I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes or The Bill. This story sits within the time frame of Series 2 of The Bill (1985-1986).

Cover image: Francis Barlow (c.1626 - 1704), from "Aesop's Fables" (1666)

"Got a minute, Roy?"

"No," replied Detective Inspector Galloway, without looking up from the file he reading.

Sergeant Cryer knew him too well to be so easily discouraged. He sat down opposite Galloway, folded his arms and waited. After a minute or so, Galloway glanced up. "Things a bit quiet downstairs today, then, Bob?"

"Not specially, no," said Cryer. Galloway's eyes narrowed.

"What's the joke?" he asked.

"No joke. Only I've got something I think you'll be interested in. "

He looked too pleased with himself. Something was up. Best way for Galloway to find out what was to play along. "All right. What have you got?"

"Old bloke, brought in by Edwards and Carver. They nicked him at the Welford Street Supermarket."

"What's the charge?"

"Shoplifting, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer. He caught Taffy Edwards a good crack on the ankle with his walking stick." No doubt about it; from the gleam in Cryer's eye, and the way he was stringing this out, he was really enjoying himself.

"Well, Edwards probably deserved it, didn't he?" observed Galloway. "All the same, Bob, sticky-fingered old age pensioners are your business, not mine. Let me know when he kills someone, all right?" He couldn't miss the fleeting smirk which crossed Bob Cryer's face. "What?"

"He's asking to speak to you. Asked for you by name," Cryer added, just to make things clear.

"Is he a snout? Then he can ask till the cows come home. This wouldn't be a wind-up, by any chance, would it, Robert?"

"Straight up. He says he's got something he wants to talk to you about. Says it's important." Cryer paused, pursing his lips to keep his face straight. There was more to this than he was letting on. Galloway considered the odds, then closed the file and stood up.

"All right, I'll have a word," he said. "But if you're having me on..."

"Wouldn't dream of it," replied Cryer, following him out of the office.

"So, what did he have it away with, then?"

"Couple of tins of corned beef."

"And has he got a name, this master criminal?"

"Oh, did I forget to mention it?" said Cryer. "Name of Newkirk. Peter Newkirk."

Galloway stopped in his tracks, halfway down the stairs. "I knew it. This is a wind-up."

"I promise you, it's not."

"You're telling me, you've got old Pete Newkirk in the charge room..."

"Interview room, actually."

"...for nicking a couple of quid's worth of tinned meat?"

"I know. I had to pinch meself, and all. But it's him, all right."

"And I suppose that pair of woodentops of yours don't have a clue whose collar they lifted?"

"Give 'em a chance, Roy. Back when the crafty old so-and-so was giving Barton Street C.I.D. the runaround, Edwards was still keeping a welcome in the hillside and Jimmy Carver wouldn't have been out of short trousers. It's ten years or more since Newkirk was last in the frame." Cryer grinned, and continued down the stairs. "You know, they never managed to make a case against him," he added over his shoulder.

He stopped at the door of the interview room. "After you, Inspector."

"Oh, get stuffed," Galloway snapped back, and flung the door open.

The offender had been left under the supervision of not one, but two constables; and while young Carver looked harmless enough, Edwards wore the sullen glower of a Welshman who was starting to wonder if there might be something in this home rule idea after all. Galloway took a seat across the table from the prisoner, and glanced at the little heap of evidence lying between them.

"Two tins of corned beef," he remarked, "one jar of Coleman's mustard. What's that all about then?"

"Can't have a corned beef sandwich without mustard." Peter Newkirk leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands across his stomach, as relaxed as if he was chatting to a couple of mates over a pint.

"It's not what I'd expect of a man of your reputation. Petty thieving from supermarkets? And getting caught in the act?" Galloway clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"I must be losing my touch," replied Newkirk, shaking his head. "It's a sad business, getting old. Affects you in all kinds of ways. Take my word for it, Inspector – you are Inspector Galloway, aren't you?"

"That's right. Sergeant Cryer tells me you've got something on your mind. So have I, Mr Newkirk. And what's bothering me is why a clever geezer like you went to the trouble of getting himself arrested over a bit of petty thieving."

The old man shrugged. "Well, I'd made up my mind to come in for a chat, but it's a long walk from the retirement home, especially for an old codger with a dodgy knee. So I thought I'd get your boys to give me a lift. Mind you, it was touch and go for a minute there. They were this close to letting me off with a caution."

"So you thumped P.C. Edwards to make sure of it."

"Sorry about that, son," said Newkirk, with a friendly nod to the injured party. "Still, it's only a bruised ankle, isn't it? I'll tell you what, try rubbing it with a slice of raw onion. I had a mate, during the war, used to swear by it."

