CHAPTER ONE
“Danny! Danny!” A man’s voice shouted a warning.
Danny didn’t respond. He was leaning across the passenger seat pointing a
gun through the open door, crying.
Loving arms cradled the young girl’s limp body tightly against her chest as
the mother knelt on the wet sidewalk. She threw her head back, eyes shut tight
and mouth wide open.
The warning voice shouted again. “Danny!”
Danny heard his name and moved back into an upright position. The
revolver dropped to the floor. Two men in black overalls clambered into the
back of the car while a third jumped into the front seat and slammed the door.
“For fuck’s sake, move it, you bastard!”
The voice from the back of the car was angry and edged with panic. A gloved
hand slapped the back of Danny’s head.
“You murdering bastard!”
Danny sobbed and looked back over his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, Pete?”
Everyone started shouting at the same time. The car swerved across the
road, narrowly missing a bus.
“Just drive, Danny,” a quieter voice commanded.
Nervous eyes peered through the rear window to catch a last diminishing
picture of the mother kneeling in pouring rain. She was still clutching the child
to her, screaming.
The sound of heavy breathing and the smell of sweating bodies were
cocooned inside the swaying car. Rain beat on the windscreen. Squeaky wipers
left oily streaks as they clicked and juddered back and forth.
“You murdering bastard. You murdering bastard.”
Peter kept repeating the words but there was no reply.
Danny looked straight ahead at red traffic lights. A police unit raced past in
the opposite direction with siren wailing.
“Drive straight through.” The quiet voice spoke again.
The car raced forward across the intersection.
Amid the cacophony of horns and skidding tires Peter’s angry voice
continued in its monotonous tone. “You murdering bastard.”
They turned a corner and slid sideways across glistening asphalt. Up ahead
loomed an entrance to an underpass. Everything swirled into darkness. Orange
lights flashed past like fireflies in the night. The wipers squeaked louder on the
dry screen. A white light up ahead got bigger and bigger and turned quickly into
a square of daylight.
Emerging from darkness, the rain lashed across the bodywork and tires
hissed. Danny spun the steering wheel, causing the car to bump up a curb. He
turned his head. “Still goin’ to Charring Cross?”
Raithe’s eyes focused on the face. He could feel a hand gently shaking his
shoulder.
“Charring Cross, sir?”
“Thanks.” He yawned deeply and stretched. His body ached from the
awkward position he’d slept in. The guard left him and walked on, whistling.
Raithe yawned again. Bad memories haunted him every time he fell asleep:
every time he was reminded by the guards, and every time he was beaten by
Frank Parson and his thugs. When the cell door banged shut at night he heard
the shot again and again echoing through his head.
He wiped the window with the back of a sleeve and looked out with tired
eyes. Most of the passengers had left the train and were walking down the
platform. He focused on the reflection of black wavy hair graying at the sides.
The face, once tanned and chiseled, was now lean with a sickly gray pallor to it.
It was growing old prematurely. A fresh scar, a thin red line, ran across his chin
at an angle. Hidden under his right eyebrow was a thin white line, another much
older scar, and on his right jaw was a small scab. He stood up, shivered, and
pulled the long woolen navy coat around him. The light gray suit underneath
fitted like a glove.
Using the sparsely equipped gymnasium at the prison was a daily routine.
Over six feet tall, his body had stayed lean. The workouts made him strong in the
arms and chest. He had to be. The beatings became a regular test of his
endurance. Asking for solitary, rule 43, became a necessity in the end, and
although he was not completely free from attack in the segregation unit, things
did get better.
For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he felt like a human being
again. He adjusted his tie and reminded himself to thank Harry. It was Harry
who’d bought him all his clothes and had them delivered in time for the appeal
hearing. Smart in crisp white shirt and gray suit, he took Harry’s advice and
looked their Lordships straight in the eye, never allowing his head to drop. His
counsel clinically and systematically proved beyond doubt that the police
evidence was at the very least, tainted.
Their Lordships didn’t need time to deliberate but agreed without retiring. In
his summing up, Lord Fenwick was scathing in his criticism of the police
investigation. No real forensic evidence was produced to show that Raithe
Ravell had been the actual murderer of three-year-old Amanda Stevenson. It
was also clear that the police had tampered with witness statements and
“mislaid” vital evidence, since found, that proved the fatal shot came from the
direction of the getaway car. There was a statement from a bank employee
who’d been adamant that shots were fired inside the bank. No bullet holes were
found, giving credence to Ravell’s statement that he only fired blanks in order to
frighten people.
