A Kind of Hush by Richard A. Johnson Page A

I said. ‘We’re out of our league with all this.’
    ‘So what do we do?’ asked Den.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I just don’t know.’
    ‘Look, all we want is this piece of filth, Gus, right?’ said Mick. ‘Then what say we just get him and send the rest of the stuff anonymously to the Old Bill. They’ve got to do something with all that.’
    ‘I dunno,’ said Wivva. ‘Remember it was me that sussed out that one of the geezers in that diary was a copper, what if he’s on the team that we send it to.’
    ‘Good point,’ said Den.

    'Why not send it to one of those TV investigators, y'know like Roger Cook or that Esther Rantzen,' said Tony.
    They'll sort it.'
    'Only if it makes good telly,' said Pete.
    'And only if no one in telly is involved,' added Den.
    'Hmm, hmm,' grunted Mick. Then he said, 'But you're right Tony, that's what we need, someone we can trust.'
    'Okay, like who?' I asked. Everyone fell quiet.
    'Chris,' said Si. 'Uncle Chris.'
    We all looked at him.
    'Well he did all that at the Quo concert for us didn't he, and we did get on well didn't we?'
    'True,' said Mick. 'But why would he help us with this?'
    'Well a couple of years ago,' said Si, 'he blagged a place out Watford way. When he went through the bedroom he found a stash of H; he hates drug dealers, killed his brother they did. He once said, "Drug dealers and Nonces, they're the scum of the earth." Anyway, he finished the house, then he tipped off the Old Bill. The guy whose house it was went down for five years and no one bothered about the blagging. I'm sure he'll help us get these bastards.'
    'Right then, let's go see Uncle Chris,' said Mick.
    'No, I'll ring him, he'll come over,' said Si.
    Uncle Chris was no div. He had A-levels to prove it. He was thirty-eight years old and worked as an insurance agent knocking on doors and collecting the weekly payments from his customers, supplementing his income with what Si took from us and the occasional blagging. One, maybe two a year was his limit. 'No need to be  greedy,' he would say. Sweet as a nut it was.
    It was him or his business friends who arranged the insurance for the houses that got mysteriously done, so he always knew, or heard when one was going to be empty for a while. If it was one of his customers that got done, he would always make sure that he was somewhere with a lot of witnesses when the roll took place. Chris was devious, hard too. He also knew a lot of people from a lot of games, which is how he came to get the passes for the Quo concert.
    His motor always had Elvis, Chuck Berry or Jerry Lee Lewis banging out at top volume, and he had an absolute passion for Lonnie Donnegan and skiffle. But as I said, he was no fool.
    Personally, I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him, but he did think the world of Si and that for me outweighed most of his bad points. Anyway, he was one of those blokes that you just couldn't help liking. Bent as a nine-bob note, stickiest fingers in the world, but would do anything for anyone.
    He studied the diary for over an hour, making notes on a piece of paper. Then he took a deep breath and said, 'Well boys, let's tell you what it seems you've got here.'
    The diary was mind-blowing. We all listened carefully and tried to take in everything that he was reading out.
    'Firstly,' said Chris, 'there are full names, addresses and telephone numbers of people that have used Alison and Jen, those are in turn cross-referenced to the person who introduced, or should I say recruited, them and the whole lot is then cross-referenced back to the person running the area. There seems to be nine areas in London, each with its own reference number and organiser. The  organiser in this area is this bloke that you are looking for, Giis. His name, address and telephone number are all here.' Chris had drawn a crude diagram to help us to understand that the whole thing was run like one of those pyramid selling schemes.
    He went on, There's not much