It’s midwinter in the cold reception area of a cold suburban police station of the old Victorian design. Swing doors lead to the snowy street outside. Opposite these is a glass-panelled door leading to the charge room. Down the centre of the reception area is a counter. Behind this are a couple of desks, piled high with papers and notebooks. Seated at the desks are a station sergeant, Jarrott, and a constable, Clayton. Another constable, Smith, stands at one end of the counter, talking to a youth. Jarrott looks up from his paperwork and glances at the wall-mounted clock: the minute hand is just coming up to six pm. He shivers, blows on his hands, hunches his shoulders and gets back to work.
A man rushes in from the street, breathless and agitated. His clothes are damp and there are flakes of snow in his hair. He glances nervously from one constable to another and then finally at the sergeant. Without looking up, Jarrott asks if he can help. Struggling to get his breath back, the man reports that he’s been robbed. He adds that he’s also been beaten – then corrects himself: “Well, hit, really. Two men –” Jarrott asks when the crime took place, while the shaken man tries and fails to light a cigarette. Eventually, Jarrott has to do it for him. “Just now,” replies the man. “A few seconds ago. Well, about five minutes, I suppose.”
Jarrott reaches for the occurrence book. He has to blow on his hands to warm them before he can begin writing. He takes down the victim’s name: Stewart Acland, owner of the local camera shop, just down the road. He wasn’t able to telephone the station because the thieves ripped out the phone. Jarrott nods. “Two men, you say, sir?”
“Yes,” replies Acland. “Almost knocked me out.”
“You’d recognise them again?”
“Oh, yes,” says Acland. Jarrott asks for a description, but Acland is more concerned about his missing property. “They’ve got away with a lot of stuff, Sergeant. Japanese. About two hundred pounds’ worth.”
Jarrott keeps the witness on topic. “What did they look like?”
“One was young. Early twenties. The other one was a bit taller – older than the other. Yes, much older. He’s the one that hit me.”
Jarrot notes this down. “Did they have a vehicle, sir?”
“A van. They arrived in a van. Small one. Just as I was closing.” Acland’s speech begins to slur. “Green… green van…” He collapses to the floor.
Jarrot moves to help him, turning to Constable Clayton as he does so. “Well, give me a hand! Don’t just stand there! And you, Smithie, get a call on the air. Two men. One green van.”
* * *
A desultory neon sign flickers the words “GALA HOTEL” through a lace-curtained bedroom window. A bolted door leads to another room, but at present a suitcase on a stand blocks this off. A meter-fed gas fire casts a small area of warmth. The room’s double bed has been pulled away from the wall to be close to the fire.
“A van?” says Joey Stone, the man renting the room. He’s in his stockinged feet. His shoes have been propped up to dry in front of the fire. Seated on the bed, wrapped in the eiderdown, is Mrs Valerie Stone. Her fleece-lined boots stick out at one end, her head at the other. Joey is being interviewed by a tall, lean man with a thick overcoat and a rotten cold. He’s an inquiry agent called Frank Marker. “Yes, cocky,” Joey tells him. “I owned a van once.”
Marker asks what happened to it, and learns that Joey sold the van to his brother, Dick, because he couldn’t afford the repayments. “Couldn’t afford them?” scoffs Marker, indicating the room around them. “And you’re living it up in a lush, four-star hotel like this!” An antiquated water system rumbles away in the background. “You should’ve told the finance company when you sold that van.”
“Oh!” exclaims Joey, in mock self-reproach. “It must’ve slipped my memory.”
“That’s why I’m here,” explains Marker. “To jog it.”
“Dick’s problem, cocky. Not mine.”
“Wrong,” says Marker. “You’re still the legal owner. As such, you owe seventy-six pounds, thirteen shillings and eightpence.” If Joey hasn’t got the money – which he hasn’t – Marker is authorised to repossess the van.
Joey reacts calmly to this news. “Okay. Better go and see Dickie – my brother.” He grins. “If you can find him.”
“I can find him,” Marker assures him, starting out. “And when I do, you’ll still owe seventy-six pounds –”
“Thirteen shillings and sixpence.”
“Eightpence!” Marker corrects him, and leaves.
Valerie begins to form a question, but Joey shushes her to silence. He waits a second, then darts to the door and throws it open. There’s no one there. He slams the door and returns to the fire, looking preoccupied. Valerie asks why Joey put Marker on Dick’s trail.
Joey laughs off her concern. “It’s a big, cruel world, Val. Got to stand on your own two plates.”
“Has Dick got any of the gear?” asks Valerie. Joey shakes his head, tapping it at the same time, as if to say, Who’s the clever one? Valerie looks around, unimpressed. “Should’ve thought we could’ve found a better gaff than this.”
“No, this is just right.” Joey points to the bolted door with the suitcase in front of it. “Nice connecting door. No one’s the wiser.”
“What about him?” asks Valerie, indicating the door through which Marker went. Now Joey looks worried.
