April, 1950

Her fingers curled around the sides of the newspaper and lifted it from the small table’s surface where it had been lying flat. One top corner flopped over with the tightness of her grip. Her meatless buttocks stopped their jiggling on the hard wooden chair, the gentle rhythm of Billy Ternent’s orchestra failing to stir them now.

One-and-tuppence! One-and-bloody-tuppence for a tin of sardines! And the silly buggers were going to do away with the price control on other fish next week! That was it then: Eugene would just have to enjoy his white beans a bit more. It should have made things easier with food rationing being phased out, but lack of money in the pocket did a better job than any ration book. You’d think they’d do more to help war-widows. Soddin Attlee and his Welfare State. What about her bleedin welfare? And Eugene’s?

She sighed heavily and let the creased newspaper flop back onto the table.

Vera Braid was a tiny woman and she needed to be to fit into the cupboard that was her office. For some reason the door, which should have provided a barrier between herself and the smells of the ladies’ lavatory she was attendant to, had been removed long ago. No one knew why it had been taken nor who had taken it. Misfortunes of war.

It wasn’t the piss and shit that smelled so much, but the gallons of disinfectant she used to disperse the stink. Many a visitor might have preferred the more offensive but less overpowering natural smells; the disinfectant had a way of tearing through the nasal passages and singeing the brain. Those who knew Vera and took time to have a quick brew with her down there claimed even her tea had an antiseptic tang.

Vera tucked a wayward strand of hair back into her green turban and glanced through the net curtain she had fixed across the doorframe; the flimsy material gave her a token privacy but hardly kept unwanted aromas away.

Was the lady still in there? Seemed a long time. She could have slipped out unnoticed. Vera had only been conscious of a black shape flitting past the net curtain several minutes before; she had been too engrossed in reading about Danny Kaye’s new film to take much notice. Eugene loved Danny Kaye. Still, he’d have to wait until it came round local; she couldn’t afford to take him up West. She’d have loved to have gone up there – some lovely shows on. Annie Get Your Gun, Castles in the Air – she thought Jack Buchanan was smashing – Fallen Angels. She didn’t fancy that one with Vivien Leigh in it, the one she’d heard about. What was it? Oh yes – A Motorcar Named Desire. Sounded like a load of rubbish. The last time she’d been up West – and the only time – was when Harry had taken her to see the Crazy Gang. Just before they’d shipped him off that was, just before they killed him. Baskits. How was Eugene going to turn out without his dad?

She signed heavily, then groaned when Billy Ternent went off the air and the Holy Week talk was announced. A church service was to follow, making matters worse! Easter bleedin Saturday and she was stuck down here. Poor Eugene had wanted to see Brumas the bear, but she couldn’t take time off for the zoo. She needed the job and people needed to piss, even on Easter Saturday. She’d get him some ice cream tonight to make up for it. At least the Ministry of Food was now going to let them have as much milk as they wanted to make the stuff. It tasted like bloody cardboard, some of it.

Vera flicked over the pages to find the wireless programmes, refusing to become involved in the stories of the tuberculosis scare and the smallpox outbreak in Scotland; she had her own problems. She found the appropriate section and squinted her eyes to read the small print. Not much on until Variety Bandbox. Have a Go! after the one o’clock news. PC 49 later.

She switched it off and frowned at the trailing words. What material possessions were they, you silly old sod? A roof over your head? Food for your belly? An evening sitting indoors listening to In Town Tonight and Semprini? Vera might not forget God, but He had forgotten her and thousands like her. That sound again . . .

A funny . . . little . . . sound.

Footsteps descending the stone steps made her look up, the sound becoming sharper as high heels clattered along the tiled floor. A young girl passed by the net curtain and Vera heard the sound of a penny dropping into its slot. A cubicle door opened and closed, an ENGAGED sign clicked on. Vera went back to her newspaper.

Nothing but trouble. Strikes, threats of strikes. Now the clerical workers wanted six-pounds-ten-shillings a week. The Engineering and Shipbuilding Unions wanted an extra pound a week. The doctors were out. Even the bleedin taxi-drivers were out. They’ve all gone potty! Iodine in the salt had something to do with it. Affecting their bleedin brains no matter what Bevan said.

