Charlie thrust the radio into his brother’s chest. ‘I said no,’ he shouted, then turned and strode towards the back door. ‘This is my crew. Take the radio and do what I fuckin’ tell you. End of discussion’.
Charlie, Mike and Roger were already sitting inside the Transit van by the time Eddie made his way down.
Gary stood outside smoking. ‘Hurry kiddo,’ he said in a hushed tone, then dropped the cigarette butt and ground it into the dirt with his boot. He waited for Eddie to climb into the van, then closed the door behind him. There were no seats in the van, so the crew sat on the ribbed, metal floor with their legs outstretched for balance.
Eddie lowered himself down opposite Roger, who was working his way through a packet of Wine Gums. He held up the bag to Eddie.
‘Want one?’ he said. Eddie shook his head and looked at Charlie, who was sitting up against the bulkhead behind the driver’s compartment. He had his eyes closed.
‘It’s for the best,’ said Roger. ‘You being up in that factory, watchin’ out for us. And if it does go up shit creek, at least you won’t get caught’.
Eddie did not reply. Somehow, he doubted that Charlie’s last-minute change of plans had been driven by a desire to protect his brother.
They arrived at the Wheatsheaf just over thirty minutes later. It was still dark, and one of the East End crew guided them in with a small torch. Gary got down from the driver’s seat and walked around to the van’s rear door, which he opened to let Pickering and his crew in.
‘Morning, ladies,’ said Pickering as he clambered in. ‘What, no, cushions?’ He sniggered. He sat down next to Roger, then pulled his pistol out of his shoulder holster. It was a Browning High Power, the standard-issue sidearm that Eddie had carried when he was in the army. Pickering pulled the magazine out, examined it and pushed it back in, then put the gun back in the holster. He looked at Eddie and winked at him.
‘All set?’ said Gary.
‘All good,’ said Charlie.
‘Right, let’s get this show on the road,’ said Mike then banged on the van’s inner wall. They set off once again, Gary driving more cautiously than before as they made their way towards Heathrow. They pulled up to the rear of the old Lucas factory after ten minutes.
‘This is your stop, Ed,’ said Charlie. ‘We will wait here until you are in position. Give me a squawk when you’re at the window’. Gary opened the rear doors, and Eddie pushed himself up to his feet, then clambered out of the van.
‘Channel twenty-seven, remember?’ said Charlie.
Eddie nodded and looked into the van full of men. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
‘See you later, soldier boy. Enjoy the show,’ said Pickering as Gary closed the doors. The van pulled away as Eddie pushed the rusty metal gates open, then jogged towards the factory building. He made his way up to the top floor, to the same position where he and Charlie had sat the previous day, and opened one window a few inches. The road was deathly quiet, save for the mechanical whirring of a ventilation fan in the depot opposite. He depressed the button on the radio for a second.
‘All clear?’ replied Charlie in a whispered tone.
‘Roger that,’ replied Eddie.
‘We’re moving in now’.
Eddie shifted his position to get a more unobstructed view of the scene outside. A minute later, he saw the van appear at the end of the road. It continued to trundle towards him for a few seconds, then pulled over to park a hundred yards from the depot. He depressed the radio’s send button. ‘I see you. Sit tight’.
Eddie looked at his watch. It was approaching seven o’clock. Angus was on an early shift that day and would send his signal - several flashes from his torch - from the guard’s first-floor toilet window as soon as it was clear for them to move in. He put his hands into his jacket pocket and fixed his eyes upon the depot.
Except for an Express Dairy milk float that trundled by, there were no signs of activity in or around the depot for over three-quarters of an hour. Eddie had to fight off the desire to doze off. The morning sun had risen high enough now to illuminate most of the interior of the depot when one guard emerged from inside the depot building and sauntered around to one of the parked vans. He leaned against a wall and lit up a cigarette.
‘I have movement. One guard is having a smoke,’ Eddie whispered on the radio. ‘Might be the CCTV operator’.
‘Is he a fat fucker?’ said Charlie.