He concluded that whilst Ravell was guilty of a terrible crime, that of murder,
planned or otherwise during the committing of a robbery, it was not his hand
that had actually killed the child. His sentence should not have been life with a
recommended minimum fifteen years; it should have been life with a
recommended minimum eight years.
The court recognizes that the defendant admitted his part in the robbery when arrested. It
also takes into account his prison record that shows him to have co-operated in reform programs
during the nine years that he has served. The Home Office is therefore satisfied that he does not
represent a danger to the public.
Raithe showed no emotion as the court released him, except a brief smile when
it was announced that there would be an inquiry into the conduct of the police.
No one had believed him. Now they would. Soon he would settle the
account. Harry warned him not to do anything stupid. There’d be plenty of time
to sort the bastard out. Harry was always right.
Raithe stepped out of the carriage, his coat flapping in the stiff breeze. He
looked up at the platform clock. It showed five past three. He fingered the
postcard in his pocket and knew that Maggie, his mother-in-law, would have
heard the verdict and passed it on to Terri. Maggie never liked him and spared
no time at all in letting him know it. He was a no-good, petty crook. That’s what
she’d called him at their first meeting.
Terri was a stunner. She never went anywhere without making up. Bright red
lipstick, long red nails and a hint of Chanel; she was the long-haired blonde with
deep-blue eyes who featured in the “Mickey Spillaine” stories. The boys in the
local club all agreed to that. Her tall, hourglass figure turned heads. Everyone
wanted her but she only had eyes for Raithe.
They were introduced by one of his friends. Within a couple of months they
were seeing each other several times a week. Maggie wouldn’t let him in the house
but he didn’t care. Terri would marry him come what may. A year later, just after
Maggie moved to Southampton, Terri married him in Stepney Registry Office.
It wasn’t until Natalie was born that he stepped inside Maggie’s house for the
first time. By then Terri’s father was dead and Maggie lived alone. She doted on
the child, and despite her misgivings about his criminal activities, invited Raithe
and the family down from London for long weekends.
Raithe never concealed anything about his business from Terri. He didn’t
have to. She never asked him about it or interfered. A month before the robbery,
however, she did.
In the back room of their basement apartment in Stepney he and the boys
met one night a week to play cards and discuss impending business. At one
particularly long meeting, Terri had unexpectedly brought some tea and
sandwiches into the room. He saw her face as Peter tried to hide the revolver.
She looked accusingly at him but said nothing until they were alone. For days she
tried to make him get rid of the gun but he wouldn’t listen. He tried to explain
that the gun was going to fire blanks. They argued and in the end he arranged
with Maggie for Terri and the baby to go to Southampton. By then Natalie was
five. He told them both he would see them after the weekend, back in
Southampton. It was not to be. The next time he saw Terri he was on remand
in Wormwood Scrubs.
Outside the main ticket hall he hailed a cab and climbed in, glad to be out of
the wind. “St. Katherine’s Dock, please.”
The cab sped off and Raithe closed his eyes. For the last week, since his
release, he’d found it difficult to sleep in the hostel room the Social Services had
found for him. For three days he sat looking out of the window, unable to
venture out and walk down the street. It felt strange watching people shopping
and walking nearby or seeing a dog pee up against a lamppost. It was as though
he were in a prison without walls.
Harry hadn’t been able to meet him right away, and they’d made
arrangements to meet at St. Katherine’s a week later. He couldn’t go home.
There was no home to go to. Terri was in Spain according to the postcard she’d
sent.
A year after being transferred to HM Prison Strangeways, he told her not to
keep making the train journey each week. It was best for her and Natalie if she
stayed at home and they wrote. She could visit again when he was moved back
south. In truth, it became more and more difficult to keep his injuries from her.
His face always had some bruise on it and she remarked on one visit about a
bandage that covered two fingers on one hand. Two cons had jumped him on
the landing and held him down. The guards watched on as Parsons, the ‘A’ Wing
cappo, stamped on the outstretched hand. They’d even cheered.
Watching Terri leave broke his heart. That was the last time they saw each
other. She said she would wait, but in the years that followed her letters
eventually stopped arriving. He missed seeing Natalie growing up, but not
hearing from her was worse. One letter after another was sent to Maggie’s
address, in case Terri had moved. Nothing came back. In the end he gave up.
That was the most miserable time of his life.
He did get a letter once a month from Harry.
The two men had first met in Harry’s shop in Hatton Garden shortly after
Raithe stole some highly valuable jewelry from a country house. The old Jew
with a genial smile immediately impressed him. Around five foot six, and
dressed in a smart, pin-striped suit, he was big physically with a balding, shiny
head and black bushy eyebrows. A large cigar was balanced precariously
between his lips as he’d studied the jewelry through thick rimmed glasses. Harry
was Raithe’s idea of what a rich Jewish businessman looked like and it excited
him to be associated with the man.
