur's name in the frame? Why had he grassed him up?

The unwritten law was that you did not grass on people. Not only was it against the code, but it could also be dangerous and result in your body being found on a bomb site or fished out of the Thames. Scots Jimmy was a big fish, however, and acted with impunity. In short, he did what he liked.

Juanita paused from her determined puffing at the cigarette and then looked at him thoughtfully. She was not sure that she could trust him, but then she shrugged her shoulders wearily and said in a confessional sort of way that, 'Things have been a bit tight recently, what with the rent and all.'

In short, Geoff realised, she had not been paying Scots Jimmy his due. Arthur's little mishap was a shot across the bows. If Juanita did not pay up soon, it could only get worse.

Juanita's trust in her family's old solicitor was quite touching. It reminded Geoff that at times even Whitechapel in all its unspeakable sordidness still operated in parts as a community. True, the lady who ran the corner shop had done four years for forgery. True, Juanita was an old tom, but just like everyone else, they were principally concerned about their families and friends. They managed to retain their humanity and lived like islands amidst a sea of depravity and decay.

Unhappily, in this case, Geoff's reassurance that Arthur would be alright proved in the fullness of time to be misplaced. The old firm had briefed a good barrister to defend him when the trial came up at Inner London Quarter Sessions, but unfortunately they got a returned brief. The barrister they had instructed was still part heard on another case. They could not get anyone else to represent Arthur at short notice and so sent a pupil, a young trainee barrister, to attend court and apply for an adjournment. Things went from bad to worse. Arthur also had the grave misfortune to come up in front of a judge whose reputation for unfairness was legendary. He would snort derisively or laugh outright when a defendant was giving evidence and look at the jury as if to say, 'Surely you can't believe that? It's ludicrous!' When defence counsel made their closing speech to the jury, he would make a point of leaning back in his chair and appearing at least to go to sleep. Whether he nodded or not, he, by his actions, made it quite clear to the jury what he thought about the defence. When prosecuting counsel addressed the jury, he would nod approvingly and almost clap when they sat down after delivering their submissions. Quite how he got away with it was something of a mystery, but he did. People were literally mesmerised by him.

It was in front of this monster that the highly nervous pupil had to make an application for an adjournment on the grounds that counsel instructed was not available. He stood up nervously and tried to begin, 'May it please your Honour...' he stammered.

The judge decided to turn it into a pantomime.

'Eh?' pretending not to be able to see him and then acting with exaggerated surprise when he discovered him, 'What? Speak up! I can't hear you', and then before the hapless pupil could speak added, 'Who are you anyway?'

It was, of course, intended to destroy the young man and was highly effective.

All this was too much for the pupil who gabbled his way through the application. The judge affected an outburst of rage.

'What?' he thundered. 'Are you suggesting that justice should wait on the availability of a member of the bar, however senior that person might be?'

The long and the short of it was that the judge insisted the trial should go ahead. The trainee barrister fled from the court, determined to pursue another career. The trial was to go on and Arthur had to be represented. Arthur got a dock brief, one of the useless hacks who hung around the courts hoping for scraps of work if someone appeared unrepresented.

The way it worked was that the defendant in the dock, if unrepresented, could choose any barrister in court to represent him. Once chosen, the barrister would be obliged to act for him for only a very modest fee.

What this meant is that as soon as a dock brief was known to be in the offing, all the competent barristers joined in a stampede for the door, leaving only the deadbeats behind who were there presumably because they could not get any work any other way and who made a practice of hanging around the courts each day for just such an opportunity.

The barrister that Arthur selected was so useless that everybody else in court, apart from the judge, felt sorry for him. Arthur was duly convicted and sentenced to borstal training descending the steps from the dock to the cells with the judge's final words ringing in his ears, 'Take him down!'

Geoff had not been at the trial. He had not been involved in any way and, although sympathetic, he had better things to do than sit around at court all day, especially when he was not being paid to do so.

Most of what happened he had heard about at the local barber shop where he liked to go for a shave rather than a haircut. The barber was Italian and his shop was usually full. You would have to wait, which was not a problem because the place was warm and you could sit and pretend to read the newspaper whilst, in reality, you were listening to the conversation between the barber and the customer he was attending to.

It was really quite remarkable the way men would speak and unburden themselves in the gentlemen's club-like atmosphere of the barber shop. They would tell the barber about problems at work or with the family, express views on politics or life in general. The barber was an adept listener. Unlike a cabbie, he did not give his customer the benefit of his opinion. His skill lie in allowing the customer to express his thoughts in the sympathetic privacy of an all-male environment. People would relax their guard and confide things to the barber and to the listening audience of other customers that they would not normally mention even to friends, let alone strangers. There was something almost confessional about it.

Whatever it was that prompted it, it was the barber shop that Geoff heard about what happened at Arthur's trial. It was also during a visit to the barber shop that he heard one or two snippets of information which confirmed his suspicion that Scots Jimmy had, as he had thought, behaved in quite a conventional way about money by putting it in the local bank.

On one occasion, one of Jimmy's boys had called in for a shave with a large, now empty, holdall and had mentioned in passing that he had been up to the bank for Jimmy that morning. He was upset at having had to wait for the manager to admit him to the vault whilst the manager checked his credentials, all of which, he felt, attracted attention he would have preferred not to have received. The barber made suitably sympathetic noises and the conversation turned to football.

Geoff sat there, patiently waiting his turn, looking thoughtful.
CHAPTER 25

The next week spent back in Watford was uneventful. In the mornings, Geoff arrived at the office early, sorted through the post and then spent an hour or so dictating letters to his secretary. Then, it would be time to walk to the local magistrates court where he would generally spend the morning either on his feet in court or outside in the cavernous waiting area, pacing up and down and thinking or smoking innumerable cigarettes whilst the light in the hall went from dingy to grey and finally to dark.

Afternoons were for seeing clients back at the office. Now was the time also to return phone calls and then, finally at the end of the afternoon, he signed his post which the secretary brought to him and went home or maybe, if the weather was not too bad, for a walk along the canal and a chat with Albert.

Every day was pretty much the same. Sometimes, there would be the diversion of a trip to a London court. This would only happen though if he had been recommended to some London villain as a good brief or if one of his existing clients was careless enough to get arrested by the Met Police, which was an event which, once experienced, they were anxious not to repeat.

London Magistrates Courts made Watford Magistrates Court look like a kindergarten. For the most part, they were old, noisy, smoky and smelly. This much Watford had in common with them, but the London Courts brought all of this and more to a still higher pitch of Dantéesque hell. From the outside, the building would often look relatively imposing but once the stone steps had been ascended, the visitor would be confronted with a maelstrom of movement and noise.

An anteroom, usually small or at least too small for the crowds of people crammed in there, contained policemen, witnesses, solicitors, barristers and people surrendering to their bail. Somewhere in the tightly packed crowd there would be a duty sergeant waiting to receive people into custody. If an individual, charged with an offence and bailed to appear at court on a certain date, turned up as required, they were obliged to surrender themselves back into custody. The duty sergeant ticked their name off a list and the individual, now a prisoner, descended stone steps to the cell area where he would wait with all the other malefactors crowded in there until his name was called. This area under the court would be bare and tiled, resembling to all intents and purposes a public lavatory. Here, the prisoner would wait with the other delinquents including all those who had been arrested over the previous night, the prostitutes, the vagrants, drunks and suspected persons all standing cheek by jowl in this subterranean anteroom.

Once called, a different set of stone steps would be ascended by the prisoner which brought him through a locked door and directly into the courtroom. His entry would be greeted by the duty sergeant, now inside the court rather than outside, bawling at the top of his voice, 'Case number 27, your Worship! John Higgins!'

It was in the waiting area of just such a court that Geoff, whilst still a trainee, had first heard about the game of polo. Standing beneath the 'No Spitting' sign at Thames Magistrates Court was not where you would normally expect to meet a polo player. It was there, however, that the barrister with whom Geoff found himself that day chose to regale him with stories about polo in a very loud voice as he stood there in his overcoat with its fur trimmed collar, cigar in hand and beaming expansively. Had Geoff ever played polo, he enquired. Geoff was obliged to admit that he had not. That did not deter learned counsel. Polo, he explained, was a very expensive sport it was also apparently terribly exciting. One met some very distinguished people, some of whose table manners left much to be desired.

Geoff and all the others in the waiting room who heard this discourse on the sport of kings were suitably impressed. Geoff, however, wished the barrister would simply shut up. Most people there, including Geoff, did not have a pot to piss in let alone a polo pony.

No consideration of that had, however, deterred learned counsel from continuing to demonstrate that, although he was there, this was not his accustomed milieu.

This particular barrister was also by reputation a bit of a lad and loved the ladies, a reputation that Geoff was much later able to confirm. In later life, he ran off with a woman half his age.

The old firm used him from time to time. He was quite good for a final speech at The Old Bailey. He had a theatrical presence and sense of timing. After all, addressing a court is not that different to treading the boards. When the moment came, he would stand and open his arms wide as if to embrace the jury and crush them to his bosom. This would be quite impressive to a jury who would feel, if not loved exactly, then at least flattered by the intimacy offered them by the formidable creature in front of them.

He was also the bastard who shopped Geoff once for taking his jacket off in court at The Old Bailey. Geoff, an inexperienced trainee, had been wholly unaware that you did not remove your jacket whilst in court. The dress code was strict. Not only did you not remove your jacket, you wore a dark suit and in the case of a barrister, a waistcoat as well regardless of the temperature. As far as the judge was concerned, Gibraltar would fall if one even small item of clothing was removed. Since it had been stiflingly hot on the occasion in question, Geoff had slipped his jacket off. At the time, he had been busy reading some novel or other and he had failed to notice the glares directed at him from learned counsel and the even more learned judge. The judge, despairing of communicating by thought with Geoff had, in the end, sent an usher to remonstrate with him who took him out of the court to do so. This, learned counsel thought, had put Geoff's employers in a bad light and so he duly reported the matter to the firm. In reality, he only did it because he was bloody hot too and it irritated him to see Geoff so carelessly flout the dress code. When Geoff returned to the office that day, he had been bollocked by each partner in turn. Since all their rooms ran off the same corridor, it was like running the gauntlet until psychologically bruised, battered and humiliated he reached the other end. _That fucking bastard_ , he thought uncharitably. He would mark his card all right. Who knew when the opportunity might present itself? Although not generally of an unforgiving nature, this incident rankled for a very long time.

Now that he was a dyed in the wool villain, Geoff, who had committed some of the most serious crimes in the A to Z of criminality, was somewhat at a loss quite what to do next. He lay on his bed at Juanita's and ran through the events of the last year to fifteen months. They were extraordinary! They had completely transformed his life in a way that he could never have imagined possible. Sometimes, when he occasionally encountered decent, hardworking and honest individuals, as even he did from time to time, he felt the occasional twinge of guilt, but this would quickly pass and his hard headed cynicism would soon return justifying his actions to himself. It was only Geoff anyway that had any trouble with his conscience. Jack had no conscience.

As he lay on his bed and pondered, he realised that he felt a little bored. His crimes had brought him more money than he needed and so gain was no longer a spur. What he now craved was excitement. He could, of course, have given up his dual existence and either carried on his life as a boring provincial solicitor or he could have gone abroad and found a new life, a fresh start. He had now more than enough money to do so. He did not want to though. He had become addicted to Jack. Jack had become his alter ego and he had no desire to give up Jack's life at all. He smiled contentedly. But what should he do now?

He searched for inspiration. Whom did he hate? Nobody in particular, then he realised with a start that he hated lawyers and particularly some barristers, the supercilious sort who however dim they might be, however much they owed their position in life to family and influence, nonetheless made him feel like a sergeant in the army being addressed by an officer. They wore an air of conscious superiority like other people wore shirts.

'Well done that man!' they might say unconsciously by their condescension, claiming credit for something they had not done.

It was whilst his thoughts were thus engaged that he remembered one particular member of the bar, the polo player with the libidinous nature, he who had boasted about his polo ponies to impress a young articled clerk with no money and a crowd of down and outs in the waiting area of Thames Magistrates Court. Geoff remembered it was as if he had to convince himself as well as those present that he might be physically there in front of them, but he did not belong there. He was paying them a gracious visit from another planet to which, with a sigh of relief, he would soon return.

He had shopped him to the partners of the firm where he had trained. True, it was years ago, but that wound had at the time run deep and had never been erased. The injury was still there unavenged. Now might just be the time to give that arrogant bastard his comeuppance

For the want of something better to do, he set about making enquiries as before in conversation with the barristers' clerks that he knew, that source of all gossip and inside information. One barrister's clerk in particular was a tall, skinny man with a long nose that looked as if it had a permanent drip on the end of it and who, like many very tall men, walked around with his shoulders hunched and a permanent stoop. He had a reputation in the Temple of being a bit of a martinet. He insisted when being spoken to by other clerks, who by and large were a friendly crowd, that whoever spoke to him addressed him with his full name – Christopher. Therefore, if anybody called him 'Chris', he would add pointedly 'topher'.

In time and with the pomposity pricking wit of his fellow clerks, he was known throughout the Temple and other Inns of Court as 'Topher.'

On a dark, misty day, Geoff made his way along Middle Temple Lane to the barrister's chambers where, upon entering, he found the clerk warming his backside against the fire that crackled merrily in the grate. The sound of boats foghorns drifted in mournfully from the river nearby.

The clerk smiled when he saw him. Here was a diversion and a chance for a chat.

They greeted each other. They had known each other for some years and the clerk was not averse to sharing a smoke and a cup of tea. It broke the day up, which was a long one, from early morning until after 8:00 pm or 9:00 pm at night. The money was good, but you were married to the job. You lived the law. You were imbued with it. The law was you. His companions in the clerks' office were busy and using the phone or bustling around. He was a hard taskmaster and it was best to appear busy when he was about, even if that really was not the case.

He snapped his fingers at the junior clerk who, well versed in the signals of the senior, instantly went out and put the kettle on. The senior clerk then led Geoff into one of the Guvnor's rooms. It was large and lined with books with a view from the windows over Temple Gardens. They sat themselves in comfy chairs and the clerk put his feet on the desk, carefully avoiding the photographs of the barrister's wife looking out at the world with a simpering sweet smile. Standing behind her in the photo was the very barrister Geoff had in mind, with his hands resting on his wife's shoulders and an unctuous smile on his face, as well he might, Topher' explained, since he had married into the aristocracy and his children's education was being funded by his wife's parents.

_Well, well!_ thought Geoff. _How interesting!_

This, it seemed to Geoff, was a stroke of luck. It was whilst exchanging gossip with Topher that he learned that the barrister in question not only still played polo but, to the clerk's disgust, had insisted on going to Argentina for a month to play.

'If he's not working, he's not earning,' the clerk said, which meant, of course, that the clerk was not either, at least from this barrister's activities.

The polo season in England runs, depending a bit on the weather, from May through to September. The end of the season did not prevent enthusiasts from indulging their passion in warmer climes and particularly Argentina where the sport enjoyed cult status. Basically, if you had the time, money and inclination, you could play polo all the year around. It seemed that learned counsel had all three.

Introduced by the British in the 19th century, it quickly progressed from a sport of and for the British into one for the natives, and just as with cricket in the West Indies and India, and downhill skiing in the Alps, they were soon leaving the Brits for dead. To add insult to injury, these days Argies, as they were less than affectionately known, would come to England for the summer season and offer lessons to the English as well as selling them horses. They pursued their money and their women, usually in that order, relentlessly.

In any event, learned counsel was now enjoying the humid heat of an Argentine summer where his host, an Argie pro, was busy trying to sell him yet more horses. He was not averse to buying more. He just wondered how he was going to break the news to his wife who, although keen on horses, drew the line at the ten they already had.

Geoff finished his tea and cigarette and left the chambers looking thoughtful. This barrister was known for his peccadilloes. He too had a London flat. Might a visit there turn up something of interest for his aristocratic wife and her family?

There was only one way to find out and he went directly there. This flat, like that of the other august member of the legal profession whose flat he had previously burgled was situated in a concrete monstrosity of a tower block in the Barbican. He remembered all the wildcat strikes and industrial unrest that had delayed the redevelopment of the Barbican site.

_Was it worth waiting for?_ he thought as he surveyed it from the road. _Was this an enduring, architectural legacy to leave to posterity? Frankly not,_ he thought. _Nothing but the price and location distinguished it from the appalling tower blocks that had been erected in Stepney. Rather than enhancing life, they divorced people from it. How long before they pulled them down?_

The same stunt he had pulled before gained him entry to the building. This time, he did not need the key. His education had advanced and when he reached the door of the flat, anonymous and threatening with its peep hole, he was able to open the door using a technique shown to him by one of his more communicative criminal clients in Watford who, apart from being an accomplished burglar, was also a locksmith. Whilst they were killing time waiting for their case to come on at court, his client had demonstrated on the door to the court office how easy it was to open if you only knew how. Geoff had made light of it at the time, but remembered the lesson. Now the door opened with no difficulty and he quietly slid in.

The layout was again unremarkable. It was just as untidy, but was better furnished than the previous flat he had burgled. It had, of course, the obligatory desk. He poured himself a large whisky and went through the contents of its drawers thoroughly.

The only photos were those of the barrister's family. He had half hoped to find photos of another Rita, but it was not to be. Disappointed, he shut the last drawer and leant back in the chair. _This is a bit surprising,_ he thought, _this chap must have the contact details of his girlfriends somewhere._

He remembered one of the stories about him, about how one of his girlfriends, despairing of ever getting any kind of commitment from him, had got up early one morning and, before he awoke, replaced herself with a push bike which he discovered on waking with a note attached to it saying, 'Since this is the way you treat me, I thought I would leave you this little memento of me – Goodbye!'

As he looked idly around, his gaze fell upon two paintings on the wall opposite that he had vaguely been aware of but not really looked at before. He went over to inspect them more closely. They were not very big but might, he guessed, be valuable. _Dutch still-life's_ , he guessed, _they might fetch a bob or two._

They were not very big but how to get them out? They would look a bit odd under his arm. An old Gladstone bag in a cupboard solved that one and whilst he was in the cupboard, on impulse he ran his hands under the shirts and towels piled neatly on a top shelve where his fingers fell upon a small book. He took it down and looked at it and smiled broadly. Eureka!

He had found his naughty address book. He sat down again and poured himself another whisky as he thumbed through it. This was gold dust. There was a list of girls and numbers and doubtful addresses for the pursuit of various pleasures that, if published, would go straight to the top of the best seller's list!

He finished his whisky and washed the glass out before wiping it carefully, then put the paintings in the Gladstone bag, the book in his pocket and left as quickly as he had come.

CHAPTER 26

Work followed its usual rhythm in Watford and he was able easily enough during the course of the day to prepare a Power of Attorney which, when a suitable opportunity occurred, he took with him to London, with the paintings, to one of the major auction houses in the West End.

He produced the Power and introduced himself as the Donee of the Power and explained that the Donor was currently abroad and who had instructed him to sell two paintings in his absence. He was, of course, Mr Shepherd and able to produce his passport to demonstrate that that was the case. The picture, he explained, was not very flattering, but he had had a beard then and he joked 'looked a bit like a pirate.'

The young woman to whom he spoke, he realised, fancied him. He looked at her whilst she inspected the painting and quickly came to the conclusion that she was a middle class girl from a good family, probably with a degree in the history of art. She was attractive. Should he dally a while? He forced himself to concentrate. Business was business.

Her interest in him meant that she was a bit flustered and did not look too closely at the passport, nor ask any more questions. She did, however, show the Power and the paintings to an older colleague who, upon seeing the painting, beamed at Geoff and said that they were indeed by a Dutch painter, not a Master, but sufficiently well known to command a high figure at auction. It turned out that there was an auction in two weeks' time and there would accordingly be time to check with the police to see if they had been stolen before offering them for sale. Naturally, he explained, although they were sure that he was Bona Fide, they were obliged to carry out certain checks.

Geoff smiled and said he understood and would return in three weeks' time to collect either the paintings or a cheque, if they had been sold. He was quite relaxed; since nobody, of course, had known that they had been stolen or were even missing. Plainly, the police would give them a clean bill of health and with a bit of luck they would sell at the auction.

As he left walking back up New Bond Street, he pondered the next step.

Learned counsel was away for the best part of a month yet, but just to give him something else to think about on his return, he would post the book to his wife just before he was scheduled to return. He would not mind being a fly on the wall when that lot came home to roost. The row that would erupt would divert attention from pretty much everything else for a while.

The remainder of the week passed uneventfully. On the Friday evening, he set of for London as usual.

CHAPTER 27

The early part of Friday evening he spent with Rita. He had decided to see her early. He wanted to be first in the queue. He had had no lunch that day and so suggested that they pop out for a bite to eat together. They went to a small Italian café nearby. It was gratifying to see how heads turned as Rita walked by. She was a very attractive woman. He wondered briefly how she had got involved in prostitution but made no enquiry. It would sound too corny. 'What's a nice girl like you doing in this?' Not only that but he was no knight errant and had no intention of saving her. _She, like me_ , he thought, _is far beyond redemption. Some things are beyond the power of man to change._

After the meal, they had strolled around Bayswater together, arm in arm, just like any other couple, quite happy in each other's company. Rita, Geoff felt, was an easy, undemanding companion.

After he left Rita's place later that evening, he turned his steps towards the sump. It was time again to descend into the abyss and to catch up on life in the underworld.

When he reached the café, it was strangely empty. The familiar smell of greasy food greeted him as he came through the door. The lights were on, but there was nobody there. Then, from the kitchen, he heard the sound of breaking crockery and raised voices. A woman's voice, which he recognised as Juanita's, was raised above the other and pleaded,

'No! Please! Honest, I'll have the money...'