Eddie looked at the guard, who was certainly not a skinny man. ‘Well, he’s quite big. But he ain’t what I’d call porky, no’.
‘Angus said the CCTV guy is proper huge’.
‘It’s not him then,’ said Eddie.
‘Roger that,’ said Charlie.
Eddie peered at the second-floor toilet window above the man, waiting for the signal. Nothing. The man in the yard finished his cigarette and let himself back into the brick building, closing the door behind him. ‘The smoker’s gone back inside,’ said Eddie.
He placed the walkie-talkie down onto the window ledge but then caught sight of the first of several bright torch flashes coming from the toilet window. He reached into his parka pocket and pulled his own torch, a chrome-plated Maglite, and sent several flashes back to acknowledge the message. This is it, he thought, then grabbed the radio. ‘Contact made, repeat contact made. Acknowledge’. He poked his head out and looked towards the van.
‘Did you get the signal?’ said Charlie over the radio.
‘Confirmed. It’s on. Move in’.
‘Roger that. We’re moving in’. The Transit van pulled away from the kerb and crept towards the depot. It stopped next to the building’s rear entrance, and the radio squawked. ‘Clear to go?’ said Charlie.
Eddie scrutinised the depot, then pressed the transmit button once again. ‘Clear to go. Repeat, clear to go, over’.
Almost immediately Eddie heard a brief tire squeal as the van drove up onto the kerb and mounted the pavement, stopping inches from the brick wall of the depot yard. The side and rear doors opened in unison, and Mike, Roger, Charlie, Pickering, and his four men burst out from inside the van. Mike and Roger both carried a ladder. Roger placed his one next to the van. Mike then scrambled up it, clambered across the roof and onto the depot’s surrounding wall. Roger passed him up a pair of bolt cutters which Mike used to make quick work of the barbed wire on top of the wall. Roger and Charlie then passed up the second ladder. At the same time, Pickering and his crew members made their way up to accompany Mike. They stooped low to keep out of sight from those inside the depot. In a few seconds, Mike hauled the ladder over the wall and down into the yard. One by one, the eight men made their way over the wall and out of Eddie’s sight.
Gary drove away from the pavement and back onto the roadside. He looked up at Eddie from inside the van. Even from this distance, Eddie could tell that Gary was nervous. Eddie refocused his attention back onto the depot yard. He could see Charlie leading the line of men towards the back door of the main building. Mike was brandishing a sawn-off shotgun, Charlie and the other men all had pistols in hand.
Eddie watched, his heart beating in his ears as the crew stood, waiting for the large CCTV operator - who would have told his colleagues he was popping outside to smoke - to open the door.
‘Christ sake, come on,’ he said. At that moment, the door opened, and the man appeared. He was, indeed, a substantial figure and Eddie could not help wondering how his employer had found a uniform to fit him.
Mike grabbed the guard and pushed him back into the building. Charlie and the others then followed. They were in.
This is happening.
Eddie glanced at his watch, made a mental note of the exact time, then looked back at the building across the road. There were no signs of activity. The street remained quiet too, except for Gary who sat in the driver’s seat, tapping his fingers on top of the steering wheel. Eddie picked up the walkie talkie.
‘All clear. I say again, all clear’. He got no response, save for some white nois
e. He sat still, radio in hand, listening and scanning the depot until less than a minute later, Charlie’s voice barked out from the radio.
‘Area secured. How are we lookin’ outside?’
‘Nothing to report out here,’ Eddie replied.
‘Keep your eyes open, we -’. Charlie stopped mid-sentence. Another voice was shouting. It was Pickering, but Eddie could not make out what he was saying. The transmission cut out. Eddie stared at the radio, then at the depot. Then, just a moment later, he heard a muffled bang from inside the depot.
Eddie knew a gunshot when he heard one. He got up and looked up and down the street, then pressed on the radio’s transmit button. ‘What the fuck was that? What’s going on in there?’ There was no reply. He tried again. ‘What’s going on in there? Do you need back up?’ he shouted.
The radio crackled. Eddie could hear shouting and then a man crying. Whoever he was, it was obvious he was in agony. ‘Do you need backup?’
