Mickey waited patiently as the security guard studied the photograph, then shook his head, disappointed he couldn't please the smartly-dressed businessman.
"Nah, sorry, son, I've not seen him." He saw the deflated look and racked his brains to find another way to help. "Wait, though…I can point you in the direction of someone who might know. You got a pen and paper?"
Duly supplied, he jotted down a name, and the address of an office not far away, in the banking district. "Thanks," said Mickey, and rewarded the co-operation with a dazzling smile. He had the ability to make people feel as if they had just saved a life with that look, and it worked again now.
"No problem! Any time I can be of help again, just ask." They shook hands, and Mickey started to walk the short distance to Exchange Square.
His phone rang, just as he was about to make a call, and it was Stacie. "Any luck yet?" she asked.
"I've got a possible lead that I'm following up right now. I'm on my way over to speak to someone who might have seen him, or know of his whereabouts. I'll call you as soon as I find out whether it's a good tip or not."
"All right, talk later then." Stacie rang off and continued on her way along Oxford Street, laden with bags from the best designer stores. She had just slipped her phone back into her handbag when she sensed someone close behind her, and automatically took evasive action by turning sharp right and heading into a shoe shop.
She started to browse the racks just inside the doorway, which allowed her to scan the street outside to find out who had been tailing her. Throngs of shoppers passed by, but one girl paced slowly up and down by the edge of the pavement, looking shifty and out of place. She had no bags, not even a backpack, and was wearing a 70s-style beret with the peak pulled down to try and hide her face. Her clothes were scruffy and her sneakers looked as if they were about to fall apart.
Stacie continued slowly round the store, and after a couple of minutes the girl shuffled off in the direction of Regent Street. Knowing only too well that the area was a dip's paradise (she had often used it for this purpose herself), Stacie double-checked her handbag and its contents. Having satisfied herself that everything was present and correct, and that the girl had disappeared, she crossed the road away from traffic lights, so that she could make sure no-one followed her.
Her tactics worked; the girl was nowhere to be seen. However, Stacie pulled out her phone again, this time to call Ash.
"Hi. It's me. Can't talk for long, it's too noisy. But I need cover. Corner of Oxford Street and Wardour Street, twenty minutes, okay?"
"What's up?" Ash was immediately concerned. "Can you speak, or are you being followed?"
"No and yes, in that order. Twenty minutes!"
Ash took a deep breath and drummed his fingers on the table in front of him, trying to figure out what was up. However, there was no time for that, he would need to think on the move. Throwing on his jacket, he headed out to the street and hailed a taxi, which he directed to the address Stacie had given him.
On the way, he rang Danny. "Are you in?"
"Give me a chance, I just got here! Where are you?"
"On my way to meet Stace. Something's up. She thinks she's being tailed, so I've to meet her in Oxford Street."
There was a lengthy pause as Danny absorbed this news. "That doesn't sound good," he finally declared.
"No shit, Sherlock," replied Ash tartly. "Call me when you're ready and I'll bring you up to speed, right?"
"Right. And don't get shirty with me, mate!" Danny stared at his phone as the call ended abruptly. He stuck it back in his pocket, checked the lane was clear, and carried on with the lock. In a few more seconds, the door was open, and he was in. He made sure it was secure behind him, and made his way to the bottom of the stairs.
Frowning, he put his foot on the first step, and happened to glance at the door to his right. He gave a sharp intake of breath as he saw the name on the brass plate: Pethridge & Co.
"Whoops. Nearly missed you there, didn't I?" Another lock, this time a bit easier. He stepped into the darkness and quietly pushed the door shut. Rummaging around in his kit bag, he found his torch and inspected the office. Filing cabinets, that was what he wanted. To his dismay, he saw that the adjoining room was lined with them. He groaned, rolled his eyes, and started to read the labels on the drawers.
"Ab-Ad…Ae-Ag…Ah-Al…bloody Norah, this is going to take forever!" he muttered. He continued round the room, finally locating the drawer he wanted. "St-Su…gotcha!" He pulled the handle, but, unsurprisingly, nothing happened. A nail file was pressed into service and easily opened the cabinet.