A door banged shut and high heels clattered back along the shiny floor. Didn’t take her long, Vera thought. What about the other one though, the first one? Where’d she got to? Vera pushed her small frame erect, using the table top for support. One hand tucked itself into the pocket of the green, short-sleeved overalls she wore, while the other pulled the net curtain aside. She poked her head around the doorframe and looked along the twin rows of closed cubicles. A uniform pattern of light bounced off the shiny floor as sunlight shone through small glass squares embedded in the ceiling. Even so, the white, brick-tiled wall at the far end, spotlessly clean though it was, appeared to be a gloomy dark grey. She thought she heard a sound, but couldn’t be sure because of the droning voice coming from the wireless behind her. The voice was reminding anyone bothering to listen that the BOAC Constellation Airliner that had just journeyed from Australia to London in the record time of three days, four hours and fifteen minutes was a sign of mankind’s escalation into a new era of world peace, but one in which God’s word could soon be forgotten in the demanding search for material possessions, possessions that . . .

Vera’s slippered feet shuffled along the damp flooring and she peered at each door as she passed, her head turning from left to right, eyes narrowing to read the VACANT signs. Last one, left. Last one, right. Both VACANT. She stopped and listened.

No sound now.

Then there was.

Just.

It was difficult to locate the source, and difficult to tell what the noise was.

Somehow familiar, though.

A tiny choke.

She banged on the door to her left, calling out, asking who was there. There was no reply so she banged on the door to her right. No answer from there, either.

Vera reached into her overalls pocket and pulled out the master key to all the doors. She inserted it into the coin-lock of the door to her right and pushed it open. The cubicle was empty. She turned to the door behind her and went through the same procedure. There was something on the floor inside.

The small sound again, and this time the realization began to sink in. Vera stared for a few moments at the loose bundle of rags on the wet floor, then slowly moved forward, a hand extended before her. She stopped when the bundle moved.

The snuffling, choking sound made her reach towards the rough material again and she drew back the folds, taking care with the movement, half-afraid, mostly dismayed.

Grief filled her eyes when she uncovered the baby. Its tiny head was damp with blood-flecked slime, and fluid dribbled from its nose and mouth. The eyes were closed tight against the harsh surroundings as though not wanting to see the basement cell in which it had been abandoned. The baby was no more than a few hours old and already its skin was turning deathly blue.

It tried weakly to push away the rags that smothered its frail body. And the thing that lay next to it.

1

Kelso’s eyes narrowed as he peered through the windscreen. He made a conscious effort to contain the anxiety he felt well beneath his belt-line but, as always, the leaden weight rose steadily and began pushing against his chest. He swallowed and tried to keep the movement as silent as possible.

‘Relax,’ a voice said from the back seat of the Granada. ‘Dave won’t lose it.’

Kelso turned his head to look at the detective inspector. If anything, Cook looked depressed.

‘There’s so much traffic,’ Kelso said pointlessly.

‘Always is, this time of morning.’ Cook looked through the rain-spattered side window. ‘Used to be my beat, this,’ he remarked, nodding towards the damp pavements as though remembering them specifically. ‘Great training ground for a raw copper.’

‘Up ahead, guv. At the lights,’ the driver said, gently easing his foot down on the brake pedal.

Kelso swung round and spotted the dark blue van. ‘You think they’ve picked it up yet?’

Cook shrugged. ‘They’ve got plenty of time before it gets to Woolwich. Anyway, I thought your info was that they’d be waiting on the other side of the river.’

‘That’s what I was told. It doesn’t feel right, though.’

DC Dave Riley glanced at Kelso. ‘It makes sense for them to pull it on the other side. It’s a bit quieter there. I don’t think they’d like getting stuck in a traffic jam.’ He released the handbrake as the lights ahead turned to green.

Cook leaned forward and rested an arm on the back of the passenger seat. ‘It doesn’t really matter where they try it. We’ve got cars all along the route. Give the other units a call, tell them our position.’

Kelso reached for the car radio, then scanned the road on either side.

