The Flying Squad [Approved]

Bradley was not of the gentle class: The labourer's ancestry was, in the days of his childhood, a subject for whispering gossips. The lad started life as a stable-boy; he graduated to the police through a variety of employments, all of which contributed something to his knowledge of life. To learn had been his absorbing passion. He might be imagined parading his midnight beat, muttering strangely as he murdered the French irregular verbs, or spending hours of leisure reading such elementary textbooks on law as were intelligible to him.

At twenty-two he was a sergeant, at twenty-three a war captain. He came back to Scotland Yard from Mesopotamia with a knowledge of Arabic, written and spoken, a small and uncleanly library of Oriental works, which he confessed he had scrounged, and two new methods of lock-picking that he had learnt from a shameless Arabian burglar who called himself Alt Ibn Assuallah. He might have held an important post in Bagdad: He has been overworking at the Rest House and I don't think the company has too good an effect on him.

I hope it hasn't worried you? I don't like him very much. He drinks, and I don't like people who drink.

Mark said something about "over-strain" and added that he had sent him back to the Rest House. He made no further reference to Li Yoseph. There were so many things about Mark that were altogether admirable. Who but he would have devoted some of his illicit gains to the moral uplift of less fortunate breakers of the law? Viewed calmly, there was something grotesque, something Gilbcrtian, in the idea, and yet the Rest House was an accomplished scheme. Mark had bought an old public-house that had lost its licence, and had furnished the hostel at a considerable cost for the use of old convicts.

Here, for a minimum sum, the old lag could find a bed and food. She thought it was wonderful of him, and would have given up one night a week to the work, but he would not sanction this. I had a devil of a time with him after you left. He's got a new craze—the Flying Squad! Every car he sees in the streets he thinks is a police car.

He wants to go out of the game, and I'm inclined to let him. But I always thought Mr. Tiser was—a sort of good man—I don't like him, but I'm so curiously perverse that good people aren't very interesting to me. I've never regarded myself as a great sinner, and I don't suppose he does, either.

Which reminds me that I shall want you to go down to Oxford to-night with a little parcel. I'll give you a plan of the road and show you where they'll be waiting for you. He'll never have the nerve to arrest you, and if he did—well, I trust you, Ann. There would be quite a lot of people who would go to prison if you talked. The drawing-room was in half darkness except for two soft, shaded lamps, one of which stood on Mark's writing-table, the other on a cabinet near the door. The night was chilly, and the red glow of the tire was very welcome. She sat down on a low stool and stretched her hand to the warmth.

For a long time she looked at the red coal thoughtfully. Again they came back to the old Jew who owned Lady's Stairs and to that tumbledown house. There were two phones there and a small house-wire.

Have a question?

Of the two, one rang with a deep, resonant note, and this was the one that Mark never liked to hear. He had some excellent agents—excellent in the quality of their services, however deficient they might be in the qualities which are usually associated with excellence, and they invariably called him on a number which was not in the telephone book.

Mark huddled up in a comer of the settee, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his head bent. He had the appearance of a man in pain. It was Ann who broke the silence. I'll go down and deal with that—". His flat was on the ground floor, and he was in the privileged position of having a private passage-way to the garage at the back. Passing through a narrow passage which opened from the kitchen, and down a short flight of stairs, he opened a door and went into the big garage.

He could afford to switch on the lights, for the windows were darkened. Ann's car stood as it had been when it was backed into the building. With a key he took from his pocket he unlocked the back panel and removed it. He then drew out the square box and the parachute, and, detaching the fastening, rolled the parachute into a ball.

He then turned his attention to the box. It had a sliding lid, which was also unfastened with a key. From the interior of the box he removed twenty-five little packets wrapped in thin blue paper. In one corner of the garage was a large galvanised steel receptacle.

It was connected to ceiling and floor by a big iron pipe. He opened the steel door and looked carefully inside. To the lower end of the funnel was fitted a cone-shaped plug, which he removed carefully and examined. The plug was of salt, and, having tested this, he returned it carefully to fill the lower part of the funnel. On this he laid the twenty-five packets, very carefully, and re-fastened the door. He bundled the parachute into a box and carried this back the way he had come, into the kitchen. In place of the usual kitchen range was a tub- shaped steel receptacle, and into the interior he dropped the box containing the parachute, and clamped down the steel lid.