Whatever she said after that was drowned in a chorus of yells and screams with more crashing of crockery. He should, he realised, have turned around and left just like whoever else who had been in the café. He did not though. Not knowing quite why he did, he dashed into the kitchen sliding on smashed plates as he did so. The kitchen had been wrecked. Several of Juanita's daughters were cowering in a corner whilst a man stood over them clutching a meat cleaver. Juanita was being bent over a hot plate by a man who was holding her by her greasy, black hair trying to push her face against the red hot plate. Juanita's face was distorted with fear. Her mouth gaped as she struggled fiercely with her attacker, a white man with negroid features and Asiatic eyes. He was an ethnic kaleidoscope, a Jacob's coat of many colours. He was also a really tough looking bastard.

Geoff realised that he had seen this man before. He had been at Mannie's shop. He was the one who had roughed up the old man. Although he did not feel particularly brave, Geoff heard himself say in a sneering, mocking voice as he stepped towards him 'What was your mother, a fucking old tom?' he sniggered.

He, of the multi-racial appearance, spat at him like an angry stoat.

'Fuck off you toe rag!' he screamed in what sounded like a Welsh accent and dropping Juanita who flopped onto the floor. Fortunately, her head missed the hot plate. He charged at Geoff. Geoff did not think, he reacted grabbing the nearest object, which happened to be a heavy pan. He smashed it with all his strength into the man's face who fell against the wall and sank to his knees. Then, with both hands on the handle, Geoff gave him another one for good measure before stepping over him and hurling the pan at his companion holding the meat cleaver. The pan missed because the man ducked, quickly squatting down to his heels. This put him at a convenient height for the drop kick which Geoff aimed at his face, catching him on the chin. As he fell backwards, still clutching the cleaver, Geoff grabbed his wrist with his left hand and then belted him over the head with a full bottle of milk. Milk and blood mingled as the man lay still in the wreckage of the kitchen. Was he dead? Geoff neither knew or cared.

He looked at Juanita. She was being helped to her feet by her daughters. They were alright. He, too, was unscathed. That, though, might not last long. He knew that he was in deep shit. These must be Scots Jimmy's boys and he had plenty more where these came from. He knew he had to move fast. He could do a runner or he could get to the root of the problem. He chose the latter.

He turned to leave the kitchen. As he did so, Tel came in, stopped dead and looked around him as if awestruck before saying in an admiring voice, 'Cor! You're a bit tasty, mate! Remind me not to upset you!'

Geoff grabbed him by the collars of his coat and pulled him towards him until their noses were all but touching. He was upset and he didn't mind who knew it. 'Just keep this to your fucking self or I'll sort you out too.'

This, he realised, was a futile and rather silly thing to say, but he was upset and said it anyway. He felt that the circumstances required it. He let go of his lapels and said, 'Call an ambulance,' and then left the café. He wasn't finished yet and fortune favours the brave, at least sometimes.

He felt elated as he ran down the road towards Christian Street. He could hear the police sirens behind him, summoned perhaps to the fracas in Leman Street. He wondered by whom. Juanita was too shocked, but maybe one of the daughters had done so. He knew that he did not have long, but he made himself slow to a walk as he reached Christian Street.

The Aunt's flat, he knew, was situated on the third floor of an old tenement. The flats were approached from the rear through an unlit courtyard smelling of human urine. _Cats, dogs or humans, they all stink,_ he thought. Any lights that there might have been had been smashed long ago leaving the yard cloaked in inky blackness. He paused at the entrance to the yard to catch his breath.

A stairway led to a long open balcony. There was one light left on the stairs, sufficient to illuminate the way up. The front doors of the flats opened on to the balcony which was also in darkness, although some light was provided through the chinks in the curtains to the various flats. Was Jimmy there? Was his Auntie there? What the hell! There was only one way to find out. He was just going to have to storm it.

He ran up the steps three at a time. Feeling in his pockets, he assembled a collection of coins and slipped them between his fingers, gripping them tightly. Which was the flat? Here it was. Number ten. He could just make out the number and to make sure, he traced its outline with his fingers. From within, he heard a dog bark. Not the poodle, surely?

He knocked. Silence. He knocked again and said as sternly as he could, 'Open up! Police!'

A pause and then the door opened. There stood Jimmy in his shirt sleeves and braces. _What a big bastard_ , thought Geoff briefly, as without hesitation, he smashed his coin-laden right fist into Jimmy's face and pushed into the flat. Jimmy, taken by surprise, fell backwards. There, a little way behind in the living room, stood Auntie Alice. She looked dumbstruck. Geoff grabbed her quickly and thrust her into a room to one side and shut the door. Jimmy was struggling to his feet swearing,

'You cunt, I'll cut your fucking heart out.'

Geoff kneed him in the face and grabbed him by his shirt with both hands and hauled him to his feet, pulling him to the door of the flat through which he reversed as quickly as he could. Jimmy was clawing at him, blood pouring from his smashed nose but Jack's momentum carried them both through the doorway and out on to the balcony. Once on the balcony, Geoff stepped to the side and pulled Jimmy past him as he did so. He slammed Jimmy against the waist high parapet and then shoved him over, reaching down to grab his trousers and pulling hard to help him on his way. There was a wild yell as Jimmy fell through the air to land with a thud in the courtyard.

Silence.

There was not any sign of life from the other flats whose doors remained firmly closed. If the occupants had heard anything, _and they must have done_ thought Geoff, they were resolutely minding their own business.

Geoff stood there breathing hard. He felt something against his legs. Looking down, he saw the poodle. He bent down on impulse and grabbed it before chucking it over the balcony as well. It yelped as it arched out into space before it too disappeared into the darkness below.

Then he scarpered back along the balcony, down the stairs and across the yard, the Auntie's screams following him as he fled.

Had she clocked him? He could not be sure. He knew that he should have killed the Aunt as well to be on the safe side, but he could not do it. There was a limit to whatever even Jack would do. He shrank from the thought. She was a little old lady and, anyway, she had reminded him of his Gran, even her sitting room had been the same as his Gran's with china ducks on the wall above the sideboard. No, he would have to take his chances. She would not have got much of a look at him and everything had happened very fast.

As he reached the street, he made himself walk. He did not want to draw attention to himself. Fortunately, there were not many people about and the streets were not well lit.

He walked slowly through the gloom sniffing the air. Why did this place smell like a fucking dust cart, he asked himself. He suddenly felt tired. Now that the adrenalin had been expended, he felt himself slowing down mentally and physically.

He was still troubled by the thought of Jimmy's Aunt being able to identify him. His thoughts became circular. She was old, she probably had bad eyesight, she would not be able to identify him, but what if she could? It was too late to do anything about it now.

He tried hard to think clearly, but his own Gran kept intruding into his thoughts. He suddenly remembered seeing his Gran after his Granddad had died, dressed in black sitting in the little kitchen of his mum's prefab. Whether it was just after the funeral or not, he could not remember. He had only been little but he remembered that suddenly on the radio they began to play one of the old songs, one of the old music hall songs. Talk about bad timing! The voice had crooned mawkishly, 'We've been together now for 40 years and it don't seem a day too much. There ain't a lady living in the land that I'd swap for my dear old Dutch', each one of the words flying like an arrow into his Gran's heart who sat there and sobbed quietly, thinking of her Ernie.

Now he had made Aunt Alice cry, more than that, he had destroyed her world. He suddenly felt guilty and ashamed. What the bloody hell had happened to him?

He could not get the bloody song out of his head. He put his hands over his ears and shook his head. He must concentrate! 'Think man! Think!' he said to himself aloud.

He bumped into someone on the pavement but hurried on without stopping, ignoring the shouted _,_ 'Oi!' The last thing he needed right now was a punch up in the street. 'Sorry!' he called over his shoulder and kept going.

He knew that he should not go back to Leman Street, but he had to get a wash and a change of clothes somehow. He was covered in blood which had gushed from Jimmy's nose. He also knew that if he did a runner that would be tantamount to an admission of guilt. His best bet, he reasoned, was to let himself be pulled, but not yet. He returned to the café.

Back in the flat, Auntie was sobbing. She had heard Jimmy's scream as he fell to the yard and the hideous thud as he landed. It was a long way down. Nobody could survive a fall like that.

'Jimmy,' she whimpered. To her, he was just the wee lad whom she had brought up after his parents died. She could see him now in her mind's eye with his knees all scabbed from the scrapes he had got into and his hands black with the dust from the coal he had nicked from the railway yard. She leaned back and sobbed her heart out for Jimmy, for her lost youth and the child she herself never had.

CHAPTER 28

THE LAW

When Geoff reached the café, he discovered to his relief that the police and ambulance which had been called had already left. That was good. He did not want to see the boys in blue until he had cleaned himself up. Juanita and her daughters were 'helping the police with their enquiries', although whether voluntarily or not was unclear. In any event, they were not there and the café had been left in the care of a long-time resident, a Somali seaman called Ali. Ali was a tall, well-built man of about fifty years. He had a distinguished air about him as befitted a respected man within his own community. His English was good and he was something of a mouthpiece for the Somali seamen who were a long way from home. They generally congregated at The Red Ensign Club, a few streets from the café, but sometimes came to the café for a meal or to see Ali or to sample the services of Juanita's daughters and, if Terry, the other lodger, was to be believed, Juanita herself.

It was Ali who opened the door and let Geoff back into the café, and it was he who quickly told Geoff what had happened in his absence. This was fortunate since Geoff did not wish to linger. Time, he knew, was at a premium.

Apparently, Ali had come back to the café after transacting some business for a group of Somali seamen. There was some kind of dispute between them and the Greek skipper of the tramp steamer they served on. Anyway, Ali had returned to the café and found the place full of police officers and ambulance men. Juanita was sitting in the wreckage of the kitchen, apparently shocked and silent. Her daughters, on the other hand, were hysterical. In due course, they had all left with the police officers. The ambulance men had taken the injured men away in the ambulance and Ali had been left alone in the now empty café worried about how he was going to get something to eat. Geoff suggested he made himself a sandwich as he hurried out of the café and went upstairs.

Geoff quickly went to his room and took all his clothes off, showered and redressed himself from head to foot. Everything he had been wearing earlier he put in a bin bag which he later stuck on a burning brazier on a bomb site in Cable Street before retracing his steps and walking to Leman Street police station.

He was grateful for the time that he had had in which to think. He reasoned that he might as well turn himself in. Not only would this get things over more quickly, but he would be spared his bedroom door being broken down by the police officers in the early hours of the morning and being unceremoniously dragged off to the nick. Although he was sticking his head into the lion's den, he realised that going in himself was, on balance, preferable. The police would be looking for him and sooner or later would catch up with him. Juanita and the girls would by now have told the simple truth, namely that they were being attacked and were in fear of their lives when Geoff had turned up. Although the fight had been bloody, essentially all that he had done was to defend himself. _Well perhaps,_ he thought. _Maybe on reflection I got a bit carried away._

As a lawyer, he knew full well the limits of the defence of self-defence. The law allowed self-defence and, to an extent, the defence of others. However, long after the event, the action would be clinically dissected by one of the bewigged brethren in a court somewhere. The law required an individual to have acted with the coolness and judgement of an appeal court judge. Could he not have acted in some other way to defend them? Called the police? Placed himself between them and their attacker? Did he really have to bottle the bloke carrying the cleaver? Couldn't he simply have disarmed him? Lawyers and courts would want to dwell for hours on such theoretical niceties. If you applied the legal theory in practice, you would be likely to feature in the obituary columns of some newspaper whose leading article would also lament your death and thunder on about the rise in violence in our society. You, in the meantime, would be dead. So much for theory.

Scots Jimmy's demise might, he realised, present a difficulty. That action he could not own up to or explain away to himself, let alone to the police. The fact that, if he had not killed him he would have had a homicidal hoodlum and his henchmen after him, would not go in his favour. Murder was murder. There was nothing else for it. He would have to keep schtum. If you are in the shit, he reflected, it is best to keep your mouth firmly shut.

He was in the shit alright. He knew that he was in for a pasting by the long arm of the law. At least by surrendering himself he missed the hors d'oeuvres – being carried into the police station by his balls, having been dragged from his bed in the early hours.

He remembered from his days with the old firm how when the most hardened criminal was keen to be accompanied on entering the police station. Most, before surrendering themselves to the tender cares of the boys in blue, preferred to have some insurance with them. Provided you had a roll of greasy fivers to present to the brief of your choice, there was no problem. He would attend the nick with you and stay glued to your side. He would answer all the questions during the police interview, 'through me, my client makes no reply' and he would brave the subsequent wrath of the Old Bill, who would accurately point out that in these circumstances the so called interview was a waste of time. Privately, Geoff would agree, but everybody had his job to do. The suspect had had his money's worth and was protected from any irate policemen who could not then beat the shit out of you because you had been seen to go into the station without any marks upon you, your brief with you as a witness. All the officers could do was to grind their teeth and await another more favourable opportunity to feel chummy's collar. Every dog has its day.

Geoff presented himself to the desk sergeant.

'What the fuck do you want?' enquired the representative of law and order without looking up from his paperwork. This was clearly no Dixon of Dock Green.

'I think you may want to interview me about the punch up at Juanita's café,' Geoff replied calmly. The sergeant viewed him suspiciously. This bloke could speak the Queen's English. That was slightly uncommon in these parts. He went into a back room. He had obviously rung through to the CID office because, when he returned shortly afterwards, in came through another door a burly copper in plain clothes, closely followed by a bespectacled colleague. The burly copper did not stand on ceremony.

'Name?' he demanded.

'Shepherd – Jack,' said Geoff. _Do not get cocky with this bloke,_ he thought to himself. _Speak when you are spoken to._

'You were the bloke who thumped those two geezers in that crap-hole Juanita calls a café?' the officer continued, more as a statement than a question.

'Yes,' said Geoff quietly.

At that point, according to the text books, the officer should administer the caution, 'You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.'

In this case, however, the officer, clearly a man of few words, simply said 'Right – you're nicked.'

Either way, Geoff understood him perfectly well.

They took him to the charge room downstairs to be booked in. A grim room devoid of decoration and illuminated by a single bulb that cast a yellow light on all present. Somewhere nearby, someone was kicking on a cell door and yelling something incoherently. There was nothing unusual about that and nobody paid any attention. Geoff stood in front of the desk.

'Turn your pockets out,' said the sergeant.

He did as he was bidden. He gave his details slowly, antecedents the police called them, name, date of birth, address and so on. This was laboriously recorded on an ancient typewriter by the arresting officer who had a fag on the go to aid concentration.

'Been nicked before?' he enquired equably, the movement of his mouth causing ash from his cigarette to fall on the typewriter keys.

'Yes, but only as a juvenile.'

Geoff knew that Shepherd had a record, but he did not know the details. He knew he had been to prison at some time or other, but he thought it best to play down his criminal past, so he only admitted at this stage that he had been in trouble as a juvenile offender. He had given Jack's particulars of birth and background. By now, he knew them by heart. Then, he was fingerprinted, a messy process, and photographed from different angles.

He knew he had a problem. He had given Jack's details. If they were able to compare his prints and photos with any that they already had of the real Jack Shepherd, they would immediately see that he was an impostor. That would be very awkward indeed. Likewise, they would not be happy to discover that he had been less than frank about his record. Still, he reasoned, it was unlikely that the CRO records would be checked with any urgency. The longer he was in custody though, the greater the danger would be. If he was charged with an offence, he would have a real problem because it would be bound to come out. If he was released without charge, he could require them to destroy the photos and fingerprints or hand them over to him. Either would do. There would be no record to compare against the real Jack's photos and fingerprints. Then, all would be well. He could not influence the outcome of the moment. It was out of his hands. He would simply have to wait his chance and take whatever opportunity presented itself.

He was placed in a cell with his shows outside the door. The door shut behind him with a metallic clang. He was almost overwhelmed by the sense of claustrophobia that immediately assailed him as his listened to the sound of the copper's feet echoing in the stone corridor as he left the cell block and the sound of clanging metal gates closing behind him as he went. The room was two paces wide and four paces long. It was not much better than that oubliette that he had seen in the dungeons once below Kenilworth Castle where, in medieval times, prisoners were placed and then forgotten – hence 'oubliette' – forgotten.

In this modern day dungeon where he could almost touch the walls each side by stretching his arms out, there was a concrete ramp with a stained piece of rubber mat on it. There was a single light bulb set into the ceiling high above him and the walls and the cell door were scored with graffiti and scratch marks as if people had tried to claw their way out or to leave some record of their passing to an indifferent world. He noticed that there were footmarks on the walls, sometimes quite high up, and here and there what appeared to be the remains of excreta smears. The cell smelt of disinfectant which barely masked the underlying smell of a mixture of vomit and urine.

_Lovely,_ he thought as he sat down and waited for the coppers.

CHAPTER 29

Whilst Geoff was a guest of the constabulary, Rita had run into a problem of her own. She had returned to her rooms one evening to find the armchair by the fire occupied by the corpulent form of the very Queen's Counsel whose admiration for her had first brought Geoff to her door, Geoff having seen photographs of Rita whilst he burgled the barrister's London flat. Suddenly, here he was uninvited and unannounced in her room.

It was not uncommon for Rita's clients to have a particular preference or fetish. Some were keen on sadistic or masochistic sex, but this for the most part had involved only a degree of play acting rather than any real violence.

Learned counsel, however, had been getting progressively more violent towards her with every visit and she had finally told him that she had had enough and to go elsewhere. That had been a few weeks previously and she had not heard from him since, but now here he was sitting in her flat and smiling at her.

She had no idea how he had got in. She actually felt quite frightened but tried to brave it out.

'What the hell are you doing here?' she exclaimed angrily.

'Oh, I think you know,' he said calmly and adding 'I like it when you are angry.'

'I'm calling the police,' she said, turning towards the telephone, now decidedly alarmed.

'Go ahead,' he said equally calmly. 'I expect that they will be interested in this.' He held up a book. It was her record of her earnings that she had kept religiously over the years.

She stopped and replaced the telephone receiver which she had in her hand. He continued, 'Even if they don't prosecute you for tax evasion, I imagine the Revenue will have something to say.'

He grinned when he saw that his words had struck home. Then, he got up and walked up to her and hit her hard in the face, knocking her backwards on to the bed where he joined her and raped her, beating her about the head as he did so.

He had acted so swiftly that she was taken completely by surprise.

'Why don't you fight me back?' he laughed. Rita would have liked to do so, but she was almost unconscious and anyway, somewhere in her bruised and battered mind she knew that under these circumstances she would stand no chance and that it would provoke even greater violence on his part.

When he had finished, he stood up, gave her a kiss on the head and said, 'Righto, Rita, I'll see you sometime next week. Oh, and I think I'll hang on to this,' he smiled, holding up the book. Then he left. Rita passed out.

When she came to, she crawled into the bathroom, ran a deep bath and flopped in. Then she did the best damage repair job she could before double locking her door and collapsing on the bed. Before she crashed out, she ran over events in her mind.

How had he got hold of her book? she wondered. Nobody knew anything about it except her. She had not mentioned it to him. She had not left it lying around. She concluded that he must have searched her place very carefully before finding it. He perhaps had been searching to pass the time whilst waiting for her to turn up. What a stroke of luck for him to have turned that up! _Lucky for him, but not for me,_ she thought ruefully. _What on earth am I going to do now?_ She could not think straight, her head and body hurt so much.

She passed out.

When she came to again, she felt sore but a little better. Her head ached badly and she had lumps and bruises all over her. She decided she needed to get away, not only to recover, but to think and to work out what to do for the best. She was also worried that despite saying he would be back 'next week', he might simply turn up again just for the sheer hell of it. He was, after all, a sadist.

She realised that she could simply do a disappearing act, give up the rental of the flat and go. He would not find her again or at least there was a fair chance he would not, but he would still have the book and could send it even anonymously to the police or the Revenue and sooner or later they would track her down. She had to get the book back, but how? She was still wondering whilst she threw some things into a small suitcase and left.

CHAPTER 30

They let him sweat for a couple of hours. There was nothing like isolation to soften up a prisoner. Leave him alone with his doubts and fears. Let him question himself. Even the most hardened criminal found it hard to keep quiet in police custody. The uncertainty about what would happen and, in particular, whether or not they would get out would hang over them filling their thoughts and clouding their judgement. Time dragged when you were isolated and locked up.

Upstairs, DI Brodie and DS Callum were discussing the matter over a mug of tea and a fag in the police canteen filled with the usual aroma of chips and beans.

'Wodja reckon, sarge?' said the DI.

Canteen or not, a heavy pall of cigarette smoke hung over the room.

'Dunno,' said the DS drawing deeply on his cigarette and then exhaling smoke in rings above his head.

'According to Juanita, he's been a proper bleedin' boy scout, but I reckon he's in the frame for the killin' of Scots Jimmy.'

'Yeah,' said the DI. 'He fits the description the Aunt gave but, that's all we've got. It may not have been him – by the way,' he said laughing. 'Did you see the size of Jimmy's chopper?! He's laid out on the slab in the morgue and he's got the biggest dick you've ever seen!'

'Feel sorry for his boyfriend then,' said the DS pulling a face. Still, joking apart, they were both thoroughly pissed off. Scots Jimmy had been very generous from time to time when they had looked the other way so as to speak and now, thanks possibly to the prisoner, that contribution to their general wellbeing would no longer be forthcoming. Whoever was responsible for that would have to pay.

Geoff was dozing when the door burst open. Two coppers, not the two who had arrested him, burst into the cell and laid into him, punching not his face but his body. That plus the occasional dead leg and knee in the bollocks for good measure. Then, they left as quickly as they had come. This, Geoff realised, was all part of the softening up process, which realisation did not make it any the less unpleasant for all that.

Time passed. He lay on the floor and just waited. There did not seem to be much point in standing up. It had not been a serious beating, but he ached and was sore. Worse was that he had no idea what would happen next. He was completely at their mercy. They called the shots. He just had to wait and grab an opportunity, if one presented itself.

After some time - he did not know how long - the cell door opened again, this time more slowly. He was helped to his feet and taken to a different room with a table and two chairs. The two officers who had arrested him were already there. DS Callum was one of them.

'Fag? _'_ the big one said as Geoff sat down.