When he received the first letter from Harry he expected the old man to
commiserate with him. Instead he was surprised and a little annoyed to find that
he was torn off a strip for being so stupid. Harry left him alone for two months
before he wrote again. After that he wrote regularly. His letters meant so much,
for they were the only contact with the outside world. Although he never told
Harry about his treatment, it was Harry who suggested that he take Rule 43.
Harry knew. No one had to tell him.
“Main entrance, guv’?”
“Yes, please.”
The cab crawled along East Smithfield and stopped in the middle of the road,
opposite the dock entrance. After the traffic had cleared, the cab U-turned and
pulled into the curb. Raithe gave the driver his last five-pound note, slammed
the door behind him and walked across the cobblestones into the dock.
Lines of cruisers and yachts of all sizes swayed gently up and down at their
moorings. The Seagull, a Thames Barge, lay moored at one end of the marina.
Behind her the floating museum collection of marine craft lay lifeless and devoid
of visitors.
On one of the larger cruisers a well-built man sat in the aft deck-well reading
a newspaper. Dressed in bright orange sou’wester and green cords, he looked
oblivious to the chill air. The craft was bathed in bright sunlight from the
autumn sun while most of the quayside next to it lay in deep shadow from the
tall buildings and shops that skirted the marina. From outside the chandlers,
Raithe watched the man.
Harry Cohen was everything expected of an upper-class Jewish gentleman.
Respected businessman, pillar of society, successful and very rich, his reputation
across Europe as a first-class dealer in fine art and rare stones was
unsurpassable. His colleagues, including top executives and assessors from
major insurance companies, trusted him both as a friend and business associate.
He knew where most of the rarer pieces of jewelry and stones were and who
owned them. More importantly, he knew who was fishing in the market and for
what.
Now and then Harry would acquire certain items for the more discerning of
his clientele, especially those with huge financial assets to invest. Americans,
Japanese and royalty were reputed to be among those who enjoyed his special
confidential services.
He did business with others, too; people who supplied on demand or came
into possession of items that he could place with ease. These were people who
never attended any of his cocktail parties. Nonetheless, he had total respect in
both camps, something he had enjoyed for many years.
Raithe knew he was an exception to the rule. Educated in grammar school,
Harry told him he was impressed with his general knowledge on literature and
fine art, in particular paintings and gemstones. Harry taught him a lot once he
had earned the old man’s trust, and it hadn’t taken long to do that.
On his second visit to the shop, he was asked to wait while Harry did
business with a dealer upstairs. After several minutes a small foreign looking
man came downstairs into the showroom. In one hand he carried a briefcase and
in the other a small leather bag. Stopping at the counter to place the small bag
in the briefcase, the contents had spilled out. Raithe watched the man put the
small stones back into the bag. After snapping the briefcase shut, the man had
turned to leave.
Harry’s assistant was standing by the door, ready to see the dealer out and
into a cab. As the dealer left, something dropped from the counter top to the
floor. Raithe bent down and picked up a small diamond. The door closed behind
the dealer and Raithe dashed out into the street after him. He handed the
surprised dealer the diamond.
Back in the shop, Harry stood eyeing him, as though weighing him up. He
said nothing about the incident until the next time they met when he informed
Raithe that he would teach him a little about the business.
A little turned out to be a lot and a genuine friendship developed over the
next three years. Harry became a father figure who could be relied on for sound
advice, not only on business matters but on matters of the heart and family as
well.
Peter and James never knew that Harry existed; not even Terri knew. It was
a secret that Harry insisted he keep. It wasn’t just because of security, important
as it was for only the select few to know of his hidden talents. He didn’t like what
he’d heard about the men. Raithe and the two men were friends from the same
school, and Harry didn’t trust them. Peter was too devious, and James liked
talking about himself too much. He liked talking to other people, too, especially
women. Harry saw that as a bad flaw.
All this was before the robbery. Even though his friend still supported him,
Raithe wondered if things would ever be the same again. He’d violated the trust
they shared in each other and completely disregarded Harry’s advice. A child was
dead, and Harry would never forgive him for that.
He crossed from the shadow of the tall buildings into the sunlight and felt
the breeze on his back. There were no other people around but he felt strangely
conspicuous: the same feeling he’d experienced the first day in prison. No one
was around as he crossed the landing ahead of the guards, their feet making the
only audible sound on the grating, yet he felt a thousand eyes burning into his
back.