Ten bleedin' quid!

Pat held the white paper note up, marvelling that he held three months' wages between his fingers.

The DCI hadn't batted an eyelid as he handed the cash to Pat. Deadpan face, stupidly posh southern accent.

'Give this young lady of yours the banknote. We'll convene in the Crown, nine sharp. Have your boys ready. Set the bait: all your eyes on her, no cock ups, I want this bludger nicked tonight!'

Ten bleedin' quid!

The bloody cockneys must be made of money!

Betty couldn't believe her luck, when an hour later, Big Pat the copper had asked her for a drink in the Crown.

She sipped her gin whilst thinking he looked very handsome out of uniform. She'd never seen him so nervous either. Maybe this was going to be more than a professional relationship, she hoped so.

'Look Bet, I need you to do us a big favour. . . '

Her heart sank.

'Oh, come on, Pat, not another one, a working girl can't keep giving it out for free, not even to you!'

'No, no, that's not what I'm asking. Not that I would mind. . . '

He winked at her, pleased she smiled back, the idea obviously welcomed.

'No, this is official Police business. So official that I can give you a very nice wage. How does five pounds sound for your time?'

Must be a serious bucko if they were offering five quid. She thought of asking for more – saw the look on Pat's face, and thought better of it.

'A fiver, you say? Well in that case, I'm your girl! What, or who, do I need to do?'

Pat leaned forward, telling Betty of the plan that Scotland Yard, no less, had devised. There was a certain risk, but he promised they would be watching her constantly, and would swoop in when they had their man. But the risk was there and she could say no.

Betty knew he was deadly serious, was trying to warn her, kind soul he was, but five pounds, just to stand opposite the Crown alehouse and chat up a punter? And she didn't even have to diddle him.

Betty couldn't believe her luck!

She tucked the paper note into her corsetry, giving him a nice free peek, and flounced out of the pub.

Even the freezing cold rain (and the fact she had to turn down three punters) couldn't spoil her mood. Betty had always dreamed of being an entertainer, still fantasised that one night some toff from a big theatre would discover her, spend the rest of her day singing and dancing for a living.

Five pounds for a few hours would do for now, do very nicely, thank you very much.

She hummed to herself whilst she waited, aware that the bobbies were watching her through the misted up pub windows. She swished her skirts as she sang to herself, enjoying being the centre of attention. Hoping Pat was appreciating the show.

'She'd an ankle like an antelope and a step like a deer

A voice like a blackbird, so mellow and clear.'

The sound of a cane tapping the flags interrupted her rendition of 'Pretty Polly Perkins.'

Betty smoothed her skirts, pulled at her bodice, and gave her cold cheeks a pinch, taking in the well-cut frock coat, the lined cape, and the silver tipped cane.

Surely this fine gentleman wasn't the mark?

In the snug of the Crown, Pat peered through the foggy porthole in the windowpane. Betty had ceased her little jig. Pity really, she was actually a fine-looking gal. Maybe he'd ask for a quick kiss and cuddle after the night's work was done? Take her out for something to eat even? Could do a lot worse than Betty.

He watched as she primed herself, looking off to her left, Pat knew the significance of her movements, in the same way he presented himself for parade, Betty was getting herself ready for work. The target was nearby!

He nodded to Butler and Grimes. They would stagger out of the alehouse, seemingly propping each other up as they stumbled drunkenly way from the Crown. Once they has noisily turned the corner, they would halt and block off any escape.

Three uniformed bobbies from the Southern Division, all old Watchmen, always good in a fistfight, were lurking at the other end of the cobbles, deep in the shadows of the delivery bays.

Another two officers awaited in the office of the tanner's yard, three or four yards down, the area where the DCI seemed strangely positive that the bludger would strike.

Pat's heart raced as he finally realised the danger he'd put his favourite girl in.

On the street, the figure in black held out a coin, a nod of his head guiding Betty towards her fate in the pitch black yard.

The flash of a demure smile and lowered eyelashes as the deal was struck. Betty turned on her heel, happily leading the way.

Pat lost sight of them, pressing his nose to the condensation on the window, craning his neck, but they had entered the tanner's yard.

Pat grabbed his truncheon and rushed for the doors.

FWR

01.07.24 Front Page

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