Danny riffled through the folders, and eventually found and extracted the relevant papers. Resting them on the open drawer, he dialled Albert's number.
"Albert? It's Danny. I've got what you wanted. Ready?"
"Ready, dear boy. Go ahead. 23…yes, yes, go on…SW12…right…Coutts Bank? Excellent! And the account number?" More scribbling ensued. "That's it. That's all we need. Now put it back and make sure it looks as if no-one's touched it for years. Squeeze all the files in the drawer towards the back so you can't tell which one was last looked at."
"Done. I'm off to meet up with Stacie and Ash now, so talk to you later."
"Good." Albert looked thoughtful as he finished the call. He re-read the information Danny had provided. His suspicions had been confirmed: their mark was not whom he claimed to be - but what were his reasons for using an alias? Did he suspect them in particular, or was he attempting to completely change his identity?
Now Albert was definitely worried. If they didn't know who they were really dealing with, they could be in serious trouble. Time to let Mickey know.
"Albert. What's the word?"
"Danny's hit paydirt: I have the name, address, and bank details of our man. But I think we need to take stock, Michael. It could be a whole different ball game from what we expected if this fellow isn't who we thought he was."
"Well, I've got an address as well – 23 Fernside Road, Balham. The doorman at his real office gave me it, once I'd convinced him I was working for an inheritance tracing company and hinted there might be a percentage in it for him."
"That matches the address Danny found." Albert hesitated, then said firmly, "We need to call the others in. They should be meeting up round about now, so they won't be hard to get hold of."
Perplexed, and not a little cross at this apparent lapse in their work ethic, Mickey asked, "What are they meeting for? Cocktails and canapés?"
"I don't know, I just assumed it was necessary. But now I come to think of it, why should it be?"
"I'll give them a call, and get them back to you pronto." Mickey hung up and dialled again.
"Stacie? What's going on? Are Ash and Danny with you?"
"Yes, we're all here, everything's OK, we're just having a coffee while I make sure my little friend's gone." Stacie explained about the pickpocket.
"You were right to be careful. Once you're sure it's all clear, the three of you get back home. I'll meet you there. We need to regroup. I take it Danny's shared what he found?"
"Yes, he's just been filling us in. We'll hop a cab and see you in about half an hour."
**********
Within thirty minutes, the crew was assembled in the drawing room of their Belgravia townhouse. Mickey recapped what they had discovered so far, then turned to Albert who continued with the briefing.
"It's not merely suspicious or coincidental that this mark is hiding his true identity; it's potentially dangerous. While it's what we do all the time, we don't expect it of the people we score off. So now we know who he really is, we need to find out two things: first, why is he masquerading as Alan Steele? Is he trying to con someone else? Maybe it's just a straightforward, harmless tax dodge, but it could equally be something more sinister than that.
"Second, who is running him? There's a better than 80% chance that somebody else is behind his identity scam. He's perhaps even part of a team."
"Ash, make some calls and see if you can find out if he's hooked up with any of the grifters in town just now. If he is, there's no point in us and him trying to con each other."
"I'll get right on to it." Ash got up and went through to the study.
"Mickey has already shown that the man is running a doublelife; he has a genuine job and home, and possibly a family. We need to get over to that address in Balham and see what else we can learn."
"I'll do that, Albie," offered Stacie.
"Take Danny with you," added Mickey. "It'll look more convincing if you're posing as a couple of house-hunters or environmental health inspectors."
Ash stuck his head round the corner and interjected, "Nothing yet, but Nev's onto it, and I'm hoping to hear back from him in a few minutes. Stace, you and Danny come with me and we'll check out what properties are for sale in the Fernside Road area." The three of them went off to peruse some estate agents' websites and Albert turned to Mickey.
"That leaves the problem of the girl who was following Stacie. I haven't said anything to her yet, as I didn't want to alarm her. She seems to be already on her guard anyway."
