CHAPTER - 6

6 

 

 After Marge had cooked us dinner, I managed to get Monkie to drag himself away from a very entertaining conversation with her so we could go and pick up the girls. The girl from the shop, Wendy, turned out to be one of those who wouldn’t stop yacking. By contrast her friend, Joan, seemed a bit… well, I don’t really know how she seemed, she was just so quiet. Her look made me think of eating beef stew with dumplings. Anyway, thinking we might have made a mistake with the chalk and cheese we stuck the two of them in the back and headed off. The thing was my heart wasn’t in it. I think I’d only agreed to call them because of Monkie insisting. The truth was I had something really meaningful on my mind that was making me nervous. Something only a trip to the doctor would resolve.

  As we were en route to Windsor I suggested we swing into the pub down by the river in Sunbury. Monkie did question the reasoning, so I told him it was like going to the bank to withdraw a few pounds of evening spending money. 

“Interesting,” he said, “I assume you know the staff.” 

“Sure, a nice guy I was at school with, Benny. He’s a financial genius when it comes to balancing tills in what is a busy cash only environment where pints pulled simply come out of a barrel with no easily definable rate of usage until the barrel is empty. Benny had noticed that in this particular pub the exact take was not equated to pints pulled, there being so many other items to influence turnover and most importantly he spotted the unusual amount of slop.” 

“Slop?” 

“Yup, that mysterious amount of beer that ends up in the slop tray. This pub makes an extraordinary allowance for slop to explain the loss of up to ten percent of a barrel’s contents. Eliminate that and…” 

“Free pints.” 

“Well, maybe, but more of an undetected financial gain that adds up to the value of just shy of ten percent of a barrel.” 

“Nice, and the till…” 

“Is reconciled by Benny at the end of the day with the slop money rolled over. The till roll is just short of the few pints that would normally have been lost in the slop calculation. The sum he makes depends entirely on pints sold which, given the lack of monitoring, he keeps safely locked up in the old grey matter. Eighty-eight pints to a keg equals a ten percent total of around eight pints. A rounded down calculation to eliminate the chance of error. A simple task for a genius. By the way, like the clothes, Benny doesn’t consider it theft but simply the recycling of a waste product particularly as the elimination of slop had increased the pub’s profits. Then there are the pickled eggs, of course.” 

“Of course… disgusting things, for sure.” 

“Exactly, but not in Sunbury apparently. The landlord’s wife makes them using eggs from her chickens in the rear yard. Packet of plain and a pickled egg being the favourite here. And there’s no price stamped on the huge jar sitting behind the bar next to the optics…” 

“Open to abuse, I assume.” 

“Quite so. Particularly as there is no input cost… Shall I mention the optics?” 

“No need, I get the picture. The place is suitably lax to offer significant opportunities that when added together…” 

“Allows for change for a fiver instead of the one-pound note offered and a free pint when I happen to drift in most Saturday nights.” 

“But where’s Benny’s benefit if he’s handing you, his spoils?” 

“Free petrol, of course, until his credit runs out meaning I get more per gallon than if I just sold it and he gains by transferring his motoring expenses onto beer and pickled eggs. A neat way to avoid the risk of actually having to extract cash from the till and an excellent outlet for my opportunist bunce.” 

“I see and, as you said, you’ll be showing me how the petrol thing works tomorrow.” 

“Sure, and like the slop there’s no actual theft involved.”  

“Well, after that lengthy explanation into how a pub actually works, I suppose we best give it a try,” said Monkie who glanced over his shoulder and noticed the two girls smiling and, like me, was probably subconsciously already regretting the impending effect on finances.   

After about twenty minutes we chugged into the pub car park and pushed the door to enter a bustling establishment. The place was old. Probably older than old King Henry hanging on the end wall of The Crown. The landlord a short plump fella with a big round red face and happy smile who looked at least as old as the pub. Sitting on the end bar stool, pint in hand, chatting to what were probably his local cronies. Seeing him, Monkie immediately understood what had attracted Benny's desire to choose this pub for employment.  

