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  ‘Yes, Alan.’

  And they seem in reasonable spirits, and Gardiner's spotted me, and he's waved, and, like I say, they seem in reasonable spirits.’

  Challenor's breathing heavy. He feels his shoulders roll and tense. He snorts. He's like a bull, they say, when he's not happy. He knows they say this, and he knows that Police Sergeant Alan Ratcliffe knows they say this, and yet he is not getting very quickly to the point.

  ‘Point, Alan, please.’

  Ratcliffe nods and shifts once again in his seat. After a short time, PC Laing tails Ford, King, Pedrini and Cheeseman from Great Windmill Street, down Berwick, then we watch as they approach the Phoenix club, from Old Compton.’

  Challenor sits stiller. His breathing steadies. He's not afraid, he's never afraid, never afraid once it's all begun, once it's kicked off, once the game has really started. And now that Ratcliffe is getting to the point, he feels like it has all begun, and he knows this and a calm - a degree of calm - settles over him.

  ‘Cheeseman is another one from the manor, it turns out. Unemployed salesman, twenty years old, lives at home with his parents, good mates with Pedrini, helps out at the Pedrini family restaurant from time to time.’

  Challenor's breathing intensifies.

  ‘Point, Alan, please.’

  ‘So they approach the Phoenix club from Old Compton and Gardiner's clocked them and he's turned to me and yelled “these are the slags!” and the same time, he's hustled Elizabeth Ewing Evans to one side, and he's reached into his car and pulled out a hammer.’

  A hammer, Alan?’

  ‘Yes, a hammer.’

  And what did Gardiner do with this hammer?’

  Police Sergeant Alan Ratcliffe nods and shifts once again in his seat. He folds his cigarette into the ashtray that Challenor keeps on his desk.

  ‘Not a lot, in the end. There was a good deal of shouting. Gardiner seemed especially keen to get at Ford. More shouting. Something about a tart that works for Gardiner. Seems Johnnie Ford may not be as gallant a chap as we first thought, Detective Challenor.’

  ‘I never once thought that, Alan.’

  ‘Well, you know what I mean. These young Italian stallions, is what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, Alan.’

  ‘So we break it up and we restrain Gardiner and his hammer, and Pedrini's telling us to book Gardiner for threatening them with an offensive weapon, and we’ve seen him do it, so it's tricky.’

  ‘What did Gardiner say at this point, Alan?’

  ‘Gardiner said he was using the hammer to knock a dent out of his car, and to be fair, his car was in a bit of a state.’

  Challenor smiles. ‘I know all about Wilf Gardiner's car, Alan.’

  And this is where things got a little confused.’

  ‘Yes, Alan.’

  Challenor leans forward.

  ‘We bring Gardiner to West End Central, on foot, and Ford and Pedrini and King and Cheeseman follow to make voluntary statements regarding Wilf Gardiner's use of an offensive weapon.’

  ‘I’ll stop you here, Alan,’ Challenor says, ‘to speed things up. I believe this is when the discussion between Gardiner and Ford concerning Gardiner being a grass and assisting me with my enquiries took place. Is this right?’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘Good, Alan. Now. I understand that none of these unsavoury characters remain here at West End Central, despite you bringing all of them in.’

  ‘Well, we brought Gardiner in, the others — ‘

  Alan?’

  Police Sergeant Alan Ratcliffe looks down. ‘On the way to West End Central, on hearing Gardiner explain that he was assisting you, and after an unpleasant verbal exchange, Ford, Pedrini, King and Cheeseman took flight.’

  ‘And what was the exact nature of this verbal exchange, Alan?’

  Police Sergeant Alan Ratcliffe looks forlorn. ‘Well, Pedrini, on hearing that you and Gardiner were perhaps in cahoots in some way — his words — made it very plain that he would not be joining the rest of them at West End Central to press this offensive weapon charge. And Pedrini persuaded the others to leave with him.’

  And what was the exact nature of Pedrini's complaint, Alan?’

  Police Sergeant Alan Ratcliffe looks uncertain. ‘Pedrini, well, Pedrini seemed, he, um, Pedrini thought, well, he said, more or less this: “No chance I’m having anything to with that Challenor. I bet he hates Italians. I’m not taking a slap from him. He’ll stitch us up.”’