* * *
Night has fallen. A detective constable named Roberts and another patrol officer, Arthur, are searching a bed-sitting room. They stand at a table in the centre of the room, looking down at a pair of expensive Japanese miniature cameras in a cardboard grocery box. On the mantelpiece behind them is a photograph of Valerie. Roberts wonders where the rest of the cameras are – then suddenly tells his colleague to hide as he hears footsteps approaching. They quickly take cover.
The door, which is ajar, is pushed open. Marker walks in, casually looks around and has a good sneeze. He crosses to the table, peers inside the box and, to his surprise, takes out one of the cameras. He examines it and replaces it, has another look in the box and produces the other camera. He spins around as Roberts appears. “Good evening,” says Marker, somewhat bemused.
“Nothing good about it for you, friend,” replies Roberts. “We’ve got Dick,” he adds, as if this will mean something to Marker.
“Have you?” says Marker, blandly. He explains that he came to the bedsit to see Dick.
“So did we,” replies Roberts, taking the camera from Marker’s hand and putting it back in the box. “You’ll see him again soon. He’s downstairs in the squad car.”
“‘Again’?” asks Marker. “I don’t even know him.”
Roberts rather doubts that. He suggests they all go down the station. “Talk it out down there, okay?”
“And if I say no?”
“It’s freezing cold outside,” warns Roberts. “Ice on the steps. Real treacherous.”
Resigning himself to his fate, Marker allows Arthur to lead him out, while Roberts continues to search the bedsit.
* * *
Two large, steaming mugs of tea are being stirred with the end of a pencil. Constable Smith sucks the pencil dry and picks up the cups, carrying them out of the reception area and down a corridor. He stops at the second door and pushes it open with his knee. Every move that these policemen make has a weary familiarity to it, as though they could do it all with their eyes shut.
The door opens into Detective Sergeant Leith’s office, a small room containing two desks, a filing cabinet and – extraordinarily – two canaries in a cage. Seated at one desk is Leith, a plain-clothes officer of the Criminal Investigation Department. He is a thick-set, hard man. Pacing the floor in front of him is Detective Inspector Grant, an older man, in uniform. Grant is close to retirement and anxious to make it without any trouble – but Leith is not making this easy. Not for the first time, Grant is reprimanding his subordinate for alleged brutality. As Smith enters with the tea, Leith is claiming that “a nasty bit of work” called Hain deliberately smacked his own head against a cell door.
Smith hands one mug to Leith, who takes it in his hand without flinching. Grant takes his between his thumb and forefinger, and nearly drops it. “Blast!” He puts the hot mug down quickly, before he compromises his authority any further. Smith gives Leith a brief look and goes out.
Leith continues his discussion of Hain. “I think he comes in here ’cause he likes it. Charges his batteries. Likes to see how far he can go.”
“I know all that,” grumbles Grant.
“So what do you expect me to do?” argues Leith. “Stand there and let him insult me in front of the whole station?”
“What I don’t expect, Sergeant,” says Grant, as firmly as he can, “and what I will not have, is violence.”
Leith is prepared to argue further, but Grant tells him to let it rest. As he sips his tea, he takes an envelope from his pocket. Jotted down on it are notes about various things to do. He consults Leith about an item, then takes his leave. The two men bid each other goodnight.
Leith watches him go, shakes his head dismissively, then crosses to his canaries. He rattles the bars. “And what I will not have,” he tells them, mimicking Grant’s earlier reprimand, “is violence – from either of you!”
* * *
On his way out, Grant passes Sergeant Jarrott in the reception area. “Don’t let anyone touch my desk,” Grant warns him. “It’s taken me all day to get it in that mess. Move a solitary paper and I won’t know where to begin in the morning.” Again, Grant hurriedly runs down his envelope memorandum, telling Jarrott he’ll be at home if needed.
He turns to leave, just as the exterior doors open. Frank Marker and Dick Stone are ushered in by the two patrolmen, Roberts and Arthur. Blinking against the bright lights, the suspects are told to stand against the wall. Grant gives them a cursory glance and then goes out. Roberts informs Jarrott that they have brought in the younger of the Stone brothers.
“I’ll tell Mr Leith,” replies Jarrott. “Who’s the other one?”
“Says his name’s Robin Hood.”
The sergeant raises an eyebrow. “Mr Leith will be pleased.”
Marker takes a roll of toilet paper from his pocket. Tearing off a few sheets, he blows his nose loudly.
Noticing this, Jarrott points at Marker. “Keep him away from me.”
“You’re making a mistake, Sergeant,” says Marker.
“So will you, if you give me that cold.” Jarrott tells Smith to take the prisoners to the interview room and stay with them.
Marker and Dick follow Smith out of the reception area and through the charge room. This is really a large hallway with doors leading off to offices and cells. In the middle of the room is a desk and two chairs. A large window stretches down one wall.
Dick whispers to Marker as they go. “Why don’t you tell ’em?”
“What?” asks Marker.
