Policeman's Progress (12 page)

‘Yes, they've checked his antecedents. He's got no form in London, either. Was in the clubs there but, as far as we know, he's clean right through.'

They reached the superintendent's door and went in. MacDonald was looking even more haggard than usual.

‘What do you want to do about these yobs from London?' he asked without any preamble. When things were pressing, Mac cut out all the frills.

‘Nothing we
can
do, unless they come back for more, sir. Or if we could get someone to “cough” … Stott won't, that's for sure,' said Bolam with feeling.

‘Not turned up anybody who could have thrown that bomb?'

‘No, not a sniff. Anyone with a record of violence like Papagos and Casella can get mouths to shut and stay shut. The local rogues would rather do a stretch than squeal on them.'

‘Any lead from the forensic lab on that bomb?'

‘No, not so far. They must have brought it from London with them – chucking incendiaries isn't an old Tyneside tradition. Any progress on your big job from last night, sir?'

MacDonald began stoking his pipe with tobacco.

‘As unpromising as your Rising Sun, Alec. We're afraid he might be a complete outsider, from Yorkshire or even Glasgow, perhaps. With all the ships in and out of that part of the river, he may even have been slung overboard.'

Potts cut in for the first time. ‘In the three to six days that he might have been in the river, there have been thirty-one vessels on the move. Some of them on their way to the Persian Gulf and even Hong Kong now. Bloody hopeless job trying to trace them all.'

‘We're in the doldrums on both jobs, then,' commented Bolam. ‘I think we'll have to ask for Press and TV assistance on trying to trace any car rushing through the Bigg Market at eleven twenty last night. Some unsuspecting citizen who doesn't know that Casella might carve him up, may come forward and give us a lead.'

‘What about stolen vehicles last night?' asked Mac.

‘Seven altogether, not accounted for at the time of the incident,' put in Grainger. ‘Four of them recovered, nothing to connect them with the Bigg Market.'

MacDonald now had his pipe going like the funnel of the Shields' ferry. ‘Who have we got on Tyneside who could pull a bomb job like this?'

Bolam shrugged. ‘As I said, sir, chucking paraffin bombs isn't really the done thing in the North-East – so far, thank God. I've got a sneaky feeling that Papagos and friend may have imported somebody, car and all. In fact, how else could they have arranged a thing like that in an hour? They were in the Rising Sun until nine thirty, according to Herbert Lumley – then they left on the ten fifteen train, and the bomb was thrown at eleven twenty. They must have had the whole thing set up beforehand. When Jackie Stott gave them the bum's rush, they just lifted a finger to their boys and that was that!'

Potts nodded. ‘The fire-raisers could have been over the High Level Bridge less than a minute after it went off and through Gateshead five minutes later.'

‘And back in London by four this morning,' completed MacDonald. ‘Just have to wait and see. Keep the routine stuff going, Alec. Might happen across some little thing.'

Just then an urgent rapping came at the door and a sergeant from the Fingerprint department almost fell inside, in his eagerness.

He waved a message form and planted it in front of the detective chief superintendent.

‘Reply from NECRO, sir. I shrunk those fingertips down last night and got a fair set of prints off this morning. Sent 'em down to Aycliffe with a car – they just telexed through … they've got him, sir!'

MacDonald grabbed the flimsy and devoured it with his eyes.

‘Well, I'm damned … here, Alec, be my guest!'

He poked the form across at the end of a long arm.

The chief inspector read the message almost incredulously.

‘Geordie!' he whispered. ‘Geordie Armstrong!'

Thor Hansen had arranged some days earlier to go down to Middlesbrough to deal with more matters concerning the opening of the new club there.

He left Newcastle in his new Rover 2000 just before noon, taking Laura with him. They stopped for lunch at the Bridge Hotel, on the A1 just outside Durham and over coffee in the elegant dining room, the Dane allowed himself to be drawn into discussing his plans.

‘I didn't expect Papagos to get so violent last night. I thought he would give Jackie a day or two to change his mind.'