'Ta,' said Geoff leaning forward to take the cigarette offered to him. As he leant forward, the copper grabbed his hair and smashed his face into the table. That hurt. He jerked upright.

'What's going on?' he yelled. As if he didn't know.

'Sorry about that, it's just that my colleague is very upset about the death of Scots Jimmy. You wouldn't be able to help us about that would you?'

He would not have been a very good lawyer if he could not dissemble or lie through his teeth, depending upon your point of view.

'What are you talking about?' he affected surprise and said adding, 'I thought you nicked me for the punch up in the café.'

The bespectacled copper smiled again. He enjoyed his job and was in no hurry.

'Oh, we're not worried about that. We've taken statements from the witnesses and it seems you were quite the little hero.'

He sneered and bent over to whisper in Geoff's ear. Geoff braced himself but no blow came. Instead, the copper said is a confidential tone, 'But what about Jimmy? From the description his old Auntie gave us, it sounds remarkably like you'.

'I can't help you with that,' said Geoff quietly. 'She's mistaken.'

He was not going to put his hands up to murder no matter what they did. He was not going to put his hands up to anything. Most people charged with an offence helped to convict themselves by what they said. He was not going to make that mistake.

They alternated the tough cop, soft cop approach, the full effect of which wore off as it became predictable.

He fenced with them verbally until they grew tired and slung him back into the cell 'to think about it for a bit.'

Rather than think about it, he fell into a deep sleep. He was awoken by a rough shake on the shoulder. Time to be interviewed again. This time, it was only the belligerent big bastard DS Callum.

_Here comes trouble,_ he thought. _They've sent in the heavy mob._

No sooner had the door of the interview room shut behind them; DS Callum knocked him over, sat astride him and banged his head up and down on the concrete floor. Geoff thought that his skull would split. He thought the copper would kill him. _This bloke is nuts_ , he thought desperately to himself; _he probably wouldn't care if he killed me._

'What do you want?' he pleaded.

DS Callum paused long enough to say, in a snarl, 'Want? You little toe rag! We want you to cough up to the 'orrible murder of an outstanding member of this little community – a respectable businessman who understood his responsibilities', then continued as before.

Was he being sarcastic or did he mean it? Geoff began to get the glimmering of an idea. How was it that the law had left Scots Jimmy alone all these years? Was he a police informer? Had he got some kind of deal with them? Were the coppers on the take? It did not really matter. He sensed a chance and took it.

'Stop!' he shouted. DS Callum stopped.

'What's it to you?' he whispered. 'The bastard deserved to die,' and even more quietly, 'how much will it cost to get out of here?'

DS Callum pulled him to his feet, then sat him on a chair. He offered him a cigarette and lit it for him.

'Now you're talking,' he said smiling. He lit up a fag himself, 'but' he added 'Don't piss me about. We're talkin' real money here.'

Geoff did not care. This man was a psycho. He needed to get out, but he felt he had to be a fit cautious. He mustn't appear too eager even if he wasn't really in a position to bargain.

'How much?' said Geoff again. He knew he had plenty of money. The sale of the barrister's shares and the boat had produced more money than he had ever had before. He could afford to bribe the officer. The officer looked thoughtful and then calculated aloud using his fingers.

'Let's see,' he said. 'Loss of outstanding citizen, blow to the community, unfortunate circumstances, enquiries inconclusive despite being vigorously pursued – say,' he said beaming malevolently, 'five thousand pounds.'

He looked at Geoff enquiringly. Geoff thought hard. The copper couldn't possibly know if he had asked for too much or not. Would he do a deal for less? If Geoff simply accepted, he might want even more. On the other hand, if he tried to barter him down, he might not get out. He stalled. 'That's a lot of money,' he said cautiously.

'Course it is, you long-haired git,' said Cullen equably. 'It's up to you, sunshine. You can either cough up or not. The choice is yours.'

Geoff stalled a little longer, 'and if I don't pay?' he asked wondering if he was pushing his luck too far.

'Then fuck your luck,' said Cullen calmly, then adding, 'Now stop fuckin' about. Are you going to pay or not?'

'Alright,' said Geoff after a slight pause. He had not wanted to seem too keen. It was a lot of money, probably four years' salary for the cop, but he knew that he had it and more. He also knew that in reality he was in no position to bargain.

DS Callum was relieved and, in an unaccustomed fit of warm heartedness and gratitude, was about to offer Geoff a cup of tea when Geoff continued, 'Alright,' he said, 'But I want the fingerprints and the photos. I read somewhere that if you don't charge a suspect, they can ask for them. Can you fix that as well?'

'I can fix anything,' said the officer smugly as they both stood up.

'But you don't get the photos and fingerprints until you pay me and, of course, there is the matter of a few bob for the DI,' he said smiling, 'Say, two grand?'

'Alright,' said Geoff without hesitation. 'Just get me out of here.'

DS Callum went on to explain the arrangement. Geoff would be bailed to return to the nick within a few hours. He would hand the officer an envelope and he would then be released on a refused charge and his fingerprints and photographs would be released to him then and there. Geoff agreed.

Geoff also agreed, because he had no option other than to do so, to being accompanied by two plain clothes officers, 'Just in case he could not find his way back to the nick.'

The officer let him have a quick clean and brush-up, gave him a cup of tea and then released him to return to the nick later that same morning. With difficulty, he walked along the road. Every bone in his body hurt and his head throbbed violently. Still, he knew that he had to pull this off and fast. He went straight to the bank opposite Gardners Corner, only a few hundred yards from the nick. One officer waited outside the bank and the other came in and lingered by a potted plant.

He had a bank box at the branch and it was full of cash. In the privacy of the vault, he opened the box and counted out the money, stuffing it into his pockets as he did so. He left the bank flanked by his escort of two slightly self-conscious looking police officers who had no idea why this exercise was being pursued. They were merely carrying out DS Callum's instructions, the instructions of a superior officer whose response to their enquiry about their task had been met with the response 'JFDI' – 'just fucking do it'. They knew better than to disobey. At 10:30 am, he presented himself again at the nick. All went according to plan. The money was handed over in the privacy of a side room, as were his photographs and finger prints. The policeman rejoiced in his new found wealth and Jack in his freedom.

As he walked up Leman Street, Jack knew that his sojourn in the East End was at an end. It was time to move on. He needed somewhere else. He could not now go back to live at the café. He did not want to go back. It was time to seek out pastures new.

Apart from anything else, he realised that Jimmy would have had friends and also possibly rivals. The gap he left would be filled. He would not expect anything other than a brief respite before Jimmy's shoes were filled by another villain.

It was Monday morning and he was due at the office. He could not face it. He hurt all over as well as in the pocket. So, rather than go to work, he rang Rita. Could he call up to see her? He needed sanctuary somewhere and she was the only person he could think of. Not only that, but he had a little job for her.

Before going to see Rita, he decided to call quickly at the café to collect his few belongings there and to settle up with Juanita.

Juanita seemed to be surprised to see him when he entered the café, but she came out from behind the counter wiping greasy hands down her grubby pinafore as she did so. _The pinafore serves better than a menu really_ , thought Geoff as he walked towards her. If a punter had difficulty reading, he merely had to inspect the pinny to discover the wares on offer.

On balance, Geoff considered it was fortunate that he had never had a touch of Delhi belly, although that might also have had something to do with his mother's casual attitude to hygiene as he grew up and thus inadvertently inoculating him against most known diseases. Sharing your house and, in particular, your kitchen with a dog as well is quite a good way of ensuring that you are exposed to some pretty vile germs.

Be that as it may, Juanita, he noticed, looked a little anxious as she approached him. She said nothing; however, as he explained he would like to settle up. She worked the figure out on her fingers and he counted the money into her podgy hand.

'I'll just nip upstairs and collect my bits and pieces,' he said slightly disappointed that she neither expressed any thanks for what he had done, nor asked if he was alright. It must have been apparent to her he had had a beating. Instead, she glanced nervously at the door which led to the stairs as if half expecting somebody to appear.

Somebody did appear for the door opened and there stood Terry.

'Wotcha, mate,' he said equably when he caught sight of Geoff adding, on seeing the state he was in, 'Cor, you been hit by a bus?'

'It's a long story,' said Geoff, not wanting to explain and made as if to move past Terry and towards the stairs. 'I'm just getting my stuff together – I'm moving,' he said and walked up the stairs to his room. Terry followed him. Geoff opened the door and went in. He had visitors. There were a couple of heavies in the room, one cleaning his nails with a nail file by the open window, and the other who had pressed the door shut behind him as he entered.

Geoff did not pause to enquire as to the purpose of their visit or wait for them to introduce themselves. Without hesitation, he headed for the exit, in this case the window, charging the heavy stood there and colliding with him with such force that they both fell through the window together landing on the bins in the yard below. Fortunately for him, Geoff's fall was broken to an extent by the hapless heavy who had hit the ground first and provided a softish platform for Geoff to land on.

Geoff got up first and, as the heavy slowly sat up, Geoff clouted him over the head with one of the metal dustbin lids conveniently to hand before kicking his way through the rubbish and out of the yard into the street beyond.

There, to his surprise, he bumped into Terry who beamed at him admiringly. 'Cor! You're a bit tasty, mate!' he said. 'Remind me not to fall out with you.'

'What the fuck to you want?' enquired Geoff testily as he looked from right to left trying to decide which way to go. There was still a heavy in the café and it wouldn't be long before he appeared, perhaps with others. Who knew?

Before Terry could reply, a heavy skidded around the corner of the road and headed towards them.

'Come on,' said Terry. 'It's time we weren't here,' and with that ran off down the road with Geoff right behind him.

Together they tore down Dock Street now followed at a little distance by no less than three heavies. Geoff had no idea where the extra bodies had come from, but they were now outnumbered and flight seemed the better part of valour.

'Come on!' yelled Terry as he ducked into an old, abandoned tea warehouse at St Katherine's Dock. Geoff followed him without question. Terry seemed to know where he was going and he hadn't got any better ideas anyway.

The warehouse was huge and empty. They paused to catch their breath.

'There's a door at the other end. We can get through that and then down to the river,' gasped Terry.

'What about our friends?' asked Geoff.

'We might be able to wedge the door or something,' said Terry. 'Come on.'

They ran off again and had just reached the door at the far end when there was a shout behind them as their pursuers entered the warehouse and caught sight of them. Geoff and Terry slammed into the door. It remained fast.

'It's stuck!' said Terry.

'Well, push!' said Geoff.

'I am fucking pushing,' shouted Terry.

'Well, push harder!' shouted Geoff.

'What are you - a fucking midwife?' yelled Terry as the door opened suddenly and they both fell through.

They found themselves on a narrow platform overhanging the water of the dock, still and grey beneath them and empty apart from the odd plank or bottle floating in it. A short walkway like a gangplank led from the platform to the side of the dock. It was in reality only a couple of old planks resting on the platform and the dockside, but at least it offered an escape route.

The immediate difficulty that they had, however, was that the heavies were almost upon them and they didn't have time to balance across the planks. They slammed the door shut and threw their weight against it. The heavies did the same the other side, both sides straining their utmost, the one to force the door open, the other to keep it shut.

'Shove a plank against it,' gasped Geoff and as he said so he placed his back against the door and braced his feet against the balustrade of the railing that ran around the edge of the platform. Terry stuck a piece of wood against the door and wedged it against the balustrade.

'Come on, let's scarper,' said Geoff. It was now or never. Terry ducked under the wood and they both turned towards the planks. Before they could step across them, the wood splintered under the combined force of the heavies and the door burst open, the three heavies falling onto the platform.

It was no time for Queensbury Rules. Geoff kicked the nearest one in the face and stepped beyond him grabbing the legs of the next one who was already helpfully hanging part over the balustrade. Like Scots Jimmy had, he too found himself airborne after Geoff pulled his legs up and threw him over. Happily for him, he was landing water and not on concrete like the late Lord of the Manor. Whether he could swim or not might prove to be important, but Geoff was still facing one heavy and had no time to dwell on such niceties.

The remaining heavy grabbed Geoff by the throat with both hands and forced him to his knees. Fortunately for Geoff, Terry was still there and lost no time in using the remainder of the splintered piece of wood like a Marlin spike, clouting the heavy over the head and reducing him with one blow, although admittedly a heavy one, to a collapsed heap of clothes on the platform.

'Thanks,' muttered Geoff and without any more to do they both cautiously negotiated the springy planks to the dockside along which they disappeared as rapidly as possible. They didn't stop running until they reached Aldgate Station where they bought a couple of tickets for the circle line.

Geoff had had enough excitement for one day. He badly wanted to find sanctuary somewhere and his thoughts turned to Rita.

CHAPTER 31

THE PIRATE'S TREASURE

Geoff knew that since Scots Jimmy had terrorised a good many people for a long time, he was likely to have substantial amounts of cash stashed away. It was one of life's interesting conundrums that the first and, perhaps, the easiest challenge was to acquire the object of one's heart's desire. It was quite another thing to hang on to it. Who could you trust?! People could be so dishonest and there is no honour among thieves. In the same way that most men spend much of their lives trying to get back up that part of the female anatomy down which they originally descended, robbers and thieves tended to have bank boxes in which they placed their cash and valuables before depositing them at banks for safekeeping. Having robbed a bank in the first place, they were quite likely to deposit part or all of it back at a bank in a safe deposit. It was like salmon returning to where they had spawned.

Anyway, Scots Jimmy, or James Nicholson as he was called by his parents, had had dealings with the Midland Bank in Whitechapel High Street. Geoff knew that. He had seen him in there from time to time and had overheard a conversation at the barbers which seemed to confirm it. It seemed a reasonable bet that Jimmy had a deposit box there and, if he did, its contents might prove interesting. As a solicitor who, apart from being a criminal lawyer was also a general practitioner dealing with all kinds of work including the estates of people who had died, he was uniquely qualified to make the enquiries that would establish one way or the other whether or not the bank contained the treasure of this modern pirate, the late and, save by his Auntie, unlamented Scots Jimmy.

He had had no idea why Terry had helped him out, but he was grateful and said so. They shared a quick coffee at Charing Cross before going their separate ways and Terry told him that he had grown up in the East End, the son of a docker. That was how he knew his way around so well. He hadn't fancied being a docker. The work was hard and irregular. He had far preferred a life of crime interspersed with trips away in the merchant service when he was 'resting' from his normal career path as confirmed scallywag. He didn't like Scots Jimmy who he saw as an interloper and a Geordie poofter who wanted things all his own way. Terry wasn't having any of that and ploughed his own furrow. As far as he was concerned, the heavies had to be Scots Jimmy's boys and so he had automatically helped Geoff. If the heavies were after Geoff, he reasoned, then Geoff had to be on the side of the angels.

CHAPTER 32

Geoff arrived at Rita's place towards evening. He had taken a taxi most of the way, only walking the last few streets, checking to see if he was being followed. He did the usual, ducked in and out of shops and down alleyways on the assumption that it was better to be safe than sorry. He did not trust the police and he was keenly aware that Scots Jimmy had friends amongst them as well.

At last, he reached the house where her flat was and quickly ascended the stairs. He knocked at her door and was astonished when she opened it to see the lumps and bruises on her face, the still visible marks of the beating someone had obviously given her.

He suddenly felt extremely angry.

'Who did that to you?' he asked quietly as she let him in.

'Come in and I'll tell you all about it,' she said, glad of his company and the chance to unburden herself to somebody she now looked upon as a friend.

As they went into her small living room, she looked at him more closely. That is, she looked at him as best she could through the one eye that was not bruised and swollen.

'It looks as if you've been in the wars too. Want to tell me about it?'

'Later,' said Geoff, taking her hands as they sat on the table. 'You first.'

Rita told him everything. She had not been able to confide in anyone for so long that she had forgotten what a relief it would be to do so. She had dealt with life in her own way, keeping her own counsel and quietly getting on with it. Now though, she admitted to Geoff she had bitten off more than she could chew and she was scared.

Despite himself, Geoff was concerned about her and suddenly felt very protective towards her. Nobody had the right to do this to anyone, let alone 'his Rita'. _His Rita?_ he thought with a start. He pushed the thought aside.

'I understand,' said Geoff. 'We all think we can manage until we come to the point where we can't. Tell me all about it.'

He listened attentively whilst she described the podgy sadist who had done this to her. She also told him what she had never told anybody else, about her little black book and what it contained. It was apparent to Geoff that the book did not just contain details of the money that she had earned. It contained also her dream of freedom. She had the same dream, freedom at any price. Now, this podgy little bastard had stolen not only the means to get her locked up if he chose, but also that dream. He had made her his prisoner.

Geoff had put two and two together and realised that Rita's assailant was none other than the barrister who he had relieved of a substantial sum of money and the very man through whom he had discovered Rita. He knew, of course, where his flat in London was. Should he re-visit it and try to find the book? He had no idea that it was kept there. It could be anywhere. Should he find him and beat it out of him? In his angry frame of mind that was an attractive thought and he dwelt on it for a few moments. Then he realised he might have made copies. He even briefly considered topping him, but the book would still not be back with Rita and it could be found and might be regarded by the police as linking her with his death. It would give them a suspect with a motive. That would not do.

Still pondering, he took a shower whilst Rita put the kettle on.

When he came out of the shower, he inspected himself in a mirror. It was no wonder he felt sore. He was black and blue around his ribs and lower back which, if he strained his neck, he could just see over his shoulder. He looked as if he had been kicked by a horse. Rita came into the room whilst he was thus engaged and sucked her breath in sharply.

'OK, what on earth happened to you?' she asked. 'Your turn now.'

'Like you,' he said, wincing as she applied some cream to his battered body, 'occupational hazard.'

He did not want to tell her what had happened to him. The less she knew about his activities, the better it was for the both of them. All he wanted was comfort.

When she realised that he was not going to tell her any details, she shrugged and told him that she had a cream, witch hazel, which was good for bruises.

'With all due respect, Rita, it doesn't seem to have done much for you.'

She laughed. _She looks lovely when she laughs,_ he thought _– almost girlish._

'When's this gentleman next visiting?' he enquired, suddenly serious.

'Next Thursday evening. I've got no choice but to be here.'

'Fine, I'll think of something before then, but,' he added, 'there's something I would quite like your help with in the meantime.'

'What's that?'

'I need some headed notepaper from a firm of solicitors in Stepney,' he began. 'If you went in and said you wanted to make an appointment because your husband was beating you up, you could try to lift a few sheets for me. Ouch! Ouch!' he said as she touched a particularly tender spot. 'It's business,' he continued. 'I'll pay you, of course.'

'What do you want it for, or would you rather I didn't ask?' she replied.

She had finished now and stood back to inspect her handiwork.

'I'd rather you didn't know,' said Geoff. 'It's just a little idea I've had.'

_She looks very attractive,_ he thought to himself, _despite the lumps and bumps._ He stepped towards her. _Perhaps we could comfort each other a little?_ They could, and later fell asleep in each other's arms.

When Geoff left Rita's place later the next day, he felt like a new man. He was still sore, it was true, but he was now determined to put his idea into effect. He would need a death certificate, but that would be delayed. There would have to be an inquest, given the circumstances of Jimmy's death, but he might be able to get a short form of death certificate from the Coroner's Office which he could use prior to that.

For this and the bank, he needed a solicitor's headed notepaper. That was where Rita came in. He was determined to sort out the sadistic punter, but, first things first, there was money to be made and he could not resist the temptation to make a killing. _Pardon the pun_ , he thought to himself, smiling. He felt pleased. It was amazing how a little care and tenderness could restore your morale. He now felt that he could take on the world.

CHAPTER 33

A couple of days or so later, Rita produced the headed paper. She had popped into a solicitor's office in Whitechapel High Street. There, she had spoken to the girl in reception and explained that she wanted to make an appointment for herself as soon as possible. She needed a separation order against her husband. The receptionist looked at the bruises on her face and went at once to get the solicitor's diary. Rita's appearance was by no means unusual in East End solicitors' offices. They did a busy trade in beaten up or deserted wives. They were almost run of the mill cases compared to some matrimonial offences for which you could apply and get a separation order in the magistrates court. One of the least savoury was that your husband had infected you with a venereal disease. Whilst she was away, Rita had taken half a dozen sheets of the firm's headed notepaper and some business cards. She thought that they might come in handy too, and she was right. She was a sensible girl.

By the time that the secretary came back with the diary, she had gone. The secretary shrugged. That too was not uncommon. It took a lot of nerve for a woman to go to a solicitor's office in the first place. To do so meant confronting the abusive husband with whom you still had to live pending a court hearing, and that carried with it the very obvious risk of a further beating or worse. Sooner or later the woman would be back. Abusive husbands did not change and sooner or later the wife would have no alternative other than to seek the protection of the law.

From his Watford office, Geoff rang the coroner's office and explained that he was the solicitor dealing with the affairs of the late James Nicholson. He needed a death certificate to help him deal with the estate. Could he call to collect one? Could that be arranged? He would, of course, bring a letter of authority. The coroner's officer on hearing his confident, authoritative voice was suitably deceived.

What Geoff was proposing was quite normal and so there was no difficulty in making the arrangement. The coroner's office said that they would post the death certificate, but Geoff explained that he would call the following morning, since he would be passing the coroner's office and it would be convenient. Would they please have it ready for him? They would. 'Thank you so much,' he said replacing the receiver.

Next, he rang the bank and introduced himself to the manager. He was the solicitor dealing with the affairs of the deceased, whose sudden death had caused certain difficulties. He was trying to ascertain the nature and extent of the deceased's estate. Did the bank hold any papers or deposit boxes? It turned out that they did. There were two boxes. Locked, of course. That was a requirement of the bank. They would have no idea of the contents and Geoff did not expect them to. Bank boxes and their contents were private and treated with great discretion by the banks.

'Excellent,' said Geoff to the bank manager. 'I'll bring in a copy of the death certificate tomorrow and collect them,' he said. He paused, half expecting the bank manager to tell him that he could not, but the manager simply said that the locked boxes would be ready for him. They would need a receipt, of course.

