financed the robbery?" Larry asked.
"He assisted in setting the robbery up," Von Joel replied, speaking carefully, underlining the fact that he knew Larry was new to the investigation of crime at this heady level. "They all got a cut of the profits. Main slice went to Minton, next cut to Freddy Farmilow, who fenced it. They were in Switzerland the same night the robbery took place. The stones were carried by . . ."
He paused, closing his eyes, pressing his fingers to his forehead.
"Stones were carried by . . . ?" Larry prompted.
"Girl," Von Joel said, opening his eyes. "Can't remember her name. Worked at Christie's until six months after the robbery. She had a boyfriend, a rock musician. The stones went over in the band's equipment. The band didn't know. The girl was paid ten grand."
"You've not mentioned this girl before?"
"Like I said, I can't remember her name."
"Can't remember her name." Larry played up the scepticism, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek.
"No," Von Joel said flatly.
"Going back to your previous answer, you said this girl, the one you cannot recall the name of, was paid ten thousand . . ."
Von Joel's recall was operating at a different level from Larry's line of inquiry. He was fishing deep, dredging for names.
'The drivers," he said, snapping his fingers softly, encouraging the flow of memory. "Little Harvey Hutchinson, his brother Tommy—and Willy carried the shooter. It was a fake."
Larry was impressed. He looked at the notes he had scribbled.
"Can we just go over each name again?"
"Sure." Von Joel bowed his head, concentrating. "Kenny Greason, Donald Lather, Roger Fairclough . . . ah . . . Doreen Angel, Harvey Hutchinson, Tony Avis, George Minton . . ."
f
As Von Joel continued to lay the foundations for further police action, a few miles away George Minton was standing in the hall of his comfortable home, the telephone receiver pressed to his ear, listening to a Spanish housekeeper trying to explain in her basic English that her employer was not available.
"Senor Von Joel is not at home, please. Senor Von Joel away, si? London, si, si ..."
Minton put down the receiver, picked it up again and dialed. He lit a cigarette, sucking the mixture of air and smoke deep into his lungs as he waited. The phone at the other end was picked up. No one spoke, but someone was listening.
"He's not in Spain," Minton said. Now a voice at the other end spoke softly. Minton shrugged. "I don't know, but I don't like it. Can you check around?" He listened again. "She doesn't speak frigging English, so she could be confused, but she said London." He nodded at the receiver, frowning. "Yeah, that's what I thought. ..."
f
At ten past one Von Joel was still talking, still listing names and dates and events. When it came to figures, Larry noticed, his memory operated like a fast-access database.
"As far as I can recollect, the moneys went like this— Lloyds Bank job, '76, fifty grand. There was another Lloyds one at Kennington, '69, a grand. Security Express, March '89, one million. Barclays Bank Ladbroke Grove, April '90, that was eighty-one grand."
"This Rodney Bingham," Larry said, his throat dry now, "as far as I can make out, you've not mentioned his name in connection with answer number twelve on page forty—can we go back to that question?"
In the radio link room DI Shrapnel sat forward sharply, grabbed a file and thumbed through the lists of names. He found what he wanted and jotted a note: Number 8— Rodney Bingham.
"Eighth man was Rodney Bingham," Von Joel's voice said over the tape monitor. "He fenced cash from the Security Express job. The money went over to Torremolinos . . . On the Wembley job I don't know. Willy and Farmilow got carved up, I do know that." There was a pause, then Von Joel said, "I'm hungry."
In the radio link room Shrapnel rolled his eyes. "Hungry?" he muttered, staring at the tape machine. "Sold nine men down the nick, and the bastard's hungry." He leaned forward, pressed the
"He assisted in setting the robbery up," Von Joel replied, speaking carefully, underlining the fact that he knew Larry was new to the investigation of crime at this heady level. "They all got a cut of the profits. Main slice went to Minton, next cut to Freddy Farmilow, who fenced it. They were in Switzerland the same night the robbery took place. The stones were carried by . . ."
He paused, closing his eyes, pressing his fingers to his forehead.
"Stones were carried by . . . ?" Larry prompted.
"Girl," Von Joel said, opening his eyes. "Can't remember her name. Worked at Christie's until six months after the robbery. She had a boyfriend, a rock musician. The stones went over in the band's equipment. The band didn't know. The girl was paid ten grand."
"You've not mentioned this girl before?"
"Like I said, I can't remember her name."
"Can't remember her name." Larry played up the scepticism, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek.
"No," Von Joel said flatly.
"Going back to your previous answer, you said this girl, the one you cannot recall the name of, was paid ten thousand . . ."
Von Joel's recall was operating at a different level from Larry's line of inquiry. He was fishing deep, dredging for names.
'The drivers," he said, snapping his fingers softly, encouraging the flow of memory. "Little Harvey Hutchinson, his brother Tommy—and Willy carried the shooter. It was a fake."
Larry was impressed. He looked at the notes he had scribbled.
"Can we just go over each name again?"
"Sure." Von Joel bowed his head, concentrating. "Kenny Greason, Donald Lather, Roger Fairclough . . . ah . . . Doreen Angel, Harvey Hutchinson, Tony Avis, George Minton . . ."
f
As Von Joel continued to lay the foundations for further police action, a few miles away George Minton was standing in the hall of his comfortable home, the telephone receiver pressed to his ear, listening to a Spanish housekeeper trying to explain in her basic English that her employer was not available.
"Senor Von Joel is not at home, please. Senor Von Joel away, si? London, si, si ..."
Minton put down the receiver, picked it up again and dialed. He lit a cigarette, sucking the mixture of air and smoke deep into his lungs as he waited. The phone at the other end was picked up. No one spoke, but someone was listening.
"He's not in Spain," Minton said. Now a voice at the other end spoke softly. Minton shrugged. "I don't know, but I don't like it. Can you check around?" He listened again. "She doesn't speak frigging English, so she could be confused, but she said London." He nodded at the receiver, frowning. "Yeah, that's what I thought. ..."
f
At ten past one Von Joel was still talking, still listing names and dates and events. When it came to figures, Larry noticed, his memory operated like a fast-access database.
"As far as I can recollect, the moneys went like this— Lloyds Bank job, '76, fifty grand. There was another Lloyds one at Kennington, '69, a grand. Security Express, March '89, one million. Barclays Bank Ladbroke Grove, April '90, that was eighty-one grand."
"This Rodney Bingham," Larry said, his throat dry now, "as far as I can make out, you've not mentioned his name in connection with answer number twelve on page forty—can we go back to that question?"
In the radio link room DI Shrapnel sat forward sharply, grabbed a file and thumbed through the lists of names. He found what he wanted and jotted a note: Number 8— Rodney Bingham.
"Eighth man was Rodney Bingham," Von Joel's voice said over the tape monitor. "He fenced cash from the Security Express job. The money went over to Torremolinos . . . On the Wembley job I don't know. Willy and Farmilow got carved up, I do know that." There was a pause, then Von Joel said, "I'm hungry."
In the radio link room Shrapnel rolled his eyes. "Hungry?" he muttered, staring at the tape machine. "Sold nine men down the nick, and the bastard's hungry." He leaned forward, pressed the
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