shriek of the police whistle the Italian immediately pulled back from his victim.
‘ Polizia! ’ he shouted at Boyd, scanning his surroundings for a quick escape route.
Boyd grabbed the motionless boy by his shirtfront and plucked him from the ground like a doll.
‘Where is it?’ he hissed.
‘Come! No time! Polizia! ’ shouted the Italian again, sprinting off towards a high wall at the back of the alley.
Reluctantly Boyd dropped the boy and lumbered off after his partner, who had already effortlessly vaulted over the wall and dropped out of sight. The larger man dragged over an old tea chest, and after a couple of clumsy attempts, managed to haul his huge frame over the brickwork to follow suit.
Having first made sure that there weren’t any nasty surprises lurking in the shadows Harley approached the victim, gently turning him face-up, fearing the worst. To his relief this elicited a groan.
‘What’s your name, son?’
The frightened eyes fell on the whistle in Harley’s hand.
‘It’s alright,’ he said, putting it away along with the knuckleduster. ‘Don’t fret—I’m no bogey, honest! Come on, what’s your name?’
‘Aubrey,’ said the boy, only managing a half-whisper.
‘Well, Aubrey—we need to get you out of here before those two jokers realize I ain’t the cavalry. Who were they anyway? Did you see the little one jump that wall? Like a sodding monkey!’
The boy remained silent.
‘Alright—like that is it? Come on then … can you stand?’
With Harley’s help Aubrey managed to struggle to his feet.
‘Bloody hell! They’ve done a proper job on you, ain’t they?’
‘My bag.’
‘Where?’
‘Over there—in the bin.’
Harley propped the boy against the wall to retrieve the duffel bag, then half-carried him on a slow walk back towards Piccadilly, to the relative safety of the open thoroughfare.
By the time they’d reached the street and Harley had placed the injured boy into the cab, Boyd and the Italian had doubled back and were now observing proceedings from a safe distance.
‘That ain’t no bogey,’ said Boyd.
‘Eh?’
‘Not a po-lit-sia .’
‘No? Who then?’
‘He’s a sherlock.’
‘Jew-boy?’ The Italian raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘No, not Shylock, a sherlock —a private detective; although, funnily enough, he does knock about with Yids; Yids, brasses and bolshies—he ain’t too particular by all accounts.’
‘Hmm … Where will he take the boy?’
‘I dunno—but I’ll find out.’
‘He has a name, this, this sherlock ?’
‘Yeah, Harley—George Harley.’
CHAPTER TWO
Three days later a weary George Harley stopped for a moment on the corner of Bell Street to tease a hole in the clammy, vinegar-scented package under his arm. He popped a chip into his mouth and tipped his hat back an inch or so to prod the burgeoning lump just above the hairline—a souvenir of the frenzied finale of an otherwise tedious stakeout at a Tilbury warehouse.
Getting too old for this malarkey , he thought, as he pushed on through the dull ache in his lower back and the more insistent throbbing in his left shin.
As he mounted the front steps, searching his pockets for his keys, the door of the adjoining townhouse opened to reveal the generous figure of his next-door neighbour, Violet Coleridge.
‘Ah! The wanderer returns,’ said Violet, restraining her ample bosom with one arm as she bent to deposit an empty milk bottle on the top step. ‘Oh my gawd, George! You look done in! Where you been?’
‘Tilbury docks.’
‘And what you been up to there, then?’
‘Well, that’s a good question Vi.’
‘Second thoughts—don’t tell me. What you don’t know can’t ’ arm you , that’s what my Eric used to say. Mind you—I think the reason he always kept quiet about what he was up to was so that I couldn’t let anything slip to the bogeys if they came snooping round. Still, those days are long gone now, aren’t they? Fancy a
‘ Polizia! ’ he shouted at Boyd, scanning his surroundings for a quick escape route.
Boyd grabbed the motionless boy by his shirtfront and plucked him from the ground like a doll.
‘Where is it?’ he hissed.
‘Come! No time! Polizia! ’ shouted the Italian again, sprinting off towards a high wall at the back of the alley.
Reluctantly Boyd dropped the boy and lumbered off after his partner, who had already effortlessly vaulted over the wall and dropped out of sight. The larger man dragged over an old tea chest, and after a couple of clumsy attempts, managed to haul his huge frame over the brickwork to follow suit.
Having first made sure that there weren’t any nasty surprises lurking in the shadows Harley approached the victim, gently turning him face-up, fearing the worst. To his relief this elicited a groan.
‘What’s your name, son?’
The frightened eyes fell on the whistle in Harley’s hand.
‘It’s alright,’ he said, putting it away along with the knuckleduster. ‘Don’t fret—I’m no bogey, honest! Come on, what’s your name?’
‘Aubrey,’ said the boy, only managing a half-whisper.
‘Well, Aubrey—we need to get you out of here before those two jokers realize I ain’t the cavalry. Who were they anyway? Did you see the little one jump that wall? Like a sodding monkey!’
The boy remained silent.
‘Alright—like that is it? Come on then … can you stand?’
With Harley’s help Aubrey managed to struggle to his feet.
‘Bloody hell! They’ve done a proper job on you, ain’t they?’
‘My bag.’
‘Where?’
‘Over there—in the bin.’
Harley propped the boy against the wall to retrieve the duffel bag, then half-carried him on a slow walk back towards Piccadilly, to the relative safety of the open thoroughfare.
By the time they’d reached the street and Harley had placed the injured boy into the cab, Boyd and the Italian had doubled back and were now observing proceedings from a safe distance.
‘That ain’t no bogey,’ said Boyd.
‘Eh?’
‘Not a po-lit-sia .’
‘No? Who then?’
‘He’s a sherlock.’
‘Jew-boy?’ The Italian raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘No, not Shylock, a sherlock —a private detective; although, funnily enough, he does knock about with Yids; Yids, brasses and bolshies—he ain’t too particular by all accounts.’
‘Hmm … Where will he take the boy?’
‘I dunno—but I’ll find out.’
‘He has a name, this, this sherlock ?’
‘Yeah, Harley—George Harley.’
CHAPTER TWO
Three days later a weary George Harley stopped for a moment on the corner of Bell Street to tease a hole in the clammy, vinegar-scented package under his arm. He popped a chip into his mouth and tipped his hat back an inch or so to prod the burgeoning lump just above the hairline—a souvenir of the frenzied finale of an otherwise tedious stakeout at a Tilbury warehouse.
Getting too old for this malarkey , he thought, as he pushed on through the dull ache in his lower back and the more insistent throbbing in his left shin.
As he mounted the front steps, searching his pockets for his keys, the door of the adjoining townhouse opened to reveal the generous figure of his next-door neighbour, Violet Coleridge.
‘Ah! The wanderer returns,’ said Violet, restraining her ample bosom with one arm as she bent to deposit an empty milk bottle on the top step. ‘Oh my gawd, George! You look done in! Where you been?’
‘Tilbury docks.’
‘And what you been up to there, then?’
‘Well, that’s a good question Vi.’
‘Second thoughts—don’t tell me. What you don’t know can’t ’ arm you , that’s what my Eric used to say. Mind you—I think the reason he always kept quiet about what he was up to was so that I couldn’t let anything slip to the bogeys if they came snooping round. Still, those days are long gone now, aren’t they? Fancy a