‘Just going into East India Dock Road from Commercial Road,’ Cook told him. ‘Heading for the Tunnel.’

Kelso relayed the information into the mouthpiece and switched off after he had received acknowledgements.

‘There’s a white transit just behind the wages van, guv,’ the driver said, an edge to his voice now.

‘Okay, might be nothing. We’ve a ways to go yet.’ Cook sat back and adjusted the Smith and Wesson at his hip. Uncomfortable bastards, guns. For a few moments he studied the young DC, who was leaning forward in his seat, anxiously staring after the security van they were following. Kelso had done well on this one – if it came off. How old was he now? Thirty-one, thirty-two. Good undercover man. Worked well on his own. But then he had to. Funny how some were like that.

‘I don’t know why they don’t pay their wages straight into the bloody bank.’ DC Riley’s fingers did a drum beat on the steering-wheel as the police car drifted to a halt once more, the vehicles ahead stopped by some unseen obstacle. ‘It’d save all this trouble. There wouldn’t be wages snatched if the governors didn’t pay out in cash.’

Cook smiled grimly. ‘The working man likes his money in readies at the end of the week. Always has done. Unless they’re the socially mobile C2s, that is.’

‘The what?’

‘Young kids, moving away from their origins. Better educated – or, at least, with more idea of what they want. Getting married, after a mortgage, not wanting to live on Council property like their mums and dads. They’re not so frightened of banks any more.’

Riley eased the car into First as the traffic began to roll forward once again. He chuckled. ‘Made me laugh when the dockers asked for police protection a few years back. Remember that? They were getting mugged on their way home on Friday nights after being paid. Dockers – mugged!’

Neither of his two companions shared his amusement. Cook regretted that there were few dockers, if any at all, left in this part of East London nowadays. Most of the docks this far upriver had closed down and much of the bustle had left with them. Only snarled-up traffic trying to pass through relieved the grey drabness of the area.

Kelso’s eyes were glued to the road ahead. Months of lonely, risky undercover work had preceded this operation. He had never been fully convinced of his own acceptance into the criminal fraternity, but that was no bad thing – it meant he was always on his guard, never lulled into a false sense of security. He had been able to finger small blags on the way, but this was the important one, the job they had been waiting for. They had wanted Eddie Mancello for a long time now, ever since he had walked away from the Ilford bank job. Cook thought he’d had him bang to rights, but two witnesses said they were in Mancello’s mini-cab at the time of the robbery and Mancello was the driver. Of course, they were friends of Mancello’s – one was even a cousin of sorts. There was no way they could hold him, even though he had been bubbled by a villain who had been unlucky enough to get caught on the same job. Cook wanted him badly, but he wouldn’t allow a fit-up. Be patient, Mancello would commit himself. As usual, the detective inspector had been right: Mancello had pushed his luck.

Kelso hadn’t been involved with the crew itself, but he’d got to know fringe members. One earwig in particular liked to boast his knowledge of current dodgy activities, implying he was somehow part of them. He wasn’t of course, and never would be with a mouth like his. He was just a nose, a bragger, a dopo. One day he’d be found minus his nose and ears, but until then he was useful to certain people. People like Kelso, who had the back-up to check out small items of information, who could set up obos on certain individuals, who could shape fragments into a recognizable pattern. Mancello was a sizeable fragment.

‘Coming up to the Blackwall Tunnel turn-off,’ the driver announced, keeping the car’s speed at a steady pace.

‘What’s that, Brunswick Road?’

‘That’s it, guv.’

‘McDermott’s there. He’ll tag along behind.’

‘The white transit’s going on,’ Kelso remarked, almost disappointed.

‘Your info was right,’ Cook told him. ‘They’ll pull it on the other side.’

‘If they pull it at all.’ Riley kept his eyes straight ahead, but Kelso knew the comment was aimed at him.

‘It’ll happen,’ he said quietly.

The Granada took the left-hand turn and all three saw the vehicle parked half on the pavement of the downward curving road at the same time.

‘Couldn’t be more bloody obvious, could they?’ Cook did not bother to conceal the irritation in his voice. For a brief moment, his eyes met Detective Sergeant McDermott’s, who was in the passenger seat of the police car they were now passing. The DS frowned at the scowl he received.

