Dark Side of the Street - Simon Vaughn 01 (v5) (5 page)

"Nice of you to put it that way. What if I show them a clean pair of heels?"

"An anonymous phone call to the Yard telling them where you are should do the trick." He smiled. "I'm sure Jean Frazer would enjoy handling that bit."

Chavasse sighed. "Well, I did say I wanted a little more action. What's the firm?"

Mallory opened another file and pushed it across. "Lonsdale Metals," he said.

The guard on the gate stretched and took a couple of paces towards the gatehouse, easing his cramped muscles. A long morning, but only ten minutes to go. He turned and a red works van shot out of the garage and roared across the yard, gears racing.

As he jumped forward in alarm, it skidded to a halt, the bonnet no more than a yard away from the swing bar that blocked the entrance. The young man who scrambled out of the cab looked considerably shocked and there was blood on his face. He lost his balance, falling to one knee and as the guard helped him to his feet he was joined by his three companions.

The driver seemed to have difficulty in speaking. He swallowed then flung out an arm dramatically in the general direction of the main block. "Wages office!" he managed to gasp.

He started to sag to the ground and the gate guard caught him quickly. "Better get up there fast," he said to the other three. "I'll get this lad inside and phone for the police."

They went across the yard on the run, the Alsatian at their heels and the gate guard tightened his grip around the van driver's shoulders. "You don't look too good. Come in and sit down."

The driver nodded, wiping blood from his face with the back of a hand and together, they moved into the gatehouse. The guard could never afterwards be quite sure about what happened next. He eased the driver into a chair and moved towards the desk. He was aware of no sound, but as he reached for the telephone was struck a stunning blow at the base of the skull that sent him crashing to the floor.

He lay there for a few moments, senses reeling, aware of the clang of the swing bar outside as it was raised, of the sudden roar of an engine as the van was driven rapidly away and then darkness flooded over him.

When Chavasse went up the stairs of the dingy house in Poplar and opened the door at the end of the landing, Jean Frazer was lying on the bed reading a magazine.

She swung her legs to the floor, a slight frown on her face. "Is that blood on your cheek?"

Chavasse wiped it away casually. "Something else entirely, I assure you."

"Did you get in?"

"And out again."

Her eyes widened. "With the money?"

He nodded. "It's downstairs in the yard in an old Ford van I bought this morning."

"Presumably the law isn't far behind?"

Chavasse moved to the window wiping his face with a towel and peered into the street. "I shouldn't think so. I switched vehicles miles away on the other side of the Thames. In fact if I hadn't shown my face around as much as I did, I've a shrewd suspicion I could have got away with this."

"Dangerous talk." She pulled on her shoes. "Seriously, Paul, how on earth did you manage it?"

"You know what the newsboys say? Read all about it. I wouldn't want to spoil your fun."

She sighed. "Ah, well, I suppose I'd better go and put in that call to Scotland Yard."

As she moved round the bed he pulled her into his arms. "I could be away for a hell of a long time, Jean," he said mockingly. "I don't suppose you'd care to give me something to remember you by."

She pulled down his head, kissed him once and disengaged herself. "The best I can do at the moment. I've got my Delilah bit to take care of. If Mallory lets me, I'll come and see you on visiting days."

The door closed behind her and Chavasse locked it. Nothing to do now except wait for them to come for him. He placed the automatic to hand on the locker by the window, lit a cigarette and lay down on the bed.

It was not more than twenty minutes later that he heard sounds of faint movement on the landing outside. There was a timid knock on the door and Mrs. Clegg, the landlady, called, "Are you in, Mr. Drummond?"

"What do you want?" he said.

"There's a letter for you. Came while you were out."

"Just a minute."

He took a deep breath and unlocked the door. It smashed into him instantly and he was carried back across the bed which collapsed under the combined weight of four very large policemen.

He put up a semblance of a struggle, but a moment later handcuffs were snapped around his wrists and he was hauled to his feet. A large amiable looking man in a fawn gaberdine raincoat and battered Homburg paused in the doorway to light a cigarette, then moved in.

"All right, son, where's the loot?"

"Why don't you take a running jump?" Chavasse told him.

"Careful--you'll be making sounds like a man next."

There was a pounding on the stairs and a young constable entered the run. "We found it, inspector," he said, struggling for breath. "Back of an old Ford van in the yard."

The inspector turned to Chavasse and sighed. "Forty-five thousand quid and what bloody good has it done you?"

"I'll let you know," Chavasse said. "I'll have to think about it."

"You'll have plenty of time for that--about seven years or I miss my guess." He nodded to the constables. "Go on, get him out of here."

Chavasse grinned impudently. "See you in court, inspector."

He was still laughing as they took him downstairs.

3

Maximum Security

The governor of Fridaythrope Gaol put down his pen and switched on the desk lamp. It was just after eight with darkness drawing in fast and he went to the window and watched the last light of day touch the rim of the hills across the valley with fire before night fell.

There was a firm knock on the door and as he turned, Atkinson, the Principal Officer, entered, a large buff envelope in one hand.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but the new man is here--Drummond. You said you wanted to see him personally."

