Free The Wicked Mr Hall by Roy Archibald Hall

Enjoy the rest of your life.’ With that I left. I never saw her again. In1961 she was killed in a plane crash in Brazil. The cleaning woman had it wrong, I hadn’t betrayed my friendship with Esther, she had always been a ‘mark’. She was wealthy and I was a thief, but we truly had liked each other.
    From the shop, I went straight to the Caledonian Railway Station and caught the first train to London. Back on what was now my home ground, I made my way to Cable Street in the East End. I knocked on the front door of Johnny Collins’ flat. He was pleased to see me and we had some drinks. The suitcase that I had left with him had never been opened. Honour. It wasn’t until I was back in my hotel room that I opened it. There was one particular suit that I was interested in, one particular suit jacket. I felt underneath the collar. Right at the back, at the nape point, my fingers found what they were looking for. Sellotaped there was a small key. The next morning that same small key opened up a safety deposit box in Harrods’ bank. I looked at my immediate future, the jewels that were before my eyes would have made a certain Scottish shopkeeper the happiest woman alive. The well-connected Ms Henry still had plenty of everything. Me, I had to start again, and this was my beginning.
    I rented a flat in Knightsbridge and employed a young guy to keep it clean, press my suits, and so on. I started to look round and figure out my next move. A chance meeting in a pub in Windsor brought it about. I was sitting in the bar drinking expensive brandy and luxuriating in my freedom. Only those who have known imprisonment truly appreciate freedom. There was a young attractive woman, sitting alone at a table near me. I thought I might like tofuck her; if not, maybe have some enjoyable conversation. I smiled at her and asked her whether she would like a drink. She accepted and joined me. During the conversation, all thoughts of fucking her vanished. What she was telling me meant business. She knew of a publican in Slough, who was a silent partner in a bookmaking business. This young woman had once worked for him as a barmaid. Slowly, plying her all the time with drinks, I coaxed the information I wanted out of her. The publican was rich and he and his wife were heavy drinkers. In the cellar, among the beer barrels, was a safe. All large denomination banknotes went to that safe along with his wife’s jewellery. I left the drunken girl in the pub. The less she knew about me the better. Instead, I flew to Edinburgh. On the flight back to London there were two of us. The man with me was Ambrose Carr, a safeblower, one of the best. We took rooms in a lodging-house in Slough. Every day we watched the pub, the Montague Arms. For three weeks, we observed all their habits, all their routines.
    The broadcaster Gilbert Harding was a regular at the bar. He was a gay man, very famous in his day. I became good friends with him and his lover, a director of a well-known international company. These were wealthy, well-connected men. These friendships, as with Esther Henry, were purely superficial. I was on the lookout for useful information. If I had sex, well, that was a bonus.
    I have never been frightened of dogs. The pub dog was a Great Dane, which was allowed to roam around the bar and was popular with the customers. It was especially friendly with me, although I was probably the onlycustomer in the pub who was secretly feeding it fresh raw meat from my pocket. That dog just loved me in no time. When we had seen enough, we decided to make our move. We chose a night when both the landlord and landlady were almost legless at closing time. They wouldn’t so much sleep as collapse. We waited until 3.00am before entering. The Great Dane was on us in seconds and, just as quickly, it was eating its favourite raw meat and following my hand as I led it into the back yard, down the path and into a shed, where it sat with a bag full of steak. I locked the door.