‘I suppose we should be grateful he didn’t wave at us,’ Cook commented.

The Granada stopped and waited behind other vehicles that were held up by the traffic lights near the entrance to the tunnel. Cars and lorries already on the main southbound road flowed past, angry toots from their horns directed at the lorry that had just pulled away from the kerbside and was elbowing its way into the stream of traffic. They watched the truck crawl past their position on the adjacent stretch of road, drivers behind it even more angry at its slow progress. They saw it speed up as the lights ahead turned to orange and Riley shook his head in disgust when the lorry roared through on red.

‘Silly fucker,’ he murmured.

Kelso looked back at Cook and saw he was frowning. Over the DI’s shoulder, he noticed the car carrying McDermott and two other Flying Squad detectives easing its way into the waiting traffic.

The Granada moved forward as the lights changed in their favour. There were quite a few vehicles between the security van and the police car.

‘Don’t lose sight of it in the Tunnel, Dave,’ Cook instructed. ‘There’s a few bends down there.’

‘It’s all right, the van can’t turn off anywhere.’

‘Just keep it in sight.’

They entered the long tunnel, both of its southbound lanes crammed to capacity. Kelso knew its sister tunnel would be just as packed, probably even worse, as car commuters struggled to reach destinations on the north side of the Thames. Even at under 40mph, their speed seemed unsafe. Grey walls rose on either side and curved towards the centre, the concrete arch holding back the River Thames above. Just one tiny crack in the structure, Kelso thought, and a million gallons of water would crush their car like an egg shell . . .

‘Keep up, Dave!’ Cook’s voice snapped Kelso back to attention.

‘I can’t go faster than the bloke in front, guv,’ the driver complained.

‘Switch lanes then, get over to the right!’

Riley quickly glanced over at the adjacent lane. He shook his head, then stabbed down hard on the accelerator. Kelso pushed both feet against the passenger footwell as the car in front rapidly loomed up. At the last moment, Riley swung the Granada into the next lane. The car whose space it had infringed upon braked sharply and they heard its horn echoing around the tunnel.

‘There she is!’ Riley shouted and they saw the blue van ahead. The truck they had watched shoot the lights was two cars in front of it.

‘Try and get closer, Dave,’ Cook said, now leaning forward in his seat. ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling . . .’

As if triggered by the same control, pairs of brake lights appeared in sequence before them as each vehicle screeched to a sliding halt. They heard the crashing of metal against metal as cars smashed into one another. The three policemen braced themselves, but Riley’s quick reaction prevented serious impact; his foot had been on the brake pedal as soon as the first set of warning lights had flashed on. The police car rocked backwards and forwards, shifting the three men in their seats. Before they had the chance to recover, they were thrown forward by a backbreaking jolt as the car behind crashed into their rear. Kelso’s head hit the windscreen and he fell back, momentarily stunned.

Cook had been thrown forward and he stayed in that position, hands gripped over the backrests of the front seats. ‘What’s happening?’ he shouted.

‘It’s the lorry,’ the driver replied, his neck craned forward for a better view. ‘It’s jack-knifed across the bloody road!’

Their eyes widened as they saw four men jump out from a car which had crashed into the back of the security van. The men’s heads were covered by balaclavas.

‘The bastards are pulling it in the Tunnel!’ Cook exclaimed.

One door at the back of the jack-knifed lorry swung open and three overalled figures dropped to the roadway. Their faces, too, were hidden by masks. Cook just had time to see that two were carrying snub-nosed objects that could only have been sawn-off shotguns. The third was holding something that looked far more cumbersome.

‘Get on the radio,’ he ordered Kelso. ‘Get some back-up down here! I want the entrance and exit sealed off, too!’

Kelso blinked his eyes, still stunned by the blow he had received. But Cook’s words cut through his confusion. He reached for the transmitter and pressed the button. ‘All Units, this is Leader One. Request immediate assistance in the Blackwall Tunnel. Robbery in progress.’ He waited for acknowledgements, but no sound came from the receiver. Both he and Cook understood the problem at the same time.

The driver stared at Kelso. ‘What’s wrong? Get through to them!’

