The Criminal Escapades of Geoffrey Larkin (25 page)

Wilson looked up from reading over the report from the Italian police that had been passed to him.

‘He's still in the hospital but, fortunately, he's off the critical list. From what I can gather, when he's discharged he will be only half the thug he was before he had the beating!'

Robinson gave a wry smile at the cynical answer given to his casual enquiry.

‘The Crown Prosecution Service is unhappy about taking the director of the building company to court for passing forged currency,' said Inspector Robinson as he opened and read another letter from the pile on his desk. ‘He has the money to employ the best barrister so if he is not convicted it weakens the case against the other young thugs.'

Constable Wilson put the letter he had been reading from the Italian police in the out-tray on Inspector Robinson's desk. ‘What do they suggest then?' he asked.

Inspector Robinson continued reading the report for several seconds before answering. ‘Leave the director of the building company because of lack of firm evidence; the same applies to the principal of the school. They are just going for a conviction of Norton for receiving the stolen goods we found in his flat and they will include the laundering of forged currency.'

‘Looks like they are running true to form and taking the soft option again,' commented the constable dryly.

‘Yes, on the face of it, that seems to be the case. The only consolation is the fact that the director, Daniel Goodier, passed these dud notes at the golf club along with several other prominent places in the town. It certainly won't do his reputation any good even though we don't prosecute. A man like him makes a lot of enemies; they will have a field day spreading rumours and gossip at his expense. The story Dave Higgins told us about receiving the forged money in the post could well be true, apparently him and Geoff Larkin were at loggerheads for a good while, and it could have been payback time for Larkin, dropping Higgins in the shit you might say, along with that creep Goodier and a dislike for the school principal Tattersall. You go and see if the canteen has opened, constable. If it is, bring us both a cup of tea while I finish reading this mail.'

The constable left, closing the door behind him, leaving the Inspector sitting at his desk sorting his morning mail. As he removed his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes, the acting inspector thought that the case seemed to be coming to a full stop.

Next on the pile was a report from one of the team designated to finding known associates of the four young men who had done a runner. Apparently, all four used to frequent ‘the Swan' public house, also they occasionally visiting the nearby nightclub.

The team's enquiries had discovered that the one they called Sooty, namely Harry Sutton, ex remand home, did not bother with girls and sometimes helped out the landlord at the pub on occasions doing cellar work. By all accounts, the only mates he had were the other three who were also wanted for questioning.

His pals were the two Bolton brothers, John who was the eldest and Derek, both ex remand home boys. They dated girls but neither had regular girlfriends. John Bolton was working at a local garage and, according to his boss; he was quite clever where machinery was concerned. His brother worked at a local shop repairing computers and radios. His employer said he was quite a talented technician, and was finding it difficult to replace him.

Their enquiries had also turned up an email address for Derek Bolton. The next on the list was Geoff Larkin who was considered the leader of the group. He was ex remand home and was working part time at a local supermarket at the time of absconding. He had an on and off relationship with a girl, Alice Barker, who worked as a secretary on the industrial estate. She had not heard from him since the date of the group flying out of the UK.

The name Alice Barker, secretary, triggered something in Robinson's mind. He made a mental note to send one of the team to get more details and any information on this couple's relationship from her present employers at the storage and distribution centre on the nearby industrial estate. But that was something he would do later because Constable Wilson had just returned with two steaming mugs.

‘I think, constable,' said the acting inspector, stopping to take a drink of his tea before continuing, ‘we should put together and send a message to Derek Bolton's email address, if on the off chance he replies we will at least know one of them is still alive.

*

Marco and his boss, who went under the name of Mr. Brown, along with the other two heavies, had booked into a hotel opposite Pisa railway station. While Mr. Brown was busy making several long distance telephone calls, the other three men sat about in the hotel lounge boringly looking at several out-of-date fashion magazines.

A couple of hours later, two smartly dressed, young Italian men arrived , asking at the reception if they could see Mr. Brown, the Englishman who was staying at this hotel.

Marco was in attendance with Mr. Brown at the discussion with the two Italians. With Marco's knowledge of Italian and their knowledge of English, Mr. Brown was able to explain what was required of them.