The governor nodded and moved back to his desk. "So I did. Is he outside?"

Atkinson nodded. "That's right, sir."

"What's he like?"

Atkinson shrugged. "A gentleman gone nasty if you follow me." He opened the envelope and placed the documents it contained in front of the governor. "You'll remember the case, sir. It was in all the papers at the time. Forty-five thousand and he almost got away with it."

"Didn't someone inform on him?"

"That's right, sir--an anonymous tip to the Yard, but he was going to seed long before that. He was a Captain in the Royal Engineers--cashiered for embezzlement seven or eight years ago. Since then he's been knocking around South America getting up to God knows what."

The Governor nodded. "Not a very pretty picture! Still--a man of some intelligence. I'm thinking of putting him in with Youngblood."

Atkinson was unable to conceal his surprise. "Might I ask why, sir?"

The governor leaned back in his chair. "Frankly, I'm worried about Youngblood--have been ever since he had that stroke. Sooner or later he'll have another--they always do--and he'll need specialised medical treatment very, very quickly. Can you imagine what would happen if he had such an attack in the middle of the night and died on us!"

"That's hardly likely, sir. He's checked every hour."

"A lot could happen in an hour. On the other hand, if someone was there all the time." He shook his head. "I'm certain a cell mate is the best answer from our point of view and this chap Drummond should do very nicely. Let's have a look at him."

The Principal Officer opened the door and stood to one side. "All right, lad," he barked. "Look lively now. Stand on the mat and give your name and number."

The prisoner moved into the room quickly and stood on the rubber mat that was positioned exactly three feet away from the governor's desk.

"83278 Drummond, sir," Paul Chavasse said and waited at attention.

The light from the desk threw his face into relief. It had fined down in the past three months and the hair, close-cropped to the skull, gave him a strangely medieval appearance. He looked a thoroughly dangerous man and the governor frowned down at his records in some perplexity. This was not what he had expected--not at all what he had expected.

But then, the governor's paradox was that he knew nothing of prison life at all--what he saw each day was only the surface of a pond which Chavasse, in three short months, had plumbed to its depths in undergoing what was known in the legal profession as the due process of the law.

In the three months he had made seven separate court appearances and had already experienced the life of three different gaols. He had spent a month on remand in a place so primitive that the only sanitary arrangements in the cell consisted of an enamel pot. Each morning, he had formed one of the queue of men who shuffled along the landing to empty the nights slops into the single lavatory bowl at the end.

Prison Officers were now screws, men who like the rest of the humanity were good, bad and indifferent in about the usual proportions. There had been some who had treated him with decency and humanity, others who punctuated each command with the end of a staff jabbed painfully into the kidneys.

He had learned that there was little romance in crime--that most of his fellow prisoners were persistent offenders who could have made a better living if they had spent their lives in drawing the unemployment benefit. He had learned that murderers and rapists looked just like anyone else and that often the most masculine prisoners in appearance were sexual deviants.

Most important of all, like any jungle animal intent only on survival he had quickly acquired the customs and habits of his new surroundings so that he might fade into the background with the rest. And he had survived. He would never be quite the same man again, but he had survived.

"Six years." The governor looked up from the record card. "That means four if you keep out of trouble and earn full remission."

"Yes, sir."

The governor leaned back in his chair. "It's really quite distressing to see a man like you end up in this sort of a mess but I think we can help you. But you've got to help yourself as well, you know. Are you willing to try?"

Chavasse resisted a strong temptation to lean across the desk and smash his fist into the centre of that florid well-fed face and wondered whether the governor could possibly be putting on an act. On the other hand that was hardly likely--which must mean that he had accepted the introduction of an undercover agent into his establishment with the greatest reluctance.

"Anyway, you can best help yourself by helping me," the governor said. "I'm going to put you in with a man called Harry Youngblood. He's a longterm prisoner who suffered a stroke some time ago. Now the odds are that he might have another and it could be at night. If that happens I want you to ring for the Duty Officer at once. Speed is vital in these cases so I'm told. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Youngblood works in the machine shop, doesn't he, Mr. Atkinson?"

"That's right, sir. Car number plates."

"Fine." The governor looked up at Chavasse again. "We'll put you in there for training and see how you like it. I'll follow your progress with interest."

He got to his feet as a sign that the interview was over and for the briefest of moments there was something in his eyes. It was as if he wanted to say something more, but couldn't think of the right words. In the end he nodded brusquely to the Principal Officer who led Chavasse out into the corridor.

The other gaols Chavasse had been in had been constructed during the reform era in the middle of the nineteenth century on a system commonly found in Her Majesty's Prisons of four three tiered cell blocks radiating like the spokes of a wheel from a central hall.

But Fridaythorpe was only two years old, a place of quiet and smooth concrete, air-conditioned and warmed by central heating with not a window to be seen.

They reached a central hall and entered a steel lift which rose ten floors before it halted. They stepped out on to a small concrete landing and Chavasse could see a long white corridor stretching into the distance on the other side of a steel gate.

They stood there for a moment and then the gate opened smoothly and silently. They moved inside and it closed again.

