OPERATION BENT SPOKE

Robert Gore-Langton explains

why he paid ransom to rescue an inanimate hostage

BICYCLE THIEVES in Brixton are, as Frankie Howerd would say, about as subtle as a Roman orgy. Not only do they steal your bicycle but you are quite likely to see them shamelessly 'hotting' it around the neighbourhood. Car theft is now so brazen that reports are filtering through of vehi- cles being stolen with their owners still inside them. Lambeth police, presumably fully employed in filling in stolen car forms, have come to regard mere bicycle theft as not so much an offence, more a way of urban life. The only recourse against the bicycle rustlers is, as I discov- ered, to deal with them personally.

In my case the crime was invited: I had dropped in on my local off-licence, stupid- ly leaving my new bike unlocked outside. In a matter of seconds I reappeared to find the thing had vanished. The cluster of teenagers on the nearby wall had appar- ently seen nothing. I decided the only thing to do was to offer a ransom. My insurers would take a dim view of a second claim within a week. (My previous bike had been taken from a locked shed by three ten-year-olds in the middle of the night. I know, because my neighbour saw them run off with it.) So I duly handed out my phone number to any youth I could see with mention of a £50 reward for the return of my bicycle. £50, I hoped, was probably as much or more than the local fence would pay.

A call came through next day quaintly asking for 'the man of the house'. 'I've got a friend who knows who's got your bike. Except he wants 70 quid,' a voice mut- tered. I reiterated my original offer and angrily told him to get stuffed. 'I'll see what I can do,' said my unchastened con- tact. 'Meet me in half an hour from where it was lifted.'

It was at this point that I decided to ring the police for a little moral support. On hearing my plan, the desk sergeant audibly drew breath like a builder being asked for an estimate. 'You've given them your phone number. Big mistake, sir!' he said gleefully. 'Never hand out that sort of information — they could trace your address and things could get nasty.' (Actu- ally, it's extremely difficult to trace an

address from a number.) As an idle after- thought, he suggested that I might take a camera and try to get a picture of them. Great idea, I thought to myself. I'll take my tripod along and ask them to say cheese. 'If you do go,' he finally said, 'we'll send a car round, but you'll have to report the bike stolen first.'

I declined the offer. The police-car would, of course, blow the whole deal and I would certainly never see my bike again. This was strictly a plain-clothes operation. I persuaded my neighbour to accompany me, giving him instructions to look mean and dangerous, an easy job, I thought, for a permanently unemployed musical direc- tor. We soon stood like a pair of fools, waiting on the kerb by the shop. Two small black schoolboys walked past and asked if we were detectives. Unconvinced by our reply, one then asked, `D'you like cops, then?' We said that we didn't know any. They sneered and walked off, swing- ing their satchels.

It was getting on now, and my neigh- bour decided to leave me to it; something about a rehearsal I knew he didn't have. Within a few minutes, two likely lads sidled up and asked me if I was 'the bike man'. 'It's still 70 quid,' said the tall one. I started to walk away. 'Okay then, he says he'll take 50,' came the hasty response. 'Give us the money and we'll get your 'In my young days we used to be a great nation.'

bike.' Wising up, I demanded to see the 'merchandise' first. Not for nothing have I seen The French Connection twice.

Soon my beloved bike appeared around the corner, pushed by a gang that looked as if it had stepped out of a multi-racial Eal- ing comedy. There were a dozen of them. It is a persistent myth that under-age crime in Brixton is committed by blacks. Around here, the gangs that do all the thieving con- sist of a mix of every racial group that the census has ever dreamt of. In my district, street crime, Lambeth town hall will be pleased to know, is a fully multi-cultural, equal-opportunities activity.

It was now time for the swap. I insisted I got on the bike before the money was handed over. But any thoughts of doing a nifty bunk were soon quashed. We were in an alley of sorts and the bigger chaps (they were looking bigger every second) had blocked my only exit. Each of them had a hand on the frame. There was nothing for it. I gingerly produced the money from a top pocket and handed it over to the teenage Mr Big.

By now I was most certainly not enjoying myself. As the money left my hand, I start- ed to push off. `Uh uh,' came the commu- nal grunt, meaning I wasn't going anywhere. But to my relief, I had simply forgotten the ritual counting of the tenners. The tall one soon gave me the all-clear, and they let me go with a few triumphant jeers and whoops. Pedalling home, I was elated. I don't know why: after all, I had just paid good money for the return of my own bicycle. Anyway, the feeling didn't last long. I soon noticed that the lock was miss- ing. It cost £30 and, as I had both keys, the thing was useless to anyone except me. It quite ruined my mood.

Later that evening, I met another neigh- bour, Charlie, an unemployed Irish survey- or. I told him how I was intensely annoyed that I had been robbed and then cheated out of my lock. Don't get mad, get even, was his motto. His idea was to mount a frontal raid on the estate, in a van filled with burly Irish plasterer chums fuelled up on Guinness that I would supply. I admired his plan very much but decided it would perhaps be wiser and cheaper to negotiate. Together we walked back to the estate.

All the lads we had dealt with spied us from afar. One key player, a pizza-faced Scottish lout, emerged with a manky alsa- tian called Reefer. The gang by now started to coalesce into a loose pack. But far more terrifying was their reserve force. Bustling up behind, threatening everything in sight, came a cohort of mothers. One huge, sour- faced woman emerged in carpet slippers with her muscly arms folded. She looked as though she could have sucked the corners off a house-brick.

Our enquiries were absurdly polite. 'Could anyone perhaps, er, possibly by chance, have seen a lock that might possi- bly have got lost?' I muttered to this wall of flesh. One boy said the lock had been thrown away. His mother roundly abused him for interrupting. Realising we were not police, she walked away, deeply unim- pressed by us. In retreat, I lamely said to anyone listening that there would be an extra fiver for the return of the lock. We would be in the local pub.

Before we had walked over the thresh- old, a ten-year-old boy came sprinting over, the item in hand. I would have given him a Dock-Greenish on-your-way-now- !addle thwack on the ear, but I remem- bered his mother. I paid up. Over drinks, I counted up the cost of Operation Bent Spoke. My pride was, admittedly, a com- plete write-off, but the bike had been retrieved intact and with no loss of life for £55. Best of all, I didn't have to argue a futile case with my insurers. There's one other bonus. I am looking forward to telling that desk sergeant that I have knowingly taken possession of stolen goods, while withholding my name and number, as he previously advised.