They were given photographs of the four lads with the names that were on their forged passports. They were instructed to enquire at taxi ranks, hotels in the city, as well as railway and bus stations. If they found any of the people on the photographs they were to phone Marco and then continue to follow and observe until further instructions were received.

Marco was quite elated; he had acquired a basic knowledge of the Italian language while working as a waiter in Milan during his travels around Europe. He now felt he had moved one step up the ladder. His bastard of a boss, Mr. Brown, was now dependent on him as a translator. This placed him in an ideal position to drop Mr. Brown in the shit with his superiors which, if and when the opportunity arose he had every intention of doing.

It was the following afternoon when one of the smartly dressed, Italian men arrived at the hotel while Marco was in the lobby. He reported that his associates had found that the group of four Englishmen matching the photographs had stayed the night in a nearby hotel several days ago. The manager had overheard them mention Florence on several occasions. Marco told the Italian to wait in the lobby while he went to report to his boss.

‘Tell the Italians to check the taxi ranks at Florence station. See if they can come up with any leads there and if they do, tell them to report back to you.'

Marco went back down to the lobby and passed on the instructions to the young Italian, Luca, to whom he also gave the number of his mobile telephone.

When Luca left, Marco followed, making his way towards the address he had been given where the four young Englishmen had stayed several days earlier. He would make some enquiries of his own to see what he could turn up. It was possible there was something that the Italians had missed that might be used to his advantage.

He quickly confirmed with the manager what Luca had already told him. Further discussions with the manager also established that the Carabinieri had also been enquiring about the same four Englishmen.

He was about to leave when, as an afterthought, he asked the manager if the waiter who was on duty that night was available. The manager pointed him in the direction of a middle-aged, grey-haired man setting tables for the evening meal.

Going over, Marco introduced himself to the man whilst taking a fifty euro note out of his wallet, allowing the waiter to see it briefly but keeping it in his hand. The waiter was aware the Carabinieri had been making enquiries at the hotel about the four English but he had been off duty at the time and nobody had asked for or interviewed him.

Marco enquired if he knew whether the English had met or made contact with anyone else while they were there.

‘Oh yes, there was a German, Signor Merkel. He helped them order their meal and they had several drinks together afterwards.' Even though he was a fifty euro note lighter, Marco left the Touring Hotel Pisa smiling to himself.

In place of the fifty euro note in his wallet was a note with all the details that had been on Herr Peer Merkel's Austrian passport. Marco walked briskly back towards where he and his associates were staying, his hunch had been right. From past experience, the waiters usually knew much more of the happenings in the hotels where they worked than the managers did.

The information he had learnt in the last few minutes he would not pass on to his Mr. Brown. He would keep it to himself for the time being. He knew it was a risky venture but it could place him firmly on the next upward rung of the association's ladder or, alternatively, if he played his cards right, provide him with financial independence for the foreseeable future. He had also decided that he needed a little support of his own other than the two heavies in the employ of Mr. Brown. Taking the opportunity before dinner, he made a phone call on his mobile to his brother in Cyprus.

Marco had realised from the beginning that what these young Englishmen had was of great value to Mr. Brown and the organisation for which he worked.

If he could get hold of whatever it was before Mr. Brown, he could be in a strong position to negotiate using his brother as a third party and there could be a tidy sum of cash waiting for them if they could provide the items that had gone astray.

The following morning, Luca phoned Marco just as he had finished his breakfast and was sitting in the hotel lounge sipping coffee with Mr. Brown and the two heavies.

‘The English left a hotel in Florence then caught a taxi to the railway station two days ago,' Marco was translating to Mr. Brown as Luca was telling him the details on his mobile phone.

‘Were they alone?' said Mr. Brown abruptly. Marco passed on the sharp message, then held his breath as he waited for the reply.

‘Yes, they were alone!' came back the reply from Marco

‘Okay, tell him to try and find out where they went from there,' said Mr. Brown to Marco. Marco duly passed on the message. Smiling to himself at the reply and not passing on the full translation to Mr. Brown.