The Flying Squad

Pulling open a sliding panel, he lit a match, and thrust it amidst the shavings that showed through a grating. He waited till the furnace was alight, covered the bars again, slid the panel into its place. When he returned to the sitting-room he found Ann sitting on a stool before the fire, her face in her hands. She turned her head, and he saw that something had puzzled her. What would it mean to us? Magistrates very seldom give imprisonment for first offences; usually it's a fine of a hundred pounds.

Of course, it would be rather awful for you —I mean the publicity of it—but it wouldn't be terribly scandalous, would it? The packets are so small and the profits hardly seem to pay for the motor-car service. I'm wondering if I'm not more of a danger and a nuisance to you than I'm worth. I know that that isn't the whole of your"—she hesitated—"transactions, but even with a profit of two or three shillings an ounce I hardly seem justified. For a year Mark McGill had been dreading this curiosity of hers, and for some reason his answer was not so glib as it could have been. It isn't because I want you to fetch and carry—you're useful to me in a dozen other ways, Ann.

There are so few people in this game that I can trust. My dear, you know my angle. I've been frank with you all through. Smuggling is as much a breach of the law as burglary. I am not pretending it isn't. I put that point to you—". I "Poor Ronnie was a law-breaker, and so am I. You don't suppose I'm weakening—I glory in it! He had not exactly answered her question. Before she could pursue the subject she heard the shrill sound of the house phone in Mark's room, and he went in.

He had an arrangement with the hall porter whereby all unusual callers were announced to him. Though he kept a staff of servants, they went off duty after dinner, and he had found that the assistance of the hall porter saved him many useless journeys to the door. She heard him talking in monosyllables, and then he said:. She heard a deep, gruff voice ask if the owner might come in, and when the foot of the caller sounded in the passage, Mark turned back the switch. The man who swaggered into the room might have been of any age that was between sixty and eighty.

His head was completely bald, and the polished dome shone as though it had been waxed. His beard was of a dazzling whiteness, and hung half-way down his waistcoat. Incidentally, it concealed the fact that he wore neither collar nor tie. He was unusually tall and straight, broad of shoulder, powerfully built.

In one hand he carried what had once been a white top-hat, but which was now a patchwork of fadings that varied between the palest primrose and the richest brown. A long ulster, slightly ragged at the wrists, covered his massive frame from shoulders to shoes, which were enormous, odd and patched. He looked round the room with a certain haughty condescension which should have amused, but only added to his awesomeness.

A rare man to hounds, and a deuce of a feller with the wimmin—". A mere nothing, but the members, like the good fellows they are—". The cost in omnibus fares was considerable, but that is a matter we will not discuss. A man of my training and experience would hardly wrangle over a question of eightpence, nor, I am bold to say, would a man of your attainments, birth and education.

Sedeman courteously—"He has climbed above the eight mark. I had my doubts as to whether it would be advisable to come to you or whether I should seek out the young lady with whom he is, I believe, on terms of the deepest affection. You may have seen her —she is a suicide blonde. Sedeman took up his hat, smoothed it very carefully with his greasy elbow, ran his long fingers through his white beard, and sighed.

Mark put his hand in his pocket, took out a piece of silver, and almost threw it at Mr. Sedeman; but the old man was in no wise distressed; he favoured the girl with a flourishing bow, strode to the door, and turned. Then he went into his room, and she heard him calling a number. He came away from the instrument to close the door; this was unusual in Mark, who had, she imagined, no secrets from her, and yet had taken this precaution twice in one night.

Ann Perryman was uneasy, and she had tried unsuccessfully during the past month to find the cause for her mental unrest. It was not conscience that was working: She had no compunction, gloried in her work, but—always there was that but—Mark's arrangement with her was on the strictest business footing; he neither asked nor expected favours; her salary was regularly paid, the bonuses which came her way were modest.

Only the cold-blooded regularity of their relationship made this strange life of hers possible. In many ways Mark was a careful man: This latter arrangement she rather resented at first, until he explained that until he knew where she was and what she was doing, he could not be sure that she had escaped the shadowing detectives. She saw his jaw drop, and he went quickly to the wall. Pushing back a panel, he revealed the green face of a little safe, which he opened, taking out an oblong package.