  ‘Hates Italians? Those were his words, his exact words?’

  Police Sergeant Alan Ratcliffe nods.

  ‘Hates Italians, eh?’ Challenor says, nodding, brow furrowed. ‘You can go now, Alan,’ he says. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Next steps, next moves. Well done, my old son. You did all right there, tonight, you did.’

  Police Sergeant Alan Ratcliffe nods and leaves.

  Hates Italians, eh? Challenor thinks. That's something, that is.

  That really is something.

  *

  Italy, 7 September 1943: Operation Speedwell.

  Finally.

  You’ve been playing at soldiers for a few months after the Sardinia debacle.

  Debacle —

  Well, your only regret is that you didn’t get to kill any of the enemy —

  You faced them, faced their fire, and felt no fear.

  Passed the test you’d set yourself. A test you didn’t even know you’d set yourself, but once you’d passed it you knew —

  You’ve been recovering from a bout of malaria. The mosquitoes in Philippeville in Algeria are monsters. The buggers had you for breakfast, lunch, dinner. You never took your pills —you thought you could beat the disease, beat the buggers — the monsters — by force of will, by sheer character.

  Ten days in a military hospital, shivering, you were.

  They tell you you’ll never really ever get rid of it, that there's aftereffects, too, sometimes, so to be careful.

  What after-effects exactly, they don’t tell you.

  It bent you right out, did the bout of malaria. But you beat it down, for now, you beat it down.

  And now, Italy. Operation Speedwell.

  You’re going to be dropped behind the lines. Which means a bit of the old cloak and dagger. You smoke, so they give you a pipe with a tiny compass in the stem; a silk map of Italy stitched into the tobacco pouch. It means you are learning a bit of Italian, and you’re good at it.

  And of course, it means parachute training —

  Of course it fucking does: Special Air Service.

  Not that it bothers you, oh no —

  A man who has no fear has nothing to conquer.

  The training jumps are exhilarating, the slipstream growl, the blind step out, the incredible rushing noise as the chute opens, the pull of the harness, and then you float there, on air, you float on air, and you don’t even feel it as you hit the earth and roll forward just as you’ve been shown, down here, down here on the ground.

  Yes, exhilarating.

  And you’re itching to do it for real, you are.

  Operation Speedwell, or what you call: The Italian job.

  *

  Challenor's working on the next steps, the next moves, quicker than he might have anticipated.

  He's got Police Constable David Harris in his office. Harris is telling Challenor about an incident he witnessed not two hours ago. He is a confident young man, Challenor thinks, a good bearing to him. He likes the cut of Police Constable David Harris's jib, Challenor does. And this means he is likely to listen more calmly, question a little less aggressively, be more inclined to trust him, and this is pleasing.

  ‘So, David, tell me.’

  ‘Well, guv, I was posted outside the Phoenix as per. Was a quiet night for them, I felt, on the whole, you know, in general. Not a lot of business, I’d say, you know, relatively.’

  ‘Yes, David.’

  ‘I gave myself a few minutes to go for a bite, just to pick up a sandwich, you know, as per, and when I c
ame back they were there.’

  ‘Who were there, David?’

  ‘Ford and Pedrini and Gardiner.’

  ‘This does not come as a considerable surprise, David, and I suspect that it is not a surprise to you.’

  ‘It is not, guv, no.’

  ‘No, David, I should think it isn’t. And what happened next?’

  ‘Well, guv, Gardiner was looking rather white, I’d say, his back was against the wall and he was white, even, I’d say, a little green round the gills, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do know what you mean, David.’

  And Ford and Pedrini were, I’d say, threatening him, or at least speaking in no uncertain terms, though about what exactly I won’t speculate.’

  ‘Please do speculate, David.’

  ‘Well, guv, they appeared to be having a disagreement regarding a girl that works at Gardiner's club.’

  ‘That's all, would you say, speculating, I mean?’

  ‘A sum of money was discussed. A hundred pounds.’

  ‘In what context, David?’

  ‘Oh, in the “you’re going to give us a hundred pounds or what are you going to do” context, guv.’