"You think there may be a connection to our mark?"
"I'm not a big believer in coincidences, Michael. Admittedly, Oxford Street is easy pickings for the light-fingered, but why target Stacie, and why today of all days?"
"Because she had lots of bags and might not notice her purse being dipped?"
"Possible, but not probable. And from Stacie's description of this young woman's behaviour, I'd say she's anything but your typical pickpocket. I suggest we bait the trap, and this time we'll do some hunting of our own."
Mickey nodded his agreement. When Stacie returned with the two others from checking out the property market south of the river, Albert explained his theory and proposed solution. With the team's unanimous consent, Albert took the job of casing Steele's house, while Stacie repacked her shopping to take back to Oxford Street. Mickey, Ash and Danny would be watching her from all possible angles, without letting the "dip" know they were there.
In a short time, with the men looking as inconspicuous as possible in jeans and t-shirts, and Stacie dressed up to attract attention, they made for the busy streets. Mickey would lag a few yards behind her, while Danny would be keeping pace on the other side of the road. Ash slipped a news vendor fifty quid to take the rest of the day off, and assumed his position at Oxford Circus, facing the direction Stacie would be approaching from.
Stacie emerged from her taxi outside Selfridges. She popped into the store briefly, to convince any watchers that she truly was on a shopping expedition, then reappeared to strut her stuff through the Thursday afternoon crowds. This would give any potential tail plenty of time to see and follow her and, in turn, be watched by the grifters.
All Stacie's senses were buzzing, but she appeared unconcerned as she made her way along Oxford Street. Each of the crew had radios with hands-free phone kits, so they could talk to each other without arousing suspicion.
"Anything?" asked the potential target.
"Nothing here," came back Ash.
"Nope," Danny replied.
"All clear with me," answered Mickey.
A few hundred yards further along the pavement, Stacie passed a souvenir stall, and Danny said casually, "Bandit at six o'clock."
"You've seen too many old war movies," chuckled Stacie, but her heart started to beat more rapidly. She was strongly tempted to look round and see her pursuer, and then she heard Mickey say, "Look straight in front, Stacie. Do you see that clothes shop just ahead and to your left? Pause and look in the window for thirty seconds, then carry on."
Across the street, Danny joined a group of people who were leaning on the kerbside railings, chatting, and watching the world go by. He was directly opposite the shop window as Stacie gazed at the display. The young woman they had observed falling in behind her did the same as Danny; she waited at the edge of the wide pavement.
After half a minute, as directed, Stacie resumed her route eastwards, and the girl did likewise.
"That's definitely her," said Mickey.
"What now?" This was Ash, who was anxious to get a look at this brazen yet incompetent stalker.
"Stacie, once you get to Ash's news stand, I want you to hail a taxi and go to Eddie's. Lose her. OK?"
"OK. I'll see you there later, right?" For once Stacie sounded uncertain. An enemy she could not see, but who was right behind her, was somehow more unnerving than any of the other adversaries they had ever come up against.
In a few minutes she drew level with Ash, though neither of them acknowledged the other; to do so might have been to implicate him when only Stacie was known to be a target. She waited as if to use the pedestrian crossing, until she could see a cab with its light on coming down Regent Street. When it was almost upon her, she dodged out into the traffic, shouting "Taxi!", and leapt inside as quickly as she could.
Her pursuer stopped dead in her tracks and gazed, almost open-mouthed, as the black cab took her quarry away from under her nose.
Ash managed to suppress a smirk, but waited until the girl was right beside him before bawling in the time-honoured fashion, "Eve-ning Stannard! Get your Eve-ning Stannard here!" The young woman jumped violently and glared at him, then started to walk briskly up Regent Street. Mickey was still following her.
"Well done, Ash, she knows your face now, but thanks for the distraction. Danny and I'll keep on her tail and find out where she goes. I'll let you know as soon as we get there."
