Paper Money (6 page)

Then he got out of bed.

He put the kettle on, and stared out of the studio apartment window

while he waited for the seven-hour tape to return to the start. The

morning was clear and bright. The sun would be strong later, but now it

was chilly. He put on trousers and a sweater over the underwear he had

worn in bed, and stepped into carpet slippers.

His home was a single large room in a North London Victorian house which

was past its best.

The furniture, the Ascot heater, and the old gas cooker belonged to the

landlord. The radio was Herbert's. His rent included the use of a

communal bathroom and most important--exclusive use of the attic.

The radio dominated the room. It was a powerful VHF receiver, made from

parts he had carefully selected in half a dozen shops along Tottenham

Court Road. The aerial was in the roof loft. The tape deck was also

homemade.

He poured tea into a cup, added condensed milk from a tin, and sat at

his work table. Apart from the electronic equipment, the table bore only

a telephone, a ruled exercise book, and a ballpoint pen. He opened the

book at a clean page and wrote the date at the top in a large, cursive

script.

Then he reduced the volume of the radio and began to play, the night's

tape at high speed. Each time a high-pitched squeal indicated that there

was speech on the recording, he slowed the reel with his finger until he

could distinguish the words. car proceed to Holloway Road, the bottom

end, to assist PC Ludlow Road, West Five, a Mrs. Shaftesbury--sounds

like a domestic, Twenty-One. Inspector says if that Chinese is still

open he'll have chicken-fried rice with ... Holloway Road get a move on,

that Pc's in trouble..

Herbert stopped the tape and made a note. reported bw of a house--that's

near Wimbledon Common, Jack ..." Eighteen, do you read ..

any cars that are free to assist Fire Brigade at twenty-two Feather

Street

Herbert made another note.

Eighteen, do you read .. I don't know, give her an aspirin ..." assault

with a knife, not serious. where the hell have you been, Eighteen

Herbert's attention strayed to the photograph on the mantelpiece above

the boarded-in fireplace.

The picture was flattering: Herbert had known this, twenty years ago,

when she had given it to him; but now he had forgotten. Oddly, he did

not think of her as she really had been, anymore.

When he remembered her he visualized a woman with flawless skin and

hand-tinted cheeks, posing before a faded panorama in a photographer's

studio. ii ... theft of one color television and damage to a plexiglass

window ..."

He had been the first among his circle of friends to "lose the wife," as

they would put it. Two or three of them had suffered the tragedy since:

one had become a cheerful drunkard, another had married a widow.

Herbert had buried his head in his hobby, radio. He began listening to

police broadcasts during the day when he did not feel well enough to go

to work, which was quite often. Grey Avenue, Golders Green, reported

assault.1

One day, after hearing the police talk about a bank raid, he had

telephoned the Evening Post. A reporter had thanked him for the

information and taken his name and address. The raid had been a big one

quarter of a million pounds and the story was on the front page of the

Post that evening. Herbert had been proud to have given them the

tip-off, and told the story in three pubs that night. Then he forgot

about it. Three months later he got a check for fifty pounds from the

newspaper.

With the check was a statement which read: "Two shot in 250,000 raid"

and gave the date of the robbery. "leave it out, Charlie, if she won't

make a complaint, forget it..

The following day Herbert had stayed at home and phoned the Post every

time he picked something up on the police wavelength. That afternoon he

got a call from a man who said he was deputy news editor, who explained

just what the paper wanted from people like Herbert. He was told not to

report an assault unless a gun was used or someone was killed; not to

bother with burglaries unless the address was in Belgravia, chelsea, or

Kensington; not to report except when weapons were used or very large

amounts of cash stolen. proceed to twenty-three, Narrow Road, and He got

the idea quickly because he was not stupid, and the Post's news values

were far from subtle. Soon he realized he was earning slightly more on

his "sick" days than when he went to work. What was more, he preferred

listening to the radio to inking boxes for cameras. So he gave in his

notice, and became what the newspaper called an earwig.

better give me that description now After he had been working full-time

on the radio for a few weeks the deputy news editor came to his house-it

was before he moved to the studio apartment to talk to him. The

newspaper nan said Herbert's work was very useful to the paper, and how

would he like to work for them exclusively? That would mean Herbert

would phone tips only to the Post, and not to other papers. But he would

get a weekly retainer to make up for the loss of income. Herbert did not

say that he never had phoned any other papers. He accepted the offer

graciously. sit tight and we'll get you some assistance in a few minutes

Over the years he had improved both his equipment and his understanding

of what the newspaper wanted; He learned that they were grateful for

more or less anything early in the morning, but as the day wore on they

became more choosy, until by about three P.M. nothing less than murder

in the sbt or large-scale robbery with violence interested them. He also

discovered that the paper, Like the police, was a lot less interested in

a crime done to a colored man in a colored area. Herbert thought this

quite reasonable, since he, as an Evening Post reader, was not much

interested in what The wogs did to each other in their own parts of

London; and he surmised, correctly, that the reason the Post was not

interested was simply that people like Herbert who bought the Post

weren't interested. And he learned to read between the lines of police

jargon: knew when an assault was trivial or a complaint domestic; heard

the note of urgency in the operations-room sergeant's voice when a call

for assistance was desperate; discovered how to switch his mind off when

decided to read out great lists of stolen-car over the air. 4

The speeded-up sound of his own alarm clock I, came out of the big

speaker, and he turned the deck off. He increased the volume on the

radio, then dialed the Post's number. He sipped his tea While he waited

for an answer.