“Who you are.”
“I will,” Marker assures him, “in time.” First, he wants to have a little chat with Dick – about a certain little van.
“What makes you think I’ve got it?”
“Your brother told me.”
This revelation pulls Dick up. “When?” he asks, suspiciously.
“About an hour before I got to your place.”
“Did he?” Dick looks at him, cannily. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Marker.”
They have arrived at the interview room. Smith tells them to stop gabbing and get inside. They do so and sit down. Smith closes the door and leans back against it. Dick and Smith eye each other. Smith becomes uneasy.
After a moment, Dick nudges Marker. “Want a laugh?”
Marker looks around the sparsely furnished room. “Sure,” he says. “It’s all it needs – a little jollification.”
“You know something?” Dick points to Smith. “I went to school with him.” He starts to laugh. Smith scuffs his feet, embarrassed.
* * *
Sergeant Jarrott goes to see Detective Sergeant Leith. Leith is reading a report. He crumples it into a ball and hurls it into a corner. Jarrott retrieves it. “I’ll get it retyped,” he promises. “Typing isn’t Harris’s strong point.”
Leith’s mood improves considerably when Jarrott informs him that Roberts has just brought in one of the Stone boys. “Stone?” asks Leith, eagerly. “Which one?”
“Your friend. Dick.”
Leith smiles. “Good. Always a pleasure to see him.” He stands up. “Might not be such a bad night after all.” Jarrott goes on to explain that the patrol officers also found two cameras at Stone’s place, and there was a car outside. “Car?” asks Leith, surprised. “Thought Acland said a green van.”
“So he did. He was shocked to hell, though.”
Leith decides that they’d better bring Acland in to identify the cameras. In the meantime, the evidence will be sent downstairs to be dusted for fingerprints. Leith would also like to have an identification parade while Acland is here. He asks Jarrott to arrange it for about an hour from now. Jarrot begins to tell Leith about the other man with Stone. Leith assumes he must mean Dick’s brother, Joey, but Jarrot tells him he’s wrong. “Who, then?” asks Leith.
“Says his name’s Robin Hood.”
Now it’s Leith’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Does he? They did it together?”
“They were picked up together.”
“Protesting?”
“Naturally.”
Leith tells Jarrot to interview ‘Robin Hood’. “I’ll talk to friend Dick.” He asks whose idea was it to bring him in.
“Mine,” replies Jarrot. “Sounded like his handwriting. Was worth a try.”
Leith punches his shoulder, appreciatively. “Don’t know what we’d do without you.”
He starts for the door, telling Jarrot to use the office for his interrogation. Leith prefers the interview room – it’s more secluded.
Leith marches out, down a corridor and through the charge room. He almost knocks Smith off his feet when he barges into the interview room.
“Right, Smith,” announces Leith, pointing to Marker. “Take him over to my office. Then find us all some tea.” He turns to Dick. “Nothing like tea to keep you awake at night, is there, Dickie? He has it strong with three lumps, right? Don’t want you falling asleep when I’m talking to you, do we?” Dick doesn’t answer, so Leith shouts the last two words. “Do we?”
“No,” replies Dick.
“That’s better.”
As Marker heads to the door, Leith addresses him. “Leave your bow and arrow at home?”
“That’s right.”
“My name’s Leith. Detective Sergeant Leith. Tell me what I want to know and I can be as nice as pie. If not…” He grins. “There’s a hundred and four ways of being a bastard. I know ’em all.”
“I’ll remember,” says Marker, levelly. He goes out, escorted by Smith.
Leith returns his attention to Dick. He tells him to empty out his pockets. Dick does so, producing a wallet, a cigarette case, matches and an extra-large bunch of keys. Leith goes through the items with a quick, experienced hand. He examines the collection of keys with interest.
“Started when I gave up stamps,” explains Dick.
Leith stands back and takes a good, long look at Dick. Eventually, the latter becomes embarrassed. He asks what’s up. “Just remembering what a mug looks like,” replies Leith. “How long is it since you were in here, Dickie?”
Dick shrugs. “Couple of years.”
“Couple of months!”
“You didn’t have anything on me that time.”
“Couldn’t make it stick. I give you that, Dickie boy.”
“Stop calling me that.” Leith asks him about his latest job, including his alleged accomplice. Dick succeeds in looking crestfallen. “Yeah. I’m sorry about him. First job an’ all. He’s a new face. Got no form – so he says. Go easy on him, Sarge.”
“Easy. That’s my middle name. Why wasn’t brother Joey involved?”
“You put such a scare on him last time.”
Leith’s vanity allows him to believe this. “Good.”
“And he didn’t like the smell of it.”
“He’s got a better nose than you have. What’s your buddy’s name?”
* * *
“Marker.” Marker is sitting opposite Sergeant Jarrot in Leith’s office.
Jarrot takes notes as Marker answers his questions. “Christian names?”
“Frank.”
Jarrot looks up.