Mickey and Danny didn't have far to go to find out where their target was heading for. She had led them to a building that they would normally have gone to great lengths to avoid. Mickey nodded to Danny as the young woman went through a doorway. As they passed it, Mickey checked out the lobby, while Danny scanned the plaque outside. They kept walking for several yards and then ducked into a pub.
"Did you see that?" asked Danny in quiet desperation. "Serious Crime Squad. Those guys hate us. We're stuffed."
Mickey shook his head and smiled. "No, it's perfect. Now we have a pretty good idea who's behind the charming Mr. Steele."
**********
Albert folded his newspaper and got to his feet. "Alan! Marvellous to see you again!" They shook hands and Albert indicated a chair for Steele to sit in. He signalled to the waiter, and looked enquiringly at his guest.
"What'll you have? Brandy?"
"No, just a soft drink, please. Soda with a twist of lemon, if you don't mind."
"Driving?" enquired Albert cheerfully.
"No, er, just cutting down my intake," answered the other man cautiously. They exchanged pleasantries for a couple of minutes until finally Steele said, "You didn't say why you wanted to see me, Henry."
"Neither I did. How remiss of me. Ah, here we are," Albert announced, as the drinks arrived. "Your very good health," he proposed.
"Yours too." The mark consulted his watch. "Henry, I don't want to be rude, but I have a meeting in forty minutes and I mustn't be late. Would you like to tell me why we're here?"
"Of course, my dear boy! You'll have to excuse an old man. I get rather forgetful when I'm excited about a business transaction." He put his hand inside his jacket and produced a large envelope which he slid across the table towards Steele.
Unable to contain his curiosity, Steele opened it and studied its contents. Ash had wasted no time in mocking up some official-looking paperwork using the information Danny had found.
Steele swallowed hard, looked up, and said, not very convincingly, "I think you've given me the wrong documents. These are for somebody called William Pagett."
"Yes, that's right." Albert waited and allowed the silence to do its work.
"Well, you know my name's Alan Steele. These belong to someone else." He pushed the papers back to Albert.
"No, I don't think so." Albert's eyes grew cold and penetrating, and he could almost see Pagett shrinking into his seat. The younger man wiped away the sweat that had appeared on his top lip.
"I…you've invited me here under false pretences…," he faltered.
"Oh, I believe there are false pretences, but I don't think they're entirely mine, do you?" Albert tapped the envelope with his finger and continued, "In here are the particulars of a man who is 33 years old, a financial adviser in the City, and lives in a terraced house near Clapham Common."
"Not me. You've got me mixed up with someone else, I told you." Pagett took a swig of his drink and put the glass down firmly. He got up to leave. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be going."
"What does your wife think about all this? I'm sure it must be very confusing for her, trying to remember which of your identities to use."
The colour drained from Pagett's complexion. "What do you know about my wife?"
"Oh, please don't misunderstand me; I mean you and your family no harm. You have nothing to fear on that account. Please sit down, William. I have a proposition for you."
Defeated, William Pagett slumped back down into his chair.
**********
"Come to fix the computers, mate?" The concierge buzzed Ash in through the security barrier, and he made his way to the lift. Once inside, he checked his moustache and glasses and made sure his visitor tag was showing. He stepped out at the second floor and followed the directional signs to an unremarkable office.
"IT support?" he said by way of introduction to the receptionist. She frowned slightly.
"Did someone call you?" She looked at her monitor. "I haven't heard anyone mention they'd had trouble."
"I believe it's a printer problem, love."
"Isn't it always!" she sighed resignedly, getting up and leading the way to the print station. "Here they are. The only other one is in the boss's office, and you can bet your life I'd have heard about it if it had been his." She turned and left Ash to his work, which mainly involved nipping next door to the room where the server was located.
Twenty minutes later, he strolled up to the reception desk. "All sorted. It was a paper jam, as per usual."
**********
Another half hour saw Ash back at the house, uploading the e-mail files he'd removed from the Serious Crime Squad server. His grin grew wider and wider as he trawled through the conversations between Stacie's stalker, one DC McBride, and her superior officer, DCI Hammond.