In five minutes she was back in her leather driving-coat. Yet he was reluctant to surrender the package.

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Bradley—they may all be in it. I don't want you to take the risk. Yet she knew instinctively he did want her to take the risk, and wanted very badly to have that package out of the house. Naturally I shall stand by you, and if you bring me into it—". He turned to relock the safe; she thought it was to conceal some emotion which was expressed in his face—apprehension or—. Mark was puzzling her to-night. Something had happened which had thrown him completely off his balance.

SHE made her way down to the garage, put on the lights and examined the petrol tank before she threw open the doors and, knocking away the chocks, let the car roll of its own volition down the gentle incline to the mews. She closed the doors and took one quick survey left and right. There were two ways out, that which led into New Cavendish Street and that to the street that ran parallel.

She decided on the latter route, sent the car quickly over the uneven paving of the mews, turned back to Portland Place and ran steadily and without check into Regent's Park. She followed the Outer Circle, making the widest detour, until she came to Avenue Road, and a few minutes later she was speeding up Fitzjohn's Avenue to the Heath. The straight road to Oxford, which would take her through Maidenhead and Henley, she avoided, and came by a little- used road to Beaconsfield and Marlow.

Henley was more difficult to avoid. She ran through the wide main street at a leisurely pace, and, as she believed, unobserved; had reached the foot of the long, wide, tree-lined Oxford Road, when she heard a voice shout at her. She turned her head quickly. Drawn up in a side lane was a big car, its lights burning dimly. She saw three men standing at the end of the lane rush for the machine as another jumped towards her footboard.

He missed, and almost at the same moment she saw the other car swing out of the lane and the men who formed its crew scramble aboard. She stepped on the accelerator and the machine leapt forward. There was need for haste.

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Somebody in the pursuing car was signalling with a red lamp to "stop. She had a clear road and only one crossing to chance—she came in sight of this at eighty miles an hour, She ignored the frantically waving danger lamp and flashed across the bonnet of a swift Rolls that was coming at right angles with not more than a foot to spare. Behind the Rolls she saw, out of the tail of her eye, the flickering lights of a big lorry—that would block pursuit for a minute. The mirror fixed at the side of the windscreen showed her the lights of the police car now ablaze swerving—skidding, probably, under a sudden application of brakes.

A distant "plop"—a burst tyre; nothing else could make that sound. Now she had careened round a sharp bend of the road. Half a mile away were two rows of cottages flanking the road, and she knew that beyond there was a crossing, and in the daytime a policeman. Short of the cottages a side road ran northward, and this was only safe if she could negotiate the little village which she knew lay midway.

She always thought of this village as a bead through which ran the narrowest of threads. Her speedometer was down to forty-five, and, looking back, she could see or hear nothing, though she might well be deceived, for the narrow road twisted and turned. Here was the village ahead of her—she dropped to twenty. Yet another policeman appeared out of the darkness—a mounted man, whose horse grew restless in the glare of her head-lamps.

He had heard nothing apparently—and waved her on. And then she heard the shrill of his whistle and increased her speed. On the farther edge of the village the road ran straight and the surface had been recently made up. She stepped on the pedal and hew. It was pitch dark the lamps turned the road and the fringing hedge into a lane of gold. There was a bridge over a deep stream. She slowed for the hump of it; and then, right ahead of her, she saw two blazing lights appear, and above these the little green lamp which advertised the profession of its passengers.

She had to decide quickly. There was no room to turn the machine —if that mounted policeman's whistle meant anything, it meant that she was being followed and that he had received some signal to hold her. She knew that the Buckinghamshire police had a code of rocket signals to meet the depredations of motor bandits.

Switching off her lights, she stopped the car dead on the crest of the bridge, took out the package she was carrying, and, peering into the night, flung it into the swollen river. Then, restarting the car, she went on at her leisure. The car coming towards her was moving as slowly and keeping to the crown of the road. Turning her head-lamps on full, she sounded her klaxon, but the machine ahead did not budge.

There was nothing to do but to stop. Both cars halted together, their bonnets within a few inches one of the other. She saw two men approach and come running towards her, and heard a hated voice. The stout man with his bristling moustache she had not met since the day he brought her the dreadful news of Ronnie's end. She struggled to free herself, and he released her. But she was now visible in the light of the electric lamps that were focussed on her.

