The Criminal Escapades of Geoffrey Larkin (18 page)

‘Does that mean we should carry on using the cash machines in the city?' asked John Bolton.

‘No, I think we should leave it for a while and stay low, keeping our ears to the ground but carry on going about our work as if nothing has happened.'

The group agreed with what Geoff had suggested. Finally the Bolton brothers left, going down the stairs in their stocking feet and putting on their shoes when they were outside.

Sooty, who had followed them down, closed the door quietly behind them, leaving them to make their own way through the dark streets.

Along the route to their accommodation they constantly looked furtively over their shoulders, seeing imaginary figures that were following them in the shadows. Unable to bare the tension any longer, they ran panic stricken the last few hundred yards until they reached the comparative safety of their digs. After locking and bolting their door they wedged a chair under the door handle, they then felt reasonably secure but, as an added precaution, they also decided to place one of their iron-framed bedsteads over the chair and against the door.

Earlier that afternoon Sergeant Robinson's murder team received notification that one of their suspects in the forgery/murder enquiry had been involved in a fight the night before, he was now in intensive care in the city hospital. Constable Wilson was sent there and, subject to the doctors allowing him to do so, he was under instructions to take a statement when the patient regained consciousness.

It was the early hours of Tuesday morning before Constable Wilson managed to persuade the medical staff on duty to allow him a few minutes with their patient.

He returned to the murder incident room later that Tuesday, finding Sergeant Robinson in his office sitting at his desk looking through some papers. He looked up as the constable entered.

‘Did you get your statement constable? Anything useful for our enquiries?' asked the sergeant, as he carried on looking at the papers on his desk.

‘According to the doctors, their patient is on the danger list. In theory, he should not be alive. He has been professionally and methodically beaten to a pulp. He has four broken ribs, a punctured lung, ruptured spleen, bruised liver, a broken wrist, a broken arm, a dislocated knee that has also been drilled with an electric drill, bruising all over his body which is the result of a severe kicking and, oh, damage to his spine. The doctors would only allow me to see him for a few moments as he kept slipping back into unconsciousness. The doctor said that he had seen similar marks on a human body before; they were consistent with the repeated use of a knuckle duster.

‘Between lapses in and out of consciousness he managed to tell me what happened. He was approached by two men after he left his local pub on Sunday night. They dragged him into the narrow street at the side of the building. It was there that they beat him up, asking all the time for the plates and the cards. He remembers vaguely being taken in a car to a garage or a lock-up where they fastened him to a chair then carried on beating him and, at the same time, still asking him for the plates. He doesn't remember anything after they started to use an electric drill to drill into his kneecap, until he woke up in the hospital.

‘The doctors reckoned his heart may have stopped for a while and his assailants may have thought they had killed him. He was found by a security guard on night patrol on one of the industrial estates. He administered cardiac massage after calling the ambulance, saving our friend's life; if he lives that is!'

The sergeant had stopped looking at the papers on his desk as the constable made his report, leaning back on his chair as he finished, then waiting while he returned his notebook to his pocket.

‘That was very precise Wilson. Well done! Who was the victim?'

‘The patient at the hospital is the guy we had at the station earlier in the week over the forged notes. We eventually charged him with receiving stolen property. He was a big lad called Sidney Locket. I don't think I have ever, in my entire career, seen a bloke take a beating like that and survive.'

The sergeant pondered for a few moments before replying. ‘Well, from what you say constable, he may well not survive and that will be another murder that's landed on our plate. In the meantime, arrange for a police guard to be placed at his bedside as a precaution also, issue a ban on any publicity.'