A voice barked out from the radio, but this time it was not Charlie. ‘Stay where you are,’ shouted Mike. ‘We’re coming out now’.
Eddie checked the street again. Gary was looking up at him. Eddie signalled to him to get ready with a frantic wave of his hands. He heard the van’s engine splutter into life and a slight cloud of blue smoke coughed out of the vehicle’s exhaust.
Eddie’s mouth was bone dry. He swallowed to stimulate some saliva.
For fuck’s sake, get out of there.
The radio crackled into life once more just as the first of the crew emerged from the open door. It was Roger and Mike. Roger was carrying what appeared to be two black briefcases. Mike was holding his shotgun. They both sprinted in the direction in which they had left the ladder. Pickering’s crew hurried out, pistols in hand, and a few seconds later, Charlie and Pickering also came into view. Charlie pushed the younger man towards the rest of the crew, turned to check behind him, before he too broke into a run.
Eddie heard Mike’s voice again from the walkie talkie, ‘Get yourself downstairs. We’re coming for you’.
‘On my way,’ replied Eddie. He picked up the torch and crammed it into his pocket, then sprinted towards the staircase. He could hear the loud squeal of tyres from outside as the van accelerated away from the crime scene.
Eddie was panting hard by the time he arrived at the factory gates, just as the Transit van slowed to collect him. The door flew open and Mike flung out his hand, which Eddie grabbed and hauled himself inside. Charlie thumped on the back of the bulkhead behind the driver’s compartment and shouted.
‘Go go go’. Eddie pulled the side door shut and squatted down in the corner of the van interior, bracing himself with his feet and elbows as it sped up. He looked at his brother.
‘What happened? I heard a gunshot.’ He scanned the occupants of the vehicle. All were present and with no apparent signs of injury. Nobody answered.
Roger was scowling at Bobby Pickering. ‘He shot one of the guards,’ he said.
‘You what?’ shouted Eddie.
‘The geezer was making a run for it,’ said Pickering
‘He was our insider, you dumb fuck,’ shouted Roger.
‘How was I supposed to know that? He moved, I shot him. It was instinct’.
‘Shit,’ said Eddie. ‘How bad?’
‘Bad,’ said Roger.
‘He got it in the stomach,’ said Mike, who was also glaring at Pickering.
Pickering shrugged, then turned his head to look out of the rear windows.
Twenty minutes later the van pulled up outside a lockup under an old railway bridge in Hayes, on the north-western outskirts of London.
‘How’s it look?’ asked Charlie.
‘Can’t see nobody,’ replied Gary, from the driver’s compartment. ‘Stick tight, I’ll check’. Eddie heard the driver’s door open as Gary got out.
Pickering rose and put his hand on the rear door handle. ‘Sit the fuck down,’ barked Mike, brandishing his sawn-off shotgun.
Pickering snorted and looked towards Mike. ‘Do we have a problem, ladies?’ he replied.
‘Too right we fuckin’ do,’ said Roger, also now pointing a gun at the East Londoner. Pickering’s crew reached for their pistols.
‘Everybody calm down,’ said Charlie. ‘We will all get inside, and then we can have a civilised discussion’.
Gary got back into the van, having opened the double doors of the garage and reversed the Transit inside. As soon as he turned off the ignition, the crews clambered out. Gary’s Commer van was parked inside, ready for Charlie and the rest of the team to leave.
‘So, like I said,’ said Pickering. ‘Do we have a problem?’
‘You shot our inside guy,’ Mike snarled. He raised the shotgun.
Pickering slipped his right hand towards his pistol in its shoulder holster. ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘I thought the geezer was gonna make a move. How was I supposed to know he was your man?’
Pickering’s men stood nearby. The one nearest to Eddie had his jacket open. Eddie could see the butt of a revolver stuffed in the young man’s belt. This could go south quickly, Eddie thought, now wishing he had something more potent than the deactivated Luger.
‘Way I see it, this it was your fault,’ said the East Ender.
‘How d’yer figure that?’ said Mike.
