Guns Of Brixton (70 page)

    And
it could have been so different, he thought, if only he hadn't got himself in a
mess over money.

    Gerry
had been a Stamford Hill moddy boy in the early 60s and had met John Jenner and
his little firm at clubs and concerts all over London. Gerry had been a loner,
famous for always wearing tweed suits whatever the weather, and Jenner had
approached him one night in Klooks Kleek, a little club over a pub in West
Hampstead. 'Tasty suit,' he'd said. 'Where'd you get it made?'

    'Sam
Arkus,' said Gerry, proud that Jenner had noticed
that the suit
was
bespoke.

    'Good
tailor. Got any gear?'

    Gerry
shook his head.

    'Want
some?'

    'What
you got?'

    'French
blues. Interested?'

    'Yeah.'

    Jenner
had sold him a few pills and Gerry joined him and his boys on the dance floor,
where they'd made their best moves to the sound of some loser band trying to be
the next big thing and failing miserably.

    Afterwards
they'd cabbed it down to Soho and spent the rest of the night at some club or
other where they served soft drinks over the counter and scotch under it. Gerry
was working for his father in Hatton Garden, learning the jewellery trade,
including the more lucrative area of fencing stolen goods, which was where good
old Dad made his real money. Gerry and John had often met over the intervening
years and Gerry had made lots of cash from the Jenner gang. But he was greedy.
As his bank balances expanded in line with his stomach, he married a nice
Jewish girl called Rebecca and had three daughters who spent as prolifically as
their mother. But business wasn't always that good and he began taking more and
more chances in order to support their extravagant lifestyle.

    It
was a risky business, but so was denying his family their cars and furs,
designer dresses and anything else their greedy little hearts desired. Gerry
had to skate closer and closer to the edge to make up the shortfall in his
finances until, one day, a certain lawless individual whose name doesn't matter
- but the very mention of it in certain areas of London could still empty pubs
and clubs and have mothers cover their children's ears for fear they would be
corrupted - arrived in Gerry's life, bearing certain items that were so warm,
he almost had to wear asbestos gloves to touch them. Gerry thought then that he
could see a way out of his troubles.

    This
individual was well aware that what he had obtained could not easily be turned
into cash money, so he came up with the idea that Gerry would supply him with
ten percent of the insurance value up front, then he'd approach the insurance
company that held the policy on the items and obtain the going reward -
something like fifty per cent of said value. Then they could split the money to
the tune of sixty/forty, the lion's share going to the individual in question,
with hopefully, no questions actually being asked.

    It
took a lot of nerve, as the police weren't happy that robberies were taking
place under their noses in the first place, never mind that the villains and
the insurance companies were then colluding to hand out what were essentially
tax-free lump sums to villains. And, as the deals required that the police not
be informed until after the event, there was no real fear of capture for the
perpetrators. In response, the busies were getting busy, recruiting a network
of informants only too pleased to put names in the frame and sit back and
collect their own little bit of tax-free bunce.

    So,
when Gerry made a meet with a claims adjuster concerning the bag of tomfoolery
the certain individual had happened upon on his nefarious way around London,
someone put the boot in good and proper and Gerry got carted away to the
nearest nick, cautioned and bailed with the assistance of his notorious and
expensive brief.

    Things
didn't look too bright for Mr Goldstein, because when the individual discovered
that his bag of swag was resting at Her Majesty's pleasure, he told Gerry in no
uncertain terms that, unless the story had a happy ending,
his
particular story would not. In particular, he said, the Thames was very cold
and deep and that no matter how artfully they were coiffed and dressed, Jewish
women didn't float. Especially if their pretty little feet were encased in
concrete.

    So
Gerry went to his old friend John Jenner in the hope that he might remonstrate
with the individual, both having a certain history in crime together, but John
knew from day one that it was a no go situation. Then Mark Farrow came up with
a plan. He was a daring young man and the nick in question had long had the
nickname of 'the sieve' for the very good reason that it was famous for losing
evidence. One dark night, Mark and Eddie Dawes - dressed as police constables -
dragged Tubbs into the station, demanding that they take care of their prisoner
until transport could be arranged. The custody sergeant made the trio welcome
until Tubbs pulled out a pistol and stuck it into his ear, forcing him to show
them where the evidence locker was. By the time they'd had it on their toes,
not only was the evidence on Regina v Goldstein missing, but also a good kilo
of pure cocaine.

    The
jewellery was returned to the individual who later employed another go between
to sell it back to the insurance company, with no arrests being made at that
time.

    So
Gerry Goldstein lived to fight another day and the women in his life had no
idea how close they had come to a watery grave. Of course, Gerry was most
grateful to Mark, who told him that one day he could return the favour. But
Gerry didn't have an inkling of what that might entail until Mark let him know
that the only way he could wipe the slate clean was to give him Jimmy Hunter on
a plate.

    And
there was the rub.

    Gerry
wasn't the only one obsessed with Jimmy Hunter that day. DS Sean Pierce also
had him on his mind. After he'd lost contact with his father at the Russell
Hotel, Sean failed to find hide nor hair of him. He wasn't to know that Jimmy
had a flat just a couple of miles from where he sat in the CID office at
Streatham Police Station, biting the end of his pencil and looking through the
window at the building site opposite. Sean had the feeling that his old man
wouldn't be down the Job Centre looking for honest work that spring morning,
and he wondered when he'd pop back up on the police radar. When rather than if.
And then how would Sean be able to keep their relationship secret?