“Parents weren’t very imaginative,” explains Marker. He dabs at his nose as Jarrot asks for his address.
“It’s still there,” says Jarrot. “Don’t worry.”
Marker answers the question: 118 Clapham Hill. Jarrot asks his occupation. Marker fears that he won’t believe the answer. “I’m an inquiry agent.”
“And I’m the President of the United States.”
“Told you. I’m not known round here.”
“You soon will be,” says Jarrot, sarcastically. “On the Association List?”
“No.”
Jarrot is surprised. “No? Why not?”
“Wouldn’t help,” explains Marker.
“It would, if you were sitting on this side of the desk.”
Marker offers a couple of contacts who can vouch for him: Parkhill Finance, the company he is currently working for, and Barrow, Wolfson and Gale, solicitors.
“Yours?” asks Jarrot.
“Let’s save the rest for the Detective Sergeant. He might be more amenable.”
Jarrot gives him a look. “You must be new round here.”
* * *
In the reception area, Constables Clayton and Smith are standing at opposite ends of the counter. Clayton is telling Smith about a salacious novel he’s been reading. “Well, this old bloke’s in a wheelchair, see. Paralysed, poor devil.”
“Paraplegic,” says Smith, interrupting.
“Para-what?”
“Paraplegia,” explains Smith. “Paralysed from the waist down. Brando did a film about it.”
“Did he?” replies Clayton, unimpressed. “Who’s telling this story – you or me?”
“You are.”
“Wrap up, then. Well, he gets the gamekeeper to wheel him around the estate. Then there’s her Ladyship – up in the east wing – pining away over her knitting, or whatever it is. And she takes a shine to this guy. The old hair shirt bit. Muscles like a blacksmith’s.”
“The gamekeeper?” asks Smith.
“No, Her Ladyship! Anyway, in no time at all, she’s tripping down to the woods… to the woods… At it like knives, they are –” Suddenly Clayton stops, having realised that Len Williams, a middle-aged Welshman, is watching them from the other side of the counter. “Oh. Evening, sir,” says Clayton to the newcomer.
“Don’t stop!” urges Williams.
“Just giving Smithie a quick guide to English literature,” explains Clayton.
“Tell me when you get to Ulysses. Should be worth hearing.” Williams is looking for Detective Sergeant Leith. It’s about the cameras.
Smith is just about to go and inform Leith when Sergeant Jarrott comes in from the corridor. He hands Smith a piece of paper, asking him to give it to Leith. Smith goes out.
Jarrott greets Williams. “Evening, Len.”
“How’s things?” asks the Welshman.
“Eleven years I’ve been here. Never a depression yet. Not many businesses can say that.”
Williams shivers. “If the firm’s doing so well, why don’t you have some heat on?”
“Very old boiler,” explains Jarrott.
“So’s my missus,” replies Williams, sotto voce.
* * *
Smith crosses to the interview room, knocks and goes inside. He finds Dick Stone shouting back at Leith, who is well on his way to wearing the prisoner down.
“Marker!” yells Smith. “I keep telling you, I don’t know his other name.”
“Take it easy, Dickie boy,” replies Leith, with faux friendliness. “You’ll shout yourself hoarse.” Without taking his eyes off Dick, he flicks his fingers in the direction of Smith. The constable hands him the piece of paper. Leith glances over it, then smiles. “Lovely!”
“And Mr Williams is here,” adds Smith. “About the cameras.”
“Tell him I’ll be out in a minute. Then come back.” Once Smith has gone, Leith resumes his questioning. He now has Marker’s full name, but he wants confirmation from Dick about what the man does for a living – when he’s not helping Dick to steal cameras, that is.
“I dunno,” lies Dick. “He’s close – doesn’t say much.” That much is true.
“But he knows his way round,” replies Leith, “not a greenhorn?”
“No. He’s on the square.” Dick claims to have met Marker in a pub called The Bell.
“Good,” smiles Leith. “We speak the same language, don’t we, Dickie? Play ball and you know I’ll see you right. Don’t you?” Dick doesn’t look so sure about that. Next, Leith wants to know what happened to the rest of the cameras.
“Ask Marker. That was his part of the deal.”
“Right. I’ll do that.” Leith gets up as Smith comes back in. He tells Smith to stay with Dick. Leith exits. Smith leans against the door, eyes down.
Dick suddenly looks less worried. After a moment, he starts to grin. “How’s your little sister, Smithie?”
“Shut up, Stone!”
* * *
Leith has arrived in the reception area, where Jarrot is just finishing a telephone conversation. He’s been talking to one of the solicitors at Barrow, Wolfson and Gale, who has confirmed that Marker is an inquiry agent.
“A bent one,” Leith opines. “And we caught him on the job. A nice, clean pinch.” He glances down at Jarrot’s notes. “Frank Marker, eh? He’s one of a rare breed, Sergeant. Handle him carefully.”