'Of course,' said Geoff. 'There will be no difficulty about that. When I collect them, I will hand you a receipt on behalf of the executors of the estate.'

That evening, he typed up two letters and one receipt on the headed notepaper using his secretary's typewriter after she had gone home. He had learned to type as an articled clerk and more than once it had come in handy. Now was just such an occasion.

The following day, armed with the letters, he went, dressed in his best suit and waistcoat, firstly to the coroner's office. There, he presented the letter and for a small fee collected the short form death certificate. He was asked if he would be attending the inquest. He said that even if he could not attend, he would be sending a clerk to take notes of the proceedings. The circumstances of the death were such that it was important they should do so. He dallied a while and asked the coroner's clerk a bit about the coroner. Was he full-time or a part-time appointment of a local solicitor? It was not that he was interested, but it helped not to seem to be in a hurry.

When the clerk enquired politely about the bruises on his face, he explained that he had fallen off his bicycle, an explanation that seemed credible enough. He even made a joke about it saying it would teach him not to cycle back from the pub, which the coroner's officer found entertaining.

People who had been given a pasting at the police station were usually described as having resisted arrest or fallen down the stairs on the way to the cells. This was a fiction to which prisoners as well as police officers subscribed and was analogous to the beaten up wife's explanation of 'having walked into the door'. Plainly, he could not use either of these. Fortunately, the bike accident explanation sufficed.

The next step was the bank. The locked boxes were waiting for him in a side room. He gave the manager who handed them over to him in person his card and the letter he had prepared, together with the death certificate that he had just collected. He signed the receipt for the two boxes, thanked the manager for dealing with the matter so promptly, took one in each hand by its handle and then left the bank.

He had known beforehand that he could hardly carry them on the tube, and so outside the bank he had a taxi waiting and, in a matter of minutes, he was on his way to the West End of London where he had left a car. He transferred from the taxi to the car and drove north.

He went home. His mother was away for a few days, staying with a friend in Eastbourne. He had the place to himself.

Once home, he took a hammer and chisel to the locks on the boxes and was soon inspecting the contents with interest. It took only a few blows to free the locks and as he opened the lids, he was relieved to see that they were both crammed with bank notes and gold bars – no wonder the boxes had been so heavy! There were more bank notes than he had ever seen before and importantly they were used notes, no doubt the protection money that Jimmy had harvested during his reign as king of the patch. It was a king's ransom, a pirate's treasure trove. He just sat and gazed at it. He felt a sobbing sense of relief. What couldn't he do now? What new life awaited him somewhere? With this and the rest of his ill-gotten gains, the world was quite literally his oyster.

After a while, he calmed down. He made himself a pot of tea and then counted the money. It took him an hour. He looked at the table in front of him covered in neat piles of money each containing £1,000, each more or less a year's salary. There were 75 piles.

Then there were the gold bars. There were 6 of them. He had no idea what they might be worth, but whatever it was, it was now all his.

He felt as if he was dreaming, but it gradually dawned on him that he now had the problem that confronts any criminal. He now had the fortune. How to hang on to it? Where in heaven's name was he going to put all this loot? He poured himself a large whisky and lit a cigarette. He thought long and hard.

It was a problem that clients he had represented had encountered and thus he himself was already familiar with. A security guard has difficulty in explaining why his bank box, when seized by the police, contains cash, deeds to land in the Bahamas and three building society accounts in a Swedish building society. It was almost comical to read the statements containing the interview of the client by the police following his arrest.

'Why three savings books?' the officer enquired.

Given that the client was bang to rights, there was little point in not answering, however pedestrian the answer.

'You can only have so much money in any one account,' the thief apologetically explains.

Laughable, but a real problem nonetheless.

That, however, did not help him. He had to come up with an answer. On the one hand he considered, he could just take the money and the gold bars and try to disappear somewhere abroad. That was tempting but life was not that easy. The world had grown smaller. People could be found and his sudden departure would be suspicious.

He might have to pay people to help him and in that case he knew he would have to pay a lot. There is no honour among thieves and if they know you need them, it will cost you.

In the same way and for the same reason, his lifestyle could not suddenly change. It would be too obvious. Questions would be asked.

He resolved that for a while at least his life must continue, outwardly at least, as normal. Normal, that is, excluding Jack. Jack had served his purpose and fell now, he felt, to be mothballed. There was no need for Jack to continue his campaign of crime. Mothballed? He laughed.

For the time being, the money he put in a sack in the loft behind the water cistern. The bars he just stacked up like bricks. Nobody ever went up there. His mother could not get up into the loft and there was only him apart from her. The loot would be safe enough there for the moment.

He knew that he could not possibly pay that money or even part of it into any kind of account in the UK. He would have to take it abroad. Where and how?

CHAPTER 34

Back in Whitechapel, DS Callum was standing in a shop doorway smoking, gloomily surveying the dank street glistening greasily in the dim light of a dirty street lamp. With him was one of Scots Jimmy's, now the late Scots Jimmy's, henchmen. This particular individual rejoiced in the nickname of Mac the Bottle, which gave you a clue as to his preferred method of fighting. His idea of fun after an evening at the pub was to fight the first man or men he met on his way home. Unsurprisingly, he did not often meet people on his way home, since he was well known and the sight of him in the distance was enough to prompt a detour in even the most belligerent individual. This was bad news for his wife, since if he met no one on the way home; he took it out on her instead.

Now, however, he was otherwise occupied. DS Callum, as keen as ever to turn a penny, had let it be known in certain quarters that for a suitable gratuity he might be able to point anybody interested in the direction of the police's main suspect for Jimmy's killer. He had not been disappointed and the meeting had been arranged to share the information as inconspicuously as possible. He told Mac all he knew. He regretted that they had had to let Shepherd go, but he said they had not had enough evidence to hold him. That at least is the account he gave Mac. It was the official party line and he was sticking to it, but at least he had been able to give Mac a name. That was a start.

'Pity,' said Mac, 'for him that is, he would have been a lot safer with you lot than if we get hold of him.'

DS Callum was of two minds about that, but said nothing.

Mac did not mention to DS Callum anything about Jimmy's money going missing. That was something else that Mr Shepherd would be examined about, if only they could find him.

DS Callum dropped in another little carrot breaking the silence. 'I believe there are enquiries in another force concerning this man – I might get to hear of it...' he smiled innocently.

Mac, though, was already on his way. He was now debating with himself whether or not there was any point in giving Juanita another going over.

'Let us know if they turn anything up,' he said automatically to DS Callum as he walked off up the street. 'And there'll be a few bob in it for you.'

He continued on his way down the road without looking back. He hated people like DS Callum. He would shop his own mother given half a chance. He had no principles. Odd though it might seem, Mac considered himself to be a man of principle. He lived his life in accordance with a strict code of honour, a code all his own, shared with only a select few, the crème de la crème of the criminal fraternity. Rule number 1. You did not grass anybody up (except somebody who deserved it). Rule number 2. You looked after your old mum (you beat the shit out of your wife, but being a punch bag was part of her role). Rule number 3. You stood by your mates (unless circumstances made it convenient to shaft them). Rule number 4. Sex offenders or molesters of children were the scum of the earth and he was sent here to act as God's avenging angel. All in all, poor Mac was just about as confused by life as most of the rest of the population.

Mac's moral dilemma would not have concerned or disturbed DS Callum who was, in any event, unaware of it. He was not an observer of the human condition. Moral dilemmas he left to social workers, probation officers, vicars and the Salvation Army.

'Excellent,' he said aloud as he watched him go. 'Riches on riches.'

As he walked back to the police station, there was a spring in his stride and he playfully kicked an empty can along the road ahead of him. At this rate, he should shortly be able to retire. He was sick of his job. He was sick of his wife. He was sick of everything. Everything he thought he had stood for as a young man, all his high hopes and aspirations had been remorselessly ironed out of him by life in the force, by the scumbags he routinely dealt with and by the courts and the pillars of society who expected him to behave with a degree of consideration and what they called 'fairness' that was frankly incompatible with the task in hand.

It was written; for example, in Holy script that before questioning a suspect when you had reason to believe they had committed an offence, you should first administer the caution. 'You are not obliged to say anything...' was about as far as you usually got before you got a fist in the face and then, when you had finally subdued chummy and spat out the odd tooth or two that had been dislodged in the fracas, he had his rights, rights about how he was questioned, rights to a lawyer and so on.

Talk about make life difficult. Even if you played the game straight and the prisoner willingly coughed the lot, by the time it reached trial he had had a change of heart and you would be subjected to a relentless grilling from some toffee-nosed bastard of a barrister who would insist that you had verballed his client, that is put words in his mouth that the innocent fellow smirking in the dock dressed in a suit that he would normally not wear except at a wedding or funeral had not uttered.

It was exhausting and demeaning. _Eventually,_ he thought, _if I am going to get it anyway, I might as well verbal them up where necessary._ Necessary, of course, meant where you knew the scumbag had done it, but would not admit it, which was often the case.

You could not fight a war with your hands tied behind your back. Eventually, he had given up even trying to fight it. Society, he concluded, would have the behaviour that they were prepared to put up with. If they were prepared to put up with the behaviour of the criminal classes, then so be it. Sod the lot of them! It was when he reached this conclusion that he started to think of number one. Over a number of years, he had prospered. It helped, of course, if you were surrounded by like-minded officers, which was by no means always the case, and one had to tread carefully. So far, he had been lucky.

He knew, of course, that he had the problem that he could not show his affluence in the same way that a criminal could not. It attracted attention and attention meant questions. How did a police officer afford that car on a police officer's salary? He had not taken that kind of risk. He had kept his head down, but he knew it could not go on forever. So DS Callum had his eye on the finishing line. He had got enough years in to pick up his pension and he could then retire quietly and live inconspicuously in some part of the globe. He had thought of Spain, but there was the danger of running in to all those villains and hounds living there already who had escaped the not very long arm of the law and who might have it in for him. He felt indignant at the thought. Some of them he had helped for a suitable consideration. He sighed. The ingratitude of some people. Perhaps Australia, he pondered. Then there was the wife. Would he take her too or just park her somewhere and do a moonlight? He was still wrestling with the problem of what to do for the best when he reached the station.

'Evenin', Sarge,' the desk sergeant greeted him.

'Fuck off,' he replied equably as he headed upstairs to the canteen. The desk sergeant shrugged and carried on with his paperwork.

CHAPTER 35

Geoff had not forgotten Rita, nor the punter. Thursday was fast approaching. He rang her and explained what he had in mind. On Thursday evening, it might not be pleasant, but she had a part to play.

Thursday evening came and a podgy finger pressed the buzzer by Rita's door. It was learned counsel who stood there blinking owlishly whilst he polished his glasses with his shirt tails. He did not look like a sadist. He looked like a scruffy, myopic professor. As he stood there waiting for the door to be answered, he realised that his legs were trembling with nervous anticipation.

Rita opened the door. He put his glasses on and looked at her. She took his breath away! She was dressed in skimpy rags and had a chain around her neck! He could not believe his luck! She was really entering into the spirit of things! She was not only a good shag, she was a good sport!

He was so excited he even forgot to punch her and after a few cursory slaps pushed her on to the bed and jumped on top of her.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was dimly aware of a whirring sound. He could not place it and anyway was far too busy to give it any serious thought. It was only when he heard a movement in the room behind him that he started to pay more attention. He got to his feet and looked around. There, in the room, holding a cine camera was Geoff quietly continuing to film him or at least that is what it looked like, since he was holding one of those cine camera things to his eye and following every movement of his podgy form, naked apart from his socks and, oddly enough, his tie.

_Good grief,_ he thought. _I've been filmed._ That's why he was a barrister, of course, his deductive and reasoning ability even under pressure.

As he stood there dumbfounded, Geoff slowly approached him, still filming as he did so, being careful to film his face and then to run the camera down over his body taking in every detail of his flabby form. Short of being able to explain his appearance away as some sort of Masonic rite, he was in trouble.

He lunged at Geoff who had been hoping he would and who kicked him as hard as he could in the bollocks.

The punter doubled up in pain and fell on to his knees clutching his genitals protectively whilst whimpering. 'Dear God!' he moaned. 'What the hell do you think you are doing?' This seemed a slightly odd question to Geoff who considered that his actions spoke for themselves.

'I'm not doing what I'd really like to,' said Geoff grabbing him by his thinning hair and forcing his head back. The barrister looked at him squinting myopically. His glasses had been dislodged and he could not see Geoff clearly. All he could see was an outline. He could hear him well enough though. He could hardly fail to hear him, since Geoff had his mouth right up against his ear. Geoff continued. 'But what I have done,' he said with emphasis, 'is to film you in action – now listen in!' he said, using the terse term employed by army NCOs to command close attention in even the dimmest squaddie which he reasoned meant that even your average member of the bar would be able to grasp what he was saying.

He then went on to explain in words of one syllable that the punter would that very night fetch Rita's book and return it to her and then go and never return.

'What if I don't?' he asked.

Geoff looked at him. He would have loved more than anything to have beaten the shit out of him but they needed that book back and so he restrained himself and said, 'Well, I'll have stills made and send them to your wife and to your children's schools as well as to your head of chambers and as many judges I can think of. Actually,' Geoff added thoughtfully, 'I'd almost rather you didn't bring it back.'

'You bastard,' said the barrister, and then, 'How do I know you won't do what you say even if I return the book?'

That was a fair question, Geoff thought.

'To be honest, you don't, just as we don't know you haven't made photocopies of the book. We'll just have to trust one another won't we? It's a bit like the Yanks and the Russians and the nuclear threat – dare and double dare.'

The barrister knew that that was about the best that he was going to get. He slowly dressed himself. He winced as he drew his trousers over his throbbing balls.

'Alright,' he said grimacing. 'I'll be back in an hour, but I'll want that film.'

He left. Rita was in the bath when he returned and handed over the book. Geoff opened the door and let him in. Geoff had half expected him to return with a few coppers, but he was alone and walking stiffly as if he had been on a horse for too long.

'Obliged, I'm sure,' Geoff said taking the book and flicking through it. It was the genuine article.

'And the film?' enquired learned counsel. Geoff handed it over.

The barrister turned to leave. Geoff stepped up to him, took him by the arm and said quietly in his ear, 'You come near her again, let alone harm her, and I'll kill you.' He meant it.

The man left the room and quickly descended the stairs.

After the punter had gone, Rita emerged and Geoff gave her the book, not without a certain sense of pride at being able to do so. Rita was suitably grateful.

'Thanks,' she said. 'You are a decent man.' Geoff flinched. That was wide of the mark and he knew it, but nonetheless he was glad he had been able to sort things out for her. On the other hand, he did not want her to see him as some knight errant. He knew full well that he was a sinner not a saint.

'Rita,' he said slowly, 'you don't know the half of it and it's best you don't.'

'Well,' she replied, 'you have been a good friend to me.'

They embraced each other. It was comforting to have someone to cuddle. Suddenly, an idea struck him.

'Look, Rita' _,_ he said quietly, 'we could both do with a break. Why don't you come away with me for a couple of weeks?'

She leant backwards and looked him in the face enquiringly.

'You really mean it?'

'Yeah, sure. How about something different, not some beach with everyone packed like sardines, what about Switzerland or Austria, you know, mountains, fresh air?!'

'Alright,' she said. 'You're on!'

CHAPTER 36

Geoff felt pleased, pleased because Rita was going away with him for a couple of weeks, pleased because after a long absence he was returning to the mountains and pleased because Rita would be excellent cover whilst he moved the gold bars and money he had liberated from Scots Jimmy's bank box out of the country. _A couple would be less likely to attract unwelcome attention,_ he thought.

Rita was also very attractive and enough to divert anybody's attention. She would be the object of attention, not what they might be carrying. Also, what customs officer would imagine that a couple of hikers might have anything in their rucksacks apart from dirty socks?

Although he had mentioned Austria and Switzerland, he actually meant Lichtenstein, the tiny principality and tax haven sandwiched between Austria and Switzerland. He had been there once, years ago, as a boy scout.

The reason that Lichtenstein had sprung to mind was that during one of their conversations, that is to say on one of the occasions when Geoff listened to Mannie delivering a philosophical soliloquy, punctuated by much practical information, Mannie had mentioned Lichtenstein.

'I've been there!' Geoff had exclaimed, pleased to be able to contribute to the rather one-sided conversation in some way.

'Have you indeed?' said Mannie absentmindedly, who then went on to tell him that in the opinion of those who knew, it was one of the best places in the world to hide money with no questions asked. Geoff had assimilated this piece of information for possible future use as well as the name of a lawyer in Vaduz whose name Mannie had mentioned saying, 'If ever you need it, say I recommended him. He's a distant cousin. You'll be fine with him,' he said. 'He's a Frommer, but a trustworthy man.'

Now that little piece of information might come in very hand. A useful piece for life's jigsaw puzzle.

A boy scout! he remembered as he made preparations for his and Rita's trip. In those days, he had promised to do his duty to God and the Queen and to help other people at all times, and what is more, he had meant it. Things had changed a bit. Now, he was only helping himself.

The mountainous principality struck him as a good idea. It was an internationally renowned tax haven. The Lord only knew how much money was deposited in its banks by the globally wealthy or African dictators. Probably a good part of all western aid to Africa ended up in places like Lichtenstein. That would do for him. He would be like a minnow amidst the sharks, tiny and inconspicuous. What better place for him to hide his ill-gotten gains?

Taking money and valuables out of the country presents a problem. If he put it in a suitcase and flew, some thief in baggage control might open his suitcase on spec, see the money and pinch the lot. Not for nothing was Heathrow known in some quarters as Thief Row. It would be the perfect crime. After all, Geoff would be unlikely to complain. No, plainly that would not do. He had concluded that the best way would be to go by train to the coast, cross channel ferry and then train down through France to the Alps. They would go with rucksacks, two walkers heading to the Alps for a mountain walking holiday. That way they could keep their rucksacks with them all the time. They would not let them out of their sight, but, more importantly, having the rucksacks with them would seem entirely normal.

Rita seemed to think that this all sounded like great fun. He was relieved. He had been a bit concerned that she might prefer something rather more glamorous. He need not have worried. She entered into the holiday with an enthusiasm that both surprised and pleased him. She had never been further than Brighton before, so this was going to be a bit different. Everything about the trip interested her. She did not even complain at having to sleep in a luggage rack on the French train they took to Innsbruck.

After an uneventful, if not very comfortable, journey, they reached the Vorarlberg, a mountain region in Austria that adjoined Lichtenstein, and walked up into the hills staying at mountain huts, steadily working their way to the border which straddled a high range of mountains. The huts they slept at were operated by different sections of the Austrian or German Alpine Clubs. They were situated high in the mountains and provided hot meals and very basic accommodation. The older ones were normally made almost entirely of wood and very picturesque and very romantic, even if the toilet facilities were medieval, consisting for the most part of a windy, wooden perch over an airy drop. There was no need for water to flush the lavatory, but it did mean that approaching an unknown hut called for a degree of circumspection. Rita loved the huts, clapping her hands with joy at the first one she saw. For her, it was like being in a children's story. It reminded her of Heidi, which she had loved as a girl.

Although Geoff smiled indulgently at such innocence, he too was excited to be back in the mountains and, he realised, pleased to be able to share that with Rita. Seeing it through her eyes was like seeing it himself again for the first time.

It is easy to cross frontiers in the mountains. You simply walk across. As often as not, there is nothing to indicate that there is a frontier. It is just a ridge or a pass with a line on the map, but there is no line on the ground, let alone a fence or anything of that kind.

There were, of course, exceptions to that. The border between the North Tyrol in Austria and the South Tyrol, which since the end of the First World War was now part of Italy, was at one time quite different. For a time, there was trouble between the Italian authorities and south Tyrolese separatists, and both Austrian and Italian troops patrolled that particular border. On the Austrian side, patrols of troops clad in field grey would slog up to the mountain huts which remained open, whereas those on the Italian side were normally closed and garrisoned by the Alpini, the Italian mountain troops.

That, however, was not a problem between Austria and the principality of Lichtenstein. So it was, they having crossed 'die Greune Grenze' as the Germans called it, they found themselves walking down into Lichtenstein through mountain meadows, high flower-filled, grassy pastures grazed by cow-bell-clunking cattle, towards Vaduz, the country's capital.

Vaduz, not much bigger than a large English village, lies on the lowermost slopes of the mountains before the land flattens out towards the River Rhine, the country's border with Switzerland. The Lichtenstein Royal Family lives in a fairytale castle with high walls and towers which occupies a prominent position in Vaduz overlooking the town and its vineyard-clad slopes.

When Rita and Geoff arrived, it was a day of celebration, Lichtenstein's Independence Day, and streets were closed to traffic and criss-crossed with long benches and tables groaning under the weight of food and drink. After finding a room in a Gasthof, Geoff left Rita to shower and went straight to the Rechtsanwalt, whose name Mannie had given him. On mentioning Mannie's name, Geoff was admitted into the presence of a bespectacled and rotund little figure wearing a Jewish kippah who shook him warmly by the hand.

'So,' he said in perfect English as he ushered him into his study, 'you are a friend of my cousin. How is he?'

'Making a living,' said Geoff sardonically.

The lawyer laughed.

'So, nothing changes.'

Geoff stood with his rucksack on the large Persian carpet that filled the centre of the room, feeling slightly awkward. The lawyer bid him take a seat and then spoke quickly in German to a young woman who nodded and disappeared. When she had gone, the lawyer, Herr Schlumpf, made his way back to his desk, before which Geoff was now seated. As he walked, Geoff noticed that he could not see his feet. The feet were hidden by the turn-up bottoms of his trousers so that he seemed to hover rather than walk when he moved. Geoff watched fascinated as Herr Schlumpf moved around the room as if he were on invisible rollers before finally coming to rest in a large leather chair facing him.

Geoff decided it was time to get down to business. He picked up his rucksack and opened it saying, 'Mannie says you are the man to handle things for me. Do you think you can help me with this?'