Laura lit a cigarette with nervous hands. ‘
You
didn't expect it! I was scared rotten when that thing went off! What if I'd been standing near it – I could a' been killed or scarred for life.'

Thor slipped a hand over hers. ‘I know. It was a damn fool thing to do without warning … and I'll tell Papagos when I see him today.' He sighed. ‘Unfortunately, those fellows aren't people you can tell off very easily.'

She frowned at him. ‘Thor, you're going to be right under their thumb if this goes through.'

He nodded. ‘For a little time … but I have to accept that, it's a stepping stone to a lot of money, then we'll get out.'

Laura looked at him with curiosity. ‘I'd match your brain against any ten of them, pet. You've had this thing worked out a long time, eh?'

‘Ever since I came up north. I knew Papagos in Soho. Then a few months ago I ran into him again. At first he just wanted to start running protection up here, but there was nothing in that for me. So we agreed to chase Jackie out – the Greek would buy the business and put me in as manager.'

‘But where's it going to end? You can't take over from the Papagos crowd; they'd kill you without thinking twice,' said Laura.

He looked calmly at her. ‘I know that – but in two, maybe three years I can milk enough from the business to clear out and go back to Copenhagen to start my own club … a real high-class place, with you as the star attraction.'

He squeezed her hand again and pushed his chair back. ‘We'd better be getting on, if I'm to see Papagos in Darlington before we go on to Middlesbrough.'

He paid the cheque and they went out to the Rover.

In Darlington, Thor dropped Laura to look around the shops for half an hour while he went for a conference with the Greek and his Sicilian knife man.

They had climbed aboard the London train quite openly on the previous evening, but had got off at the second stop forty minutes later, taking care not to advertise themselves too much. Now they were staying in the guest room of a well-respected public house in the town centre, keeping to their bedrooms until the evening, when they were due to go on a round of the clubs on Teesside with the object of selling a little more ‘insurance'.

At a less salubrious lodging, three streets away, two large men with Birmingham accents were also lying low. At the back of their digs a large Ford was parked, the boot smelling strongly of paraffin. Although a good thirty-five miles from Newcastle, they felt it wise to lie very low. They respected the reputation of the Durham Constabulary as being amongst the hottest coppers in the country.

In Casella's bedroom, the two protection men held an audience with Hansen.

‘How did Stott take last night's little warning?' asked Papagos with a leer.

‘Nearly blew his top. I don't know the details, but I think he's got his bodyguard, Joe Blunt, to organize some sort of defence force – a few local thugs from the town.'

Casella sneered. ‘Our boys will eat 'em alive. We'll be too busy tonight with these clubs down here, but tomorrow, we can let 'em loose on Stott again – he got a lesson coming for messing my knife arm around!'

The viciousness in his voice chilled even the experienced Dane.

Kostas Papagos frowned at Thor as Casella went across to pour the inevitable whiskies that always fuelled conferences like this. ‘Let's get down to the real business. When are we going to slap him down with the news that this is a takeover, not just us selling protection? And what's this hot news you were on about on the phone this morning?'

Thor took his drink and sat on the edge of an armchair.

‘The two things are connected – very much so. If you saw the papers this morning, you saw that your little bomb incident was almost pushed off the front page by a murder.'

Casella had a professional interest in murder – it was a thing near his heart. ‘What's the tie-up?' he snapped.

‘Jackie Stott did the killing – and I can prove it.'

The London crooks looked at each other with raised eyebrows. ‘If that's on the level, we can put the black on him,' said Papagos. ‘Are you sure about being able to prove it?'

Hansen wagged a finger in the general direction of his car. ‘The proof is in the boot of my Rover down there.'

He told the story as fully as he knew it himself.

Papagos stalked up and down the room in triumph. ‘We've got him over a barrel! The club is as good as ours, and at our price. What are the chances of squeezing him for a few thousand cash as well?'

Thor looked dubious. ‘He's got very little – most of the capital is sunk in the business. He spends like water. Any cash goes through his fingers straight away. Spends a lot on his girl and only last month he bought a new Mercedes. I don't think you'd be able to blackmail him for much, except the transfer of the business.'