    Meanwhile,
on the other side of London, preparations were being made towards the very job
that Jimmy had hassled Gerry over that same morning. Daniel Butler had
discovered an old printing works on one of his reconnoitering missions through
east London. The building was dilapidated and leaked water, but it was ideal
for Butler's needs, being around the size of a football field and hidden away
behind high, gated walls. The printers had gone out of business years before,
when new technology had overtaken them. All around were new developments of
flats, but somehow that particular brownfield site had been forgotten. Using one
of his shell companies, with registered offices in the Isle
of
Man,
Butler approached the owners with an offer of a short term rental with an
option to buy. They, a City bank who had purchased great swathes of the East
End with the intention of sitting oil them until the boom and bust property
market sorted itself out, agreed. To them it was a small part of a much larger
portfolio. To Daniel Butler it was part of a master plan. To the local
citizenry it was just more fucking yuppies on the make.

    One Monday
morning in late spring, a couple of heavy-looking lads in dungarees and big
boots moved into the premises. They cleaned up the toilets and made the office
inside liveable. They weren't going to be around for too long, but it helped to
be able to make a cup of tea and have somewhere comfortable to drink it. There
were rats in the building, so they brought in air pistols and spent many happy
hours picking the little bleeders off.

    A
week later, a truck arrived, complete with another couple of men who set about
getting it ready for its big day.

    It
was a ten-wheeled Volvo semi-tractor of the type seen every day pulling
trailers up and down the motorways of Europe. Bringing in tools and materials,
the four began converting this commonplace vehicle into an urban tank that
would throw open the doors of a building that, within a few weeks, would
contain a king's, queen's, indeed, a whole royal family's ransom.

    First
of all, they took all the glass out of the windows of the Volvo. The last thing
anyone needed when they came smashing through metal gates and doors was a
faceful of safety glass. They fitted racing harnesses to the triple seats in
the cab, plus anti-roll bars and a huge rollover bar. If, by bad luck, the
motor did take a tumble, it would be good to know that the roof wasn't going to
crush the occupants.

    They
beefed up the already massive suspension and welded girders all around the
body. At the back they strapped full cement bags between the. twin axles and
wet them, then let them dry until they became solid. Not only would that hold
down the rear wheels, it would also add weight to help the truck smash through
solid steel. The job took a week. When it was ready, they raced the Volvo from
one end of the huge building to the other and back again. Once they were
satisfied that the driver had a feel for the vehicle, they tarpaulined it up
and left it behind heavily secured doors.

    Butler
was forever popping in and out, checking on progress and generally getting in
everyone's way, but the mechanics usually just ignored him and got on with
their business. This included servicing and spraying a stolen seven-seater
Chevrolet Suburban, the other vehicle to be used on the heist, plus making sure
that another pair of cars, to be parked up on the escape route, were in equally
tip top condition.

    As
the work continued at the old printers, Butler decided it was. finally time to
unveil his complete plan of attack to everyone involved. Phone calls were made
and Gerry Goldstein called Jimmy late one night on his mobile. 'It's on,' he
whispered.

    'When?'

    'You'll
find out. You remember that bloke Bob you met?'

    'How
could I forget?'

    'He's
going to give you a call, let you know what's what.'

    What
was what was that Bob was to pick Jimmy up at his flat the following Sunday
night and drive him up to Essex for a meet. 'You know where I live?' said
Jimmy, not best pleased.

    'Course
we do. Who do you think you are, James Bond? You're not hard to find,' said
Bob.

    Soon
time to move on, thought Jimmy, as he put down the phone. As soon as I've got
some decent dough. Spain would be nice, he decided, and maybe Jane would like a
holiday in the sun too. Maybe a permanent one. He could see them living
together in a villa on the Costa del Sol with a load of his old mates for
company - when they needed company, that is.

    Sunday
night rolled round and, at about ten, there was a knock on Jimmy's door. He
took the pistol he'd liberated from Mrs Smith to the door with him. Though the
spyhole he saw the man with the goatee standing outside.

    Jimmy
slid the pistol down the back of his trousers and opened the door.

    'Hello
Jimmy,' said Bob. 'How's it going?'

    'Not
too bad.'

    'That's
what I like to hear. You fit?'

    Jimmy
nodded.

    'Let's
go then.'

    Jimmy
shut the door and followed Bob to a waiting Audi saloon, Jimmy was still a
little miffed that Butler co knew where he lived, but he managed to stay
cordial during the ride, which wasn't difficult as they
probably
only exchanged half a dozen words the whole journey. The meeting was to take
place at Daniel Butler's house, and they drove through the big iron gates -
past the guard in his hut who gave them a wave - as the digital clock on the
dashboard of the Audi read midnight. Bob parked up on the turnaround in front
of the house, next to an assortment of cars, ranging from the mundane to
high-end luxury. 'Some people are doing well,' said Jimmy as they climbed out
of the Audi. He lit up, the smoke from his cigarette hanging in the misty air.

    'We'll
all be doing well if this works out,' said Bob, leading the way to the front
door, which stood ajar.

    Bob
led Jimmy to the vast old ballroom of the house, where a row of mismatched
chairs had been laid out. Butler was standing in front of them, and beside him
hung two blackboards, pinned with what looked like maps or blueprints or both,
covered over with plain paper. At one side of the room, on a long table, was a
huge chrome coffee dispenser, together with milk, sugar, cups, saucers, and
bottled water and glasses.