Leith turns to Williams, who reports that he has lifted several sets of fingerprints from the cameras, including those of Dick Stone. There’s also a good left handprint, but he’s been unable to identify it. Leith asks Jarrot if he’s taken Marker’s dabs.
“Not yet,” replies the sergeant.
“Get it done,” orders Leith. He smiles, grimly. “If Marker’s prints are on one of those cameras, I’ll have his head on a plate.”
A man rushes in from the street, breathless and agitated. His clothes are damp and there are flakes of snow in his hair. He glances nervously from one constable to another and then finally at the sergeant. Without looking up, Jarrott asks if he can help. Struggling to get his breath back, the man reports that he’s been robbed. He adds that he’s also been beaten – then corrects himself: “Well, hit, really. Two men –” Jarrott asks when the crime took place, while the shaken man tries and fails to light a cigarette. Eventually, Jarrott has to do it for him. “Just now,” replies the man. “A few seconds ago. Well, about five minutes, I suppose.”
Jarrott reaches for the occurrence book. He has to blow on his hands to warm them before he can begin writing. He takes down the victim’s name: Stewart Acland, owner of the local camera shop, just down the road. He wasn’t able to telephone the station because the thieves ripped out the phone. Jarrott nods. “Two men, you say, sir?”
“Yes,” replies Acland. “Almost knocked me out.”
“You’d recognise them again?”
“Oh, yes,” says Acland. Jarrott asks for a description, but Acland is more concerned about his missing property. “They’ve got away with a lot of stuff, Sergeant. Japanese. About two hundred pounds’ worth.”
Jarrott keeps the witness on topic. “What did they look like?”
“One was young. Early twenties. The other one was a bit taller – older than the other. Yes, much older. He’s the one that hit me.”
Jarrot notes this down. “Did they have a vehicle, sir?”
“A van. They arrived in a van. Small one. Just as I was closing.” Acland’s speech begins to slur. “Green… green van…” He collapses to the floor.
Jarrot moves to help him, turning to Constable Clayton as he does so. “Well, give me a hand! Don’t just stand there! And you, Smithie, get a call on the air. Two men. One green van.”
* * *
A desultory neon sign flickers the words “GALA HOTEL” through a lace-curtained bedroom window. A bolted door leads to another room, but at present a suitcase on a stand blocks this off. A meter-fed gas fire casts a small area of warmth. The room’s double bed has been pulled away from the wall to be close to the fire.
“A van?” says Joey Stone, the man renting the room. He’s in his stockinged feet. His shoes have been propped up to dry in front of the fire. Seated on the bed, wrapped in the eiderdown, is Mrs Valerie Stone. Her fleece-lined boots stick out at one end, her head at the other. Joey is being interviewed by a tall, lean man with a thick overcoat and a rotten cold. He’s an inquiry agent called Frank Marker. “Yes, cocky,” Joey tells him. “I owned a van once.”
Marker asks what happened to it, and learns that Joey sold the van to his brother, Dick, because he couldn’t afford the repayments. “Couldn’t afford them?” scoffs Marker, indicating the room around them. “And you’re living it up in a lush, four-star hotel like this!” An antiquated water system rumbles away in the background. “You should’ve told the finance company when you sold that van.”
“Oh!” exclaims Joey, in mock self-reproach. “It must’ve slipped my memory.”
“That’s why I’m here,” explains Marker. “To jog it.”
“Dick’s problem, cocky. Not mine.”
“Wrong,” says Marker. “You’re still the legal owner. As such, you owe seventy-six pounds, thirteen shillings and eightpence.” If Joey hasn’t got the money – which he hasn’t – Marker is authorised to repossess the van.
Joey reacts calmly to this news. “Okay. Better go and see Dickie – my brother.” He grins. “If you can find him.”
“I can find him,” Marker assures him, starting out. “And when I do, you’ll still owe seventy-six pounds –”
“Thirteen shillings and sixpence.”
“Eightpence!” Marker corrects him, and leaves.
Valerie begins to form a question, but Joey shushes her to silence. He waits a second, then darts to the door and throws it open. There’s no one there. He slams the door and returns to the fire, looking preoccupied. Valerie asks why Joey put Marker on Dick’s trail.
Joey laughs off her concern. “It’s a big, cruel world, Val. Got to stand on your own two plates.”
“Has Dick got any of the gear?” asks Valerie. Joey shakes his head, tapping it at the same time, as if to say, Who’s the clever one? Valerie looks around, unimpressed. “Should’ve thought we could’ve found a better gaff than this.”
“No, this is just right.” Joey points to the bolted door with the suitcase in front of it. “Nice connecting door. No one’s the wiser.”
“What about him?” asks Valerie, indicating the door through which Marker went. Now Joey looks worried.
* * *
Night has fallen. A detective constable named Roberts and another patrol officer, Arthur, are searching a bed-sitting room. They stand at a table in the centre of the room, looking down at a pair of expensive Japanese miniature cameras in a cardboard grocery box. On the mantelpiece behind them is a photograph of Valerie. Roberts wonders where the rest of the cameras are – then suddenly tells his colleague to hide as he hears footsteps approaching. They quickly take cover.