‘He can’t.’ There was anger in Cook’s voice. ‘The fucking tunnel’s blocking the transmission! We’re on our own!’ He reached for the .38 at his hip and Kelso dug into the pocket of his combat jacket for his own gun.

‘Sorry, Dave,’ Cook said to the driver. ‘You’ll have to come in on this.’

‘Okay, guv.’ Police drivers usually kept away from the heavy stuff, but Riley knew he had no choice this time.

Kelso pushed the passenger door open and whirled when a hand grabbed his shoulder. The man whose car had crashed into the back of the Granada staggered backwards when the gun was pushed into his face.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his hands held out before him as though to ward off any bullets fired from the Smith and Wesson.

Cook, who had just stepped from the Granada, gave the man a vicious push. ‘Get back into your car and stay there!’ He joined Kelso, and they quickly took in the scene before them.

A dozen or so cars lay between them and the security van. Drivers were getting out of their vehicles to see what had happened up ahead; they jumped back in just as smartly when they saw two hooded figures approaching, both carrying shotguns. The armed men were reaching into the vehicles and snatching out the keys; they tossed them across the road. One driver who tried to protest was struck with the butt of a shotgun. A metallic whining noise filled the tunnel, spinning off the curved walls and amplified by the acoustics of the confined space. Horns from the held-up line of traffic which stretched back to the tunnel’s entrance added to the noise. Cook suddenly knew what the cumbersome object carried by the third man was: they were using a chainsaw to open up the security van, ripping into its armoured side like a tin opener.

‘Keep down!’ Cook shouted as he ran forward, his body crouched.

Kelso ducked and sprinted over to the inside lane, using the stalled vehicles as cover. He moved swiftly past an Allegro and a woman passenger stared out at him curiously, her eyes widening when she saw the gun he was carrying. Cook was just ahead of him in the opposite lane, Dave Riley following close behind. Kelso raised his head and saw the two gunmen were only a few cars away, one approaching in the centre of the road, the other on the far side. The one in the centre would soon spot Cook and Riley in the channel created by the two rows of vehicles. He hurried forward, hoping to draw level with the two villains before his DI and driver were discovered.

He risked looking over the top of the next car as he ran, and froze when he saw the nearest gunman had stopped and was pointing his weapon down the centre channel.

‘Hold it, you!’ he heard the masked figure call out.

Cook felt naked under the glare of the black twin barrels. He dropped to one knee and raised the .38. ‘Police! Put the gun down!’

Instead, the masked man raised the shotgun to his shoulder and pulled back the two trigger hammers.

‘Drop it!’ Kelso shouted, his arms stretched across the car roof before him, both hands gripping the Smith and Wesson tightly.

The gunman whirled and released one of the triggers. The shot mangled a broad section of the car’s roof, shredding and scarring its shiny surface, but Kelso had dropped down, reacting by instinct as soon as the barrels had been swung his way.

Cook pulled open the passenger door of the car he was kneeling beside, breathing a swift prayer of thanks that it wasn’t locked, and used it as cover. The passenger shrank away from him, almost crawling into the lap of the driver by his side.

The sound was deafening as the blast tore into the door, pushing it against the crouching DI, some of the shot passing through to splatter against his clothes. The window above him shattered and fragments of glass showered his head.

Without hesitation he pushed the car door away from him and staggered to his feet, knowing the gunman had used up both shots. He went for the villain, grabbing the barrel of the shotgun and using his own weapon as a club. He relished the jarring sensation as the gun connected with the man’s covered scalp. Both men went down onto the road’s hard concrete surface.

DC Riley ran forward to help his senior officer and stumbled to a halt when he saw the frightened, staring eyes of the other gunman, who was standing in the gap between two cars which hadn’t quite connected in the pile-up. The shotgun in his hand was unsteady, but it was aimed at Riley’s chest.

The police driver was not armed, for it had not been his intention to take an active part in the arrests. He saw the hammers on both barrels had been drawn back.

‘Kelso, get the bastard!’ he screamed.

Kelso, who had been scrambling across the bonnet of the Allegro, stopped halfway. Half-sitting, he raised the