Herr Schlumpf seemed not in the least surprised or abashed when Geoff emptied the contents of his rucksack on his table. Now it was Geoff's turn to offer a retainer to the lawyer and the irony of that did not escape him.

By the time that the young woman returned with the coffee and cakes that Herr Schlumpf had ordered, the cash and gold had been hoovered away into his safe and the pair had already discussed and agreed terms. From Geoff's point of view, it was a highly satisfactory meeting. His money was to be invested and the gold bars would be deposited, a very nice hedge against inflation, as Herr Schlumpf observed, given the way that the oil price had been going. All this was in return for an annual fee plus a modest percentage calculated by reference to how much of a return was earned on the investments to be made. _It was worth it_ , thought Geoff. It gave Herr Schlumpf an incentive on top of his fee.

Geoff left with contact numbers and an agreement to visit every year for an update or more often if he was in need of funds. These things Herr Schlumpf preferred to deal with on a face-to-face basis which suited Geoff, too. There would be no letters, no bank statements, nothing to indicate where his money was or even that he had any.

Eventually, they shook hands and Geoff picked up his rucksack and went to find Rita.

That evening, they enjoyed the festival, the torch light parades, the street bands and the pleasure of each other's company. All too soon it was time to return to England. For a while Geoff had been able to forget who he had become. Now, he was to be reminded with a vengeance.
CHAPTER 37

The following week at work, he had cause to be grateful that he had acted with such alacrity in getting rid of the money. He was at the magistrates court as usual when he happened upon DS Green who greeted him with a cheery, 'Fancy seeing you here,' adding with a rather too penetrating look, 'do you see anything of your client Shepherd these days?'

Geoff, although surprised, gave no sign of this. He simply smiled and said he had not seen him since the visit to the Aylesbury police station, or at least since he had secured his release from custody. He affected a look of casual disinterest and said whilst looking at his wrist watch, 'Why? What was he up to?'

DS Green stepped up close to him. Disconcertingly close, Geoff thought.

'I've no idea,' said DS Green, looking him carefully in the face, 'but he seems to have been nicked in London the other week for some fracas or other. I found out after he had been released on a refused charge, which is a pity because I would have liked to have a word with him.'

_Shame_ , thought Geoff to himself. _Thank Christ I recovered the fingerprints and photographs._

Although rattled, he managed to maintain his air of casual disinterest. On balance, he thought it was best. He then shared a coffee with the officer and they talked of other things. Fortunately, Geoff's case was called after a few minutes and he had a legitimate reason to depart.

'Better go! Client will be disappointed if his brief isn't there doing his best for him!' he joked as he went through the swing doors into court number 1, letting out a sigh of relief as soon as he was out of ear and eyeshot of DS Green.

As the prosecution opened the case in front of the magistrates, he made notes but his mind was elsewhere. This DS Green was like a bloody ferret. Sooner or later he was going to turn something up and by that time Geoff wanted to be long gone. It was going to be a nice balance between not disappearing too suddenly and too obviously and going before somebody got a lead on him. How long could his luck last? DS Green's appearance was a timely reminder that he should get a move on.

He was rich. What he needed now was an exit strategy. _Sooner rather than later would be best_ , he thought. Although on the one hand he did not want to disappear suddenly and excite curiosity, on the other hand the longer he stayed around, the greater the chance that some presently unforeseen circumstances might arise that would, for example, link him to Jack's disappearance.

He could not, of course, suddenly appear to be well off. That too would arouse suspicion. His life had to appear to go on as before. Whilst going through the daily round, at every opportunity he reviewed and considered the options as they occurred to him. He was a bit young for a sabbatical. He could get religion and go off to minister to the natives in some far flung place. He could perhaps join the French Foreign Legion. He could join up under a John Doe, an assumed name which the Legion would honour. On one level, it was quite an attractive prospect. Lots of red wine and a sun tan. Then he remembered that he could easily afford those now without putting himself at the mercy of some sadistic French sergeant major for five years.

He could not come up with an answer, so he tried to rationalise. What was the sort of reason people took for granted? What prompted people to move? Work or the opposite sex, he concluded. He decided that it would be work in his case, at least in a sense. He would announce that he was going to study law in America with a view to becoming qualified there as well. It would be an ambitious career move which everybody would accept and quickly forget, along with him, once he had gone.

Having come up with a plan, he lost no time in putting it into effect. He began to casually mention the idea in conversations with colleagues. He told his mother. Nobody was particularly interested, although his mother said she would miss him. She did not really believe he would go. He had mentioned leaving in the past, but he never had. Why should this time be any different? Little did she know.

She made much less of a fuss about his absences these days. He was hardly even there as she would say pointedly from time to time, and he would equally pointedly ignore.

Despite the fact that he had a plan, DS Green's appearance had unnerved him. The nervous tension was beginning to get to him. He found himself imagining Albert in his bedroom at night, and sometimes in the morning his mother would look at him strangely and say she had heard him talking in his sleep. He would shrug off these enquiries and mumble something about work being on his mind. He realised though that he would have to act and if he was going to leave, to get on and do it.

CHAPTER 38

He reached the point where he was about to give his notice in to his employer and then one day, at the Watford Magistrates Court, something happened which caused him to postpone his departure.

He had been instructed to prosecute some yob by the local constabulary. He turned up. It was a day like any other. The waiting area was almost as busy as Watford Junction railway station. It was heaving with people, defendants, witnesses, police officers, lawyers, probation officers, ushers, well-wishers and spectators. A pall of smoke hung over the assembled multitude. WRVS ladies dispensed tea, biscuits and smiles in a corner of the room. The place positively hummed with activity.

Geoff was talking to the officer in the case, a tall, spare man approaching retirement who had managed during the course of a long career not to advance beyond the rank of constable.

'It's about time the long-haired git got what was coming to him,' said the officer with undisguised contempt in his voice. Geoff was momentarily taken aback. His own hair was almost down to his shoulders. Was this an implied or actual criticism of himself? Then, he quickly realised that the sergeant was wholly unaware of the fact. He was not looking at him. He was looking at the defendant and was quite blind to the fact of Geoff's appearance. He did not see Geoff, the prosecutor, with the same eyes.

'Has he got a brief?' Geoff asked casually.

'I think so,' replied the officer. 'I saw him talking to some young woman who looked as if she might be a barrister.' He paused and then nodded his head. 'There he is,' he said, indicating the defendant who was talking to a young woman in a corner of the hall.

Geoff looked. Although not particularly interested, she was his brief alright. A slim, young woman dressed in black and wearing a white blouse open at the neck and a neat black suit. A necklace of white pearls was just visible around a slender neck. Geoff tried not to stare. He had met lots of women barristers and solicitors, many of them very attractive, but there was something about this one that heightened his sense of interest as he took in every detail.

'Looks young,' the copper was saying.

Geoff shrugged. 'Yeah, well we were all young once, eh sarge?' He smiled, the officer nodded and laughed. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Geoff.

'Thanks,' said Geoff taking one and leaning towards the officer who also offered him a light. He drew vigorously on the cigarette. _How was it possible_ , he thought, _that I had once disliked cigarettes?_

Smoking and lounging nonchalantly against the wall, he affected his usual casual disinterest in the proceedings. They talked about other things. He knew that sooner or later the barrister would approach him. She did. His heart leapt as the young woman approached.

'Excuse me,' she said quietly. 'Are you the prosecuting solicitor?' Geoff agreed that he was. 'Could I have a word with you?' she smiled.

_After that smile, she could have had anything she wanted_ , thought Geoff to himself, but he simply shrugged and strolled down the hallway with her, ostensibly maintaining a disinterested distance, but actually listening attentively. Actually, he could not take his eyes off her.

It was very noisy in the hall and she had to keep her head close to his own so that he could hear her. She had hazel eyes and her soft, brown hair tumbled around her shoulders every time she shook her head slightly. Did she do that for affect? He did not know and he certainly did not care. He was enchanted and, for once, lost for words. He felt like an awkward schoolboy. He tried hard not to show it, but he had eyes and ears only for her.

What a considerate fellow he had suddenly become! He did all he could to be helpful. When the case was called, he dealt with it in his usual experienced manner, but he was on auto-pilot. He felt as if he was in a dream and that everybody else in the courtroom were shadowy marginal figures. Only the barrister was in full focus. He could not sit there staring at her, of course, but when she was on her feet addressing the court, he was able to observe her intently as if listening to her every word. After all, he was expected to do that. He was not, of course. Nor did it matter. She was going to lose anyway. If it had been a male bench, Geoff might have had a problem, but it was the Lady Chairman and two other old dragons, so the young barrister's attractiveness would probably work against her.

Whether this assessment on his part of the defendant's chances of success was correct or not, in the event, her client was convicted. After the case and for the rest of the day, Geoff could think of nothing else. Thoughts of the young woman filled his mind. He had to see her again. How on earth was he going to manage that?

Whilst driving home that night, he had a bright idea. He would instruct her in a case.

A barrister would accept instructions, particularly a young one, from any solicitor and usually gratefully. There was, therefore, no problem in him doing so. In the process, he would inevitably have to meet with her, perhaps in conference at her chambers in London. Who knows where that might lead? So strong was his desire to get to know this young woman that he completely abandoned his plan to leave. That is, he told himself, he would be leaving soon but not just yet. He told himself that DS Green was just shooting in the dark. He had nothing to go on. There was nothing to link him with Jack. He knew he would have to go, but persuaded himself that there was after all no urgency.

CHAPTER 39

DS Green, of course, was not privy to these deliberations. Had he been, he might have disagreed. He was still doggedly pursuing his enquiries. He was a persistent man and at last he had a lead on Jack Shepherd. He had learned through police intelligence that Shepherd had recently been arrested by Met Officers at Leman Street police station.

Scarcely able to contain his excitement, he picked up the telephone and spoke to the duty detective sergeant. He was not the officer who had had direct involvement with Shepherd but he was able, from their records, to answer DS Green's questions, the most important of which was 'where is he now?'

The last address the police had for Jack was Juanita's café. DS Green decided it was worth a visit. Shepherd might not be there now but it was a start. He also enquired if the Met had any fingerprints or photographs. It appeared not. They had been handed over when Shepherd had been released on a refused charge. That was a disappointment. _Why,_ he wondered _, had they been handed over so quickly?_ There was usually a delay of weeks in his experience.

DS Green went to the café. He had never been to the East End before and discovered that it was a bit different to Aylesbury and anywhere else that he was familiar with for that matter. _Good grief_ , he thought to himself as he surveyed the building from the street. _Do people actually live there?_

They plainly did because he could see people in there. He crossed the road. The smell of the usual greasy fare greeted his nostrils as he went through the door. Not unlike a police canteen, he thought ruefully as he entered.

He sat down at a table. At the table next to him sat a bearded individual in an old army trench coat who coughed quietly, but unceasingly, into a rag he held stuffed to his mouth. DS Green glanced at him nervously. Should he move? Before he had time to make up his mind, a plump waitress, one of Juanita's many daughters not currently employed on other duties, approached him.

'Yeah?' she enquired less than delicately with a look of disdain on her face.

DS Green realised that he had not looked at the menu. In fact, he realised there was not one. The fare that the café offered was scrawled in chalk on a board on the wall behind the counter. As far as he could see, everything came with chips. It was not that he was averse to chips, but he did not particularly want them at 10:30 am.

'Oh, er I'd like a pot of tea please. And some toast.' He thought that that would be safe enough.

'Nuffink else? No chips or nuffink?' To judge by her ample form, she herself was a fan.

'Er, no thanks,' said DS Green. He looked on around himself nervously at the various table tops and their covering of dirty plates and cutlery. _Lord knows what you might catch in this place!_ he thought to himself. He was, of course, right in more ways than one, but mercifully unaware of that.

'You know how to push the boat out don't ya?' smiled the mini Juanita cheekily, now able to address him again, having laboriously written his order in pencil on a piece of paper with a frown of concentration on her face.

'There is something else,' said DS Green, 'who runs this place?'

'Me mum.'

'Well, could I speak to her?'

'Dunno, I'll see.'

The plump waitress waddled off and disappeared through a door into what appeared to be the kitchen to judge by the plate-clattering sounds from within.

After an interval, both tea and mother appeared in the ample form of Juanita who wobbled up to the table carrying the tea and toast on an old 'Red Ensign' tray.

He introduced himself and invited her to sit down. On learning that he was a Police Officer, Juanita blanched 'I don't talk to coppers,' she said slightly uneasily, looking over her shoulder at the other people in the café, none of whom appeared to be taking the slightest interest in her activities.

'Don't worry,' he said hastily. 'It's nothing concerning you. It's only an enquiry about a man called Shepherd,' said Green. 'I believe he resided here?'

'Yeah, and thank Christ he did,' she replied emphatically. 'If he hadn't been around, I doubt if I'd be here now.'

She sat down; her ample rump perched precariously on the far too small looking chair. She then told DS Green about the events of the night when she and some of her daughters had been attacked in their own home and narrowly escaped death or serious injury thanks to Jack Shepherd.

Jack seemed an unlikely hero to DS Green, but Juanita's eyes were wide with admiration for Jack.

''E sorted 'em out, no mistake,' she said firmly and folded her arms over the jelly-like protuberance that concealed her stomach buried beneath the fat, a good many inches deeper.

It turned out that Jack had moved on. He had paid his rent and left. She had been sorry to see him go. She did not know where he had gone and, even if she had known, DS Green got the distinct impression that she would not have told him. She did tell him that Jack worked for a freight forwarding company in Dock Street, but when he followed that line of enquiry up later that morning after he left the cafe, it transpired that the company had never heard of him. He was back where he started. The trail had gone cold again. He decided to speak directly to the officers who had dealt with him whilst in custody. They might have something that could help him.

He then went to look for a chemists shop. He was feeling a bit queasy.

CHAPTER 40

Miss Venetia Pearce-Higgins had seen quite a lot of Geoff after that first meeting at the Watford Magistrates Court. She was only recently qualified and it was quite gratifying to receive regular instructions from a solicitor. She may have been relatively inexperienced as a barrister, but she was not so naïve as to think that this attention was solely due to her ability as a lawyer.

She realised, of course, that Geoff was interested in her. She was quite flattered. He was not unattractive and it made a change from her steady boyfriend, Harry, who was obsessed with polo. Sometimes, he even seemed to prefer playing polo to being with her, something which she found difficult to comprehend, until she remembered that her mother was a golf widow. She concluded that boys would always be just that, namely boys. Nonetheless, she was not prepared to wait around for Harry forever. She needed him to make some kind of a commitment. Time was passing. She hoped to have a family at some stage and the clock was definitely running. Geoff might be just what she needed to prod Harry into action. So, she encouraged Geoff.

Geoff had proposed a country walk and Venetia, who made a point of at least appearing enthusiastic about men's interests and pastimes when they were attractive and showed an interest in her, said she would be delighted. She loved the countryside, could not bear to be inside and normally lived in wellies when not in London. That, at least, is what she told him, just as she told Harry how she adored horses when, in reality, she could not stand the great, smelly creatures. One end blew dollops of something indescribable from foam flecked nostrils, and the other blew raspberries at you.

Geoff, however, was pleased and fooled. Like most men, his common sense disappeared when in the presence of a pretty woman. You didn't often meet girls who were all that keen on exercise, Geoff thought to himself approvingly. They normally preferred more sedentary pursuits or shopping. Venetia would be a refreshing change.

So it was that one Saturday they headed for the Downs in Geoff's sports car, which he had polished to an impressive gleam for the occasion.

Venetia exclaimed, 'Oh, what a lovely little car!' when she saw it and jumped in without opening the door. Geoff was impressed, although concerned about the bodywork.

_That's class_ , thought Geoff, _really unconventional, I like that_. Before checking the car surreptitiously for scuff marks when, to his horror, Venetia put both feet on the dashboard as he drove off. He had just polished that! The trouble was she looked incredibly attractive like that and so he put up with it and even managed to smile ruefully. Desire had won.

They had lunch at a little pub near the foot of the Downs and then set off walking across the fields. As they approached the first stile next to the woods that girdled the lower flanks of the hillside, he tried to concentrate on what he was saying, something pompous about the need for legal reform in an attempt to impress her, but found that all he could think about was this gorgeous woman by his side. He was finding it harder to breath, let alone talk, his chest felt so tight. Venetia, too, was enjoying the moment and struggling to suppress the desire to kiss him. Despite herself, she found him attractive. It was a sunny day and Harry was far away. He probably had other girlfriends anyway, however difficult it was to believe that when he could have her.

By the time that they reached the stile, they both gave up the struggle and in an instant were kissing passionately. It was as if some magnetic force had pulled them together and they were locked to one another like a couple of earthworms locking in loving embrace.

It was Venetia, ever the practical female who came up for air and who disentangled herself first. Geoff released his embrace reluctantly.

Why is it, Geoff wondered, that women always seemed to be in control in these circumstances, whilst he himself felt as if he had died and gone to heaven and wished that the moment might go on forever? Time had stood still as far as he was concerned and he did not want it to start up again.

That was as far as things were allowed to go though. His further efforts to allow nature to take their course were gently, but firmly rebuffed and the subject was changed, as women do when firmly pushing off an over affectionate puppy dog. 'Stop it, you naughty boy!'

A few days later, they went walking together again. Venetia told him that they were near her parents' house and she suggested that they call in for tea and also to meet them. Geoff accepted. How could he do otherwise, but he did so with a sinking heart fearing that he would be gently, but thoroughly, quizzed so that who he was and what he was could be accurately pigeon-holed in the time-honoured manner of the English middle class.

Home turned out to be an old farmhouse set back from the lane in its own land with an apple orchard and beehives. Venetia's Daddy was working with the bees as they walked up the gravel drive towards the house.

'Hello Daddy!' Venetia called to him with a display of filial affection as they advanced towards the house and then, adding as he drew near to them, 'This is Geoff, a friend of mine. We were passing and thought we would pop in to say hello.'

Daddy reluctantly stopped what he was doing and pulled off the hood of his bee suit. He smiled and inspected Geoff with a glance that took in the appearance of the latest male that his daughter had brought home. He did not pay too much attention because this daughter, and indeed his other daughters, brought so many home that he frankly lost count as well as interest. He had long ago given up making any attempt to remember their names. This had the advantage that he did not make the mistake of calling whoever was the latest beneficiary of his daughter's affections by the old boyfriend's name.

The parade of boyfriends was a bit like the dead mice and rats that the cats would insist on bringing into the house and deposit in places where you would find them. Your home was not your own. The daughter would simper sweetly and behave in a way that you knew was wholly foreign to her nature, whilst the twerp she had brought home sat mesmerised on the edge of the chair holding a cup of tea nervously in his hands.

Mummy was much more interested though. With a brilliant smile, she swept over and introduced herself adding 'Do come in!' she said with emphasis as if he really was welcome. In reality, Geoff knew he was simply being brought in for closer inspection. Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly.

As he had expected, much of the inside of this house was ruled by the dogs of the family, in this case the three Labradors who, with the usual bad manners of those overfed and over indulged creatures, insisted in slobbering all over his trousers. As usual, the owners of such creatures took no notice at all.

There was also a three-legged Chihuahua which, despite being tiny and despite lacking the full complement of legs, was far and away the most aggressive little horror that Geoff had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Jack Russells he had always thought were like bloody piranhas on legs, but this little bastard left them for dead, or so he thought as it hung from his trouser leg by the teeth growling.

'Ho! Ho! Ho!' laughed Daddy scooping up the offending mutt with his hands and rubbing noses with it. 'Who's a naughty boy then?'

_Why did people do that?_ thought Geoff. _Haven't they ever seen what dogs do with their noses?! Why don't they just stick their own nose straight up the arse of the first dog they meet?!_

Things had not got off to a very good start as far as he was concerned. Then Venetia's mother, who with the unstoppable and relentless targeting of its quarry by a great white shark, locked on and swept up to him.

'Do sit down,' said Mummy interpreting his thoughts. This was not a request. This was an order. He looked around him. Dog hairs coated the battered furniture. There was not much in it, he decided, sitting down gingerly.

'Now then,' said Mummy in a business-like manner, 'Tea?' she enquired.

'Er, yes, please,' responded Geoff. Then it began.

'Indian or Chinese?'

He was a bit taken aback but quickly chose Indian. He had had Chinese at a Chinese restaurant once and it had tasted like bath water. He instinctively knew that it was best not to offer that opinion. So far, so good, then the next ball came over from dear mama who still stood in front of him whilst Venetia cuddled one of the Labradors. Geoff made a mental note. However attractive she might be, do not cuddle Venetia today.

'Assam, Darjeeling or Ceylon?' mother asked relentlessly.

He was beginning to think that he would die of thirst before it came. He had never heard of any of them. Where he grew up, you drank a named brand brewed so thick you could stand a spoon in it, milky, gold-top preferably, three sugars and, at Christmas, a tot of rum. None of this he judged it prudent to mention either.

'Assam,' he said with a smile. 'It's my favourite.'

_Nice touch_ , he thought. _You piss artist!_

With the insufferable air of condescending superiority that such people projected, Mummy commented with an unctuous smile,

'Most people drink Indian tea – I prefer Chinese myself.'

There then followed a ritual game of probing and enquiring on the part of Mummy and avoiding action on the part of Geoff, a sort of verbal shadow boxing with seemingly innocuous questions being asked and yielded.

When the tea arrived, he inspected the cups with an experienced eye borne of living with Dinky. The cups looked alright – bone china too – but he declined the cakes after he saw one of the Labradors sniffing around the cake stand and, as usual, allowed to do so without let or hindrance on the part of its owners.

By the time that tea was finished and he and Venetia left, he was mentally exhausted from the sparring session with Mama, but Mummy had not really elicited much information from him. He had managed to deflect enquiries about where he lived and where he had gone to school quite well.

He had revealed that he was a solicitor which was alright as far as it went, but Geoff felt it was plain from her manner that she was not fully satisfied. He had not passed muster. There was something about him which appeared to worry the lady. Perhaps she just didn't like him?