"Mick! You gotta take a look at these," he called through to the drawing room.
Both Mickey and Albert came and peered over his shoulder at the laptop.
"See, here she's telling her boss about tailing Stacie the second time: 'I unfortunately lost the subject in heavy traffic.' Talk about being economical with the truth!"
"Have you found anything about our Mr. Pagett?" asked Albert.
"Just coming to that." Ash keyed in the name and up came a few dozen messages. He opened the first one, which was from Hammond to William Pagett. Ash sat back and folded his hands behind his head as the others respectively whistled and gasped.
"He's really dropped himself in it here," murmured Mickey, examining the contents of the e-mail more closely.
"It's even more of a con than we dreamt up," Ash conceded.
"There's nothing more abhorrent than police corruption," declared Albert in disapproving tones. "The man evidently doesn't think his police pension will be enough, and has set up this little scam to provide for his very early retirement, presumably to Marbella." He shuddered at the thought of this last idea.
"He's certainly going to have enough for that," agreed Mickey, and he clapped Ash on the back. "Well done, Ash, this is way beyond what we'd hoped for. What next, Albert?"
"After I've spoken to William, and assured him that we have a way out for him, I think we should give Detective Chief Inspector Hammond his retirement present."
**********
Danny laughed in amazement. "You mean to say that this Hammond git has been playing both sides? Genius."
"I have to admit a certain reluctant admiration for him," responded Albert, "but let's not forget that DCI Hammond is supposed to be an officer of the law, pledged to uphold it and to protect the public."
Ash snorted. "Well, he's about as far from that lofty ideal as we are."
"What happens next, Albie?" Stacie wanted to know.
"First of all, William Pagett is now fully aware of the situation. Once he recovered from the initial shock of being used by a corrupt police officer, he was more than willing to leave the matter in our capable hands."
Albert flashed up a slide on the screen, showing a heavy-set, balding, not-quite-middle-aged man, pictured talking to a uniformed police constable. The conversation was obviously not a friendly one.
"Bet he's a popular bloke," observed Danny dryly.
"Yes, the Metropolitan Police have excelled themselves here. This is DCI Bernard Hammond," Albert explained, "an officer with a history of sexual harassment complaints, chronic absenteeism, racial discrimination, and a drink problem to boot. He was first choice to head up the London Central branch of the Serious Crime Squad."
"So no change there, then," Stacie muttered. Ash cackled appreciatively.
"Pagett's task will be to convince Hammond that, as agreed, he's ready to transfer all the cash to a 'special police account', when in reality Ash here" – Albert laid his hand on Ash's shoulder – "will use the electronic bank details provided by Mr. Pagett to divert the funds into an account with an only slightly different number. Which, of course, is our account. Stacie?"
"It's all set up. I went to Coutts' earlier today and the lovely man there helped me set up one of their premier packages with lots of interest."
"Excellent. Then we're almost ready to go," said Mickey.
"And this evening, William Pagett will take his family on an unexpected but very welcome three-week holiday to the Caribbean," added Albert, "at my suggestion and our expense, of course."
"He had no idea he was being used as bait to catch us, or that the money he gave Hammond to use in the police sting would, in fact, never be returned?" Stacie asked.
"No idea at all," replied Ash. "It's obvious from their e-mails that Hammond went to a lot of trouble to make Pagett feel important – top restaurants, tickets for the big match, even, would you believe, a tour of Scotland Yard. He was convinced to pose as Alan Steele in order to try and rope us in. He thought he was just 'helping the police', doing his civic duty, so to speak."
"And we shall do ours," said Albert, mischievously.
**********
DC McBride leaned back in her chair, giving the impression that she was quite relaxed, when in fact she was actually trying to avoid having to inhale too much of her boss's body odour. He had perched on the edge of her desk and was minutely examining the grime underneath his fingernails.