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The man who had taken charge of her machine backed it almost into the hedge to give them a dear passage. As they passed, Simmonds shouted:. I don't suppose you knew what you were doing, or else you've been led into this by others. A very sententious man was Sergeant Simmonds of the bristling moustache; but he was not a good actor. He was in truth the most obvious of kidders. Miss Perryman, and I'll make things easy for you.

I'm going to mention no names, but I know you're doing something which you wouldn't do if you knew what it was you were doing. You know, a young lady like you oughtn't to be running around the country at this time of night; you're liable to meet all sorts of unpleasant people—". We're not so bad, Miss Perryman—we're doing our duty. We're here for the protection of the citizen, his life, property and personal belongings. A lady like you ought to give us all the help you can, instead of—".

I don't remember a case of a driver being summoned for speeding at night. Sergeant Simmonds was well aware of his difficulty. Magistrates are chary of accepting evidence of identification. Cars on that part of the road where she had been chased were fairly frequent and difficult to identify; besides which, she was coming in the opposite direction to that she had been following when he had chased her.

All I want is five minutes' talk with you. Just tell me who you were going to meet and what you had to deliver, like a sensible young lady, and you'll never see the inside of a police court. You're not beating me, are you? She answered no further questions, and after a while Simmonds sank back into the corner of the car and dozed for the remainder of the journey to London.

They took her to the little police station which lies in Scotland Yard. Ten minutes later a cell door clanged upon her. The clock at which he glanced every few minutes pointed to two. No message had come through from Ann; he had been on the phone to one of his agents at Oxford and had learned that she had not arrived. That was hardly alarming. Ann was clever, and would make a long detour, avoiding the points at which the Flying Squad might pick her up.

But he ought to hear from her soon. The Oxford man had promised to telephone again, but the instrument had been silent for an hour. Ann was getting a little difficult. He knew that her faith in him had been shaken. Try as he did, he could not flog her into the old enthusiasm for vengeance. Many causes were operating against Mark McGill. The pitiable cowardice of Tiser was one of these; the fear of the man seemed to translate itself into doubt; and he had noticed that the girl was never brought into contact with that shivering confederate of his but she became a little more sceptical.

He looked up quickly. There was a buzzer in the hall and it had sounded three times. Walking to the window, he peered out. Cavendish Square was deserted and no car was in sight. It must be Ann—she always pressed the second button concealed beneath the ordinary bell-push and invisible to the casual visitor. He passed into the hall, opened the door, and took a step backward at the sight of his callers. Bradley was there, and behind him two of his bulls. I really must put in an assistant to Tiser.

Did you want to see me? McGill's self-possession was amazing, he thought. It was also a little disappointing. Obviously he had come too late. He would not smile if he had any fear that this visitation would be followed by unpleasant consequences. Mark walked straight to the desk and turned one of the two switches that were affixed to the table. You gentlemen left it open, and I'm rather susceptible to draughts.

He turned the control lever, and the man standing in the doorway verified McGill's statement. Bradley turned the other. Either of them operates the door. For an hour and a half the detectives searched and probed, turning every article out of every drawer, inspecting wardrobes and cupboards, turning back mattresses, sounding panels. McGill washed with amusement the search of the room in which he was sitting. After a while he put his hand in his pocket and took out a key.

Bradley took the key without a word, opened the safe and inspected its contents. When he had finished;. In the kitchen Bradley saw the iron furnace. It was still warm. He opened the little steel door and prodded amongst the still glowing embers. Inspector Bradley's lips twitched: He saw McGill frown and was relieved. Before he could make a rejoinder, Bradley pointed to the door leading to the garage. He followed McGill down the stairs, waited till the lights were switched on, and then looked around.

There was a sound in the little building—the sound of rushing water. Presently he located it. It came from the interior of a cigar-shaped container of galvanised iron. He could see nothing in the light of his handle lamp except the glitter of falling water. Pulling up his sleeve, he reached in his hand till he came to the bottom of the container, where he found the place of egress: In a corner of the garage was a big cylinder of brown paper.

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Bradley tore the paper cover and drew out a white crystalline slab. It was round and perforated at regular intervals with holes as big as a sixpence. This he smelt, and, wetting his finger, rubbed it along the top and tasted it. He pushed the disc into the container and laid it on the bottom. In a few seconds it had dissolved and disappeared. At the first hint of danger you start water running —the switch, of course! Where is Miss Perryman? It is, I admit, a relief to find a police officer with sufficient imagination to invent stories, but it is also rather trying—".