Geoff, who was relieved to get out of the place, could not have cared less. He was not interested in the mother. It was the daughter he wanted, although he was careful not to embrace her after her long cuddle with the dog.

Time drifted by. Venetia quite enjoyed Geoff's obvious infatuation with her at first. She was an assertive, independent woman and it pleased her to have a man running around at her heels, hanging upon her every word.

Then it became a trifle boring. He was a bit older than her and, although he did not get drunk and paw her like Harry, he was a lot less fun. She did not say that to Harry, of course, whom she still saw regularly. She encouraged Harry to think she was keen on Geoff. She did not sing his praises exactly. She merely mentioned his name occasionally in some favourable light such as 'Geoff's good at that' or 'Geoff's got a wonderful sense of humour.' Just enough, in fact, to continually remind Harry of Geoff's existence and to make him believe that Geoff was a rival.

Harry's family owned and occupied a large Elizabethan pile on the edge of the Downs. His background and antecedents Venetia's mother knew intimately and fully approved of. He was just the sort of person who would be an admirable husband for Venetia. In her imagination, she could see the engagement announcement in one of the national papers. She even allowed herself to daydream and imagine that one day she might be living in the Dower House on the estate surrounded, of course, by her dogs and by grandchildren.

Harry, educated, using the word loosely, at a leading English public school, had left that establishment with sufficient of the veneer of the place about him to ensure, coupled with his parents' wealth, that he would be an instant success in worldly terms.

To a disinterested observer, he seemed quite a decent chap, but to Geoff, who was a fair judge of character, it was apparent that Harry's parents indulged him. Furthermore, he had neither inclination nor motivation to work and his two principal interests were shagging women and playing polo. The first activity was, of course, dictated by his hormones and given his eligibility was easy to achieve, the second by his obvious passion for the game. Indeed, it appeared to be the only thing that he was passionate about. This, Geoff considered, did not auger well for Venetia, since she would figure quite a long way down his list of priorities ranking somewhere after his eight polo ponies and his dogs. Harry often went fishing, too. Venetia was probably just about on a par with a morning's fishing - not a day's fishing mind you, but you had to give the girl her due, she was quite attractive.

Geoff was aware that Venetia would not be interested in his assessment of Harry's character and that even if she listened to him, she would, like most women, be convinced that she would be able to change him for the better, that is to mould Harry to her requirements.

Venetia had her work cut out.

One weekend, Venetia invited Geoff to Cowdray to watch the polo with her. She knew Harry would be there. He would be playing for Hurlingham against Cowdray Park. It would be a big occasion with lots of spectators. Geoff would be her flaunt. Venetia had devoted some time and not a little effort on Harry to make him think that Geoff was a serious rival in an effort to make him jealous. By taking Geoff to the polo match, she hoped to push Harry sufficiently to get him to make a commitment to her.

CHAPTER 41

THE POLO MATCH

Geoff, unaware of his true role, was delighted to be asked to spend a day with Venetia. She occupied his thoughts for every waking moment. He could not get her out of his mind, but how was he to construct any kind of life with her? It was true that their relationship had some way to go before that sort of consideration might arise, but he could not stop himself from dreaming and scheming about the life that they might have together.

He played the game as carefully as he could. He knew that he must not be too earnest or intense. Girls like attention, he knew, and so he did all that he could to be entertaining and light-hearted, frivolous and funny.

He succeeded to an extent and Venetia enjoyed his company. She warmed to him and they both enjoyed the drive down to Cowdray from London in Geoff's open-topped sports car. Basking in the warmth of her apparent admiration and unaware of her true plans, they drove down through the countryside. Sussex looked lovely as they drove through the country lanes towards Cowdray, the light blue of the sky and the light green of the countryside reflecting the chalky soil beneath. Geoff began to really enjoy himself.

Cowdray Park, set deep in the Sussex countryside, thronged with visitors including the great and the good of the polo world as well as the rougher element. Despite the glamour of polo in the public mind, the horse world as a whole presented a spectrum which ranged from travellers and gypsies at one end and royalty playing polo at the other. At an occasion like this, though, everyone made an effort to put on a bit of a show, particularly if they were to be found in the hospitality tent or the stands, were the rougher end of the horse world was not in evidence and there would not be a tattoo or native pony in sight. They would still be tethered to a stake in the ground in the middle of a roundabout somewhere. There were raised stands for spectators who could also, if they wished, simply sit near the polo field and picnic or sit on the roofs of their cars to watch the action. There were stalls selling hats and clothes as well as tack and horsey things, with others selling food and drink, Pimms and champagne. Yet more food and drink was available from the hospitality tents where businessmen entertained clients and colleagues as guests. Polo, as a spectacle, provided a glamorous backcloth for big business and was anyway part of the English social calendar.

Venetia seemed to know a lot of people. They progressed slowly together towards the stands with Venetia stopping every few yards to exchange greetings with some friend or other, or herself being pounced upon by some individual gushing a greeting and exchanging news as they passed. Geoff began to find all this rather tedious, but whilst Venetia performed the social rituals which, incidentally, she gave every appearance of thoroughly enjoying, he was free to look around. And look around he did, albeit carefully. He could not help but notice that there were some really attractive women around. He began to appreciate the sunshine and the view as he discreetly surveyed the low-cut summer dresses amidst which they were moving. Lost in admiration for the landscape, he even, for a while, forgot about Venetia and, like a laggardly pooch, had to be pulled along by her through the crowds.

Eventually, they reached the stands armed with drinks, binoculars and hats to shield them from the sun.

Venetia gave a little squeal of delight on reaching their seats. It appeared that she also knew the people sitting just in front of them. An effusive exchange of kisses and hugs then took place between Venetia and these people to the extent that Geoff was beginning to wonder if they were long lost relatives or had just survived some major natural disaster. This turned out not to be the case, however. They were simply what Venetia termed good friends or what Geoff would have considered as acquaintances, if not over effusive tossers, hangers on and fair-weather friends.

They were, however, he had to admit, highly decorative individuals of the sort who, together with the crowd that they were with, would add a touch of glamour to any social gathering.

When the over ecstatic exclamations of mutual joy and wonder finally ceased, Geoff was introduced and shook hands with one young man whose name he instantly forgot moments after it had been uttered. Some people have weak handshakes. This one bore a distinct resemblance to a stone cold kipper on a fishmonger's slab. Venetia smiled brightly and said to Geoff, 'You two will have such a lot in common. Julian is a solicitor too!'

_So,_ thought Geoff. _Julian is his name?_

The two men looked at each other and without uttering a word came to a completely different conclusion to the one that Venetia had come to. Geoff had met plenty of his type at law school, the Ruperts of this world whose fathers farmed hundreds of acres in Yorkshire, but had no trace of a Yorkshire accent.

At last, having extracted the maximum attention and exposure by an almost constant stream of excited squeals and giggles, Venetia pointed excitedly to the players coming on to the field and everyone sat down.

The first game got underway. Geoff found it all rather confusing. He did not know the rules and the pitch was the size of three football fields and so, although there was a running commentary, all he could actually see, if he was honest, was a group of furiously galloping horses and men waving sticks about trying to hit a tiny white ball. It looked like golf on horseback, but it certainly had sufficient glamour and allure to attract all these attractive women. He had never seen so many in one place.

Still, he reminded himself sternly, he was here for one woman only, the lovely Venetia. She did look lovely, too, wearing pink and white. She exuded a kind of light pink hue and whenever she smiled at him, his heart leapt.

After the first game, there was an interval of about an hour. Geoff's thoughts turned to food. Venetia, on the other hand, saw it as a further opportunity for socialising. She also said that she wanted to show him the pony lines. He was not clear why, but she said he ought to see the ponies and in order to do that they needed to walk to the pony lines where they were kept.

Fortunately from Geoff's point of view, this meant that they would regrettably not be able to share lunch with Julian and the other mannequins. Despite his grumbling stomach, therefore, he agreed readily enough to accompany Venetia. Anything was better than lunch with that mob trying to think of something to say.

Venetia and he left the stands and made their way towards the pony lines. The pony lines were at the far end of the field. From the stands, he had seen the long row of lorries parked in a line and, as they drew closer, it was possible to see ponies in large numbers, some tied to the sides of the lorries and others standing hitched to a long pole, just like in a western. Argentinean grooms of all shapes and sizes swarmed around the ponies, tacking them up and rubbing them down if they had already played. Other grooms could be seen cantering around on ponies, warming them up for the next game. Geoff was agog. He had never seen that many horses in one place except at the cinema. It was another world.

As they walked, they heard Spanish being spoken as much as English. Again, Venetia seemed to know a good many people and Geoff was impressed that she, too, appeared to be able to speak Spanish. This was clearly her scene and she obviously had an encyclopaedic memory since she also appeared genuinely to remember all their names. Geoff trailed along behind her like a faithful Labrador as Venetia carefully picked her way through the throng of animals and people, never failing to neatly avoid the copious piles of horse shit everywhere, without giving any sign of having noticed it.

Geoff was not always so lucky and was scraping his shoes along tussocks of grass when they presented themselves and trying to do so without Venetia noticing. He didn't want to appear a complete oaf in her eyes. He knew though that even if she did notice, she would say nothing. To do otherwise would have been bad manners.

They came eventually to a cluster of chairs upon which lounged nonchalantly a group of young men. It was plain even to Geoff from their boots, spurs and knee pads, not to mention the polo sticks and whips, that these were players. Venetia stopped her progress through the multitude of men and horses. She addressed one of the sitting men with a smile and a surprised look as if she had happened upon him by chance.

'Hello, Harry,' she said. 'Fancy seeing you here!'

Harry, who had been inspecting the sole of his boot with a frown on his face, looked up.

'Oh, hello, Venetia. What are you doing here?' he said with an air of studied indifference. In the same way that she was not as surprised as she purported to be, he was not indifferent to her presence, but both had to play the game according to the unwritten rules of social interaction.

Venetia appeared undaunted by her less than warm reception and smiled again, determined to play her trump card, and said, 'I've brought a friend along to see the fun.' She stepped slightly to one side to reveal Geoff for inspection. Geoff and Harry inspected each other briefly. Neither liked what they saw. Neither said anything but simply nodded to one another.

Venetia ploughed on, reminding Harry that she had, she felt sure, mentioned Geoff to him. Just a bit, thought Harry. A bit too bloody often.

'I do hope you two like each other,' continued Venetia brightly. 'When I'm fond of people, it's very important to me that they like each other as well.'

There was a momentary pause whilst both men looked at each other. Geoff forced a smile and leant forward extending his hand in an attempt to shake Harry by the hand. Harry, however, avoided this by turning to his companions and announcing that they had best mount up. They all rose to their feet.

Geoff, feeling slightly foolish, tried not to show it. It was perfectly clear to him, though, that in Harry he had a rival.

Harry, for his part, was seething by the time he got on to his horse, galloping off on to the field at once. Thinking about it later on, much later on, Geoff realised that that was precisely what Venetia had intended. She meant to spur her favourite on by introducing a rival. What was not clear to him at the time, however, was who exactly it was who was the favourite for this young woman's affections.

The game, when it started, was fast and furious. Harry, stung by the appearance of Geoff, played a blinder galloping up and down the field like a madman. It was a close match and the outcome was in doubt right until the very end of the final chukka when Harry snatched victory with a goal from 60 yards out. Geoff had to admit that it was a fantastic piece of play and rose to his feet with the rest of the spectators to cheer as Harry tore up the field like a missile, rode his opponent off the ball and lofted an angled shot at the goal which bounced between the posts. His heart sank, however, when he glanced at Venetia and saw the look of admiration and longing on her face. She had never looked at him like that.

There was a party afterwards in a marquee with a live group which Venetia insisted they stay for. The marquee was packed with beautiful people. Attractive girls like exotic butterflies fluttered around the players, relaxed now after the game and enjoying a drink, taking the attention of the girls for granted. Although she danced with him as well as Harry, it was plain enough for Geoff to see when she was dancing with Harry where her affections lay.

When, during one dance on the crowded floor, Harry and Venetia left the marquee together to go out into the darkness hand in hand, Geoff felt the anger rising within him. He had finally realised. The penny had finally dropped just as she was no doubt now dropping her knickers for the conquering hero. She did not want him. She wanted Harry. She had always wanted Harry. She had merely used him to get Harry going. He had been used.

_God rot both of them_ , he thought to himself angrily as he, too, left the tent to find his car. He did briefly think to try and find them but abandoned the thought. It was dark and anyway what was the point?

*

The realisation that he had been used hurt him badly. He cursed himself for being such a fool. Surely he should have known better? He felt angry and sorry for himself by turns and slowly over the next week descended into a state of romantic melancholy.

He suffered all of the agonies of unrequited love, went on long walks and took refuge in Russian poetry. Pushkin was his favourite and in his mind's eye he imagined himself as some hopeless Russian hero, doomed to a lonely life of exile on the steppes whilst the woman he loved danced the night away at some aristocratic ball on the arm of some ravishingly handsome cavalry officer. The image created in his mind by this daydream appealed to him so much that he rather foolishly decided to make a romantic gesture and to send one of Pushkin's poems about a lovelorn hero to Venetia. It was an indication of how far removed from reality his thoughts were that he persuaded himself that this would impress her and put him in a heroic light in her eyes.

The poem was sent. Nothing happened. The days went by and still nothing. In the end, he made a phone call to her on some pretext or other.

'How are you?' he said by way of introduction.

'Fine,' she answered coolly. There was an icy chill in her voice which he felt down the phone line. 'What did you mean by disappearing like that after the polo match?' she asked. He hadn't expected that.

'Er, did I?' he floundered. This wasn't how it should be. If anybody should be contrite, it should be her. Why was he feeling guilty and about to apologise? He ignored the question.

'Did you get the poem?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said, 'and I couldn't understand a word of it.'

'That,' he said, 'is because it was written in Russian, but there was a translation on the back.'

'Really?' she continued, the chill in her voice heading towards permafrost levels. 'I thought it was Welsh – anyway I chucked it into the fire.'

Geoff made an excuse and ended the conversation as quickly as he could. She was so dismissive and hurtful, and yet she was the one who had dumped him for somebody else.

I thought it was Welsh, he repeated the words she had used. So much for his romantic gesture. He was mortified. As he sat in his room with his head in his hands, his melancholy began to turn to anger. He would make her suffer. What, he wondered, would hurt her the most?

CHAPTER 42

After a long day at work, shortly afterwards he decided to travel up to London, almost without realising why he did so. Geoff had not been to see Rita for a while due to his infatuation with Venetia. Now, however, as he travelled up to London by train, he found himself thinking of her. It may have been because he was feeling sorry for himself, but he suddenly realised that he missed her and wanted to see her. As the train travelled slowly towards town, he thought bitterly to himself why hadn't he kept to his philosophy of avoiding emotional entanglements – strictly contractual only.

His train arrived in London just after midnight and, although he realised that she might be working, he found himself drawn to her flat. From outside in the street looking up, he thought that he could see a light in her window and so he made his way up the staircase towards the top floor where her flat was situated.

Just before he got there and when he was still a floor below, he heard a door open and someone's footsteps on the landing. He continued up and saw a rough looking character leaving Rita's flat. He was laughing and calling back inside to somebody Geoff could not see.

'Nothing like a freebie, eh lads?' he called out in a strong Liverpudlian accent. _Lads!_ he thought with alarm. _Lads?_ Geoff got the drift despite the scouser drawl and also instantly grasped the situation. The person providing the freebie could only be Rita. He did not know how many of the bastards were there but he decided that this scouse git was leaving and leaving the hard way and that the others, however many there were, would be following on directly afterwards.

He leapt the last steps of the stairs on to the landing and kicked the man who had turned to descend the stairs hard in the balls. As he doubled over, he kneed him viciously in the face and, stepping behind him, shoved him head first down the stairs with the flat of his foot. He fell headlong, his head making a satisfactory thwacking sound as it hit the wall on the next landing. He lay still. _Shame,_ he thought. _Hope it's nothing minor_.

He was now really up for a bit of havoc. Venetia and Harry had cuckolded him and now Rita was in trouble. Perfect! Anxious for Rita, but full of anger anyway, he pushed open the door. There were two other men in the flat, one of whom was holding Rita down whilst the other did the business. In two strides, Geoff was across the room picking up the marble table lamp on the way and then, judging his aim carefully, did his best to boot the man's balls right up his anus. The man screamed and jack-knifed sideways. The other man was rising to his feet and did so in time to meet the descending table lamp. He slumped to the floor.

He pulled Rita up and said, 'Get a quick shower, these boys are leaving and then so are we.' Without a word, she did as he said. He of the flattened testicles was rolling around on the floor and moaning in pain. That would not do. To shut him up, Geoff belted him around the head with the lamp standard, too. He too was silent. _No chance of brain damage_ , he thought. Not unless _I tread on his knob-end._ That gave him an idea. To think is to act, and that is precisely what he did.

Then, whilst Rita showered, he pulled both men by the heels from the flat and shoved them down the stairs as well. None of them moved, but lay in limb-tangled intimacy on the next landing, two of them with their trousers around their ankles still. _Scouse gits,_ he thought. _Bet the bastards don't work_. Then he chuckled as the thought occurred to him, _now they really can claim to be on the sick_.

When he went back in, Rita, still dripping with water from the shower, was quickly chucking a few things at a suitcase she had put on the bed. He felt he wanted to comfort her, but there was not time.

'Take any valuables, money, your book, of course, and any identity documents and leave everything else,' he said. 'We need to go now.'

There was not much else – only some clothes and a few sticks of furniture which were the landlord's anyway.

They left the flat and pulled the door to behind them. They made their way down the stairs, Rita stepping gingerly over the bodies on the first landing. Geoff did not show the same consideration and jumped on to the bodies on the landing from halfway up the stairs.

'Why has nobody come out of the other flats?' asked Geoff as he landed.

Rita was waiting for him on the next flight of stairs.

'There's only a deaf old girl in the flat opposite,' she said _._ 'The rest are owned by people who are abroad mostly. It's what made the place so suitable for me. There was no one really to see the punters coming and going.'

That had not been so convenient when these three had shown up and there was nobody to hear her initial screams or to come to her aid.

'Well, I think you are going to have to move now Rita. Even if you don't get nicked for something, the boys in blue would definitely want to meet me, or these scousers or their mates would be sure to be back.'

As far as the Liverpudlians were concerned, that was perhaps unlikely, given their probable injuries, but there were no doubt more where they came from.

They stepped out into the street. There was nobody about. It was cool and Rita shivered.

'Come on,' said Geoff as he put his arm around her shoulders. 'Let's scarper.'

They walked off down the road together and, a couple of streets away, Geoff hailed a cab.

'Where to, mate?' asked the cabby as they climbed inside.

That was a good question. Where to?

'Kings Cross,' he answered quickly. He could not take Rita home. They would book into a small hotel for a few nights whilst they worked out what to do next.

He booked into a small place just off the Group Inn Road. It was only a cheap hotel, but it would do for a few days, or if it was no good, they could easily move. At least it would provide a temporary refuge.

The next morning, he went home early, changed into a suit and then went directly to the office in Watford.

CHAPTER 43

Over the next few days Venetia tried to ring him but he ignored her calls. He cursed himself for being such a fool. Hadn't he already learned in life not to put your trust in anybody but yourself? He knew that well enough, but, like an idiot, he had let his guard down and now he had been wounded and it hurt.

He wanted revenge even though he knew full well that he, of all people, had no right to expect anything. He had tried to persuade himself that he believed in nothing and it was, he realised, ironic that a nihilist such as he imagined himself to be should have any feelings capable of being hurt, though. He did feel hurt. He also felt humiliated. He had allowed himself to fall in love with this woman and he had been rejected. As a consequence, he had paid for it.

Not long after the telephone conversation with Venetia, to his surprise he received a written invitation to her engagement party to be held at Harry's parents' home in Sussex. It was a printed card, but she had added in her own handwriting the words 'My dear Geoff. We had a very special friendship, you and I, and I would be so pleased if you could come. Do come and do bring a friend.' Her engagement party!

He thought for a while. His first instinct was to tear it up. She had only invited him so that he would continue to send her work, or so he imagined. Anyway, surely she was still angry with him? What had caused her to change from Arctic chill to sudden warmth? Was she simply rubbing it in?

Then, a thought struck him. Perhaps he would go with a friend. Indeed, he had a friend in mind. As he sat there and thought about it, any residue of love he had felt for Venetia slowly evaporated. He could, he imagined, feel it draining away from him and in its place was a cold anger, verging on hatred, and a desire to get even.

Which man was he now? Was he Jack or Geoff? He did not know and he did not care. If there ever had been a difference which, frankly, he now doubted, now they were indivisible. They were two parts of the same whole. He was going to that party and he was going to take a special friend. He rang Rita at the hotel. Luckily, she was in.

Rita, when she answered, was pleased to hear from him. He had not been in touch for some days and she had missed him. At first she had spent most of her time recovering from the tender attentions of the Liverpudlian punters, but then she became bored. With Geoff not there, she had been at a bit of a loose end. To occupy herself and knowing that she would need a new flat somewhere, she had started to look around. She had not found anything as yet. She realised she was in two minds about what to do. She had half a mind to take an extended holiday and maybe it was time to do something different. Then Geoff had rung her.

'Where have you been, stranger?' she asked.

He travelled up to town to see her. To his surprise, he found himself looking forward to seeing her again. When they met, she seemed genuinely pleased to see him. He shrugged. That was probably just her bedside manner. Literally, in her case. On the other hand, he reflected, was there any form of deceit that he himself had not practised? Clearly not. He put all such thoughts aside and simply enjoyed her company and then, later, the pleasures of her bed.

He got up whilst she was still asleep and made himself a cup of tea and then sat by the window watching the sky turn from black to grey as dawn approached.

He had always imagined that somehow life would work out differently. He had never had a plan exactly, but he had a kind of expectation, born probably of youth and inexperience, that there might be something decent, even noble, about life. He knew full well now that that simply did not apply to him. In the darkness of the night, he knew what he was. He was nothing, just a shadowy outline that loosely contained he knew not what. He was afraid to look too closely. He shook his head and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. What he really fancied was, he suddenly realised coming back to earth, one of Juanita's bacon sandwiches. What was the old girl up to now he wondered?