"Right, I've had an e-mail from Pagett. He wants to get together and finalise the, er, transaction, so I've set up a meet for this afternoon. Organise the transport, will you, and this time make absobloodylutely sure that spanner Wentworth knows how to use the satnav, OK?"
McBride nodded and asked, "Where are we meeting Pagett, guv?"
Hammond's eyes narrowed. " 'We'? Well, I suppose you could come along as well," he said grudgingly. "It's at some poncey wine bar in Greenwich." He slid off the desk and admired his reflection in the plate glass office window. "Tell you what, I'll send you his e-mail and you can take it from there. Think you can manage that?"
McBride gave him a syrupy smile and turned to her computer as Hammond went back to his office. She reached automatically for the bottle of water that she always had with her during working hours. She found it helped to keep her food down.
After a few minutes she received Pagett's message and, having read it through, lifted the phone (there was no point in e-mailing Hammond as he only looked at his computer once or twice a day, usually for nefarious purposes).
"Guv? Just wanted to check something with you. You did realise Pagett's not coming to this meeting himself, right?" She paused and held the receiver well away from her ear. "I'll take that as a no, then," she said under her breath.
Hammond came storming back into the main office. "So who's this Benson geezer?" he demanded to know. "First I've heard of him! Do you know who he is?"
McBride shook her head. "No, guv, but I'll give Pagett a call and find out, if you like."
"Do it. Let me know what the score is. I'll be in the Slug and Lettuce." He left and almost immediately stuck his head back round the door. "And remember, don't use the office phone – call him on your mobile."
"Will do, guv." McBride braced herself and dialled Pagett's number. It rang out five times, then went to voicemail. She sighed and waited for the beep. "It's Kelly McBride, just wanted to confirm this afternoon's meeting. Can you call back to go over the arrangements with me, please?"
**********
Albert played the message back on speakerphone. "I think it's safe to say we have them on the hook," he smiled.
"Then I'll call Ms McBride and reassure her that all is well," said Mickey.
"Mick, in all fairness, I think – now be honest, people - that I should be the one to meet her. After all, you were right behind her in Oxford Street. She'll probably clock you straight off," interrupted Danny.
Ash looked highly sceptical, and Albert said emphatically, "This is a very risky con. We cannot afford to make any mistakes at this stage. Mickey is our most experienced crew member…"
"Apart from you, Albie," put in Ash.
"… and will be able to pass for an associate of Mr. Pagett's without any trouble. Fairness doesn't come into it," he addressed Danny directly. "It's all about the con, not the player."
Four pairs of eyes rested on Danny. "All right, all right! Point taken. Mickey's it."
"Thank you, Danny. Now, I'll just ring our mark…"
**********
DC McBride squeezed her way past the lunchtime crowd towards the bar, which was currently being propped up by her boss. When he saw her approaching, he looked at the clock. "Bugger." He emptied his pint glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Better get weaving," he informed his drinking companions.
McBride grimaced, and the now-familiar thought crossed her mind that she had fallen asleep and woken up in the 1970s Flying Squad. "I need a word," she shouted over the hubbub.
Once outside, she broke the news that Pagett was definitely not going to be in attendance at the meeting.
"So this Benson, what's he got to do with it? Who is he, anyway?" Hammond asked.
"He's a colleague of Pagett's, works for the same firm. Apparently Pagett's been seconded abroad, to Frankfurt, at short notice, and before he left he filled Benson in on what was happening. Let's face it, guv, all he has to do is bring the account details and hand them over. How hard is that?"
A violent spasm of smoker's cough prevented Hammond from replying, and she grabbed his arm to propel him out of the way of the traffic as they reached the other side of the street. "Right, so we're all set for that, then?" he managed to rasp.
"Yes, guv," said McBride flatly. Wasn't he at all worried by this sudden change of personnel? She had an odd feeling about it, but two years of working for a dinosaur had dulled her policing instinct and taught her that it wasn't worth trying to second-guess the boss. Well, if it didn't bother him, it didn't bother her.