While Constable Wilson went to carry out his superior's instructions and type up his report, the sergeant analysed in his mind the events up to present. First, the man at the hotel now down as Mr. X was carrying forged £20 notes and some he had used at the hotel and for his taxi fare. The reference to the plates also seemed as if he had these in his possession for printing the notes. These had been lifted when he had his briefcase stolen; some of the forged money had been used after he had lost his briefcase outside the railway station, obviously by the thief, who had also taken several of his mates into the city paying the returning taxi with a forged note. The owners of the plates were not very happy at losing their merchandise. Mr. X was clearly a carrier and he had paid very dearly for being rather sloppy in carrying out his duties. It was obvious he had been in possession of some cards, possibly credit cards. He knew, from the detective's reports he had just read, that the electricity board men who had been working nearby had been approached by Mr. X and two of his associates the following day. According to one of the workmen Mr. X seemed to be a very frightened man. The two men were possibly involved with the death of Mr. X and also with the beating up of this young thug, Sidney Locket. They had obviously been informed that this Locket was under suspicion for stealing the briefcase. Sergeant Robinson was now convinced that Locket was not involved; it had been a savage case of mistaken identity. And these men had obviously got contacts in high places. A lot of the information he came across in this case would from now on only be shared on a need to know basis. He would pull in the other three members of this Locket gang and interview them again. In view of what had happened to their mate, they may now be more talkative.

*

On his return from work on Tuesday night, Sooty briefed Geoff, who had not left their digs all day. What he had to say sent cold shivers up and down his spine, leaving him weak at the knees, so much so that he was forced to lean on the kitchen table to support himself.

‘Two detectives interviewed me and my work mate about the three men who'd approached us trying to trace the stolen briefcase. They said they were now engaged in a murder enquiry. The bloke dragged out of the river was the same guy who'd lost his briefcase!'

That evening, Derek Bolton turned up at the bed-sit on his own. The first few rings on the doorbell sent Geoff into a panic attack, until the remainder of rings followed the secret code agreed amongst them. The look on Derek's face as he entered the bed-sit told Geoff that he was also the bearer of bad news.

‘Our kid won't come out in the dark so he's staying in the digs and he's locked and bolted the door. He heard in the garage today that hard case Locket had been beaten to a pulp. He's in intensive care in the city hospital, under police guard.'

At the name of Locket Geoff jumped with a start.

‘Is that the Locket we knew at the school who drove the lorry on the storage warehouse job?' he said feeling the panic attack returning.

‘The very same!' came back the instant reply.

‘I saw him at the railway station with several of his cronies when I lifted the case but I don't think he saw me.'

‘Well! I don't think he's going to see many people for a good while, if at all, according to our kid,' continued Derek in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘He's in a bad way and from what they were saying he won't pull through. Even if he does, he won't be bullying anybody else for a good while. Oh, before I forget, I checked out that list of figures on that paper I took to work. They're all bank account numbers and the language is German, well, Swiss German really. If that says to you what it says to me Geoff, I reckon we are up the creek in a sinking boat without a paddle, and in bloody deep water.'

Sooty had been listening to his two mates talking but not understanding a lot of what was being said so he decided to put the kettle on. ‘Don't make me a drink, Sooty,' continued Derek.

‘I better get back and join our John. He's not feeling too good. He's a bag of nerves. I think he's cracking up. He's jumping at the slightest noise. He's even frightened of his own shadow. I'll bring him around tomorrow and we'll all have a long talk to see where we're going from here, if there's anywhere for us to go!' he said gloomily.

After Derek had left the bed-sit and they'd heard the door close at bottom of the stairs, Geoff sat with his mug of tea, going over in his mind the events of the last few days. What had started off as a simple opportunistic snatch of a briefcase had turned into a serious threat to all their lives. Not only were the police making serious enquiries, they were also being hunted by a gang of psychopaths. They had already killed one man and nearly killed another. It was only through good fortune and a case of mistaken identity that they'd avoided being on the receiving end. Geoff came out in a cold sweat at the thought of it. It could have been him in the hospital or, more likely in his case, in the morgue. Instead, it was the bully from the reform school, Sidney Locket.

The gang looking for the contents of the briefcase must have made enquiries locally to come up with the information that it was Sid Locket and his gang that operated around the railway station. So not only would every small-time crook be trying to get some information but it was likely that the gang had contacts in the local police force as well. It would only be a matter of time before someone remembered and came forward, because of either the police enquiries or the enquires made by the gang of thugs working for an organisation amongst the local underworld, and this would be the more dangerous of the two. It only needed for someone to say that he, Geoff Larkin, was in the area that afternoon or if they connected his flat mate Harry Sutton, the worker on the compressor, to Geoff. Then it would be like one of Sir Reginald's favourite sayings;
‘It's all over bar the shouting'
or, in this case, bar the screaming. As far as Geoff could see they had two options: to keep a low profile and try and sit it out and hope it would eventually all blow over, or all four of them to do a runner and attempt to start a new life somewhere else. The prospect of both options frightened him, leaving him with an awful empty feeling in his stomach. It was him that had got his mates into this situation so it was up to him to somehow get them out of it, preferably, all in one piece. He did not fancy the first option. It would only be a matter of time before they were rumbled.