"Impressed?" Atkinson demanded as Chavasse turned to examine it. "You're meant to be. It's operated electronically by remote control. The man who pressed the button is sitting in the control centre on the ground floor at the other end of the prison. He's one of a team of five who watch fifty-three television screens on a shift system twenty-four hours a day. You've been on view ever since we left the governor's office."

"Wonderful what you can do with science these days," Chavasse said.

"Nobody escapes from Fridaythorpe--just remember that," Atkinson said as they proceeded along the corridor. "Behave yourself and you'll get a square deal--try to act tough and you'll fall flat on your face."

He didn't seem to require an answer and Chavasse didn't attempt to give him one. They paused outside a door at the far end of the passage, Atkinson produced a key and unlocked it.

The cell was larger than Chavasse had anticipated. There were three small slit windows glazed with armour glass and in any case too small to admit a man. There was also a washbasin and a fixed toilet in one corner.

There was a single bed against each wall and Youngblood was lying on one of them reading a magazine. He looked at them in an almost casual fashion and didn't bother getting up.

"I've got a cell mate for you, Youngblood." Atkinson told him. "The governors afraid you might pass away on us one night without any warning. He'd like someone to be here just in case."

"Well, that's nice of the old bastard," Youngblood said. "I didn't know he cared."

"You just mind your bloody lip."

"Careful, Mr. Atkinson." Youngblood smiled. "There's a thin line of foam on the edge of your lips. You want to watch it."

Atkinson took one quick step towards him and Youngblood raised a hand. "I'm not a well man, remember."

"That's right, I was forgetting." Atkinson laughed gently. "You may be a big man in here, Youngblood, but from where I stand you look pretty damned small. I laugh myself sick every time I lock the door."

Something moved in Harry Youngblood's eyes and for a moment, the habitual mocking smile was erased and he looked capable of murder.

"That's better," Atkinson said. "That's much better," and he went outside, the door clanging behind him with a grim finality.

"Bastard!" Youngblood said and turned to examine Chavasse. "So you're Drummond? We've been expecting you for a week now."

"Word certainly gets around."

"That's the nick for you--we're all just one big happy family. You'll like it here--it's got everything. Central heating, air conditioning, television--all we needed was a bit of class and now we've got you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come off it--you were a Captain in the Engineers before they kicked you out. Sandhurst and all that. I read about it in the papers when you were up at the Bailey."

"I've read about you too."

Youngblood sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. "Where was that then?"

"A book called
Great Crimes of the Century.
Came out last year. There was a whole chapter devoted to the Peterfield Airport job. Written by a man called Tillotson."

"That clown," Youngblood said contemptuously. "He didn't get the half of it. Came to see me by special permission of the Home Office. I gave him all the griff--no reason not to now--but did he get it right? Gave all the credit for the planning to Ben Hoffa and
he
couldn't tell his arse from his elbow."

"It was your idea then?"

"That's it." Youngblood shrugged. "I needed Ben, I'm not denying that. He could fly a Dakota-- that was his main function."

"What about Saxon?"

"A good lad when he had someone to tell him what to do."

"Any idea where they are now?"

"Somewhere in the sun spending all that lovely lolly if they've any sense."

"You never know your luck," Chavasse said. "They might be making arrangements for you to join them right now."

Youngblood stared across at him blankly. "Get me out you mean? Out of Fridaythorpe?" He exploded into laughter. "Have
you
got a lot to learn. No one gets out of here, didn't they tell you that? They've got television cameras and electronic gates--they've even constructed special walls of reinforced concrete with foundations twenty feet deep. That's just in case anyone ever thought of tunnelling." He shook his head. "This is it--the big cage--there
is
no way out."

"There's always a way," Chavasse said.

"What have we got here then? A brain?"

"Big enough."

"It didn't do you much good on that Lonsdale Metals caper. You're here, aren't you?"

"So are you."

"Only because of Ben Hoffa and that bloody bird of his." For a moment Youngblood was genuinely angry. "He tried to drop her and she shopped him. That was the end for all of us."

"But they didn't get the money."

"That's it, boy." Youngblood grinned. "More than you can say."

"I know," Chavasse said feelingly. "I had the same trouble as Hoffa."

He sat there on the edge of the bed staring down at the floor as if momentarily depressed and Youngblood produced a twenty packet of cigarettes and offered him one. "Don't let it get you down. Between you and me that was quite something you pulled off. A pity you still had your amateur status. A bit more know-how and you might have got away with it."

"You seem to be doing all right for yourself," Chavasse said, holding up the cigarette.

Youngblood grinned and lolled back against the pillow. "I'm not complaining. I get as many of those things as I want and don't ask me how. When the blokes in here want snout they come to me and no one else. You fell on your feet when old man Carter decided to put you in here."

"He told me you'd been ill. How bad is it?"

"I had a slight stroke a month or two back. Nothing much." Youngblood shrugged. "Just one of those things."

"I got the impression he was afraid you might peg out on him one of these nights. If he's as worried as that why doesn't he have you trans-ferreed to the Scrubs?"