Jesse’s eyes were wide. “How much-is it, Tony?”
“One million, one hundred and eighty thousand pounds sterling, my son.”
Jesse gave a whoop of delight. “We’re rich! We’re lousy with it!”
Tony’s face was somber. “I suppose we could burn all the tenners.”
“What are you talking about?” Jesse looked at him as if he were mad.
“What-do you mean, burn them? You going potty?”
Tony turned around and gripped Jesse’s arm, squeezing hard. “Listen.
If you go into the Rose and Crown, ask for a half of, bitter and a meat
pie, and pay with a tenner; and if you do that every day for a week;
what will they all think?”
“They’ll think I’ve had a tickle. You’re hurting my arm, Tone.”
“And how long would it take for one of those dirty little snouts in
there to get round the nick and spill it? Five minutes?” He let go.
“It’s too much, Jess. Your trouble is, you don’t think. This much money,
you’ve got to keep it somewhere, and if it’s kept somewhere, the Old
Bill can find it.”
Jesse found this point of view too radical to digest. “But you can’t
throw money away.”
“You’re not listening to me, are you? They’ve got Deaf Willie, right?
Their driver will connect Willie with the raid, right? And they know
Willie’s on my firm, so they know we done the job, right? You bet your
life they’ll be up your place tonight, slitting the mattresses and
digging up the potato patch. Now, five grand in oncers might be your
life savings, but fifty grand in tenners gotta be incriminating, right?”
“I never thought of it that way,” Jesse said.
“The word for it is overkill.”
“I suppose you can’t put that much money in the Abbey National. Anybody
can have a good night at the dogs, but if you got too much, it proves
you’ve had a tickle, see?” Jesse was explaining it back to Tony, as if
to demonstrate that he understood. “That’s it, ain’t it?”
“Yes.” Tony had lost interest in the lecture. He was trying to think of
a foolproof way of disposing of hot money in large quantity.
“And you can’t walk into Bardays Bank with over a million nicker and ask
to open a savings account, can you?”
“You’re getting it,” Tony said sarcastically. Suddenly he looked sharply
at Jesse. “Ah, but who can walk into the bank with a pile of money and
not arouse suspicion?”
Jesse was lost. “Well, nobody can.
“You reckon?” Tony pointed to the packing cases of surplus Forces
clothes. “Open a couple of those -boxes. I want you dressed as a Royal
Navy seaman. I’ve just had a bloody, clever idea. “AN EDITOR’S
CONFERENCE in the afternoon was rare.
The editor sometimes said: “The mornings are fun, the afternoons are
work.” Up until lunchtime, his efforts were expended in the production
of a newspaper. By two o’clock it was too late to do anything
Significant: the content of the paper was more or less determined, most
of the day’s editions had been printed and distributed, and the editor
turned his brain to what he called administrative sludge. But he had to
be around, in case something came up which required a top level
decision. Arthur Cole believed that such a thing had come up.
Cole, the deputy news editor, sat opposite the editor’s oversize white
desk. On Cole’s left was the reporter Kevin Hart; on his right was
Mervyn Glazier, City editor.
The editor finished signing a pile of letters and looked up. “What have
we got?” Cole said: “Tim Fitzpeterson will live, the oil announcement’s
been delayed, the currency van raiders got away with more than a
million, and England are all out for seventy-nine.”
“And?”
“And there’s something going on.”
The editor lit a cigar. If the truth were known, he quite liked to have
his administrative sludge interrupted by something exciting like a
story.
“Go on.” Cole said: “You remember Kevin came in during the morning
conference, a little overexcited about a phone call allegedly from Tim
Fitzpeterson.
The editor smiled indulgently. “If young reporters don’t get excited,
what the hell will they be like when they get old?”