The door, which is ajar, is pushed open. Marker walks in, casually looks around and has a good sneeze. He crosses to the table, peers inside the box and, to his surprise, takes out one of the cameras. He examines it and replaces it, has another look in the box and produces the other camera. He spins around as Roberts appears. “Good evening,” says Marker, somewhat bemused.
“Nothing good about it for you, friend,” replies Roberts. “We’ve got Dick,” he adds, as if this will mean something to Marker.
“Have you?” says Marker, blandly. He explains that he came to the bedsit to see Dick.
“So did we,” replies Roberts, taking the camera from Marker’s hand and putting it back in the box. “You’ll see him again soon. He’s downstairs in the squad car.”
“‘Again’?” asks Marker. “I don’t even know him.”
Roberts rather doubts that. He suggests they all go down the station. “Talk it out down there, okay?”
“And if I say no?”
“It’s freezing cold outside,” warns Roberts. “Ice on the steps. Real treacherous.”
Resigning himself to his fate, Marker allows Arthur to lead him out, while Roberts continues to search the bedsit.
* * *
Two large, steaming mugs of tea are being stirred with the end of a pencil. Constable Smith sucks the pencil dry and picks up the cups, carrying them out of the reception area and down a corridor. He stops at the second door and pushes it open with his knee. Every move that these policemen make has a weary familiarity to it, as though they could do it all with their eyes shut.
The door opens into Detective Sergeant Leith’s office, a small room containing two desks, a filing cabinet and – extraordinarily – two canaries in a cage. Seated at one desk is Leith, a plain-clothes officer of the Criminal Investigation Department. He is a thick-set, hard man. Pacing the floor in front of him is Detective Inspector Grant, an older man, in uniform. Grant is close to retirement and anxious to make it without any trouble – but Leith is not making this easy. Not for the first time, Grant is reprimanding his subordinate for alleged brutality. As Smith enters with the tea, Leith is claiming that “a nasty bit of work” called Hain deliberately smacked his own head against a cell door.
Smith hands one mug to Leith, who takes it in his hand without flinching. Grant takes his between his thumb and forefinger, and nearly drops it. “Blast!” He puts the hot mug down quickly, before he compromises his authority any further. Smith gives Leith a brief look and goes out.
Leith continues his discussion of Hain. “I think he comes in here ’cause he likes it. Charges his batteries. Likes to see how far he can go.”
“I know all that,” grumbles Grant.
“So what do you expect me to do?” argues Leith. “Stand there and let him insult me in front of the whole station?”
“What I don’t expect, Sergeant,” says Grant, as firmly as he can, “and what I will not have, is violence.”
Leith is prepared to argue further, but Grant tells him to let it rest. As he sips his tea, he takes an envelope from his pocket. Jotted down on it are notes about various things to do. He consults Leith about an item, then takes his leave. The two men bid each other goodnight.
Leith watches him go, shakes his head dismissively, then crosses to his canaries. He rattles the bars. “And what I will not have,” he tells them, mimicking Grant’s earlier reprimand, “is violence – from either of you!”
* * *
On his way out, Grant passes Sergeant Jarrott in the reception area. “Don’t let anyone touch my desk,” Grant warns him. “It’s taken me all day to get it in that mess. Move a solitary paper and I won’t know where to begin in the morning.” Again, Grant hurriedly runs down his envelope memorandum, telling Jarrott he’ll be at home if needed.
He turns to leave, just as the exterior doors open. Frank Marker and Dick Stone are ushered in by the two patrolmen, Roberts and Arthur. Blinking against the bright lights, the suspects are told to stand against the wall. Grant gives them a cursory glance and then goes out. Roberts informs Jarrott that they have brought in the younger of the Stone brothers.
“I’ll tell Mr Leith,” replies Jarrott. “Who’s the other one?”
“Says his name’s Robin Hood.”
The sergeant raises an eyebrow. “Mr Leith will be pleased.”
Marker takes a roll of toilet paper from his pocket. Tearing off a few sheets, he blows his nose loudly.
Noticing this, Jarrott points at Marker. “Keep him away from me.”
“You’re making a mistake, Sergeant,” says Marker.
“So will you, if you give me that cold.” Jarrott tells Smith to take the prisoners to the interview room and stay with them.
Marker and Dick follow Smith out of the reception area and through the charge room. This is really a large hallway with doors leading off to offices and cells. In the middle of the room is a desk and two chairs. A large window stretches down one wall.
Dick whispers to Marker as they go. “Why don’t you tell ’em?”
“What?” asks Marker.
“Who you are.”
“I will,” Marker assures him, “in time.” First, he wants to have a little chat with Dick – about a certain little van.
“What makes you think I’ve got it?”
“Your brother told me.”
This revelation pulls Dick up. “When?” he asks, suspiciously.
“About an hour before I got to your place.”
