Paper Money (8 page)

be able to say they saw me."

"I know."

The car pulled into a scrap yard. It was a remarkably tidy yard. The

shells of cars were piled three high in orderly lines, and component

parts were stacked neatly round about: pillars of tires, a pyramid of

rear axles, a cube of cylinder blocks.

Near the gateway were a crane and a long car transporter. Farther in, a

plain blue Ford van with double rear wheels stood next to the yard's

heavy-duty oxyacetylene cutting gear.

The car stopped and Tony got out. He was pleased. He liked things neat.

The other three stood around, waiting for him to do something.

Jacko lit a cigarette.

Tony said: "Did you fix the owner of the yard?"

Jacko nodded. "He made sure the crane, the transporter, and the cutting

gear were here. But he doesn't know what they're for, and we've tied him

up, just for the sake of appearances." He started to cough.

Tony took the cigarette out of Jacko's mouth and dropped it in the mud.

"Those things make you cough," he said. He took a cigar from his pocket.

"Smoke this and die old."

Tony walked back toward the yard gate. The three men followed. Tony trod

gingerly around potholes and swampy patches, past a stack of thousands

of lead-acid accumulators, between mounds of drive shafts and gearboxes,

to the crane.

It was a smallish model, on caterpillar tracks, capable of lifting a

car, a van, or a light truck. He unbuttoned his overcoat and climbed the

ladder to the high cab.

He sat in the operator's seat. The all-round windows enabled him to see

the whole of the yard. It was triangular in plan. One side was a railway

viaduct, its brick arches filled in by storerooms. A high wall on the

adjacent side separated the yard from a playground and a bomb site. The

road ran along the front of the yard, curving slightly as it followed

the bend of the river a few yards beyond.

It was a wide road, but little used.

In the lee of the viaduct was a hut made of old wooden doors supporting

a tar-paper roof. The men would be in there, huddled around an electric

fire, drinking tea and smoking nervously.

Everything was right. Tony felt elation rise in his belly as instinct

told him it would work. He climbed out of the crane.

He deliberately kept his voice low, steady and casual. "This van doesn't

always go the same route. There are lots of ways from the City to

Loughton. But this place is on most of the routes, right? They got to

pass here unless they want to go via Birmingham or Watford. Now, they do

go daft ways occasionally. Today might be one of those days. So, if it

doesn't come off, just give the lads a bonus and send them home until

next time." Jacko said: "They all know the score."

"Good. Anything else?"

The three men were silent.

Tony gave his final instructions. "Everybody wears a mask. Everybody

wears gloves. Nobody speaks." He looked to each man in turn for

acknowledgment. Then he said:' "Okay, take me back."

There was no conversation as the red Fiat wound its way through the

little streets to the lane behind the billiard hall.

Tony got out, then leaned on the front passenger door and spoke through

the open window.

"It's a good plan, and if you do right, it will work.

There's a couple of wrinkles you don't know about safeguards, inside

men. Keep calm, do good, and we'll have it away." He paused. "And don't

shoot nobody with that bleeding tommy gun, for fuck's sake."

He walked up the lane and entered the billiard hall by the back door.

Walter was playing billiards at one of the tables. He straightened up

when he heard the door.

"All right, Tone?"

Tony went to the window. "Did pally stay put?"

He could see the blue Morris in the same place.

"Yes. They've been smoking their self to death."

It was fortunate, Tony thought, that the law did not have enough

manpower to watch him at night as well as in the day. The nine-to-five

surveillance was quite useful, for it permitted him to establish alibis

without seriously restricting his activities.

One of these days they would start following him twenty-four hours a

day. But he would have plenty of advance notice of that.

Walter jerked a thumb at the table. "Fancy a break?"

"No." Tony left the window. "I got a busy day." He went down the stairs,

and Walter hobbled after him.

"Ta-ta, Walter," he said as he went out into the street.

"So long, Tony," Walter said. "God bless you, boy."

THE NEWSROOM came to life suddenly. At eight o'clock it had been as

still as a morgue, the quietness broken only by inanimate sounds like

the stuttering of the teleprinter and the rustle of the newspapers Cole

was reading. Now three copy-takers were pounding the keys, a Lad was

whistling a pop song, and a photographer in a leather coat was arguing

with a sub-editor about a football match. The reporters were drifting

in. Most of them had an early-morning routine, Cole had observed: one

bought tea, another lit a cigarette, another turned to page three of the

Sun to look at the nude; each using an habitual crutch to help him start

the day. Cole believed in letting people sit down for a few minutes

before setting them to work: it made for an atmosphere of order and

cool-headedness.

His news editor, cliff Poulson, had a different approach. Poulson, with

his frog-like green eyes and Yorkshire accent, liked to say: "Don't take

your coat off, lad." His delight in snap decisions, his perpetual hurry,

and his brittle air of bonhomie created a frenetic atmosphere. Poulson

was a speed freak. Cole did not reckon a story had ever missed an

edition because someone took a minute out to think about it.

Kevin Hart had been here for five minutes now.

He was reading the Mirror, with one hip perched on the edge of a desk,

the trousers of his striped suit falling gracefully. Cole called out to

him. "Give the Yard a ring, please, Kevin." The young man picked up a

telephone.