  Challenor nods. ‘Speculating suits you, David, I think. And you intervened, I assume?’

  ‘I did, guv. There was no evidence of an actual crime, but I took down the particulars of the two men. Pedrini gave his real name. Ford called himself “Williams”.’

  And you didn’t pull him up on this falsehood, knowing, as you do, that Ford is called Ford.’

  I did not, guv’

  Challenor nods and smiles. ‘Excellent decision, David. You can go now.’

  Police Constable David Harris nods and leaves.

  Challenor thinks he could use this young lad.

  *

  The Italian job —

  Goal: to blow up trains in the tunnels of the Apennines, a long, long way behind the lines.

  This is the easy part, you think. The hard part? Getting back to friendly faces. By guess or by God, you reckon.

  And the jump, oh the jump, you think. Fair enough, you like a jump, you’re good at it, it's easy for you, it doesn’t scare you, but you’ve not done one at night, and the dropping zone is unprepared. Unprepared? You haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re going to find down there. You’re relying on Shank's pony and a hard slog.

  But you get it, you see why and you see you’re going to make a difference, big picture-wise, one way or another.

  You’re assigned the line between La Spezia and Bologna.

  ‘Sounds tasty,’ you say, smacking your lips, to Lieutenant Wedderburn, your mission companion, your senior. He smiles. He's a posh Scot, old Wedderburn, and you’re happy enough with him.

  He's ‘Sir’; you’re ‘Tanky’. That's that.

  End of.

  *

  Challenor's got Police Constable Patrick Goss in his office. Police Constable Patrick Goss has some news regarding the next steps, the next moves.

  He's telling Challenor about what he witnessed earlier that evening by Piccadilly Circus.

  Radio's playing ‘The Loco-motion’ by Little Eva. Challenor likes this one, likes Little Eva, likes Little Eva's voice, her style, is glad that she's top of the hit parade.

  Loco-motion: mad moves.

  All that chug-a motion, that railroad train, makes Challenor think of Italy, of Speedwell, of the Italian job.

  He smiles.

  Goss says, ‘Gardiner was in his car with his mistress, Elizabeth Ewing Evans, when a van pulled up, a van driven by Joseph Francis Oliva and with James Thomas Fraser in the passenger seat, and Jean Murray — Oliva's bird — in the back.’

  Challenor's listening, but he knows where this is going and he's fed up with sitting in his office listening to Police Constable Patrick Goss tell him things he already knows. And besides, with Little Eva on, his mind wanders, drifts over to the Yanks, and that poor slag Monroe who carked it only a few days ago. Silly tart, filling herself up with pills and booze.

  If it was her that did it, of course. Challenor's of a mind to think the unfortunate girl may well have been offed.

  ‘...and Fraser shouts “are you still grassing?” and then appears to lash out with something, something metallic, there was definitely a sort of flash...’

  Challenor knows this is important stuff that Goss is telling him. He recognises that this young lad's testimony, his incident report, ties together Ford and Pedrini most definitively with Joseph ‘King’ Oliva. This is a very useful connection.

  ‘...and when I stop the van a little way down the road, the two of them tell me that Gardiner was driving recklessly, trying to get them into a sort of Yank drag race, and there's no sign of any metallic object...’

  Challenor knows it's about time he gets out there and has a word with this lot and starts nicking them. He doesn’t need much and there will always be a way to make something stick with these disreputable young men. Uncle Harry will bring them in, no time. And Brass want them inside, after all, off the streets.

  ‘... so I let them go and then talk to Gardiner who claims they were waving a bayonet at him, a fucking bayonet, sorry, sir, and this Evans sort tells me that Fraser added “when we do up your old man, we’ll do you up too”, so she's a little shaken, understandably...’

  Nice and easy, son. Don’t lose control.

  Challenor rocks gently along to Little Eva's swing, her rhythm.

  ‘...and Gardiner's mentioned you, sir, and told me to report all this and to say that he's getting it in the neck almost daily from this mob, and all you’ve got to do is be out and you’ll see it, and Bob's your uncle...’

  ‘He said what, Patrick?’