“Did he?” Dick looks at him, cannily. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Marker.”
They have arrived at the interview room. Smith tells them to stop gabbing and get inside. They do so and sit down. Smith closes the door and leans back against it. Dick and Smith eye each other. Smith becomes uneasy.
After a moment, Dick nudges Marker. “Want a laugh?”
Marker looks around the sparsely furnished room. “Sure,” he says. “It’s all it needs – a little jollification.”
“You know something?” Dick points to Smith. “I went to school with him.” He starts to laugh. Smith scuffs his feet, embarrassed.
* * *
Sergeant Jarrott goes to see Detective Sergeant Leith. Leith is reading a report. He crumples it into a ball and hurls it into a corner. Jarrott retrieves it. “I’ll get it retyped,” he promises. “Typing isn’t Harris’s strong point.”
Leith’s mood improves considerably when Jarrott informs him that Roberts has just brought in one of the Stone boys. “Stone?” asks Leith, eagerly. “Which one?”
“Your friend. Dick.”
Leith smiles. “Good. Always a pleasure to see him.” He stands up. “Might not be such a bad night after all.” Jarrott goes on to explain that the patrol officers also found two cameras at Stone’s place, and there was a car outside. “Car?” asks Leith, surprised. “Thought Acland said a green van.”
“So he did. He was shocked to hell, though.”
Leith decides that they’d better bring Acland in to identify the cameras. In the meantime, the evidence will be sent downstairs to be dusted for fingerprints. Leith would also like to have an identification parade while Acland is here. He asks Jarrott to arrange it for about an hour from now. Jarrot begins to tell Leith about the other man with Stone. Leith assumes he must mean Dick’s brother, Joey, but Jarrot tells him he’s wrong. “Who, then?” asks Leith.
“Says his name’s Robin Hood.”
Now it’s Leith’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Does he? They did it together?”
“They were picked up together.”
“Protesting?”
“Naturally.”
Leith tells Jarrot to interview ‘Robin Hood’. “I’ll talk to friend Dick.” He asks whose idea was it to bring him in.
“Mine,” replies Jarrot. “Sounded like his handwriting. Was worth a try.”
Leith punches his shoulder, appreciatively. “Don’t know what we’d do without you.”
He starts for the door, telling Jarrot to use the office for his interrogation. Leith prefers the interview room – it’s more secluded.
Leith marches out, down a corridor and through the charge room. He almost knocks Smith off his feet when he barges into the interview room.
“Right, Smith,” announces Leith, pointing to Marker. “Take him over to my office. Then find us all some tea.” He turns to Dick. “Nothing like tea to keep you awake at night, is there, Dickie? He has it strong with three lumps, right? Don’t want you falling asleep when I’m talking to you, do we?” Dick doesn’t answer, so Leith shouts the last two words. “Do we?”
“No,” replies Dick.
“That’s better.”
As Marker heads to the door, Leith addresses him. “Leave your bow and arrow at home?”
“That’s right.”
“My name’s Leith. Detective Sergeant Leith. Tell me what I want to know and I can be as nice as pie. If not…” He grins. “There’s a hundred and four ways of being a bastard. I know ’em all.”
“I’ll remember,” says Marker, levelly. He goes out, escorted by Smith.
Leith returns his attention to Dick. He tells him to empty out his pockets. Dick does so, producing a wallet, a cigarette case, matches and an extra-large bunch of keys. Leith goes through the items with a quick, experienced hand. He examines the collection of keys with interest.
“Started when I gave up stamps,” explains Dick.
Leith stands back and takes a good, long look at Dick. Eventually, the latter becomes embarrassed. He asks what’s up. “Just remembering what a mug looks like,” replies Leith. “How long is it since you were in here, Dickie?”
Dick shrugs. “Couple of years.”
“Couple of months!”
“You didn’t have anything on me that time.”
“Couldn’t make it stick. I give you that, Dickie boy.”
“Stop calling me that.” Leith asks him about his latest job, including his alleged accomplice. Dick succeeds in looking crestfallen. “Yeah. I’m sorry about him. First job an’ all. He’s a new face. Got no form – so he says. Go easy on him, Sarge.”
“Easy. That’s my middle name. Why wasn’t brother Joey involved?”
“You put such a scare on him last time.”
Leith’s vanity allows him to believe this. “Good.”
“And he didn’t like the smell of it.”
“He’s got a better nose than you have. What’s your buddy’s name?”
* * *
“Marker.” Marker is sitting opposite Sergeant Jarrot in Leith’s office.
Jarrot takes notes as Marker answers his questions. “Christian names?”
“Frank.”
Jarrot looks up.
“Parents weren’t very imaginative,” explains Marker. He dabs at his nose as Jarrot asks for his address.
“It’s still there,” says Jarrot. “Don’t worry.”
Marker answers the question: 118 Clapham Hill. Jarrot asks his occupation. Marker fears that he won’t believe the answer. “I’m an inquiry agent.”
“And I’m the President of the United States.”