Mark stood absolutely still, not a muscle of his face moved, by not so much as the lowering of his eyelid did he betray his concern. Ordinarily, Mark McGill would have been suspicious, but for the moment he was rattled and did not even consider the possibility that Bradley might be bluffing.

If she says she got them from here, she is lying—where did you find them in the car? He had hardly spoken the words before he realised his error. Ann would have thrown away the package at the first sign of real danger. He was telling the detective what even the girl did not know—that the car contained something more than Ann Ferryman realised. To give him what credit was due.

Mark McGill had, in a half-hearted way, endeavoured to minimise the risk which Ann so often ran. In nine cases out of ten she carried an innocuous package of common salt in her journeys to the country. The real "cargo" was hidden in a specially constructed cupboard let into the side of the car and concealed behind the leather lining. Ann had certainly carried a dangerous load to Oxford that night, and he trusted her native wit to get rid of it if there was the slightest danger of detection. In the presence of Bradley, he recalled an alarming circumstance. A week before he had sent her to Birmingham, and the hollow side of the car had contained a fairly large quantity of cocaine.

There was always a man to meet Ann at her destination and garage her car. It was then, unknown to her, that the real cargo was removed. But something had frightened the Birmingham crowd; she had not delivered the package she carried, nor had the car been met. Neither Mark nor his lame mechanic had removed the stuff: He had not been greatly troubled by the fact; the car was as good a hiding-place as the container.

Some time after Ann had left it had occurred to him that the Oxford crowd might relieve the car of its contents, and probably be surprised to find such quantities on their hands..

The Flying Squad

But that was a matter which could easily be adjusted. She was taking a trip to Oxford —where is she? I presume you wish to offer bail, and I'm telling you in plain English that I shall oppose the bail. I've tried my best to save that young lady, but she's in the limelight now and I can do nothing.

If she will oblige me in that respect I'll undertake to draw a red line under all her troubles. His tone lacked the vehemence that Mark expected; it was almost mild in comparison with the nature of his threats. And Mark, who had a knowledge of men, realised that he had before him one whose mind was occupied with another problem. He was talking of one thing, and his mind was groping in an entirely different direction. Mark saw him to the door, stood on the pavement whilst the police tender drew up noiselessly to the kerb, and watched it till it disappeared in the direction of Oxford Street.

There was a solicitor, a creature of his, a man whom he had promoted from the precarious livelihood he gained at a South London police court. Him he had installed in a respectable suburban villa, and had almost completely cured of his reprehensible habits. He spoke to the man on the telephone. Durther arrived at half-past three, a hollow-faced man, whose hands everlastingly trembled.

I want you to see her in the morning, brief the best counsel to defend her, and see that she has everything she requires. She will probably be charged at the Southern police court. When you see her, tell her that there is nothing to fear if she keeps quiet and refuses to answer questions. Another thing you can rub in is the fact that Bradley will move heaven and earth to get her convicted.

After the solicitor had left Mark brewed himself a strong cup of coffee, took a cold bath, and sat down to wait for the hour that would bring the report of the solicitor. Bradley went back to the garage where Ann's car had been deposited. He dismissed his men after the been wheeled out into the yard, and with the aid of his hand torch, he began a careful search of the car. It was not difficult to find the box under the seat, or the method by which the contents of that box could be removed from the outside.

The receptacle was empty. He searched the tool-box, with no better result. He had almost finished his inspection when it occurred to him that the leather upholstery along the roof was a little more elaborate than was usually to be found in cars of this type. This he probed inch by inch. There was a pocket on each side of the door, but he had already felt in these without result. He felt again, and this time he realised that the door was thicker than seemed absolutely necessary. Lifting the pocket which hung loose, his lamp went up and down the leather.

There was a distinct square patch here. He looked under the pocket of the other door and found the same feature. There was no necessity for a patch in the middle of the door, unless it represented an opening of some kind. He prodded with a pocket-knife, and the point struck steel. And then, quite by accident, he found the hiding-place. He was raising up the covering pocket, and must have exercised more than usual pressure, for there was a click, and the square of leather opened like a trap. Inside he saw a dozen flat packages packed tight.