Benny, dark curly hair bobbing as he served, grinned our way as we walked in. The sole barkeep and obviously with the ability to multitask. We stood at the bar waiting for Benny to finish serving not realising that this particular Saturday night was destined to be one of continual bad decisions. Our transaction with Benny was not a problem though. We received funding and a pint and I arranged to meet him at the garage about five tomorrow afternoon, by which time I would have accumulated sufficient petrol to make good our business commitment. By ten I would have restocked enough to fill up the excuse Monkie called a car. 

The girls, though, were a different matter. They were about to become a problem and we were shortly to discover the meaning of Wendy's cash comment. They both demanded double brandies with a splash of lemonade and a pickled egg which we had to pay for and understandably made Benny grin. Within what seemed a few seconds we were staring at Oliver Twist type of looks and wondering how many rounds the girls could handle before they fell over. I shot a look of dismay at Monkie who swung his eyes to the ceiling. I was already feeling the weight of coins in my pocket reducing by the second.  

I glanced to the corner and saw two guys staring our way. One said something and I said to Monkie, “Those two… over there… they know the girls. The one with the frown said something about cost.” 

“Another one of your talents I suppose… lip reading,” replied Monkie. 

“Yeah, and we could be in luck.” I said, nodding at Joan who was looking towards the two guys hopefully seeing two fellas she fancied way more than us. Well, Monkie, anyway, because Wendy was hooked on me for sure. 

Sure enough, Joan nudged Wendy who looked at me and I saw reluctance staring back at me. I deliberately looked away, turned my back and started talking to Benny. Not being stupid it was enough for Wendy to get the message. The two of them trotted over giving us ample time to escape and successfully plug a potentially unlimited drain on resources. Those two fellas, I was sure, had already had experience of the high price tag that was heading their way and, with no reasonable escape, were probably already not looking forward to being landed with the worry of potential bankruptcy. 

We left and sharpish before they noticed. Bashed the starter motor and meandered along the bendy roads back to The Crown having decided not to risk the RickyTik given the state of our luck so far this evening. We pulled into the car park at around ten and there he was, Dodgy Donald hauling his lightweight, five foot and not a lot more frame out of my father’s car. His thin, creepy face looked ghoulish in the darkness. Narrow sly eyes slowly scanned the parked cars. Yeah, I know the name sounds corny but it must be remembered I was only nine when I named him.  

One thing I haven’t mentioned yet was that I like to write stories mostly about dubious characters. I immediately know what you will be thinking and maybe it's true. I do portray the impression of having a slightly suspect nature but I feel that has simply developed out of the necessity of connecting those stubbornly reluctant ends under the extremely difficult financial circumstances that had been forced upon me. Is that an excuse? I agree, not really is the answer, but there again…  anyway, that’s what I do. Write stories about dodgy characters. A passion that comes from all the books I read. 

Like I said I was only nine and in the middle of writing a tale about this fella Dodgy Donald. A guy who had the ability to slither through windows in the dead of night. Incidentally, I’ve a theory why it’s called the dead of night. Between three and four in the morning sleepers are at their lowest point and if you’re going to expire when asleep it’ll likely be then. Just my theory though. 

So, how did Will Cripps come to be labelled Dodgy Don? Because unknown to my father I knew what they were up to. I’ve already explained about my Sherlock Holmes-like observational skills so it’s easy to understand how I knew and I think I’ve already mentioned my father was a salesman. What I did not tell you was what line of business he worked in. Electronics. He was a wizard as far as anything electrical was concerned.  

Between him and Don they had a scam on the go. My father’s clients had expensive stocks of the latest gadgets, and he could point Don in the right direction. Then, having all the necessary knowledge, he could silence any security system in a flash if the premises were alarmed. That meant, on occasion, my father would tag along with Don to do the necessary and that’s when I found out. Late one night the two of them came in but I was already awake due to thinking about how to expand the exploits of Dodgy Don. I saw, I heard and I understood. That’s all that needs to be known. Knowledge firmly filed into the might be useful one day box and not to be mentioned until the certainty of a permanent result. And now here was Dodgy Don out at just after ten and in my father’s car. Something was up there was no doubt about that.  