"Raw onion?" Bob Cryer put in, neatly forestalling any risk of an explosion from the outraged Edwards. "Old wives' tale, innit?"

"You want to listen to some of them old wives, sergeant. If I'd had an onion handy when I jumped out of that second-floor window in Hammelburg back in '45, maybe I'd still be able to run after the birds."

"Yeah, I've heard that yarn," said Cryer. "Visiting some German officer's missus, and nearly got caught by her husband, wasn't it?"

"I was working for British Intelligence at the time. Liaising with an informant."

"Is that what they used to call it?"

A distinct snigger was heard from Carver. Galloway send him a reproving glare before taking the interview back under his control: "All right, Mr Newkirk. You wanted to talk to me. What's it about?"

"Past transgressions," replied Newkirk after a moment of consideration. He glanced at Edwards, then at Carver. "Tell you what, I couldn't half do with a cup of tea."

Galloway suppressed a grin. He was starting to enjoy this almost as much as the old villain sitting opposite, but it wouldn't do to let on just yet. "Carver, go to the canteen and get a cup of tea for Mr Newkirk," he said. "Once you've done that, you two had better get back out on the beat. And when you get to the High Street, Edwards, call in at the greengrocer's and get yourself an onion. Can't hurt, can it?"

Carver's face fell at this dismissal, just when things were getting interesting, but at the look he got from Cryer, he took himself off, followed by an ostentatiously limping Edwards.

"So, past transgressions, eh?" said Galloway as soon as the door had closed. "Wouldn't have anything to do with all those strokes you pulled, back in the seventies?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Inspector," replied Newkirk, meeting his gaze with no sign of discomfiture.

"Oh, come off it. I'm talking about thefts, screw-ins, con jobs. A proper crime wave, all happening on your patch, all in the space of about five years."

"Very embarrassing for the coppers at Barton Street," added Cryer. "Didn't know what hit 'em."

Newkirk's eyes opened wide, and he held up his hands. "You don't think I had anything to do with it, do you?"

"The thought did cross a few minds," replied Cryer. "Rumour was you had a run-in with the head of Barton Street C.I.D. and decided on a little payback."

"On record, I had nothing to do with it. Off the record..." Newkirk glanced sideways at Galloway. "Remember that big payroll job – Meakin's, the shoe factory, summer of 1970? Detective Inspector Kelly caught the job, and he wanted a result. Didn't have a clue, of course – couldn't find his own arse in bed, that one. So he tried to fit up a couple of mates of mine for it. Not for the first time, either."

"And you thought you'd sort him out by making him and his division look like a bunch of prats?" said Galloway.

Cryer leaned back, and folded his arms. "Not just the C.I.D. Was it you lifted their Chief Super's wallet, and left it at that brothel for the Vice Squad to find? Caused him a lot of embarrassment, that did."

"Not admitting anything. But there's a saying I picked up when I was in Germany: The fish starts stinking at the head. Barton Street in those days was decidedly on the nose, and the Chief Super had a lot to do with it." Newkirk took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. "But I didn't come here to talk about all that. You don't mind?"

"Go ahead," said Galloway, resisting the urge to light up himself. "So, if you're not here to cop to that business..."

"No. This started a lot further back than that. " Newkirk drew in a lungful of smoke, let it out, and watched it curl up towards the ceiling.

After half a minute of silence, Galloway started to fidget. "Any time you're ready, mate."

"I'm getting to it. Only it's a bit complicated, and I'm not sure where to start."

"In my experience, the beginning's usually a good place."

"Ah, well, that part's ancient history."

"And getting more ancient by the minute. How about you stop wasting Sergeant Cryer's time, and mine, and just get on with it?"

"All right, keep your hair on. It goes back to the war, to begin with. Like I said, I spent a few years in Germany, in a prisoner of war camp, which was a handy place for me and a few mates to do some odd jobs for our side. Bit of sabotage, bit of intelligence work, that sort of thing. You'd be surprised what crops up in that line of work, and the kind of toe-rags you run into. Ever heard of the British Free Corps?"

"Can't say I have," said Galloway. He glanced at Cryer, who was clearly just as much in the dark.

"Not surprised. It was a bright idea the Nazis came up with. They went round all the P.O.W. camps trying to sign up some of our lads to form a unit in the Wehrmacht. Never really came to anything. They didn't get many takers, and most of 'em what did join up were only in it for the grub, the booze and the women. They certainly weren't interested in sacrificing their lives on the Eastern Front for the further glory of the Third Reich. I met a couple of them when I was – well, never mind what I was up to. The point is, they were a load of tossers."