‘Luca says it will be very difficult to find out where the English went to from Florence; it is a very big station with many tourists, many, many trains travelling all over Italy and beyond.' It was obvious to Marco that the fact the four lads had seemingly disappeared was causing Mr. Brown a lot of anxiety, which in turn, was giving Marco a great deal of satisfaction plus a lot of sadistic pleasure.

From his vantage point on the high stool in the kitchen Herr Peer Merkel, with his now familiar glass of red wine in his hand, had supervised the cooking of another evening meal, which the lads voted unanimously as far exceeding the wonderful meal they had previously cooked under his supervision.

‘Quality ingredients,' replied Peer Merkel, when quizzed by John Bolton about where he had learnt to cook so well. ‘Little store in village, vegetables sell local, fresh in field in morning, you in bed. Fresh vegetables you buy same day, good food, good meal, agree. Yes?'

‘YES!' shouted all the lads in chorus.

‘Salute!' shouted Peer Merkel as in turn he clinked all the lads' glasses.

It was obvious he was enjoying their company and had started to relax now he had got to know them all a little better. He told them about his work before he retired. ‘I work Austrian company engineering, travel many factories North Italy, require learn Italian demonstrate Austrian machine, visit many, many, times.'

As the night wore on the wine consumed by Herr Peer Merkel began to have an effect and he became more and more talkative about his personal life. ‘I no family my wife die many years past. Two older brothers taken by Russians during Second World War never returned to Austria. Mother father die in war, I only survive in entire Merkel family.' At this point Peer Merkel went quite deep in his own thoughts for a few moments before continuing to his captivated audience.

‘I come reunion. This part Italy, not good. Bad memory. Many years ago, young man like you. Fight advancing armies of Tommys. German Army has superior tanks, superior guns, no shells, no fuel, no spares. We are, as Tommys say, like ten sitting pigeons on wall. Tommy in front, Italian partisans behind. Lose many comrades, many friends. Like you boys are friends, I lose many friends the same.'

Peer Merkel again went quiet for a few moments, a faraway look in his eyes.

His last sentences seemed to have put a damper on what had been a jovial and very enjoyable evening but a thought seemed to occur to him that put a smile back on his face.

‘Tomorrow you drive Mercedes! I meet comrade for reunion. He apartmento here. He retired multi years but still little job. Tomorrow no work, we reunion, we remember comrades. My friend speak excellent Italiano also excellent English American.'

‘American English?' queried Geoff.

‘Yes!' replied Peer Merkel. ‘English American.'

‘My comrade assistance American Army hospital after battle. He stay with them all war, and work American business here Italy after war. He speak excellent English American.'

Peer Merkel was chuckling to himself at his own little joke as he slowly rose and made his way unsteadily out of the room and towards the stairs, attempting to make his way to his bedroom.

‘You better see he arrives in one piece Sooty,' Geoff said. Sooty quickly left the large lounge chair where he was sitting and went to the assistance of the old man.

‘What do you make of that Geoff?' said John Bolton as Sooty left the room.

‘Well, he was obviously here during the Second World War. He was about our age and, by all accounts, he lost a few of his mates in the fighting that must have gone on around here. He's joining a mate of his tomorrow to hold some sort of reunion to remember them, that's what I reckon.'

‘They must be a fair age the pair of them,' continued John Bolton.

‘I reckon he's in his eighties,' answered Geoff. ‘I also think, he believes it could be his last opportunity to have this reunion with his mate he keeps on about.'

‘How are we doing for cash, Geoff?' It was Derek Bolton who joined the conversation bringing to the forefront of Geoff's mind something that he was trying to forget about for the time being.

‘We're okay for a while,' he replied, ‘but our money is burning a hole in Herr Merkel's pocket.' All three lads laughed at Geoff's joke of their interpreters delight in buying the best available, at their expense.

They were still laughing as Sooty arrived back in the room.

‘He's safely in his bed now. He was rambling about tanks and damaged tracks then he went off shouting instructions in German. I don't think he'll make it for this reunion he was on about tomorrow, he's absolutely ragged arsed pissed!'

‘I think you're right, Sooty,' commented John Bolton. ‘I don't know where he puts it all; he never has a glass out of his hand.'