These he removed carefully before he made an attempt on the second door. He wasted little time here, for he had learned the trick. The upward jerk of the pocket released a spring, but this time the hidden cupboard held nothing. He tried the front doors of the driving space, but evidently the secret receptacles were confined to the saloon portion of the car. Carefully he stowed away the packages in his pocket, re-closed the trap and pushed the car back into its lock-up garage.

He had a queer sense of thankfulness which he could not quite understand. Why should he be so pleased with his discovery—a discovery which would hopelessly incriminate the woman who occupied his thoughts day and night? It wasn't that at all, he discovered: He was shocked to realise this. He did not return to Scotland Yard, but hurried to the modest flat he occupied. Letting himself in, he switched on the lights in the dining- room and locked the door before he removed the small parcels from his pocket.

One of these he opened—there could be no doubt as to what that crystalline powder was which sparkled under the overhead light. He wetted his finger and put some of the stuff to his tongue. For a long time he sat staring at the deadly drug, and then the phone rang. The sound of the bell made him jump. He hurried to the instrument, more to stop its continuous ringing than with any eagerness to stop its continuous ringing than with any eagerness to learn who was at the other end.

He recognised the voice of his superintendent. We've just had a squeak in from Oxford—one of these coke merchants says hat we'll probably find a parcel of the stuff hidden in hat girl's car. There's a secret pocket in one of the doors. I'll send Simmonds down—". He hung up the phone, came back to the table and eyed the packages. Whatever decision he made must be made quickly.

He went out into his little kitchen and had a look round. A woman cook-housekeeper came daily; she was a methodical and frugal person, and he knew she bought articles in large quantities. The flour bin was half full. He could substitute this for the stuff And then the absurdity of the exchange struck him and he laughed.

And in that laughter he took his decision; went quickly back to the sitting-room, gathered the packages, brought them into the kitchen, and poured their contents into the sink. For ten minutes he stood, watching the water dissolve the white powder. When it had all disappeared, and he had burnt the paper, he put on his coat and hat and went back to the garage to search for something which was not there. An hour later he went to report to his chief, and found that that wise man had left the office for his home.

It was no exaggeration to say that John Bradley stood aghast at his own amazing dereliction of duty. If anybody had told him that night that he would have wilfully destroyed evidence in a most serious case for the love of a prisoner, he might have laughed, had it not been that always at the back of his mind was the uneasy conviction that sooner or later Ann Ferryman would come within the purview of the law.

She had made some faint attempt to be pleasant, but she was a bad actress. Flying Squad was as much known for the haunting melody of its theme tune during the opening and closing credits as it was for its programme content. The opening sequence featured a blue and black monchromatic animation of the wings of a bird of prey superimposed over real programme footage. The series was produced and directed by London born director Robert Fleming and narrated by Alexander John.

The series was produced by the same production team who produced the television series Murder Squad. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Retrieved 4 September Retrieved 6 September Armed robbery remains its key focus, with moped smash-and-grab raids and deliberate gas explosions of cash machines both recent trends. Much of its success has come from building up a wide network of informants. Its swooping eagle emblem is symbolic of the way its officers swoop on criminals with speed. Many of the most dramatic raids of recent times were carried out by the squad.

Our exclusive front page showed a cuffed crook sat with a rueful expression, summing up his surprise at being caught. Retired Flying Squad boss Barry Phillips, who led the surveillance operation that got the arrests, said: In doing that, it drove criminal activity right down. We were watching them for a long time in a van. We were all waiting for the lorry with the bullion on board. It was months of work, developing intelligence. Flying Squad officers arrested 17 of the 19 thieves responsible for the Great Train Robbery.

And, in the biggest operation in Flying Squad history, it foiled a plot to steal jewels from a diamond exhibition at the Millennium Dome in In November that year, five robbers armed with smoke bombs, ammonia and a nail gun, crashed into the dome with a stolen JCB excavator and smashed through to the vault. Some of the officers were positioned behind a dummy wall, and others were dressed as cleaners with their firearms hidden in black bin bags, or rubbish bins, along with officers in dome staff uniforms.

A further 60 armed Flying Squad officers were stationed around the Thames, and 20 on the river itself, to hamper any escape attempts.