Newkirk paused, studying the end of his cigarette. "There was this one bloke, though. Skinner, his name was. George Skinner. Nasty piece of work, a real fascist. Claimed they'd let him join the SS before the war, because he had a German grandmother. He used to go round talking about things he'd done with them in Poland, rounding up Jews and shooting civilians, that sort of thing. I thought he was talking cobblers. He was enough of a bastard, but he didn't have the bottle. All the same, afterwards I got to thinking, and I started to wonder if it might have been true. Almost wished I'd done for him while I had the chance. But I told myself he'd get his comeuppance, sooner or later."

He fell into a brooding silence. Galloway waited, but his store of patience was limited, and he was on the point of recalling the old man from wherever his memory had taken him, when a knock on the door did the job for him. Cryer got up to let young Carver in. The lad had shown some initiative; as well as the tea, he put two mugs of coffee on the table. Coffee was just what Galloway needed right now.

"Is there anything else, Sarge?" asked Carver, lingering hopefully in the doorway.

"No, son. On your bike," was all the satisfaction he got from Cryer; and he left with his curiosity intact.

Newkirk stubbed out his cigarette, and took a mouthful of tea. His hands were trembling slightly, and he laughed. "Should have had something stronger."

"Wish I could help you, mate. But they don't let us have alcohol on the premises," replied Galloway. He shot a quick look at Cryer, silently forbidding him to mention the bottle of Scotch buried in a desk drawer upstairs.

"Who'd have thought a bloke could get in a state about something what happened forty years ago, eh? But it isn't that, it's...well, I'll get to it." The old man drew a deep breath and pulled himself together. "Where was I?"

"End of the war," said Cryer. "You were just about to tell us how this Skinner bloke got what was owed. Or did he?"

"Not that I ever heard. Things got a little busy, what with the Allied invasion and all. When there's artillery shells flying in all directions, and you're right in the middle of it, you don't have a lot of time for wondering what's happening to some wally you only met once. I know a lot of his mates were picked up, because I got called as a witness at a couple of court martials. But Skinner hadn't been seen since the Red Army got to Berlin. Everyone thought he was dead."

"And when did you find out he wasn't?" asked Galloway, leaning forward across the table.

Newkirk did the same, till they were almost nose to nose. "When I moved into Edenvale Retirement Villas, and found him in residence, under the name of Henry Bartlett."

"I bet that was a surprise." Galloway spoke casually, just as though he hadn't noticed Cryer's sudden interest in where this story had fetched up. Something about that last bit of information had really caught the sergeant's attention.

"Not half. There he was, sitting in the common room with all the other oldies, bold as brass. Never been so close to throwing an old man out of a window as I was when I twigged who the old beggar was. " Newkirk sat back, and drank some more tea. "Or at least, who I thought he was," he added.

"You weren't sure?"

"It was forty years since I'd seen him, and he'd gone bald and lost an arm since then. Of course I wasn't sure. But it was him, all right." Newkirk's voice dropped to a growl.

"So what did you do?"

"Not enough. Oh, I made some enquiries. I couldn't really come and ask you lot, not after all that carry-on with Barton Street. But I went to the Ministry of Defence to see if there was any hope of putting him in the dock from their end. They didn't want to know. Not enough to go on, they said. What they meant was, we're not going to put a lot of time and effort into trying to prosecute some senile old geezer for something some other senile old geezer thinks he might have done. Not in the public interest. Let sleeping dogs lie."

It was more or less what Galloway was thinking. But after another look at Cryer, sitting back in his chair with his arms folded and a thoughtful frown on his dial, he held his tongue.

"I should have done more," murmured Newkirk. "Should have pushed it, or gone to the press, or come here. Or sorted the bastard out myself. If I had..." He trailed off, lost in his own thoughts.

Cryer straightened up. "Edenvale Villas," he said, deadpan. "Nice place. Why don't you tell Inspector Galloway what happened?"

The old man sighed. "I wasn't the only one who clocked him. There was a widow moved in, a Mrs Vincent. Everyone called her Jenny, but her name was Janina. She'd been a war bride, met an English officer in Paris after the war, and he married her and brought her back. Can't blame him, she must have been a real stunner. We got to be friends, me and her, and I even thought, maybe...well, never mind that, it's not important."

He broke off abruptly, blinking. Neither Galloway nor Cryer spoke, and after a brief pause, Newkirk cleared his throat, and went on: "She wasn't French, though. She'd been in Kraków when the Germans marched into Poland. And as soon as she set eyes on Skinner...well, she knew him, all right. She'd seen him there, with the SS. She saw what they did, and she never forgot. And she wanted him brought to book for it, even if she had to make the case against him herself. I told her I'd tried, and got nowhere, but she wouldn't let it go. She just had to go and wake up that sleeping dog, no matter what."