PAPER "Post, g'morning." It was a man's. voice.

"Copy ta please," Herbert said. There was another pause.

"Copy."

"Hello. Chieseman here, timing. at oh seven fifty-nine."

There was a clatter of typewriters in the background. "Hello, Bertie.

Anything doing?"

"Seems to have been a quiet night," Herbert said.

EIGHT A.M. TONY cox stood in a phone booth on the corner of Quill

Street, Bethnal Green, with the receiver to his ear. He was perspiring

inside the warm coat with the velvet collar. In his hand he held the end

of a chain which was attached to the collar of the dog outside. The dog

was sweating, too.

The phone at the other end of the line was answered, and Tony pressed a

coin into the slot.

A voice said: "Yes?" in the tone of one who is not really accustomed to

these newfangled telephones.

Tony spoke curtly. "It's today. Get it together."

He hung up without giving his name or waiting for an answer.

He strode off along the narrow pavement, pulling the dog behind him. It

was a pedigree boxer with a trim, powerful body, and Tony had

continually to yank at the chain to make it keep pace The dog was

strong, but its master was a great deal stronger.

The doors of the old terraced houses gave directly on to the street.

Tony stopped at the one outside which was parked the gray Rolls-Royce.

He pushed the house door open. It was never locked, for the occupants

had no fear of thieves.

There was a smell of cooking in the little house.

Pulling the dog behind him, Tony went into the kitchen and sat on a

chair. He unhooked the chain from the dog's collar and sent it away with

a hefty slap on the rump. He stood up and took off his coat.

A kettle was warming on the gas cooker, and there was sliced bacon on a

piece of grease-proof paper. Tony opened a drawer and took out a kitchen

knife with a ten-inch blade. He tested the edge with his thumb, decided

it needed sharpening, and went out into the yard.

There was an old grinding wheel in the lean-to shed. Tony sat beside it

on a wooden stool and worked the treadle, the way he had seen the old

man do it years ago. It made Tony feel good to do things the way his

father had. He pictured him: a tall man, and handsome, with wavy hair

and glittering eyes, making sparks with the grinder while his children

shrieked with laughter. He had been a stall-holder in a street market,

selling china and saucepans, calling his wares in that strong, carrying

voice. He used to make a performance of pretending to needle the grocer

next to him, shouting: "There yare, I just sold a pot for half a nicker.

How many spuds d'you sell afore you take ten bob?" He could spot a

strange woman yards away, and would use his good looks shamelessly.

"I tell you what, darling--" this to a middle-aged woman in a

hairnet--"we don't get many beautiful young girls down this end of the

market, so I'm going to sell you this at a loss and hope you'll come

back. Look at it--lid copper bottom, if you'll pardon the word, and it's

my last one; I've made my profit on the rest, so you can have it for two

quid, half what I paid for it, just because you made an old man's heart

beat faster, and take it quick afore I change my mind."

Tony had been shocked by the speed at which the old man changed after

the one lung went. His hair turned white, the cheeks sank between the

bones, and the fine voice went high and whining.

The stall was rightfully Tony's, but by then he had his own sources of

income, so he had let it go to young Harry, his dumb brother, who had

married a beautiful White-chapel girl with the patience to learn how to

talk with her hands. It took guts for a dumb man to run a market stall,

writing on a blackboard when he needed to speak to the customers, and

keeping in his pocket a plain postcard bearing the word THANKS in

capital letters to flash when a sale was made. But he ran it well, and

Tony lent him the money to move into a proper shop and hire a manager,

and he made a success of that, too. But they ran in the family. The

kitchen knife was sharp enough. He tried it and cut his thumb. Holding

it to his lips, he went into the kitchen.

His mother was there. Lillian Cox was short and a little overweight--her

son had inherited the tendency to plumpness without the shortness and

she had much more energy than the average sixty three-year-old. She

said: "I'm doing you a bit of fried bread."

"Lovely." He put the knife down and found a bandage. "Take care with

that knife. I done it a bit too sharp."

She fussed over his cut, then; making him hold it under the cold tap and

count to one hundred, then putting on antiseptic cream, and gauze, and

finally a roll of bandage held with a safety pin. He stood still and let

her do what she wished.

She said: "Ah, but you're a good boy to sharpen the knives for me.

Where you been so early, anyhow?"

"Took the dog up the park. And I had)o ring someone up."

She made a disgusted noise. "I don't know what's wrong with the phone in

the parlor, I'm sure.

He leaned over the cooker to sniff the frying bacon. "You know how it

is, Mum. The Old Bill listen to that one."

She put a teapot in his hand. "Go in there and pour the tea out, then."

He took the pot into the living room and put it down on a mat. The

square table was laid with an embroidered cloth, cutlery for two, salt

and pepper and sauce bottles.

Tony sat nearest the fireplace, where the old man used to sit. From

there he reached into the sideboard and took out two cups and two

saucers.

He pictured the old man again, overseeing meal-times with the back of

his hand and a good deal of rhyming slang. "Get your chalks off the