suburbs, then CID - a decade earlier. He was known as a diligent detective who, belying his clipped, stuffy appearance, was prepared to bend rules and take the odd risk. Although, like Butler, not strictly part of the Squad, he had been given a floating role by the Yard's chief, Commander George Hatherill, which was why he was tolerated in the Red Lion. 'Fine, Skip.'
Slipper's moustache twitched, like some insect's antenna. 'Have you got something on the boil?'
How could he know that? 'I might have.'
Slipper nudged him and Billy caught a clove-heavy whiff of Bay Rum cologne. 'Now, now. I bumped into Duke. He said you'd been busy. Wouldn't tell me what. Said it's your shout.'
Nothing got past Slipper. What they had gleaned from Derek Anderson meant putting a team together to watch the airport. It was a big number, tying up a lot of manpower, and calling on many elements of C Division. Soon it would be Billy's baby no more, but orchestrated by Commander Hatherill and Tommy Butler with someone, perhaps even Jack Slipper, in charge on the ground. He might as well enjoy the feeling of power while he could. 'Once I write it up.'
'Please y'self, son. What you having?' Slipper asked. Well past the six-foot mark, the DI towered over the crush at the bar and could easily attract the barmaid's attention. He fetched
Billy a pint of bitter and they moved to the side of the melee, up against the panelled wall, beneath the old Punch cartoon of Churchill clinging to Big Ben, swatting Messerschmitts from the sky, like King Kong on the Empire State.
Billy raised his dimpled glass. 'Thanks, Skip.'
'How's Duke?'
'Yeah,' Billy said. 'Magic.'
'Be careful, son. Good copper is Duke,' Slipper said, 'but not perfect.'
Billy supped his pint. 'Who is, Skip? Apart from you?'
Slipper grinned. 'Tommy Butler.'
'Oh yeah.'
'Although even he ...' Slipper stopped, as if talking out of turn. Then he lowered his voice. 'The word is Tommy might be moving into Millen's seat. He's a different animal. He'd rather a verbal than a fingerprint. Old-fashioned, methodical police-work, that's what he likes. Nothing involving a microscope or men with little brushes. Not sure he even trusts something as modern as photographs.' They both laughed. Buder was certainly an odd one. Still lived with his mum. But he could catch a thief, that was for sure. 'So what is it you've got?'
Billy decided he could afford to give Slipper a taster. 'It's just a snout with a score to settle.'
Slipper downed his whisky. 'Promising. I like it when thieves fall out. Right - got to get back. I'm on SPECRIMS.' This meant he had to return to the Yard and check the Serious Crime reports on the internal police communication system before he could call it a night. If he found anything important enough he might well return to clear the pubs with an all-hands-to-the-pumps order. 'You come and see me tomorrow, eh? We'll tidy up whatever you've got before we pass it along to your Guv'nor.'
CID helping a green Flying Squad boy write his report? Unheard of. But he would be a fool to turn it down. 'Right, Skip, thanks. I will.'
Another singer started up with 'I Wanna Be Loved By You'. The drinkers at the bar joined in the boo-boo-be-doo chorus.
Billy looked up at Jack, puzzled.
'Haven't you heard, son?' the older man said. 'Roy Foster is starting the Marilyn Monroe Memorial Drinking Club.'
At Ronnie Scott's Club in the basement of 39 Gerrard Street, Stan Tracey and the band were mining a piece by Thelonious Monk, excavating the quirky chord sequences with a dogged invention that had Scott himself - the co-owner - nodding from his place at the bar. The club being the size it was - it had been a bolthole for gypsy cabbies to have coffee and cigarettes between fares - this meant Ronnie was virtually on the stage with the players.
Although Zoot Sims, Dexter Gordon and a talented but cantankerous sax-player called Lucky Thompson had all graced the tiny venue in the past few months, there were
Slipper's moustache twitched, like some insect's antenna. 'Have you got something on the boil?'
How could he know that? 'I might have.'
Slipper nudged him and Billy caught a clove-heavy whiff of Bay Rum cologne. 'Now, now. I bumped into Duke. He said you'd been busy. Wouldn't tell me what. Said it's your shout.'
Nothing got past Slipper. What they had gleaned from Derek Anderson meant putting a team together to watch the airport. It was a big number, tying up a lot of manpower, and calling on many elements of C Division. Soon it would be Billy's baby no more, but orchestrated by Commander Hatherill and Tommy Butler with someone, perhaps even Jack Slipper, in charge on the ground. He might as well enjoy the feeling of power while he could. 'Once I write it up.'
'Please y'self, son. What you having?' Slipper asked. Well past the six-foot mark, the DI towered over the crush at the bar and could easily attract the barmaid's attention. He fetched
Billy a pint of bitter and they moved to the side of the melee, up against the panelled wall, beneath the old Punch cartoon of Churchill clinging to Big Ben, swatting Messerschmitts from the sky, like King Kong on the Empire State.
Billy raised his dimpled glass. 'Thanks, Skip.'
'How's Duke?'
'Yeah,' Billy said. 'Magic.'
'Be careful, son. Good copper is Duke,' Slipper said, 'but not perfect.'
Billy supped his pint. 'Who is, Skip? Apart from you?'
Slipper grinned. 'Tommy Butler.'
'Oh yeah.'
'Although even he ...' Slipper stopped, as if talking out of turn. Then he lowered his voice. 'The word is Tommy might be moving into Millen's seat. He's a different animal. He'd rather a verbal than a fingerprint. Old-fashioned, methodical police-work, that's what he likes. Nothing involving a microscope or men with little brushes. Not sure he even trusts something as modern as photographs.' They both laughed. Buder was certainly an odd one. Still lived with his mum. But he could catch a thief, that was for sure. 'So what is it you've got?'
Billy decided he could afford to give Slipper a taster. 'It's just a snout with a score to settle.'
Slipper downed his whisky. 'Promising. I like it when thieves fall out. Right - got to get back. I'm on SPECRIMS.' This meant he had to return to the Yard and check the Serious Crime reports on the internal police communication system before he could call it a night. If he found anything important enough he might well return to clear the pubs with an all-hands-to-the-pumps order. 'You come and see me tomorrow, eh? We'll tidy up whatever you've got before we pass it along to your Guv'nor.'
CID helping a green Flying Squad boy write his report? Unheard of. But he would be a fool to turn it down. 'Right, Skip, thanks. I will.'
Another singer started up with 'I Wanna Be Loved By You'. The drinkers at the bar joined in the boo-boo-be-doo chorus.
Billy looked up at Jack, puzzled.
'Haven't you heard, son?' the older man said. 'Roy Foster is starting the Marilyn Monroe Memorial Drinking Club.'
At Ronnie Scott's Club in the basement of 39 Gerrard Street, Stan Tracey and the band were mining a piece by Thelonious Monk, excavating the quirky chord sequences with a dogged invention that had Scott himself - the co-owner - nodding from his place at the bar. The club being the size it was - it had been a bolthole for gypsy cabbies to have coffee and cigarettes between fares - this meant Ronnie was virtually on the stage with the players.
Although Zoot Sims, Dexter Gordon and a talented but cantankerous sax-player called Lucky Thompson had all graced the tiny venue in the past few months, there were
Similar Books