Rita stirred. He looked across to where she lay. She had a kind of soft downy innocence when she was asleep. Somewhere outside in the forest of chimney pots a bird started to sing. It was time to get cracking.

When Rita woke up, they checked out of the hotel and went for breakfast at a small transport café. Over the eggs and bacon, Geoff enquired casually, 'Fancy going to a party?'

Rita looked at him a little suspiciously. The question had been innocent enough but she knew enough about Geoff now from the experience gained in the short time that she had known him that he seldom did or said anything without a good reason.

'Business or pleasure?' she enquired.

'A bit of both, I suppose,' he said. Then he explained what he had in mind. There was a young toff, a handsome lad, she would probably fancy. Anyway, he wanted her to get off with him.

'It's a sort of joke on his fiancée,' he said.

Rita was not fooled. 'Some bloody joke,' she snorted. 'You've got it in for him or her, or both of them.'

'True,' he admitted, 'but as far as you are concerned, it's strictly business. You will be working for me. Don't worry; I'll make it worth your while.'

Rita looked at him.

'You really want to do this?' she asked.

'Yes, Rita. I really want to do this.' He almost said that it was a matter of principle but then laughed. Principles? He did not have any, nor did anybody else as far as he could see.

'So, it's a deal then?'

'Yeah,' she smiled. 'You're on.'

The idea appealed to Rita. She was a working girl. Geoff, she knew, would pay her and pay her well just as he had for that headed notepaper she had purloined for him from that London solicitor's office.

Rita told Geoff that she had been looking for a flat. She had not found one she liked and had decided to go and stay with her sister for a while.

'Sister?' asked Geoff. 'I didn't know you have a sister.'

'There's a lot you don't know about me.' That was true, Geoff thought to himself as he had another cup of tea and looked at her thoughtfully. She gave him the address of her sister and they made arrangements to meet for the trip down to Sussex.

CHAPTER 44

There were a couple of weeks before the big event. He sent back a note to Venetia saying that he would be delighted to attend and would be bringing a girlfriend.

_Wait until she sees Rita_ , he thought, _or more to the point, wait till Harry sees Rita._ Harry, he guessed, had a wandering eye but, in any event, he was a young man accustomed to getting his own way with an enormous sense of entitlement. Geoff was sure that he would take the bait.

At work, he had already handed in his notice. He explained that he was going to study in America and felt that the time was right to make the move now. In short, he revisited the theme he had previously invented before he met Venetia. Everybody seemed to accept it in a matter-of-fact way. Some said that they would be sorry to see him go and that they would miss him. He did not believe them. They would forget about him as soon as he was gone, or at least he hoped that they would. He intended to simply disappear.

He had one or two cases to finish off before he left and his boss had not yet found a replacement for him. One involved a rape that was to be heard at the Central Criminal Court. It had been in the warned list for a while, which meant that when the court rang up to say that he case was being listed for a particular day, you had to be ready to proceed. They were ready. Counsel was briefed. The client and witnesses were on standby. A few days before Geoff's notice to his firm expired, the Court Listing Office rang to say that they were on the following day in Court 1 at The Old Bailey.

Geoff knew The Old Bailey well. He had sat through many cases in the old Court below the Scales of Justice, the famous statue on the top of the building. The words 'The Old Bailey' struck dread into the hearts of even the most hardened criminal long after the days when Newgate prison was no more and the Hanging bell of St Sepulchre fell silent. The dead man's walk was still there below The Old Bailey, the route along which the condemned would take their final walk to the gallows which had been situated in the previous century just outside the prison walls and where the public would flock in large numbers to watch a hanging.

When the unfortunate condemned men or women emerged from the prison to go on to the scaffold, they would be met by a roar from the assembled multitude containing sometimes hundreds of people, depending on how famous or infamous the condemned were.

In Charles Dickens' day, the public could rent rooms at the pub opposite, The Magpie & Stump, from the windows of which they would have an elevated view of proceedings. Prior to that when Newgate Gaol had stood on the site, the condemned prisoners were not hanged there, but were taken by cart to Tyburn, pretty much where modern Marble Arch is situated, there to be hanged from the infamous triple tree. On the night before an execution, the execution bell kept at St Sepulchre's Church, only a few yards from the prison, would be tolled and a poem recited outside the condemned cell. Twelve solemn tolls with double strokes announced that executions were to take place the following day and were a summons to the condemned men to pray for their souls.

On the way to the gallows, the cart would pause outside St Sepulchre's for a sermon to be delivered. Whether the unfortunates that the cart contained gained much benefit from the sermon is unlikely, but it may perhaps have provided comfort to some. It was often said that they derived more comfort from the beer they were allowed to consume from public houses along the route after arriving inebriated at Tyburn Tree.

The courts at The Old Bailey had seen plenty of high drama over the years. There was Christie, the serial killer, who gave evidence against his neighbour, Evans, and whose wife Christie had probably himself killed, but which Evans had been charged with. His evidence helped send Evans to the gallows. Christie himself later found himself in the dock at The Bailey, a serial murderer of women including his own wife and prostitutes that, when dead, he had buried in and around the house he lived in in Rillington Place. The stench must have been appalling. Christie, too, went to the gallows.

Ruth Ellis, a young woman whose poignant, pretty, painted face Geoff remembered seeing on the front pages of the newspapers when he was a boy, had also been tried there. She was convicted and sentenced to death for the murder of her boyfriend whom she shot as he got out of his car.

He remembered, too, how, when he was a boy, when a sentence of death was due to be carried out at a particular prison, newspapers would carry a picture of the public hangman in his long coat and trilby, walking towards the gates of the prison going to carry out his gruesome duty at the appointed hour.

Hanging had permeated the very fabric of the English language. Expressions such as 'You'll swing for this!' or 'I'll watch you dance at the gallows', for example, were all born of the fact that that is exactly what the condemned prisoner did in the days before the release of a trapdoor and a drop mercifully brought the felons' suffering to a speedy conclusion.

'Turned off' was an expression which referred to the fact that the condemned person climbed a ladder before being literally turned off it by the hangman moving the ladder. This is thought to be the origin of the superstition about not walking under ladders, since only the hangman or the condemned person did that.

Public hanging ended in the 19th century and afterwards these executions were conducted within prisons throughout the country, sometimes in a special shed, and the executed prisoner would be buried within the prison.

Below the courts at The Old Bailey were the cells. They were small holding cells only, not much wider than the breadth of a man's shoulders. Here, the prisoners waited to be summoned from the depths and on up the steps into not some heavenly realm, but into the dock of Courts 1 to 4 of the Central Criminal Court.

As the prisoner emerged from the depths and entered the dock, the lights would temporarily make him blink. A glance up to his right and he could see the public gallery filled, with any luck, with well-wishers as well as the merely curious. Family members and friends could be counted on to gasp and sob at the appropriate moments and to descend into hysteria if their man was sent down for five years, as he invariably richly deserved. With his head held high and the resigned expression on his face of a martyr going bravely to his end and with the hysterical cries of his womenfolk ringing in his ears, playing their expected part in the drama, the prisoner would descend the steps and out of sight. Sometimes, so enthusiastically did the women enter into the spirit of things that it would shake even hardened old barristers. Probably, the women, when taking part in this pantomime, were regretting the end of the 'good times' as much as anything else. Where had they thought the money had come from?

Geoff had seen this many times. It shook him, too, because the women would sometimes put their heart and souls into it and give it their theatrical best, but he knew the part he had to play as well, like a professional mourner at a funeral. He had experimented with various approaches over the years and eventually came down on the side of a grave expression halfway between sadness and a deep concern that there had been a serious miscarriage of justice. This, he would maintain until the prisoner was led off and then he would go and have a cup of tea. Then, he would telephone the firm's office and check which Court he was in the following day. Win some, lose some.

Still, here he was again, now no better than they. He, however, was still playing the role of solicitor, officer and gentleman, all too aware of the failings of lesser mortals and sadly resigned to the imperfection of human nature. Anything to turn an honest penny or to turn a penny at any rate.

He smiled, the words 'sum tua aere' came to mind. _That should be the Latin motto of the legal profession_ , he thought. _'I am yours for money,' was the sign above brothels in ancient Ephesus. Perhaps I should write to The Law Society, and suggest it should be emblazoned above the doorway of their sumptuous building in Chancery Lane?_ _Perhaps not. They would not be amused, however appropriate it might be._

The case he was involved in this time had all the usual elements, drink being the major one. This was advanced by the woman as the reason why she could remember very little and by the men who had taken advantage of her drunken state to have sex with her and as a justification for them not being able to remember that which they knew full well they had done, but would prefer to forget. 'She was only an old slag anyway,' as Geoff's client had so eloquently put it as if that justified what he and the others had undoubtedly done to her. It was exactly that attitude that the Liverpudlians who had attacked Rita would have advanced to excuse their actions.

Before the trial, he lingered in the great hall upstairs by the statue of Elizabeth Fry, the nineteenth century prison reformer, and read the inscription again that he had so often read before, recording her achievements in reforming prisons for the benefit of the inmates. They were probably full of innocent people then, just like now. The prisons had changed, but he doubted if the inmates had. Then, he surveyed the throng of barristers, solicitors, clerks, witnesses and police officers, some walking purposefully and others, like him, just standing around. People watching passed the time.

It was easy to look busy if you wanted to. You just frowned and, clasping a file of papers to your chest, you walked purposefully across the hall and kept walking in a determined and thoughtful fashion until you turned a corner. Then you went and had a quiet smoke somewhere. Jurors, though, had to hang about.

Candidates for jury service were as usual being corralled by court ushers to await selection for trial. Every so often, some of their number would be plucked from the herd and led into a court only to find themselves ejected from the same court if some barrister for either Crown or defence had raised an objection to them sitting on the jury. In some cases, the defence barrister would want no women on the jury, for example, in a rape case, or perhaps a type of individual who might be less than sympathetic to the hero they were defending. It was all part of the theatre called Justice. Geoff was used to it and even enjoyed it. He was at home in this particular theatrical drama.

It was not only the jurors who had to hang around a lot. So did everyone else, but at least in Geoff's case he knew what he was hanging around for, whereas the hapless juror simply had to wait without really having much of a clue about what was going on. They might in some cases spend their entire period on jury service waiting outside the courts to be selected. The wise among their number disqualified themselves in some way perhaps by smiling and waving at the defendant on being called into the court when they would certainly be discharged and sent home.

Not wearing a tie was a good way to get disgratified from some cases. Barristers also were inevitably middle-class, always assumed that not wearing a tie was synonymous with being a thicko or yob. Therefore, you wanted that kind of juror in a case about affray where they might expect a degree of fellow feeling between juror and defendant, but not in a fraud case where a brain was thought to be a useful prerequisite for a juror.

Lawyers were exempt from jury service of any kind, although whether this was on account of lack of brain or some other reason, Geoff never found out.

CHAPTER 45

The trial dragged on and Geoff became bored with the proceedings. He decided to tell the barrister that he was going to telephone the firm. In reality, he was going to have a cup of tea in the refectory. He tugged the barrister's gown in front of him to attract his attention and said in a whisper that he was popping out to call the office. The barrister nodded. Reversing from the court and bowing towards the Judge as he went as if before some Eastern potentate, he left the courtroom and walked into the hall outside. He was about to descend the stairs to the floor below where the refectory was located when he bumped into DS Callum, the Officer that he had bribed at Leman Street police station. DS Callum was waiting to give evidence in another trial.

'Sorry,' said Geoff, picking up the papers he had dropped.

'Don't I know you?' the officer said.

He knew he had seen Geoff before, but in that instant he could not actually place him.

'I don't think so,' answered Geoff smiling and moved on down the stairs. He turned the corner out of sight and then scampered along the corridor as quickly as he could without actually running.

_Shit!_ he thought. _This could be really dodgy_. It wouldn't take DS Callum long to remember where he had last seen him. Who knows what he might then do? What was best to do? He had no doubt about it. It was time to disappear double quick. That was easier said than done.

Looking carefully around each corner before emerging, he reached the main entrance and ran down the steps out on to the road outside and then headed for Ludgate Hill as fast as he could go.

What the hell was he going to do? Should he go to Rita? She was at her sister's, so he could hardly go there. He knew he could not go home, nor could he go to the office. He could head abroad at once but that would mean missing the party and that was only a few days away. He thought as he walked. Where the hell could he go?

Then he remembered Tom. He lived on the Grand Union canal. Maybe he could put him up for old time's sake? He felt sure that he would. They were mates. They went back a long time. He also owed him a favour. He had defended his late father against a charge of growing cannabis in his garden. Dad's defence had been that he thought that the plants, which were actually Tom's cannabis plants, were tomatoes. The jury, clearly gullible, had given him the benefit of the doubt and he had been acquitted. Nonetheless, he had got off with it and Tom had said at the time that if ever he needed a favour, all he had to do was ask.

Geoff took a train to Rickmansworth and made his way to the canal. He knew Tom usually moored near West Watford, and so he walked along the canal hoping to find him. He was in luck. As he rounded a bend, he saw Tom's boat moored with smoke lazily rising from the chimney. He approached the boat and stepped on board, walking over the plank between the boat and the shore. Painted buckets and pots with plants in graced the boat that was like a floating garden. Geoff was relieved to see that, at first glance anyway, they did not appear to contain cannabis plants.

'Anybody at home?' he called.

'Yeah!' came a voice from within.

Then Tom appeared. He smiled when he saw Geoff. Clad in his usual exotic and highly original clothing, he came towards Geoff and held out his hand. Tom would not have seemed out of place in seventeenth century London. Long, tangled, black hair tumbled over the shoulders of a creased, red satin jacket, itself worn over an old vest stained in psychedelic colours. Faded blue jeans and cowboy boots completed the picture. Tom held out a gnarled hand stained with oil and smiled revealing an absence of a tooth or two, the legacy of some punch-up or drunken fall. The two made an incongruous pair with Geoff in his suit and waistcoat.

'Hello old mate!' he said. 'What brings you here?'

'Look, Tom,' said Geoff, 'I'm in real trouble, mate. Don't ask me about it because I can't tell you, but I need somewhere to stay for a couple of days.'

Tom looked at him questioningly for a moment and then nodded and said 'We go back a long way, you and me. You can stay here as long as you like.'

'A couple of days should do it, Tom,' said Geoff and then added, 'Look, Tom, it's real good of you.'

'Think nothin' of it,' said Tom, 'Come and have a cup of tea and a fag.'

Geoff sighed with relief and followed him down into the barge interior. It was a small work barge. In order to get into the narrow cabin, you had to go down some tiny little steps. On reaching the bottom, you found yourself in a narrow gangway between two sleeping berths, one on either side, on which there were stained mattresses. There was a small, compact cast iron range in which a wood fire burned brightly and upon which a metal kettle boiled. When they had brewed up, they sat on the bunks opposite each other, clutching their mugs of tea and inspected each other shyly.

How they looked did not matter to either of them. They were friends and had been friends since they were boys.

'Do you want me to tell you about it?' asked Geoff. He would have done, if Tom had asked.

'Best not,' said Tom, grinning, 'No need anyway.' _On balance_ , thought Geoff, _that is for the best_.

'You're a pal, Tom,' said Geoff gratefully.

The following day and the day thereafter, Tom took the barge up and down the canal, pootling around and calling to people he knew on the banks of the canal or on other barges as he usually did, but avoiding stopping and thus avoiding bringing Geoff to anyone's attention. Tom even managed to avoid stopping at the various pubs they came to and which beckoned with the promise of beer, which normally he would find it difficult to resist. Geoff stayed out of sight, only getting off the barge to stretch his legs after they had tied up for the night.

Meals were of the egg and bacon variety which suited Geoff very well. Lying there on his bunk and smelling as well as seeing the bacon sizzling on the little range in the corner produced a sensation of pure contentment. Even the presence of Tom's dog, a cross between a whippet and a greyhound, lean and black with a white flecked nose, did not dent his enjoyment as it otherwise might. This dog was almost part of Tom. It was his shadow. It followed him everywhere. Geoff actually became rather fond of it and it seemed fond of him, or maybe it was just good natured.

The dog slept in the gangway between them and kept watch upon the door to the cabin which was left marginally open. One night, there had been some sounds outside but instead of going mad as any other dog might, this one simply quietly nuzzled Tom's hand until he woke up and then led him outside. There was no one there by then, but the way in which the dog behaved had demonstrated its worth. _This_ , thought Geoff, _was a dog that even I could like._

Geoff continued to stay out of sight and then, two days later, Tom took Geoff down the Grand Union canal to the St Pancras Basin right in the heart of London. There, Geoff alighted, gave Tom his thanks and a few quid for his trouble and went to collect Rita. They were travelling down to Sussex together.

'I owe you Tom,' he said thankfully, shaking Tom by the hand. Tom just smiled.

'Be good,' he said laughing as he reversed the barge, the dog sitting by his side.

CHAPTER 46

At The Old Bailey, it had not taken the DS from Leman Street long to suss that Geoff was a solicitor. He had seen the court he had come out of and a few questions to the usher in that court told him what he needed to know. Geoff had been the defending solicitor and his name and address were immediately available. What should he do? The man was not Jack Shepherd. He was a bloody solicitor! Why was he pretending to be someone else?

It occurred to him that here was a nice opportunity for a bit of blackmail, but, then again, he knew that there was, if not a warrant out for Shepherd, an enquiry of some sort under way. The DS from Aylesbury had contacted him not long before. He had better tread carefully.

He decided to play safe and to play the copper for once. He phoned DS Green from a public call box within the courthouse.

'Look,' he said, 'I don't know if this is helpful or not, but I am at The Old Bailey at the moment and I've just seen the bloke we pulled in for the Scots Jimmy job.'

'Great!' said DS Green. 'Where is he now?'

'Well, I'm not sure, but you should be able to find him - the man who gave his name as Jack Shepherd is actually a certain Geoff and a practising solicitor in Watford.'

DS Green, who before the call had been doing a crossword half-heartedly, was suddenly on his feet and ready to go.

'What?' he exclaimed. 'What the hell is going on?' He did not usually get excited, but these were highly unusual circumstances.

'Well, that's over to you, old sport,' observed DS Callum dryly. 'But I trust that when you nick him and write up your report, you will not forget to mention my name.'

DS Green put the phone down. This was a turn up for the book. The solicitor he knew as Geoff was apparently leading some sort of double life as Jack Shepherd, the man he had arrested for burglary and who had then done a disappearing act. If Geoff was pretending to be Jack, where was Jack Shepherd? That, and plenty of other questions, he was keen to put to Geoff. All he had to do now was to find him. He put out an alert that both Geoff and Jack Shepherd were wanted for questioning and then started at the only lead that he had, the firm where Geoff worked. He decided to go there at once.

DS Callum may have done his good deed for the day, but old habits die hard. _Anyway,_ he reasoned, _Why shouldn't he work both ends against the middle and earn a few bob?_

He smiled at his reflection in the phone booth mirror and picked up the phone again.

This time, he rang the pub where Mac and his cronies spent most mornings. It was almost lunch time and he was almost certain to be there. Sure enough, when he got through, the barman put him on to Mac saying, 'There's some rozzer on the dog for you, Mac.'

Mac, who was used to dealing with the filth, appeared to be not a little put out at being telephoned in this unaccustomed manner. Respect based upon fear was essential for the image. Telephoning him suggested an audacious over-familiarity. What the hell was that about? He grabbed the receiver aggressively from the barman and said, 'Yeah?' into the mouthpiece.

What he then heard pleased him. He listened quietly before putting the phone down and turning to a companion saying 'We've got work to do.'

*

At Geoff's firm in Watford, DS Green interviewed everybody there. Geoff, he learned, had given his notice and explained that he was going to America to continue his studies. Everybody had accepted that. Nobody knew much about his private life. They believed he lived with his mother, but that was about it. It was true that he was not actually due to finish for a day or two and they had been surprised when he had not returned from The Old Bailey when the trial had concluded. The barrister had been rather put out by Geoff's desertion of him and complained to Geoff's employer. Complain or not, until the police officer had arrived, there had been no further news of Geoff.

Geoff's secretary made the officer a cup of tea and a coffee for herself. He interviewed her in Geoff's room. While he was waiting for her, he inspected the room which apart from the picture on the wall of Snowdonia was pretty unexceptional. The secretary came in with the drinks and sat down. Pretty, thought DS Green to himself. Then he started the interview.

'Any idea where Geoff might be now?' asked the officer.

'Well, he was supposed to be here, at least until this Friday. That was going to be his last day. He hasn't been here for a few days and I know his mother has not seen him because she rang us here to see if we knew where he was. Apparently, he had not been home.'

'Well, he's clearly not here and not coming in – unless he's left anything here he might need?'

'I don't think so,' said the secretary doubtfully.

'Don't you have any kind of forwarding address for him? _'_ he asked.

'No,' said the secretary. 'All I know was that he was leaving this Friday and going to America – oh!' she paused. 'I believe he was going to an engagement party this weekend.'

'He was?' said the officer instantly. 'Where?'

'One of the barristers we instruct, Venetia, is having an engagement party this weekend in Sussex at her fiancé's parents' place, I think. Geoff was invited. I saw the invitation,' she paused and then went to the secretaries' room before returning with his diary.

'Look, here it is,' she said opening the diary. Against Saturday was the word 'Venetia'.

The officer thanked the secretary and left at once. It did not take him long to discover Venetia's fiancé's parents' address, nor to find out the time that the party started. The barrister's clerk he spoke to was very helpful. All he had to do now was to turn up and arrest Geoff, provided, of course, he turned up at the party. He considered whether or not he should speak to Venetia or her parents but decided against it. Somebody might let something slip. The fewer people that knew about it, the better, he decided. He would turn up quietly after the party had got under way and then arrest Geoff or Jack or whoever he was. That gentleman had more than a few questions to answer.

