The Dark Side of the Street

‘Dumb insolence we’d have called it in the Guards.’

‘That’s an Army charge – it won’t wash here,’ Hagen pointed out.

‘I know that only too damned well.’ Parker leaned against the bonnet of the Land Rover, a muscle twitching in his right cheek. ‘It doesn’t help matters when every con in the place treats him like Lord God Almighty.’

‘He’s a big man in their book.’

‘Not in mine, he isn’t. Just another cheap crook.’

‘Hardly that.’ Hagen laughed gently. ‘Nine hundred thousand quid is quite a bundle by anyone’s standards and not a sou of it recovered – remember that.’

‘And what did it buy him?’ Parker demanded. ‘Five years behind bars and another fifteen to go. That really must have taken genius.’

‘Poor old Ben.’ Hagen grinned. ‘He put too much trust in a woman. A lot of good men have made that mistake before him.’

Parker exploded angrily. ‘Now you’re sticking up for him for God’s sake.’

The smile was wiped from Hagen’s face as if by an invisible hand and when he replied, there was steel in his voice. ‘Not exactly, but I do try to understand him which is a major part of my job. Yours too, though that fact seems to have escaped your notice so far.’ Before the younger man could reply he glanced at his watch and added, ‘Three o’clock. We’ll have them in for tea if you please, Mr Parker.’

He turned and walked a few paces away, the Alsatian at his heels and Parker stood there glaring after him. After a moment or two, he seemed to gain some sort of control, took his whistle from his pocket and blew a shrill blast.

Below in the quarry Hoffa dropped his hammer and O’Brien straightened. ‘Not before time,’ he said and picked up his shirt.

From all parts of the quarry prisoners converged on the track and climbed towards the Land Rovers where Parker was waiting to dispense tea from an urn which stood in the back of one of the vehicles. Each man picked up a mug from a pile at one side and moved past him and Hagen and half a dozen other officers stood in a group lighting cigarettes

Hoffa took his tea, ignoring Parker completely, gazing towards the horizon where a couple of helicopters had swung into view. He moved to join O’Brien who was watching them intently.

‘Now wouldn’t it be the grand thing if they’d drop in kind of unexpected like and whisk us away,’ the Irishman observed.

Hoffa watched the helicopters drift across the distant hills and shook his head. ‘Not a chance, Paddy. They’re Army Air Corps. Augusta-Bell scout ’copters. They only take the pilot and one passenger. You’d need something a little more substantial.’

O’Brien swallowed some of his tea and made a wry face. ‘I wonder what they make it with – turpentine?’

Hoffa didn’t reply. He watched the helicopters disappear over the horizon and turned to Hagen who stood a couple of yards away talking to another officer.

‘Could I have the time, Mr Hagen?’

‘Thinking of going somewhere, Ben?’ Hagen demanded good-humouredly and there was general laughter.

‘You never know.’

Hagen glanced at his watch. ‘Three-fifteen.’

Hoffa nodded his thanks, gazed down at the contents of the enamel mug in his right hand for a moment and then walked towards the Land Rover where Parker still stood beside the tea urn.

He frowned warily as Hoffa approached and held out the mug. ‘Would you mind telling me what this is supposed to be, Mr Parker, sir?’ he said mildly.

Behind him, the voices died away and Hagen called sharply, ‘What’s all this then, Hoffa?’

Hoffa replied without turning round, ‘A simple enough question, Mr Hagen.’ He held the mug out towards Parker. ‘Have you tasted it, Mr Parker?’

‘Have I hell,’ Parker said and the knuckles of his right hand showed white as he tightened his grip on his staff.

‘Then I really think you should,’ Hoffa said gently and tossed the contents of the mug into Parker’s face.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then everything seemed to happen at once. Parker moved in with a cry of rage, his staff flailing down and Hoffa ducked under it, doubled him over with a fist to the stomach and raised a knee into the decending face.

Behind him there was a roar of excitement from the other prisoners and a moment later, he was on the ground, borne down by a rush of officers. There was a brief struggle and he was jerked to his feet, wrists handcuffed in front of him.

The Alsatian snarled on the end of its steel chain, driving the excited prisoners back, Hagen shouting for order. He got it in the end, turned and came toward Hoffa, a slight, puzzled frown on his face, all the instinct, all the experience of thirty hard years telling him that there was something wrong here.

‘You bloody fool,’ he said softly. ‘Six months’ remission gone and for what?’

Hoffa gazed past him stolidly, face impassive, and Hagen shrugged and turned to Parker who leaned against the Land Rover, blood on his face. ‘Are you all right?’

‘My nose is broken.’

‘Think you could drive?’

Parker nodded, a handkerchief to his face. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Hagen turned to one of the other officers. ‘I’m leaving you in charge, Mr Smith. Get them working and no nonsense. I expect to see some sweat when I get back.’

The prisoners were marched away and Hagen slipped the Alsatian’s lead. The dog moved across to Hoffa, sniffing at his boots, and Hagen said, ‘Let’s have you then. Into the back of the green Land Rover. Any funny stuff and I’ll put the dog on you – that’s a promise.’

Hoffa moved across the Land Rover without a word, the Alsatian at his heels. He climbed inside, sat on one of the benches and waited. A moment later Hagen joined him, closing and locking the rear door.

A small glass window gave a view of the interior of the cab. Parker’s face appeared momentarily, the brief glance he gave Hoffa full of venom. He nodded to Hagen and a moment later, the engine roared into life and they drove away.

As the Land Rover turned on to the dirt road that led across the moor, Hagen leaned across, a frown on his face. ‘All right, Ben, what’s it all about?’

But Hoffa ignored him, gazing past his shoulder through the side window across the moors, his face calm and impassive. In some strange way it was as if he was waiting for something.

Somewhere to the east of them gunfire rumbled again and the brief ominous chatter of a machine gun was answered by sporadic shooting. Hagen glanced out of the side window and saw the red berets of the paratrooopers moving across a hillside two or three miles away. Another scout helicopter drifted across the horizon and the Alsatian growled uneasily. He ran a hand along its broad flank and patted it gently.

‘Only a game, boy, only a game.’

As the dog subsided, there was a sudden roar of an engine in the west and another helicopter lifted over the hillside and swept in towards the road. For a moment it kept pace with them, so close that he could read the code name painted on its side in white letters. The hatch was open and a soldier crouched there looking out, his green beret a splash of vivid colour.

‘Look like commandos,’ Hagen said.

To his surprise, Hoffa answered him. ‘Sibe-Martin troop carrier. They can manage a dozen men and equipment. They’ve been using them in Borneo lately.’

The commando waved and the helicopter swung ahead of them, lifted over a rise and disappeared.

Hagen turned to face Hoffa. ‘You seem to know your stuff.’

‘There was an article in Globe magazine last month,’ Hoffa said. ‘It’s in the library.’