If a hard case like Sid Locket couldn't defend himself against this gang of heavies then there was no chance for the likes of them. This was not a game any more like the other scams he'd pulled. This was serious, life-threatening business that he'd got himself and the others involved in. He decided that even though it was very late he would slip out and make a phone call. He preferred it while it was dark because when he went out in the day he felt everybody was looking at him, whispering behind his back, plus he wanted to follow up a thought that had just occurred to him.

He desperately needed some options, some possibilities to put to the lads at the meeting he'd called for the following night. John Bolton was another problem that was playing on his mind; he was obviously very frightened and a weak link in a very fragile chain.

*

The following morning Sooty went to work as usual. Geoff thought how lucky he was as he watched the big lad finish off his fourth round of toast and marmalade, gulp the remains of his mug of tea then thump his way heavily down the stairs in his slipper-covered feet. He was completely unaware of the danger that the group were facing.

A short while after Sooty had left; the buzzer went in the bed-sit. Outside the front door of what had once been an elegant Georgian town house were the push bells to the individual bed-sits. Geoff stiffened. It was not Sooty coming back, he had his own key, and it was not either of the two Bolton brothers as they used a signal of buzzes. He stayed where he was, frozen to the spot, his imagination running away with him. Seven times the buzzer sounded.

‘Go away! Go away! Why don‘t you go away?' he said to himself loudly.

He heard the door open from the old lady's bed-sit below him.

‘NO! Don't open the door, Mrs. Oaks. Don't let them in!' He heard the front door open and the faint sound of a male voice in conversation from the bottom of the stairs.

Then he heard the door close. Followed shortly afterwards by the closing of Mrs. Oaks' door. His heart, which a few seconds ago was racing like a steam hammer, started to slow down as he relaxed, whoever it was had gone. There was a loud knock on the bed-sit door.

Geoff grasped the side of the kitchen table as a mist seemed to pass in front of his eyes and he suddenly felt dizzy, having a mental picture of Sid Locket's badly beaten face and a corpse being pulled out for identification on a trolley in the morgue. He looked in vain around the room. There was no other way out of the bed-sit, apart from the door, and the only window in the place had a wooden block screwed in place, which allowed it to open only a few inches.

The second volley of knocking on the door sent further spasms of fear through Geoff's shaking frame; these were followed by a shout from outside in the hall.

‘Are you there Geoff? It's me, Mr. Lovett.' Geoff gasped a deep sigh of relief; Ian Lovett was his probation officer.

‘Right, Mr. Lovett, just give me a minute,' he shouted, as he quickly took off his trousers and replaced them with his pyjamas. Geoff opened the door to face a slightly panting overweight middle-aged, slightly balding, probation officer.

As he stepped back into the room Mr. Lovett followed him into the bed-sit.

‘I'm sorry I missed the interview, Mr. Lovett but as you can see,' giving a false sneeze, ‘I'm made away with the flu. I've been laid up in bed for five days.'

‘Yes, that might well be the case, Geoffrey,' replied the probation officer, stepping back a pace and placing a clean, white handkerchief over his nose and mouth. ‘But you know you should inform me if you think you cannot keep the appointed interview, for whatever reason. It makes my job much more difficult than it already is. You realise I may have to report you for this breach in your agreement.'

Geoff apologised again between bouts of forced coughing. He knew that Ian Lovett was a softie at heart and, for all his threats; it was very unlikely that he would be reported.

‘How are you anyway? You look very pale and you're shaking all over.' This last sentence from his probation officer nearly caused Geoff to burst into laughter, more with a sense of relief than merriment.

‘I was a lot worse a short while ago than I am now,' he replied with a smile.