He spoke to his detective inspector. He would need help. It took him a little while to persuade the DI. Police resources were scarce. Why was it so important to go after this solicitor? What had he done? So what if his client, Shepherd, was missing? There was no body. This was not a murder enquiry. DS Green had to admit that in the end it was all circumstantial, but he felt in his bones that Shepherd's disappearance was not a coincidence. If Geoff was pretending to be Shepherd, then he was linked to his disappearance. Not only that, but there was a second death, Scots Jimmy. Shepherd, that is Geoff, as the police now knew thanks to DS Callum, was the main suspect for that one as well. In the end, the DI was persuaded. He and DS Green had been cadets together and even though he had progressed further in the police, he had a high regard for him as a policeman. He gave the go ahead.

DS Green took the precaution when organising his team to get clearance for firearms. He remembered the fracas at the Leman Street café and the murder of Scots Jimmy. This man, whoever he was, was dangerous.

CHAPTER 47

Geoff and Rita travelled down to Sussex in Rita's mini car. The day was cold, but bright, and the sunlight brought out the dazzling tapestry of autumn colours. The trees were slowly losing their leaves and they could see clearly the sinewy trunks of the beech trees that lined the lane leading to Harry's parents' place where the party was to take place.

Having been there before for tea once with Venetia, Geoff remembered where the house was situated and so found it easily enough. Rita had not seen it before and as they drove into the entrance of the driveway which led to the house, Rita was impressed.

'Blimey!' she said. 'I know you said it was a big place, but this is like a stately home! Do we have to pay to go in?'

Geoff laughed, but Rita was right. The house was very imposing and set in its own parkland with the South Downs as a backcloth with wooded slopes rising steeply to the heavens and crowned with sheep covered pastures. It was a picture of peace and of affluence.

'Don't be daft,' said Geoff and then joked, 'Stick with me darlin' and you'll be alright!' Then a thought struck him suddenly and he added seriously. 'Actually, what would you say about coming away with me after this?' She looked at him enquiringly.

She stopped the car.

'Do you mean it?' she said. 'Seriously? You're not having me on?' She was looking at him face to face.

For once, Geoff did not try to avoid things by making a joke or changing the subject. Geoff suddenly felt certain. Certain that he would like to go away together with Rita. He did not want to think further than that. They could just go away and then take things as they came.

'Yes, Rita, I do,' said Geoff quietly. 'I would like very much for you and me to go away together.'

Rita kissed him.

They looked at the Tudor mansion house in the distance, all red brick and glass with tall chimneys, stables and coaching yard and an enormous walled garden which must have covered a couple of acres of ground.

'Blimey,' said Geoff. 'This is going to be quite a do,' and then, with a bow to Rita whilst opening the car door, 'After you, me lady.'

'Charmed, I'm sure,' said Rita climbing back in.

As they drove along the driveway, they could see a large marquee on the lawn of the house and large numbers of guests with a string quartet in tails on the lawn earnestly scraping away at their instruments. Everybody was in their best bib and tucker as Geoff's grandparents would have said or 'done up to the eyeballs', but then so, too, were Rita and Geoff. Rita looked lovely, Geoff thought, in a nice little black number with a string of pearls, and he wore the evening dress that the invitation had stipulated.

They parked the car. There were already well over one hundred cars there parked in lines on the grass with people walking from there over to the marquee. They, too, walked in that direction. There, at the entrance, stood Venetia and Harry greeting people as they arrived.

As they drew nearer, Rita whistled, 'Harry's a bit of all right!' she whispered to Geoff. Geoff suppressed the twinge of jealousy he felt at that and smiled.

'I told you, you would enjoy this job,' said Geoff and then continued, 'Now remember, I want her to find him and you at it. That should puncture her little dream,' he said bitterly. He could not wait to see her face on discovering the beloved Harry with someone else. He might not be able to have her but neither would Harry.

'Do you really want to do this still?' said Rita, stopping and looking him in the face. 'Why don't we miss this bit and just go?'

Geoff thought about it and hesitated. It was a fair question. Rita had a point. Was there any need now to carry on with it now that they were intending to go away together? But then Jack stepped in and said decisively, 'Yes, I want to finish this.' They continued to the marquee.

Venetia greeted him warmly. Harry was clearly not overjoyed to see him, but Geoff noted with satisfaction that he was certainly pleased to see Rita. _Bastard should be wearing a bib,_ he thought ruefully.

CHAPTER 48

Having received a helpful call from DS Callum, Mac and his associates had moved quickly. They had a line of criminal intelligence that was truly criminal and every bit as effective as the police in its ability to provide information quickly. Their information came through information they gleaned from people that Geoff had represented and so were able to quickly flush out the details of where he worked and lived. They knew nothing of his activities as Jack Shepherd or why he used two names, but that was unimportant. They were on the trail of the individual who was the likely killer of Scots Jimmy and the thief who had lifted his loot. They, of course, did not know what Jimmy had had, but they knew that his bank boxes had been removed and they could guess at the contents.

They were certain in their own mind about the theft because finding out that Geoff was a solicitor fitted with what they knew about how the bank had been conned into handing over the bank box. They were sure that he was their man.

Where was he now, though? He had not been home. They had watched his place and anyway, nobody but a fool would go home when he knew that the police were after him. He was a man on the run. He had done a disappearing act. They put the word out and waited. There was not much else they could do, but they felt that sooner or later something would come up.

Help came again with a phone call from that bastion of the law, DS Callum. He had kept tabs on DS Green's progress through a mate in the squad helping him and he had learned of the plan to arrest Geoff. This was, he knew, valuable information. There were those who would pay well for it.

When he passed on this piece of information, he did so, of course, for a price. As he put the phone down on Mac, he left the phone box with a broad smile on his face and set off down the road whistling before playfully kicking an empty can into the road.

'Goal!' he laughed. He started to dream of a retirement home abroad. It really was time he retired from the force and went to live somewhere warm. Not Spain though. Too many people he had nicked lived there and he might even run into the odd disgraced chief superintendent. That worried him momentarily, but then, he reflected, the world was a big place.

CHAPTER 49

By the time all the guests had arrived, there were several hundred people there. Amidst the throng were the usual collection of maiden aunts and distant relatives of the betrothed pair. It was Venetia's intention to marry in her grandmother's wedding dress which had been saved by the family for just such an occasion. The wedding ceremony itself was to be performed by one of Venetia's uncles, a Dominican friar, who was obtaining the necessary ecclesiastical permissions to enable him to do so. He was an austere man, but had, nonetheless a penchant for fine wines, one of which he was savouring appreciatively whilst talking to Venetia's parents.

Uniformed flunkeys dressed like ships' stewards moved amidst the crowd carrying trays full of glasses of champagne and other wines. This was a reference to the nautical past of Venetia's father who had been a captain in the Royal Navy and still bore himself like an officer on the bridge of some warship, standing with the fingers of the left hand in his jacket pocket with the thumb, however, outside, and his other hand behind his back with the knuckles resting against his spine. With his legs together and his head inclined attentively listening to the friar, he was, Geoff thought, every inch the officer and gentleman. He smiled to himself. You could tell the upper classes even by the way they stood.

Venetia's mother whom he had, of course, already met and been grilled by over tea, had approached him when she saw him with a friendly smile. She was quite relaxed about him now that she knew he had no place in her daughter's affections.

She said, 'hello,' and smiled condescendingly at Rita who was by Geoff's side. Geoff introduced Rita to her who told Geoff later with stifled giggles that she had had to resist the urge to courtesy. Venetia's mother examined Rita with a penetrating glance which satisfied her in a matter of seconds that she was clearly eminently suited to Geoff, and swept on through the crowd; her earlier suspicions about Geoff reinforced and strengthened. There were, Geoff noticed, quite a lot of parents there with young children, one of whom he noticed in particular. She was a pretty, fair-haired woman with a snub nose who was sitting quietly at a table in a corner of the marquee cradling a little blond-haired boy who could not have been more than three years old. The boy was asleep. What attracted Geoff's attention to them was the obvious love of the mother for the child as she caressed and kissed him. He stood there trying not to look as if he was staring, but mesmerised by the purity of the absolute love of the young mother for that child. _Lucky boy,_ he thought enviously. Then Jack asserted himself again and he silently advised the sleeping infant,

'Enjoy it while it lasts, mate.'

There were also large numbers of young people present as one might expect, friends and relations of Harry and Venetia. The drink flowed freely and it was not long before things really warmed up as a consequence.

A buffet lunch was served, cold meat platters of all descriptions with fresh salmon, salads and hot food choices of lasagne and curry, all laid out on a long table spread with a white damask tablecloth and decorated with dried flowers, ivy and pine cones. It looked really attractive.

The string quartet continued to play through luncheon and were then succeeded by a band as the food was cleared away and soon the place was really jumping. Jackets and dickie bows came off to reveal brightly coloured braces and starched shirts as the youngsters cavorted around to the music whilst the older, more staid persons present sat at tables and observed or chatted as best they could, hardly able to make themselves heard in the din made by the band.

The band had a really good black singer who sang some excellent blues numbers. Geoff danced with Rita and began to enjoy himself so much that he almost forgot why it was that they were there. He forced himself to concentrate.

From time to time, he would seek out Harry in the crowd and was pleased to see him drinking heavily. It was not long before Harry's face was flushed and he was laughing uproariously whilst arm wrestling at one of the tables with his chums. Venetia was with him and looking at him slightly anxiously.

Geoff was wondering how to bring Harry and Rita together, when he noticed Venetia being approached by her mother and then accompanying her away to speak to some people in another part of the tent. He decided to make a move. Now was the time to introduce Rita, the lamb to the slaughter, or the ferret down the rabbit hole, depending upon your point of view.

'Come on,' he said to Rita. 'Now's our chance. And remember! England expects!' She pulled a face at him.

They went over to Harry's table together and as they did so Rita brushed against Harry's shoulder.

'Sorry!' she said, bending over to look at Harry and also to display her unquestionable assets to their best advantage.

Harry, who had turned round, was clearly pleased to see her and her ample figure. His face lit up as he said, 'Not at all!', and then to Rita, 'Do join me!' Geoff was probably not included in that invitation, but he sat down as well.

Harry was soon in animated conversation with Rita who, however, suddenly excused herself and left the table. This was the opportunity for Geoff to prime Harry. It was time to set the trap.

Harry turned to Geoff and said in a voice filled with admiration, 'What a cracker!'

Geoff leant towards him conspiratorially and shouted in his ear to be audible above the music, 'Not half and I can tell you mate she's a real goer, too!'

'Really?' said Harry, who had already decided that he would really like to get to know Rita better.

'Yeah, she's with me, but she's a real pussy cat – she's anybody's.'

Harry looked at him questioningly for an instant, but the earnest expression on Geoff's face and his own sense of entitlement as well as the fact that he had had a lot to drink meant that he swallowed hook, line and sinker what Geoff said to him.

Harry could hardly contain himself and when Rita came back to the table, before she had the chance to sit down; he swept her on to the dance floor and was soon pawing Rita in the midst of the tightly packed throng with complete abandon.

Geoff realised that he had to move things on quickly. If Venetia caught sight of this, she would bring it to an end very quickly. He went into the thrusting and cavorting crowd easing himself between swaying thighs and heaving bosoms, the crowd flushed with drink and music and charged with eroticism.

'Sorry!' he shouted in Harry's ear. 'Sorry to interrupt, but Venetia asked me to tell you that she had had to pop out with her mother, but will be back in an hour or so.'

'What for?' shouted Harry.

'Not sure,' said Geoff, 'but it seemed fairly pressing.'

'Never mind,' said Rita, nestling up to Harry who was by now a lost soul. 'I'm sure we'll think of something to do!'

Rita winked at Geoff as Geoff made a diplomatic withdrawal, enjoying the reverse progress through the crowd.

Harry could not believe his luck. Venetia gone with her infernal attack dog of a mother! Perfect! There was more than enough time for what he now had urgently in his mind.

Shortly after that, Geoff saw Harry and Rita slide out of the tent together. It was late afternoon, but not yet dark. He decided to follow at a discreet distance. He needed to know where they were going, otherwise, after all, how would he be able to put Venetia on to the scent?

Harry, who had lived at the Hall all his life, knew his way around blindfolded. Whilst dancing with Rita, he had been racking his brains to try and come up with a place to take her where they would not be disturbed. The house was too risky, the barns too mucky. People would be able to see that they had been rolling around on the floor. Then he had an idea. The garages! Some old stables had been converted into garages and his dad's Rolls Royce was parked in one of them. That would be nice and comfortable! The information that Venetia and her old battle-axe of a mother were out of the way was all that was needed to trigger the plan.

He led Rita to the stable yard and took Rita in through a little side door. Geoff observed out of sight and chuckled to himself. Inside the garage, Harry said to Rita with a smile in his usual less than romantic direct way, 'Ever had it in the back seat of a Bentley?'

'No,' replied Rita honestly, 'but there's a first time for everything.' Then she added, shivering slightly, 'but it's a bit cold isn't it?'

It was a little chilly.

Harry, who was anything but cold and whose whole being was focused on getting on top of the lovely Rita, murmured absent mindedly, 'Eh? What?' and then quickly found the spare key for the car that his father kept on a nail behind a beam and said, 'Don't worry, we'll put the heater on.' He opened the door of the car, started the engine and switched the heater on. He put the heater on blow and they both climbed into the back seat and threw themselves at each other rapidly undressing each other in their passion.
CHAPTER 50

Geoff, in the meantime, feeling more than a little envious, had made his way back to the marquee. He looked at his watch. He needed to give Rita and Harry enough time to get at it before Venetia discovered them. Now, where was Venetia? He set off to search the tent and the surrounding area.

Whist Geoff was looking for Venetia, Mac, with a bit of extra muscle, had arrived at the party. He wore a suit but still looked like the thug he was. Even though he stuck out like a sore thumb, everybody assumed he was a bouncer and, anyway, he and his cronies looked so tough he was diplomatically avoided. Very sensibly, no one looked him in the eye.

Mac had never met Geoff, nor yet seen him anywhere and so only had a description of him. Unfortunately, there were a lot of tall, slim, blond men at the party. The place seemed full of them. He was nonplussed and he was seething. He had not kicked anybody's head in for a while now and he was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms. Thinking had never been his strong point. He had always relied upon his fists to do the talking. It could be very frustrating if there was no one with whom to have that conversation. He now very much needed to relieve his feelings.

In the meantime, Geoff had seen Venetia talking to some friends and went over to her smiling.

'Hello,' she said as he approached looking over his shoulder as if Harry might be hiding behind him. 'You haven't seen Harry, have you?'

Geoff opened his eyes and assumed a look of innocence.

_You are going to see Harry shortly, you bitch!_ he thought, but said,

'Yes, as a matter of fact I did see him just now. I think he was going to show Rita the stables. He said something about going to look at the horses.'

Venetia took the bait at once.

'Did he indeed,' said Venetia, her face colouring. 'Did he indeed, _'_ she said again and she set off for the stable yard.

_Perfect!_ thought Geoff, _now for the denouement, the moment when she finds her fiancé in the arms of another woman!_

Geoff was about to follow her when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

'Mr W or should I say Shepherd?' said a voice behind him. He looked over his shoulder and his heart sank as he saw DS Green.

'I wonder if you would mind coming with me, sir?' said the DS in a voice which indicated that this was no request but, in fact, a demand. Geoff looked around quickly. DS Green, as if reading his thoughts, stepped up close to him and said, 'Don't let's make this difficult. There are other officers outside this tent and even if you got away from me, you wouldn't get far.'

Geoff started to accompany the officer out of the marquee.

Mac had had his collar felt enough times by the Old Bill to recognise someone being nicked. Without hesitation, he went directly over to Geoff and DS Green, head-butted the officer in the face, who fell over backwards, and grabbed Geoff by the throat. He was going to enjoy this.

Just then, there was a terrible scream from the direction of the stable yard. The voice carried on screaming. People began to run from the marquee and towards the sound. DS Green with blood all over his face called to other officers, who by now were running towards them to support him. Geoff took advantage of the momentary distraction to grab a champagne bottle from the nearest table and smash it over Mac's head – a case of bottles if not the chickens coming home to roost.

Mac collapsed like a pole-axed ox and Geoff fled from the tent. He had absolutely no idea who Mac or his mates were or what they wanted with him, but plainly they were not friendly, even if they had done him a good turn and enabled him to get away from the police. He could not leave yet though. What had that terrible scream signified? Was Rita alright? He had to find out and, anyway, he could not leave without her.

He ran back to the stable yard where there were a crowd of people in front of the now open garage, from which clouds of fumes were escaping. Venetia was being restrained by several people from running into the garage and screaming hysterically, 'No! No!' over and over again.

Geoff pushed through the crowd. The air was thick with the smell of exhaust fumes. The engine of the car was still running and more exhaust fumes were being pumped out into the garage. He reached the car. Geoff tore open the driver's door and turned the engine off. There, in the back seat, were the naked bodies of Rita and Harry. They were not moving. Geoff leaned in and felt first Rita's neck and then Harry's trying to find a pulse. There was none. They were both dead. Geoff was stunned.

'Rita!' he murmured rooted to the ground.

Venetia was being comforted by friends, but would not allow herself to be led away. She was beside herself. The onlookers were stunned, including Geoff. Mac and his mates of DS Green and the other police officers were slugging it out in the marquee which was now the scene of a general melee. Geoff felt rooted to the spot, but somewhere in his shell-shocked mind, he knew that he had to move – and fast. He tore his eyes away from Rita's body, beautiful still, even in death, and quickly glanced around, then stepped slowly backwards through the crowd. As soon as he could, he turned and ran for it. It was all or nothing.

He knew that there was no point in heading for the car park. There were police cars and he would not get far. He did not have the keys anyway, Rita had them.

Rita! His eyes filled with tears as he ran. Rita was not supposed to die. Nobody was supposed to die. Why had the stupid sods turned the engine on? Didn't they know that carbon monoxide was poisonous? It was how people topped themselves, a tube over the exhaust pipe and then into the car and then sit there with a bottle of whisky while the fumes did the trick. They could not have realised or did not realise until too late that they were in any danger.

Where to? He looked wildly around. The Downs beckoned. He had to climb up and away from all this somehow.

He headed for the Downs. It was still just light and he was uncomfortably aware that as he ran across a field towards the belt of beech trees that girdled the hill ahead of him, he was exposed to view. Still, he had no option. He ran across the field, climbed a fence and fell into the protection of the sheltering beech trees, grey-mauve sentinels, breathing hard whilst the trees looked impassively on at the drama unfolding beneath them.

He ran on, steeply uphill as it gradually grew darker. Where the fuck was he going anyway? Anywhere. Away. He reached the upper edge of the trees and stood breathing deeply looking at the steeply rising downland ahead of him. He launched himself at the slope and ran gasping to the top, thighs cracking under the strain of running uphill. He stopped, bent over hands on knees gasping for air and then looked back behind him. He could see men moving in the fields below and there was a police vehicle in a nearby lane with its lights on.

Then, he remembered, there was that other lunatic who had tried to throttle him! He had no idea who that was, but the man had made his intentions perfectly clear. He had to keep going.

He ran on through the grassy lumps and mounds of some ancient hill fort built an unimaginably long time ago. He was moving mechanically, spurred on by the desire to escape. It was flight pure and simple.

He paused again for breath. The South Downs stretched before him in the darkness like an incoming wave rolling in from the sea. He suddenly thought, _the sea!_ If he could get to the sea, he might be able to get a boat of some kind?

He looked back across the steadily darkening countryside that stretched towards London and the North Downs. What was going on? He had been used to dictating events, yet now the events themselves had taken over. He was at the mercy of events. Were the Fates that control human lives looking on with amusement somewhere as he struggled in the web? Was there any point in struggling? Wouldn't things end the same way anyway, the way that the Fates intended?

He clasped his head in his hands as he stumbled across a field God! He had let them all down! His family, everything that they stood for, plain decent people who got on with their lives, raised their families and did no harm to anyone before slipping quietly and anonymously beneath the waves forgotten almost before the funeral service was over, the only lingering memory in the years to come a slowly fading photograph on the sideboard. _Sod it!_ he thought, shaking himself. _Whilst there's life, there's hope._ He was not going to give up. He had always wanted to escape, to be free, and he was going to keep on trying. He would play the game to the end, come what may.

He ran on.

He knew the roads would be covered. His chances of escape that way were slim. If he could perhaps reach Brighton, he might catch a train for London but Brighton was some miles away, the other side of the Downs. How to get there undetected?

Then he remembered the Clayton Railway Tunnel that took the London to Brighton line through and under the Downs. He could go through the tunnel! Nobody would expect that and then all he had to do was to follow the track to the next station and to catch a train to London, or he could grab a taxi for Newhaven and a boat to France. There was a chance yet. His hopes rose.

The tunnel, he knew, was below the windmills that he could see on the skyline. He could see the line anyway or at least the route of the line in the countryside as it headed towards the entrance to the tunnel. Keeping close to the hedges, he ran on heading for the railway cutting.

It was dark as he reached the steep slope of the cutting which led to the mouth of the tunnel. He could see the monstrous, gothic stone archway built over the tunnel entrance and the line leading towards it. In the darkness, he could see the police cars or rather the blue lights revolving nearby on the lanes and roads. It was going to be the tunnel or nothing.

He slithered down the bank and, as he did so, he heard the distant whistle of a London bound train entering the tunnel on the other side of the Downs. He reached the track and stood still. He looked up at the stars overhead. He looked at the gaping mouth of the tunnel, black and menacing like the gateway to hell.

Suddenly, he felt weary. Did it make any difference if he got away or not? What did 'get away' mean? A few more meals? Maybe a drink in the sun? You die anyway when your number is up.

He felt the blast of air from the mouth of the tunnel as the train powered through from the other end. 'Rita,' he murmured as he stepped into the tunnel mouth. Moments later, the London express burst out of the tunnel and roared on towards London.