"Where's Wentworth? Did you get hold of him?" Hammond rounded on her accusingly.
McBride said nothing, but indicated the Mondeo parked at the side of their office building. "Right. About time too." He got into the back seat and McBride the front, which on reflection was possibly a poor choice as it meant she was the beneficiary of the alcoholic fumes emanating from Hammond.
By the time they arrived at the Bar Du Musée in Greenwich, she had to rouse her boss from his slumber. "Coffees all round, guv?"
**********
Mickey was beginning to wonder if he had struck out, when Hammond and McBride entered the bar. He was seated at a corner table and signalled to them to join him. Hammond was too busy checking out the malt whiskies on display to notice, but his able assistant tugged his sleeve and pointed at the bespectacled and be-suited Mickey.
Hammond muttered something which McBride deeply suspected was a racist epithet, but she ignored it. She put on her best police manners and introduced herself to Mickey with a handshake. "And this is DCI Hammond, who I'm sure you've heard about."
"Yeah, Bill's not stopped singing your praises. You're the bloke that got him tickets for the England-Italy game, aren't you? Well connected!"
Hammond perked up like a pig after truffles. "If we can tie things up here today and everything goes according to plan, you'll be in the hospitality suite at Wembley next time we play at home," he bragged. The barmaid brought over the coffees that McBride had ordered, and Hammond regarded them as if she were trying to poison him.
"So, to business." Mickey rubbed his hands together. "What I have for you here" – he produced a leather portfolio – "is the bank details for a special account, set up by my colleague, for use by your good selves in the pursuit of some fraudsters. Right?"
"Indeed you are, my son. A bunch of sponging crooks who love nothing more than getting their snouts in the trough, usually other people's troughs. They deserve everything that's coming to them."
"And what you're doing today will make sure that happens," added McBride.
"I can't think of anything that would give me more pleasure than to see swindlers put away for a long time," said Mickey, with more honesty than usual. He opened the portfolio and went over the details of the bank account with DC McBride, while Hammond leeringly tried to catch the barmaid's eye.
"Seems pretty straightforward," McBride said after a short time.
"Can I get you a drink?" enquired Hammond, licking his lips.
"That's really good of you, but I must be going." Mickey rose to his feet and picked up his briefcase. "I have to get back to the office." He shook their hands. "Thanks. It's been a pleasure to help our boys – and girls – in blue."
"Thank you," said McBride, and all her unease about the operation melted away in response to Mickey's killer smile.
**********
He headed straight for the anonymity of the Jeep's black tinted windows. Ash had the engine running and as soon as Mickey got in, they took off. Mickey dialled a stored number and waited.
"Yes, I'd like to report a case of police corruption. The two officers in question are currently in the Bar Du Musée in Greenwich…yes, I do… DCI Hammond and DC McBride, of the Serious Crime Squad. I think you'll find that they have documentary evidence on them…no, I'd rather not give my name…of course, but the reward's not important. Thank you."
He snapped the phone shut, turned to Ash and smiled. "Game over."
Ash grinned and put his foot down. As the car sped towards the City, the passenger window slid silently down and a mobile phone was pitched into the Thames.
**********
"Bent coppers," grumbled Eddie as he wiped the bar counter.
"What's that?" Mickey stopped on his way over to the table.
"This." Eddie thrust a newspaper at him. The tabloid headline screamed, "Dirty Cop Cleans Up". Mickey kept a straight face as Hammond's rabbit-in-the-headlights photo stared at him from the front page. "Ten a penny," he retorted, and carried on to join the others.
They were poring over the dailies. "Listen to this," said Stacie.
" 'Detective Chief Inspector Bernard Hammond, 41, was yesterday charged with deception, theft, perverting the course of justice, and a number of other offences relating to the Financial Services and Markets Act.' "
Danny took up the story. " 'Also detained under deception charges was Detective Constable Kelly McBride, after it was discovered that they had been acting outwith the law, supposedly to catch a notorious gang of con artists.' "
He looked up, beaming. "We're famous!"