“Told you. I’m not known round here.”
“You soon will be,” says Jarrot, sarcastically. “On the Association List?”
“No.”
Jarrot is surprised. “No? Why not?”
“Wouldn’t help,” explains Marker.
“It would, if you were sitting on this side of the desk.”
Marker offers a couple of contacts who can vouch for him: Parkhill Finance, the company he is currently working for, and Barrow, Wolfson and Gale, solicitors.
“Yours?” asks Jarrot.
“Let’s save the rest for the Detective Sergeant. He might be more amenable.”
Jarrot gives him a look. “You must be new round here.”
* * *
In the reception area, Constables Clayton and Smith are standing at opposite ends of the counter. Clayton is telling Smith about a salacious novel he’s been reading. “Well, this old bloke’s in a wheelchair, see. Paralysed, poor devil.”
“Paraplegic,” says Smith, interrupting.
“Para-what?”
“Paraplegia,” explains Smith. “Paralysed from the waist down. Brando did a film about it.”
“Did he?” replies Clayton, unimpressed. “Who’s telling this story – you or me?”
“You are.”
“Wrap up, then. Well, he gets the gamekeeper to wheel him around the estate. Then there’s her Ladyship – up in the east wing – pining away over her knitting, or whatever it is. And she takes a shine to this guy. The old hair shirt bit. Muscles like a blacksmith’s.”
“The gamekeeper?” asks Smith.
“No, Her Ladyship! Anyway, in no time at all, she’s tripping down to the woods… to the woods… At it like knives, they are –” Suddenly Clayton stops, having realised that Len Williams, a middle-aged Welshman, is watching them from the other side of the counter. “Oh. Evening, sir,” says Clayton to the newcomer.
“Don’t stop!” urges Williams.
“Just giving Smithie a quick guide to English literature,” explains Clayton.
“Tell me when you get to Ulysses. Should be worth hearing.” Williams is looking for Detective Sergeant Leith. It’s about the cameras.
Smith is just about to go and inform Leith when Sergeant Jarrott comes in from the corridor. He hands Smith a piece of paper, asking him to give it to Leith. Smith goes out.
Jarrott greets Williams. “Evening, Len.”
“How’s things?” asks the Welshman.
“Eleven years I’ve been here. Never a depression yet. Not many businesses can say that.”
Williams shivers. “If the firm’s doing so well, why don’t you have some heat on?”
“Very old boiler,” explains Jarrott.
“So’s my missus,” replies Williams, sotto voce.
* * *
Smith crosses to the interview room, knocks and goes inside. He finds Dick Stone shouting back at Leith, who is well on his way to wearing the prisoner down.
“Marker!” yells Smith. “I keep telling you, I don’t know his other name.”
“Take it easy, Dickie boy,” replies Leith, with faux friendliness. “You’ll shout yourself hoarse.” Without taking his eyes off Dick, he flicks his fingers in the direction of Smith. The constable hands him the piece of paper. Leith glances over it, then smiles. “Lovely!”
“And Mr Williams is here,” adds Smith. “About the cameras.”
“Tell him I’ll be out in a minute. Then come back.” Once Smith has gone, Leith resumes his questioning. He now has Marker’s full name, but he wants confirmation from Dick about what the man does for a living – when he’s not helping Dick to steal cameras, that is.
“I dunno,” lies Dick. “He’s close – doesn’t say much.” That much is true.
“But he knows his way round,” replies Leith, “not a greenhorn?”
“No. He’s on the square.” Dick claims to have met Marker in a pub called The Bell.
“Good,” smiles Leith. “We speak the same language, don’t we, Dickie? Play ball and you know I’ll see you right. Don’t you?” Dick doesn’t look so sure about that. Next, Leith wants to know what happened to the rest of the cameras.
“Ask Marker. That was his part of the deal.”
“Right. I’ll do that.” Leith gets up as Smith comes back in. He tells Smith to stay with Dick. Leith exits. Smith leans against the door, eyes down.
Dick suddenly looks less worried. After a moment, he starts to grin. “How’s your little sister, Smithie?”
“Shut up, Stone!”
* * *
Leith has arrived in the reception area, where Jarrot is just finishing a telephone conversation. He’s been talking to one of the solicitors at Barrow, Wolfson and Gale, who has confirmed that Marker is an inquiry agent.
“A bent one,” Leith opines. “And we caught him on the job. A nice, clean pinch.” He glances down at Jarrot’s notes. “Frank Marker, eh? He’s one of a rare breed, Sergeant. Handle him carefully.”
Leith turns to Williams, who reports that he has lifted several sets of fingerprints from the cameras, including those of Dick Stone. There’s also a good left handprint, but he’s been unable to identify it. Leith asks Jarrot if he’s taken Marker’s dabs.
“Not yet,” replies the sergeant.
“Get it done,” orders Leith. He smiles, grimly. “If Marker’s prints are on one of those cameras, I’ll have his head on a plate.”