PAPER MONEY by Ken Follett

going into a file at Scotland Yard. But getting evidence was the

problem, especially with a few detectives around who were prepared to

warn Tony in advance of a raid. The money he spent in that direction was

never skimped. Every August there were three or four police families in

Benidon on Tony’s money.

Not that he trusted them. They were useful, but they were all telling

themselves that one day they would repay their debt of loyalty by

turning him in. A bent copper was still ultimately, a copper. so all

transactions were cash; no books were kept, except in Tony’s head; all

jobs were done by his cronies on verbal instructions.

Increasingly, he played even safer by simply acting as a banker. A

draftsman would get some inside information and dream up a plan; then he

would recruit a villain to organize the equipment and manpower. The two

of them would then come to Tony and tell him the plan. If he liked it,

he would lend them the money for bribes, guns, motor cars, explosives,

and anything else they needed. When they had done the job they would

repay the loan five or six times over out of the 5.

Today’s job was not so simple. He was draftsman as well as banker for

this one. It meant he had to be extra careful.

He stopped the car in a back street and got out.

Here the houses were larger–they had been built for foremen and

craftsmen rather than dockers and laborers–but they were no more sound

than the hovels of Quill Street. The concrete facings were cracking, the

wooden window frames were rotten, and the front gardens were smaller

than the trunk of Tony’s car. Only about half of them were lived in: the

rest were warehouses, offices, or shops.

The door Tony knocked on bore the sign “Billiards and Snooker” with most

of the “and” missing. It was opened immediately and he stepped inside.

He shook hands with Walter Burden then followed him upstairs. A road

accident had left Walter with a limp and a stammer, depriving him of his

job as a docker. Tony had given him the managership of the billiards

hall, knowing that the gestura–which cost Tony nothing–would be

rewarded by increased respect among East Enders and undying loyalty on

Walter’s part.

Walter said: “Want a cup of tea, Tony?”

“No, thanks, Walter, I just had my breakfast.”

He looked around the first-floor hall with a proprietorial air. The

tables were covered, the linoleum floor swept, the cues racked neatly.

“You keep the place nice.”

“Only doing my job, Tone. You looked after me, see.”

“Yeah.” Cox went to the window and looked down on the street. A blue

Morris 1100 was parked a few yards away on the opposite side of the

road. There were two people in it. Tony felt curiously satisfied: he had

been right to take this precaution. “Where’s the phone, Walter?”

“In the office.” Walter opened a door, ushered Tony in, and closed it,

staying outside.

The office was tidy and clean. Tony sat at the desk and dialed a number.

A voice said: “Yeah?” “Pick me up,” Tony said.

“Five minutes.”

Tony hung up. His cigar had gone out. When things made him nervous, he

let his smoke go out. He relit it with a gold Dunhill, then went out.

He showed himself at the window again. “All right, mate, I’m off,” he

said to Walter. “If one of the young detective-constables in the blue

car takes it into his head to knock on the door, don’t answer it. I’ll

be about half an hour.”

“Don’t w-worry. You can rely on me, you know that.” Walter nodded his

head like a bird.

“Yeah, I know.” Tony touched the old man’s shoulder briefly, then went

to the back of the hall.

He opened the door and trotted rapidly down the fire escape.

He picked his way around a rusting baby carriage, a sodden mattress, and

three fifths of an old car. Weeds sprouted stubbornly in the cracked

concrete of the yard. A grubby cat scampered out of his way.

His Italian shoes got dirty.

A gate led from the yard to a narrow lane. Tony walked to the end of the

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