‘He's certainly quite a character,' added his elder brother, Derek.

‘I think it's pretty certain he and his mate were definitely here during the Second World War,' added Geoff. ‘I was reading one of those books in that bit of a library in the other room. Apparently, there was a German defensive line that stretched across the country and it included a range of hills and a nearby lake. It was called the Trasimeno line or something like that and, apparently, there was a hell of a scrap in this area.'

‘Gosh! Do you think Herr Merkel was involved in that?' added Sooty.

‘That's what I think,' continued Geoff. ‘I think it's a dead cert. Herr Peer Merkel has returned to say his last farewell to his long dead friends before he too kicks the bucket.'

The conversation came to a stop. The talk of Peer Merkel kicking the bucket had taken the light heartiness out of the lads' conversation, especially as they had all become quite fond of the old man in the short time they had known him.

Geoff was up quite early the following morning. It had been very hot and humid during the night so he had not slept very well at all. He was standing watching John Bolton from the kitchen window who clearly had had the same problem. He too was up and about quite early and he was now checking the oil and water in the Mercedes.

Geoff was surprised to see Herr Merkel appear from the front of the villa, all spruced up in shiny shoes, a clean white shirt and with a red rose in the lapel of his jacket. From his position Geoff could not hear the conversation between Peer Merkel and John Bolton but the old man was gesturing furiously down the drive with his walking stick.

It was obvious he wanted taking somewhere in a hurry. Geoff quickly left the kitchen approaching the pair in time to hear the last of Peer Merkel's orders. ‘Immediately transport! Importanta appointmento! Wait you, breakfast too late, go now. Pronto!'

Geoff could see John Bolton was in a bit of a quandary. He did not want to offend the old man, he realised how much they needed him but, at the same time, he did not want to go shooting off without telling any of the others.

Geoff saw the relief spread across his friend's face as he approached. John could now pass on the responsibility of the old man's demands.

‘Herr Merkel wants taking immediately to a place called Castiglion Fiorentino. He says he's already late for his appointment with his colleague,' explained an exasperated John Bolton.

‘Okay, John, I'll come with you,' Geoff said whilst at the same time feeling in his back pocket to make sure he had his wallet which he knew contained several hundred euros.

‘The others will know we've gone. I don't suppose we'll be long.'

He jumped in the front seat alongside the eldest Bolton while Herr Merkel sat straight-backed in the middle of the rear seat with his walking stick between his legs. He looked haughtily past the two young men in the front and on down the white limestone covered drive.

Castiglion Fiorentino, where Herr Merkel wanted to be taken, was a medieval, walled town and from their villa it took them about half an hour to reach its outskirts.

During the journey and after his little tantrum, during which he'd succeeding in getting his own way, Peer Merkel was quite talkative in his broken English. From the previous night's conversation the two lads had gathered that he had been in this part of Italy during the Second World War.

As Geoff had guessed from the previous night's conversation. Herr Merkel now added that he had been a member of the crew of a German panzer.

‘Panzer Grenadier Division,' he stated with hint of pride.

They had been involved in the retreat from the fortified ‘Adolf Hitler Line', formed on the south of Rome along the Tiber valley, taking up positions on the next fortified defences. The ‘Trasimeno Line'. This had stretched through the area where they were now and there had been many battles that had taken place in that part of the countryside, heavy casualties being sustained on both sides.

His tank had run out of fuel and ammunition being caught out in the open like a sitting pigeon by an allied fighter plane that had proceeded to shoot them up. Only he and his comrade, who were both only nineteen at the time, had survived the attack. The other two members of the crew, including three soldiers who were passengers, were all killed by the plane's cannon and machine gun. Today was the anniversary of that tragic event and Peer and his old friend would pay a silent tribute to their long dead comrades of so many years ago.

They would be remembering the good times that they, as young men, had all had together, even though they were fighting a war in a foreign land, short of every possible commodity required to continue a successful campaign, hated by the local population and so far, far away from their own homes and families.

As they entered a large square outside the main entrance to the walled town, Peer Merkel was already attempting to open the passenger door before John Bolton had brought the vehicle to a stop.