  ‘He said, that all you’ve got to do — ’

  ‘Oh, I heard, Patrick. I just wanted to be clear that Mr Gardiner is telling me — through you — telling me what to do. Would you say that's a fair assessment, Patrick?’

  Nice and easy, son. Don’t lose control.

  ‘I would, sir, yes.’

  Nice and easy, son. Don’t lose control.

  ‘Thank you, Patrick. You can go now.’

  *

  Night.

  Sky a deep blue-black. Cloudless. The clank and whirr of the plane's engines a skittering, low thrum. A growl.

  You’re growling, crawling through the deep blue-black night sky, growling, crawling your way from Africa to Italy.

  Italy. Italy —

  Italy, where you’re going to blow up trains with lieutenant Wedderburn, on the line that runs from Bologna to La Spezia. Italy. You don’t know much of the language at all, but you’re learning, haven’t a clue about the old, the old— what's the word? — the old local customs. You’re worried that there is a fairly high chance that you’re going to stick out like a shiny sixpence on a sweep's backside.

  Pitch black on the plane as you approach the lines. Cramped, too. And no smoking, blackout respect is total, no orange glows, no tasty little respite to be had from the skitter and whirr bringing you closer to Italy —

  Italy.

  Nothing to do but doze or chat. You chat. Course you do. A lively debate on the respective merits of Italian and Arab women, of Italian and Arab booze. lively, yes, but ignorant, you know that, no one has a bloody clue. You all decide that, yes, where you’re headed, there are very likely to be better versions of both.

  The engines though are loud, their skitter and clank ratcheted up as your altitude shifts up and down, better to avoid any inconvenient local traffic. So there are long periods of silence.

  You’re all likely thinking the same thing —

  What are we going to find when we get down there?

  Or, more, more — what's the word? — you know, more pertinent—

  What is going to find you?

  What the fuck is going to find you, you think, you’re thinking now, you’re thinking what the fuck is going to find you, you know, when you get down there?

  Down to Italy.

&n
bsp; You stare at your fellow men. In the darkness, in the deep darkness of the deep blue-black sky, and with your faces blackened, you can only see their white teeth. Their yellowing teeth, their nicotine-stained yellowing teeth that in this darkness are white.

  Movement at the front of the plane. Radio-crackle. Signalling from the co-pilot to your seniors, your officers. Green-light. Hatch opens and your sweat immediately cools as the slipstream pours in, roars in. Unbuckle, strap in. Check the static lines, check the equipment, check each other's equipment, check the ties on each other's chutes, in the dim light that is switched on.

  Get into jumping order.

  Captain Dudgeon speaks: ‘Watch your drift going down. The stick is to stay as tight as possible. I will remain where I land and you are to walk to me, number six walking on to number five and so on until we pick each other up.’

  You’re not listening. You’re not listening as you’re thinking about what the fuck is going to find you, you’re not listening as you know all this, it's been drilled into you and you’re ready, you’re all ready and you’re not afraid, but you’d love a smoke, a moment to steel yourself, but you wont get it.

  You check the time. Three o’clock kick-off. You smile at that.

  Green-light flash —

  ‘Number One!’

  And Dudgeon vanishes into the night, vanishes into the deep blue-black night.

  *

  Challenor's had enough of the office, had enough sitting, sitting around, talking, talking to police constables, so he's outside, he's outside in Soho, outside on his streets in Soho, doing —

  What are you going to do about it?

  Police Constable David Harris has been keeping an eye on a number of establishments each evening over the past few weeks. These establishments include the pubs: the Lyric on Great Windmill Street, the Three Greyhounds on the corner of Moor Street and Old Compton, the Spice of Life at the end of Moor and interestingly located opposite Wilf Gardiner's Geisha club. Police Constable David Harris has also been keeping an eye on the 2i's coffee bar on Old Compton, the Colony Room on Dean Street, and Trisha's after-hours spot on Greek. Challenor suspects that Police Constable David Harris has earmarked these latter three establishments for reasons not entirely pertaining to their investigation. Challenor has heard that young Harris is something of what Challenor believes is termed a ‘scenester’ and has earmarked these particular establishments for his own advancement within the particular ‘scene’ that Challenor has heard young Harris enjoys.