No Honour Among Thieves (Mature)

No Honour Among Thieves Part 33

"Sir." Masher nudged his boss with his elbow; craning his neck to get a better view from the hired cab Freddy, Tucker and he were sitting in.

"I'm aware of it." Freddy confirmed quietly; he too had seen the flash of the lantern as the cart drew up to the loading bay of the gin distillery. "We wait till they've brought in the delivery."

Freddy surreptitiously moved his feet towards the cooling hot brick, no longer heating the chilly box with any cheering effect. Jobs like this required infinite patience, and the ability to ignore the body's discomforts.

"How much grain do you reckon is there?" Masher sighed.

"A lot." Freddy answered, and in his opinion, excessive to the factory's production. "They're hoarding it."

"What does Maskal know that we don't?" Masher asked.

Beside him Freddy heard a surprised intake of breath from Matthew Tucker, and smiled. Masher Harris was an able enforcer of the law, but what he had in physical presence he lacked in mental comprehension.

"If you would care to explain, Mr Tucker." Freddy suggested smoothly.

A slight quaver of nervousness in the young man's voice betrayed fear of his large colleague. Poor Matthew had the complex task of explaining to a man who could crush him, that he was a prize idiot.

"Due to the inclement, um bad weather, it's, well, it's unlikely we will have a good harvest this year, or maybe, er, any yield?"

Freddy took pity on the stuttering lad. "And as the war years have diminished any surplus grain, it means demand is going to be high and so too will be its value. Anyone with a large store will be in a position to ask their own extortionate price."

"One thing I don't understand sir," Tucker queried. "Is if this is smuggled grain, how is it we haven't got any reinforcements from the Revenue men?"

"One of the first things you will unfortunately learn working the docks Constable Tucker, is that where there is money to be made, there will always be corruption." From beneath his lashes, Freddy's lowered eyes surveyed Masher, who had developed a deep interest in cleaning his dirty nails with a knife. "So while you're wondering why there are no Revenue men here, ask yourself how such a large volume of contraband has slipped beneath the sharp eyes of these servants of the crown?"

Leaving the youth to stew on that, Freddy checked the delivery cart had left the area. Lifting the lantern from the well of the cab, he exited onto the dark street, swung it twice and blew out the flame. In the meagre light, he heard the trundle of a wagon slowly approaching. As it stopped, he raised its curtain and indicated to the men within to get out. Silent as armed constables could, they gathered outside the closed doors to the gin distillery.

"We get in and contain who's in there quickly." Freddy instructed softly. "Mr Tucker, I need you to go straight to the office and bring anything suspicious you find to me. Masher, Bosky, if you could do the honours?"

He pulled his truncheon from his belt, a signal to other men to pull theirs. Stepping away from the doors, he allowed space for the first heavy thump of the battering ram. Stout as that entrance was, it splintered open with a beautiful crash under the force inflicted by two former lumpers.

Shouts of alarm rose as Freddy's men rushed into the breach, tramping through the still's guards like new buttercups. It swiftly became apparent to the skeleton night shift that the well trained Marine police outnumbered, and out-muscled, any defence they could muster. Very soon they were all lined up facing the wall, with only a few minor injuries for their effort.

The scent of fermenting mash and resiny junipers assaulted Freddy as he investigated the building, telling him no turpentine was used to contaminate the spirit produced. This was a quality mixture that wouldn't poison, or blind, its drinkers. But even a quality brew didn't detract from the knowledge that women like Judith Dufour would still kill their own chavvy's for a nip of the elixir.