Tony was not concerned.
He had lost them once today, and he could do it again. The simplest way
would have been to find a fast stretch of road and put his foot down.
However, he would prefer that they did not know they had lost him, just
like this morning.
It would not be difficult.
He crossed the river and entered the West End.
As he picked his way through the traffic he wondered about the Old
Bill’s motives in following him around. It was partly a simple case of
making a nuisance of themselves, he was sure. What did the briefs call
it? Harassment. They figured that if they tailed him long enough he
would get impatient or careless and do something stupid. But that was
only the justification: the real motive probably lay in Scotland Yard
politics. Perhaps the Assistant Commissioner (Crime) had threatened to
take the Tony Cox firm away from C1 and give it to the Flying Squad, so
C1 had laid on the surveillance in order to be able to say they were
doing something.
So long as they did not get all serious about it, Tony did not mind.
They had got serious once, a few years ago. At that time Tony’s firm had
been under the eagle eye of the CID at West End Central. Tony had had a
close understanding with the detective-inspector working on his case.
One week the DI had refused his usual money, and warned Tony that the
game was over. The only way Tony had been able to square it had been to
sacrifice some of his soldiers. He and the DI had set up five
middle-management villains on extortion charges. The five had gone to
jail, the Press had praised the CID for breaking the gang’s hold on
London, and business had gone on as usual. Sadly, that DIlater went down
himself, for planting cannabis on a student: a sorry end to-a promising
career, Tony felt.
He pulled into a multi story car park in Soho.
He paused at the entry, spending a long time taking his ticket from the
machine, and watched the blue Morris in his mirrors. One of the
detectives jumped out of the car and ran across the road to cover the
pedestrian exit. The other found a parking space on a meter a few yards
away–a position from which he could see cars coming out. Tony nodded,
satisfied.
He drove up to the first floor and stopped the Rolls beside the office.
inside he found a young man he did not know.
He said: “I’m Tony Cox. I want you to park mine and get me one of your
long-stay motors-one that’s not likely to be picked up today.”
The man frowned. He had frizzy, untidy hair and oilstained jeans with
frayed bottoms. He said:
“I can’t do that, mate.”
Tony tapped his foot impatiently. “I don’t like saying things twice,
son. I’m Tony Cox.”
The young man laughed. He stood up, putting down a comic, and said: “I
don’t care who you are, you–”
Tony hit him in the stomach. His large fist landed with a soft thump.
It was like punching a feather pillow. The attendant doubled over,
moaning and gasping. for air.
“I’m short of time, boy,” Tony said.
The “office door opened. “What’s going on?” An older man in a baseball
cap entered. “Oh, it’s you, Tony. Having trouble?”
“Where have you been–smoking in the bog?” Tony said harshly. “I want a
car that can’t be traced to me, and I’m in a hurry.”
“No problem,” the older man said. He took a bunch of keys from a hook in
the asbestos wall.
“Got a nice Granada, in here for a fortnight. Threeliter automatic, a
nice bronze color–”
“I don’t give a toss what color it is.” Tony took the keys.
“Over there.” The man pointed. “I’ll park yours.”
Tony went out of the office and got into the Granada. He put on the
safety belt and pulled away. He paused beside his own car, which the man
in the cap was now sitting in.
“What’s your name?” Tony said.
“I’m Davy Brewster, Tony.”
“All right, Davy Brewster.” Tony reached for his wallet and took out two