Thor was desperately trying to stop his schemes being wrecked by the extortions of these over-greedy racketeers.

Casella looked disappointed. Though not a Mafioso himself, he had been brought up in the slums of Palermo and took every opportunity to practise extortion.

‘What's the next move? We intend livening things up at this Rising Sun again tomorrow night.'

Hansen considered this. ‘Best carry on – show Jackie that you really mean business. Then I'll get him to a meeting with you and you can pop the question about the takeover.'

Kostas Papagos nodded sagely. ‘We got the money ready for a cash transaction. If he won't play, then let him know you'll drop him in it right up to the neck over this murder.'

Casella was quick to spot a possible complication. ‘What happens if the bobbies pick him up for the killing, before we get to him? We'll be up the creek, then.'

‘We've gotta get moving, that's all. Once it's signed and sealed, they can hang, draw and quarter him for all I care.'

Thor tried to reassure them. ‘I think he's got a pretty good chance of getting away with it at the moment … according to the radio, they can't identify the body … perhaps never will, unless I turn in my proof.'

Casella chuckled evilly. ‘Stott must be having a real bad day … a murder rap hanging over him and someone about to cut the business from under his feet.'

Hansen smiled bleakly as he stood up. ‘I must pick the girl up from the town. I'll ring you here the morning after next to fix a meeting with Stott. I take it you won't be at the disturbance tomorrow night?'

Papagos showed his full complement of gold teeth. ‘Too damn right – we keep clear of anything illegal … we don't pay dogs and then do the barking ourselves. Better get yourself a steel helmet, son, we've got a few real lively lads this time!'

Chapter Nine

Half an hour after the arrival of the message from NECRO, a black Austin Westminster and a white Ford Zephyr sped down the steep bank of Dean Street towards Newcastle's quayside.

In the first were MacDonald, Potts and Alec Bolam, the second CID car being filled with Jimmy Grainger and a few lads from the crime department.

‘It never entered my bloody head!' Bolam had said this at least four times in the past thirty minutes. ‘That silly little business with Joe Blunt on Saturday night should 'a reminded me, but of course, Geordie was seen alive and well after it … Leadbitter's report was just of a punch-up, not a murder.'

‘What did he do to get his dabs in Records?' asked Potts.

‘False pretences in Stockton four years ago and larceny in Middlesbrough before that.'

‘Both Teesside – I thought he was a Tynesider,' mused the superintendent.

‘He was – he just did all his thieving away from home, thank God. Came back to work for Stott about eighteen months past,' answered Bolam.

The car crossed the north approach to the Swing Bridge and turned into the dingy cobbled area beneath the High Level. The driver parked outside the little red brick mortuary, where the coroner's officer, a flabby, lugubrious individual, waited with the key.

He let them into the whitewashed cell where the body lay on the solitary slab beneath a piece of rubber sheet, which the coroner's officer whipped off.

‘Well, what d'you think? Will that do for Geordie Armstrong?'

MacDonald's strong voice grated near Bolam's ear and he hurried forward to look more closely at the remains.

Interest in the importance of the identification fought with his natural revulsion. He looked at the wet, straggly hair, now cleaned of Tyne mud, and tried to ignore the horror of the face.

‘That's like his hair – sort of blondy-ginger, with a bit of frizz still left in it,' he agreed after a time.

‘What about his height?' put in Potts.

‘Hard to say, lying on a slab,' replied Alec critically.

‘Table's exactly six feet long, if that's any help,' offered the paunchy coroner's officer.

Bolam eyed the slab and tried to measure up the body with his eye. ‘Five foot eight, I was told … that'd be about right.'

The chief superintendent moved towards the door. ‘Come on, then. We can't get away from the evidence of the prints. I just wanted someone who knew Armstrong in life to say that there was no reason why the body couldn't be his.'

Standing outside in the cold air of dusk, MacDonald held a council of war. ‘I'm afraid you're in it right up to the neck now, Bolam … you know more about the Rising Sun and Jackie Stott than any of us, so you'll have to drop the rest of the club racket and help sort this one out.'