He paused, his eyes darkening, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough with emotion: "I can just see her now. Tiny little thing, like one of those porcelain dolls. But she had more steel in her than I did. She'd have had him, sooner or later."

"But she never got the chance, did she?" said Cryer.

"No. He made sure of it." Newkirk turned a sharp gaze on the sergeant. "You seem to know a bit about it."

"Edenvale Villas rang a bell," replied Cryer.

Galloway looked from one to the other. "Well, I'm still in the dark. Care to enlighten me, one of you?"

It was Cryer who answered. "There was an accident, about three weeks ago. Seems the lady had a sleepwalking problem. Fell down the stairs one night, broke her neck."

"Jenny wasn't a sleepwalker," Newkirk put in. "Yes, she was seen wandering round in the night once or twice, but she wasn't asleep. She was on her way back to her own flat. See, some nights she came to visit me, other nights I went to hers. Like I said, we were friends."

The fire in his eyes dared either of the coppers to comment on what those visits entailed, but neither of them took the challenge. Cryer, with no more than a second's pause, went on: "W.P.C. Ackland was on the night shift, she attended. I know she wasn't happy, because she came to me about it. She couldn't put her finger on what was wrong, she just felt like she'd missed something. In fact, she almost brought it to C.I.D., but there just wasn't enough to go on. You didn't come forward then, Mr Newkirk."

"Not then. I was - well, I couldn't think, just at first. I couldn't believe she was gone, I kept thinking it was a mistake. So when the coppers came round, I just kept stumm. But once it sank in, I started to thinking, and it didn't make sense. I wasn't expecting her that night, so I couldn't work out why she was roaming round the building. I made sure I got a look round her flat, before it was cleared out. She kept notes on everything she had on him, in a little book. She'd never have chucked it out, but it was gone. Someone must have had it, and the only one who would have been interested was Skinner. I've been thinking it over ever since, until it's practically done my head in."

"And what conclusions have you come to?" asked Galloway.

"Maybe she was coming to see me, after all. If she'd come across something, or remembered something, she wouldn't think twice about waking me up to tell me about it. Skinner might have been watching for a chance. He might even have convinced her to meet him by pretending he was ready to own up to what he'd done. Feeble old man like that, only one arm, she'd never think she was in any danger from him. But he wouldn't have needed much strength. She was tiny."

A silence fell across the interview room. Galloway leaned back in his chair, weighing up the possibilities. "Right, Mr Newkirk. Let's get one thing straight. If you've still got any hopes of seeing Skinner in the dock for whatever he did in Poland in 1940, you can forget it. What the MoD said about sleeping dogs is bang on the money. At this late date, with no evidence, no eye witnesses and nothing but hearsay, you've got Buckley's chance."

"Thought as much," said Newkirk, his expression hardening. "My poor girl. The one thing she wanted more than anything was for him to pay for what he did, but he gets let off, after all. Doesn't seem right, somehow, does it?"

"I haven't finished yet," Galloway countered. "Is Ackland in the building now, Bob?"

"No, she's in court this morning." Cryer's eyes gleamed, and a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"When she gets back, send her up to my office. I want to go over the incident report with her and see if we can't work out what it was that bothered her about it. We might not be able to get Skinner on war crimes, but with a bit of hard work, we might just make a case against him for murder."

"Well, we must be in with a chance, at least," said Cryer.

"And if that happens, Mr Newkirk," Galloway continued, "then we'll have to establish motive. We're going to have to explain to the court exactly why Skinner would have wanted Jenny out of the way. We'll want you to take the stand and testify to what you know, and whatever she may have told you, about his war record. No doubt the press will take an interest. In fact, by the time we're finished, I shouldn't think there'd be anyone in England who doesn't know who he is. Even if he gets an acquittal, he'll never get away from it. Do you think that's enough? Would your Jenny be happy with that?"

Peter Newkirk's shoulders relaxed, and a slow smile spread across his face as he considered the prospect. "I think my Jenny would be perfectly happy with that," he replied, softly but with absolute certainty.

"In that case," said Galloway, "I'd say that dog's been sleeping long enough. Let's see about waking him up."

Note: the British Free Corps was in fact an attempt by the SS to form a unit of British Empire renegades. It was not a success, owing to a shortage of volunteers and a certain degree of internal sabotage. For further reading I recommend "Renegades: Hitler's Englishmen", by Adrian Weale.

The character of George Skinner is very loosely based on Thomas Haller Cooper, although some details have been changed.