The Bertie Chieseman tips were on his desk: a thick wad of copy. Cole

looked around. Most of the reporters were in. It was time to get them

working. He sorted through the tips, impaling some on a sharp metal

spike, handing others to reporters with brief instructions. "Anna, a PC

got into trouble in the Holloway Road-ring the nearest nick and find out

what it was all about. If it's drunks, forget it. Joe, this fire in the

East End check with the Brigade. A burglary in Chelsea Phillip.

Look up the address in Kelly's Directory in case anyone famous lives

there. Barney Police pursued and arrested an Irishman after calling at a

house in Queenstown Street, Camden." Ring the Yard and ask them if it's

anything to do with the

IRA."

An internal phone beeped and he lifted it. "Arthur Cole."

"What have you got for me, Arthur?"

Cole recognized the voice of the picture editor.

He said: "At the moment, it looks as though the splash will be last

night's vote in the Commons."

"But that was on the television yesterday!"

"Did you call to ask me things or tell me things?"

"I suppose I'd better have somebody at Downing Street for a today

picture of the Prime Minister. Anything else?"

"Nothing that isn't in the morning papers."

"Thank you, Arthur."

Cole hung up. It was poor, to be leading on a yesterday story. He was

doing his best to update it-two reporters were ringing around for

reactions. They were getting back bench MPs to shoot off their mouths,

but no Ministers.

A middle-aged reporter with a pipe called out:

"Mrs. Poulson just rang. Cliff won't be in today.

He's got Delhi belly."

Cole groaned. "How did he catch that in Olington?"

"Curry supper."

"Okay." That was clever, Cole thought. It looked like being the dullest

day for news in the month, and Poulson was off sick. With the assistant

news editor on holiday, Cole was on his own.

Kevin Hart approached the desk. "Nothing from the Yard," he said.

"It's been quiet all night."

Cole looked up. Hart was about twenty-three and very tall, with curly

fair hair which he wore long. Cole suppressed a spasm of irritation.

"That is ridiculous," he said. "Scotland Yard never has a completely

quiet night. What's the matter with that Press Bureau?"

"We ought to do a story--London's first crime-free night for a thousand

years," Hart said with a grin.

His levity annoyed Cole. "Never be satisfied with that kind of reply

from the Yard," he said coldly.

Hart flushed. It embarrassed him to be lectured like a cub reporter.

"I'll ring them back, shall I?" "No," said Cole, seeing that he had made

his point. "I want you to do a story. You know this new oil field in the

North Sea?"

Hart nodded. "It's called Shield."

"Yes. Later on the Energy Minister is going to announce who has got the

license to develop it.

Do a holding piece to run until we get the announcement. Background,

what the license will mean to the people who are bidding, how the

Minister makes up his mind. This afternoon we can sling your piece out

and leave a hole in the paper for the real news."

"Okay." Hart turned away and made for the library. He knew he was being

given a dumb job as a kind of punishment, but he took his medicine

gracefully, Cole thought. He stared at the boy's back for a moment. He

got on Cole's nerves, with his long hair and his suits. He had rather

too much self-confidence--but then, reporters needed a lot of cheek.

Cole stood up and went to the sub-editors' table. The deputy chief sub

had in front of him the wire service story about the passing of the

Industry Bill and the new stuff Cole's reporters had come up with. Cole

looked over his shoulder. On a scratch pad he had written:

REBEL Mps TOLD "JOIN THE LIBS"

The man scratched his beard and looked up.

"What do you think?"

"It looks like a story about Women's Lib," Cole said. "I hate it."

"So do I." The sub tore the sheet off the pad, crumpled it, and tossed

it in a metal bin. "What else is new?"

"Nothing. I've only just given out the tips."

The bearded man nodded and glanced reflexively at the clock hanging from

the ceiling in front.

"Let's hope we get something decent for the second."

Cole leaned over him and wrote on the pad:

REBEL MPs TOLD "JOIN LIBERALS" He said: "It makes more sense, but it's

the same count."

The sub grinned. "Want a job?"

Cole went back to his desk. Annela Sims came up and said: "The Holloway

Road incident came to nothing. A bunch of rowdies, no arrests." Cole

said: "Okay."

Joe Barnard put down the phone and called:

"There's not a lot to this fire, Arthur. Nobody hurt." "How many people

living there?" Cole said automatically.

"Two adults, three children."

"So, it's a family of five escaped death. Write it." Phillip Jones said:

"The burgled flat seems to belong to Nicholas Crost, quite a well-known

violinist." "Good," Cole said. "Ring Chelsea nick and find out what was

taken."

"I did already," Phillip grinned. "There's a Stradivarius missing." Cole

smiled. "Good boy. Write it, then get down there and see if you can

interview the heartbroken maestro."

The phone rang, and Cole picked it up.

Although he would not have admitted it, he was thoroughly enjoying

himself.

NINE A.M. TIM FITZ PETERSON was dry of tears, but the weeping had not

helped. He lay on the bed, his face buried in the damp pillow. To move

was agony.

He tried not to think at all, his mind turning away thoughts like an

innkeeper with a full house. At one point his brain switched off

completely, and he dozed for a few moments, but the escape from pain and

despair was brief, and he woke up again.

He did not rise from the bed because there was nothing he wanted to do,

nowhere he could go, nobody he felt he could face. All he could do was

think about the promise of joy that had been so false. Cox had been