Fortunately, the last thing Don would expect would be to see me mostly because he had no idea, I would be huddled down in the passenger seat of one of the most inconspicuous cars on the planet. Rough it might be but a stick out motor it was not, there being a fair supply of equally rotten cars to hide amongst. 

The thing with curiosity was exactly as the word implies. It makes people curious. So curious virtually everyone will succumb to the overwhelming desire to find out and that includes me although in this instance not Monkie so much. He was more inclined towards the have a few beers option with the hope that some lonely ladies would be inside. Although I’d only just met him it was plain that Monkie was one of those relaxed people who always had a preference but at the same time was perfectly happy to go with the flow. So, we parked in the corner of the car park, in the darkest spot, and waited.  

Eleven it was when Don came out with my father who must have already been inside. Both dressed in black confirmed my thought that robbery was about to occur. My dad drove as they headed out of town. Not so far. Perhaps twenty miles south, certainly not far enough to cause us petrol anxiety. An industrial estate just by Woking was the destination and a warehouse tucked conveniently down the end of a short, dead-end street. We pulled up at the start of the road. Getting out I walked to the corner where I had a good view. It was too dark to make out the name on the front of the building but the double doors had a big red electricity bolt logo pinned in the centre. 

Don was not dumb that was obvious. Saturday was a great time to hit a location. Everyone concerned with the place was sure to be weekend relaxing somewhere or another. Reaching the end, they swung around and parked on the road maybe fifty feet from the gate facing up the street between two other cars. Cut the lights. Turned off the engine but didn’t get out. What were they waiting for? An accomplice? Unlikely, I thought. The two of them were tight and, any intelligent villain will tell you, for every additional body more risk arises and inconvenient loose ends start to materialise.  

Hanging back beside a hedge I glanced back at Monkie. He’d turned off the engine but stayed inside the car in case we needed a quick getaway which was certain to be a tough ask. Anyway, headlights were heading my way, so I ducked into the bushes before the security van appeared. Watched it drive down the dead end and swing by the warehouse. Now I understood why Don was waiting. Regular security patrols, loads of places used them. Nip by what, every hour or so through the night. Check the doors. Swing a torch then off. What a waste of time. No villain was so dumb that they could not figure out they had a whole hour in-between visit all to themselves. More than ample to sift through the stock especially if one of the partners knew the valuable stuff and could kill the alarm. 

As soon as the van had left, they rose up from beneath the dashboard and were out. Don heading down the side no doubt to do the slithering. My old man by the front entrance, tool kit already in hand together with a small set of steps. A minute or so and the door opened. My father in like a shot. The door closed behind him then nothing. Thirty minutes later they reappeared hauling a trolley. My father ran to the car, swung it around and pulled up by the door. In with the swag and… an engine started. Not Monkie’s but somewhere close. And… you guessed it. A sudden glance and Don saw me. 

I swung a look at our car. Frantically waved at Monkie who moved. Swept out of the car, hammer in hand, flicked the bonnet catch and bashed the starter motor. Turning to stare towards the warehouse there was Don sprinting and getting closer. Looking towards Monkie, who was back in the car, I heard the engine struggle with just the odd lurching heave. Don maybe fifty yards away now and puffing hard. My father had started his car and was swinging into the street. Only a few more seconds and… I ran to the car, dragged the door and leapt in. Monkie gave the key a second turn then a third resulted in four slightly less tired successive chugs and the engine caught. 

Of course, you would have already guessed, the one downside of this motor was that, even though it had the best intentions, a quick anything was not in its repertoire. Fortunately, the hesitant starting procedure proved quick enough to allow us to slowly pull away just at the same moment Don arrived on the corner blowing hard. The trail of blue smoke I knew would obscure the number plate. I looked at Monkie who was looking at me. Neither of us smiled. We had the same thought. There was only one question: Had Dodgy Don or my father recognised me?