station early. Had she indulged in some toast
and honey, as Annie had wanted her to, then she would have missed Oliver’s
discomfort and spared him from the extra embarrassment.
“They’re not charging him with anything, but he has been
warned.” Oliver continued forlornly, “I’ve got to try and keep an eye on him.”
“Parents can be such a chore.” Clara sympathised.
“You won’t mention this to anyone?” Oliver asked
desperately.
Clara touched his arm.
“I am good with secrets.”
Thanks. Look, here comes the old sot now.”
Mr Bankes emerged from the back of the station looking
sheepish.
“I see you have my camera safe Oliver.” He smiled at his
son and politely nodded to Clara, “Good morning Miss Fitzgerald, I’ve had a
little bit of bother. Nothing to worry about, complete misunderstanding.”
The desk sergeant gave a strangled snort which suggested
he was trying to suppress a s+nigger. Clara threw him a meaningful look.
“Let’s just get home father.” Oliver grabbed up the paper
bag and camera, “Clara’s got things to do.”
“Nice seeing you again Miss Fitzgerald, come around for
tea one Sunday.” Mr Bankes gave Clara another nod then followed his son out of
the station.
“Watch out for that one.” The desk sergeant said in a low
voice, tilting his head in the direction of Mr Bankes, “I know his type. No
matter what your friend said, his old man knew exactly what he was about. Never
have trusted these photographer-types, they like gawping at people too much.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Clara assured him before she
headed around the desk and down a long corridor towards the archive room.
Mr Bankes’ indiscretion was rapidly forgotten as she
strolled through the stacks of shelves and found a large section devoted to
criminal gangs, among them a hefty file on the Black Hand. She set it on a
table and opened the front page.
“The Black Hand, now I recall, that was the name of the
rebel group who orchestrated the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.”
Clara said to herself, “Somehow I doubt you were part of that Mr Grimes.”
She flicked over a couple of pages featuring names,
descriptions and mug-shots of known gang members. Most looked like youths who
had known little else in life but crime. A couple were older, but the average
age of a Black Hand member was definitely under thirty. It struck Clara that
these were not experienced criminals and the lists of arrest charges confirmed
that idea. Most of the gang were pickpockets, with the odd violent assault
charge thrown in for good measure. Things only got interesting when she reached
Mervin Grimes.
Mervin wanted more than a life of petty disorder. If he
was going to be a criminal he was going to at least make it worth his while. A
prison sentence at sixteen for petty theft had clearly not sat well with him,
after that he aimed for bigger things. Mervin found his way into organised
rings of race fixers, while doing a bit of pimping on the side. While the rest
of the gang amused themselves with run-of-the-mill street crime, Mervin was
making a name for himself. He helped fix a race when he was seventeen and was
caught soon after. Charged for doping a horse, he went down for a few months,
but was soon back out. He had learned from his mistake. There were no further
arrests for Mervin, though the police were clearly suspicious of him and knew
he was running with some dangerous crowds.
He was implicated in five more race fixing scandals, each
one scooping more money than the last. But it was his final fix, the one before
he disappeared, that took the biscuit. Mervin and his pals not only ensured a 200
to 1 odds horse finished first, but they screwed over a rival gang of race
fixers who were down from London. The local boys had scored against the
outsiders, but it was very much an own goal. Criminals who lose a lot of money
don’t tend to leave the scene quietly. In fact a spate of vicious murders
shortly after
and honey, as Annie had wanted her to, then she would have missed Oliver’s
discomfort and spared him from the extra embarrassment.
“They’re not charging him with anything, but he has been
warned.” Oliver continued forlornly, “I’ve got to try and keep an eye on him.”
“Parents can be such a chore.” Clara sympathised.
“You won’t mention this to anyone?” Oliver asked
desperately.
Clara touched his arm.
“I am good with secrets.”
Thanks. Look, here comes the old sot now.”
Mr Bankes emerged from the back of the station looking
sheepish.
“I see you have my camera safe Oliver.” He smiled at his
son and politely nodded to Clara, “Good morning Miss Fitzgerald, I’ve had a
little bit of bother. Nothing to worry about, complete misunderstanding.”
The desk sergeant gave a strangled snort which suggested
he was trying to suppress a s+nigger. Clara threw him a meaningful look.
“Let’s just get home father.” Oliver grabbed up the paper
bag and camera, “Clara’s got things to do.”
“Nice seeing you again Miss Fitzgerald, come around for
tea one Sunday.” Mr Bankes gave Clara another nod then followed his son out of
the station.
“Watch out for that one.” The desk sergeant said in a low
voice, tilting his head in the direction of Mr Bankes, “I know his type. No
matter what your friend said, his old man knew exactly what he was about. Never
have trusted these photographer-types, they like gawping at people too much.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Clara assured him before she
headed around the desk and down a long corridor towards the archive room.
Mr Bankes’ indiscretion was rapidly forgotten as she
strolled through the stacks of shelves and found a large section devoted to
criminal gangs, among them a hefty file on the Black Hand. She set it on a
table and opened the front page.
“The Black Hand, now I recall, that was the name of the
rebel group who orchestrated the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.”
Clara said to herself, “Somehow I doubt you were part of that Mr Grimes.”
She flicked over a couple of pages featuring names,
descriptions and mug-shots of known gang members. Most looked like youths who
had known little else in life but crime. A couple were older, but the average
age of a Black Hand member was definitely under thirty. It struck Clara that
these were not experienced criminals and the lists of arrest charges confirmed
that idea. Most of the gang were pickpockets, with the odd violent assault
charge thrown in for good measure. Things only got interesting when she reached
Mervin Grimes.
Mervin wanted more than a life of petty disorder. If he
was going to be a criminal he was going to at least make it worth his while. A
prison sentence at sixteen for petty theft had clearly not sat well with him,
after that he aimed for bigger things. Mervin found his way into organised
rings of race fixers, while doing a bit of pimping on the side. While the rest
of the gang amused themselves with run-of-the-mill street crime, Mervin was
making a name for himself. He helped fix a race when he was seventeen and was
caught soon after. Charged for doping a horse, he went down for a few months,
but was soon back out. He had learned from his mistake. There were no further
arrests for Mervin, though the police were clearly suspicious of him and knew
he was running with some dangerous crowds.
He was implicated in five more race fixing scandals, each
one scooping more money than the last. But it was his final fix, the one before
he disappeared, that took the biscuit. Mervin and his pals not only ensured a 200
to 1 odds horse finished first, but they screwed over a rival gang of race
fixers who were down from London. The local boys had scored against the
outsiders, but it was very much an own goal. Criminals who lose a lot of money
don’t tend to leave the scene quietly. In fact a spate of vicious murders
shortly after
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