‘Halt! Piazza Garibaldi! I see my old comrade, Werner Fisher.' The shout from Peer Merkel had startled the elder Bolton brother so much that he had slammed on the brakes of the old Mercedes, bringing it to a shuddering halt alongside several taxis but in an area designated for buses only.

The sudden stop sent the old man tumbling through the half open door depositing him in a crumpled heap in the road. Several taxi drivers, who were lounging on their cars and waiting for customers, were the first to reach and help a very shaken but, fortunately unhurt, Peer Merkel to his feet.

They were closely followed by Geoff and a very concerned John Bolton. Between them they managed to get the old man to a nearby seat normally used by passengers waiting for the buses.

‘Grazia! Grazia!' Geoff was saying to the taxi drivers as John Bolton made the old man comfortable on the wooden seat.

This is the type of incident we could do without, it's attracted too much bloody attention,
he thought to himself as he looked around at the crowd of onlookers who had appeared.

A loud blowing of a horn startled some of the onlookers who moved to make way for a bus that was attempting to pull into the space now occupied by the Mercedes.

‘You'd better move the car, John,' said Geoff. He was hoping the crowd of people would disperse a little quicker; the last thing they wanted was to attract the attention of the local police. John quickly moved the Mercedes and the bus pulled in front of the shelter. Slowly, the crowd and passengers departed along with the taxi drivers who returned to their vehicles, and after the bus moved off there was just one very distinguished looking man standing at the end of the wooden seating. He was looking alternatively at Geoff and then at Herr Merkel. Geoff in turn was also weighing up the stranger.

He was slim, about 5ft 10' or 11' with a good head of white hair that was cut very short. He was wearing a dark suit with, as Geoff noticed, a pair of very highly polished, black shoes. Looking at the man's stance, Geoff had the distinct feeling that he was definitely ex-military or, and this thought sent a cold shiver down his spine, a plain clothes member of the Italian Carabinieri police.

‘Lei e'Inglese!' The man was looking straight at Geoff. Geoff knew what he was being asked if he was English?

‘Americano!' Geoff blurted out. Loud enough for the nearby watching taxi drivers to hear.

The sound of the man's voice seemed to suddenly revive Peer Merkel.

‘Kommandant!' he gasped, snapping out of his daze.

‘Ja sie mich Peer?'

Geoff noticed that the man's voice was a lot softer than when he had spoken to him. Peer Merkel rose unsteadily to his feet. His friend moved quickly towards his old comrade and both men hugged each other.

Geoff could see there were tears streaming down his interpreter's face. He looked at John Bolton, who had just returned from parking the car, and shrugged. He sat down at the end of the wooden bench where he was joined by the elder Bolton brother while the two old men, still grasping on to one another, spoke emotionally in German for several minutes.

Eventually, the tall German turned to Geoff and John Bolton, who had just been sitting quietly watching the reunion, speaking to Geoff in excellent English.

‘My friend, Peer and I, are going into the town. We will be back in several minutes and Peer would be obliged if you will wait for us here.' Geoff was so surprised he just nodded and watched as Peer Merkel, helped by his friend, slowly made their way across the piazza disappearing through the great, stone arched gateway that led through the old, defensive walls of the thirteenth century town.

It was while they were gone that a surprised, ‘Bloody Hell! a German tank!' from John Bolton brought Geoff's attention to where his friend was pointing.

In the corner of the piazza, partially hidden in the shade of a large mature chestnut tree and still in its camouflage paint, was a German tank that John Bolton had spotted.

Both lads left the shade of the bus shelter and hurried across the sun-drenched piazza to stand in the shade of the tree where the tank was stationed. There was a stand with a bronze plaque engraved in Italian which Geoff, with the aid of a small book entitled
Italian for Tourists
, attempted to translate for John.

‘Le Cappannacce in data
27th April 1991. I think that's what it says, John,' said Geoff. ‘It was put here in 1991.
Ass con la Fattiva.
I can't make that out and,
inaugurato 30 Maggio 1993.
I think it was positioned here on 30th May 1993.
Marco Sturmgeschutz 111 cannon D assalto Tedesco 90mm stuk 37 Anno construzione 1940.
'