‘Coz you didn’t see fit to sharing all the details,’ said Pickering. He gestured to the two briefcases that lay on the floor of the van. ‘Like what’s in them two little cases. It ain’t banknotes now, is it?’
‘We ain’t got time for this,’ said Gary. He was standing by the open doors. ‘Charlie, we need to split’.
‘He’s right, Mikey,’ said Charlie. ‘Let it go. We can’t change nuffin’ now’.
Mike remained glaring at Pickering, his finger quivering on the trigger guard.
‘Mike, enough,’ said Roger. ‘Charlie’s right. What’s done is done’.
‘So that’s it? We just shrug our shoulders and forget what happened?’ said Eddie.
‘Yes. That’s exactly what we do,’ said Charlie. He walked over to the Commer van, opened the passenger door and lifted out a blue and white Slazenger bag. ‘Seventy five grand’.
The smirk disappeared from Pickering’s face. ‘We said one hundred’.
‘We said a hundred, if it all goes to plan,’ Charlie snarled. ‘You shot one of the guards. That weren’t in the fucking plan’. He dropped the bag at the East Ender’s feet.
Pickering bent down and unzipped it to reveal the contents.
‘And under the circumstance, excuse us if we don’t give you a lift back to your car,’ Charlie added. Pickering smiled, then looked at his companions.
‘Looks like we’re getting the train home, boys’. He zipped up the bag and started towards the door, brushing past Eddie as he walked.
The Lawson brothers looked at each other. Eddie resisted the temptation to utter the words, ‘I told you so’. After all, he thought, what would have been the point?
The journey to Lowestoft took nearly four hours. An overturned truck on the A12 had caused a long tailback near Chelmsford. There had been little conversation along the way and the van pulled into an industrial unit close to the port at close to two o’clock. Eddie could see several dozen boats on the water, but not the trawler in which they would escape.
Gary turned off the ignition. ‘Right gents. This is where we part company’. He pointed towards an alleyway between two of the units. ‘That’ll take you down to the water. It’s about five minutes to the docks’.
‘Let’s hope our ride is still waiting,’ said Roger.
‘They don’t get the other thirty grand otherwise’. He shook Gary’s hand. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon we’ve sold the stones’.
‘I’m counting on it,’ said Gary.
‘Then you can get yourself a proper van,’ said Mike as he walked past.
Eddie was scanning the road outside. There was a group of men in blue boiler suits standing outside a
nearby building, smoking. One of them was staring at Gary’s van, which sat parked on a double yellow line. ‘We’re attracting attention,’ he said.
The crew gathered their things and climbed out from the van, then scurried towards the alleyway, avoiding eye contact with the nearby workers. Much to the group’s collective relief, they spotted the Spanish fishing trawler moored at the dockside as they rounded the corner at the end of the alley. They stopped thirty yards away from the boat, waiting until one of the Spanish sailors spotted them and signalled at them to approach. The Englishmen jogged across and made their way into the trawler as quick as they could, where they were greeted by Xavier, the boat’s captain.
‘A profitable trip?’ he asked, a wry smile clear to see.
‘It was,’ said Charlie. ‘How long till we can get going?’
‘We are ready now. Just the matter of the remaining money’.
‘When we get back to Spain, Xavier,’ said Charlie. ‘That was what we agreed’.
The Spanish captain scratched the bristle on his chin. ‘The thing is, Charlie. We saw the television. The police are looking for an armed gang. They say they shot a security man’.
‘And what of it?’ grunted Mike.
‘My men and me, we are taking a bigger risk now. This was unexpected. We would be happier if we can see our money. You understand, I think’. A group of three sailors stood along in the corridor. They looked tense.
Charlie reached down, unzipped his sports bag. He pulled out a wad of banknotes and split them in half. ‘Half now, half when we dock in Vigo. No discussion.’ He held out the money. The captain smiled and reached for it, but Charlie withdrew it. ‘But, if you fuck us over, Xavier. It would be bad for you and your crew. Very bad. Comprende?
‘I would never do that, Charlie. You can trust me’.
‘What about them?’ said Charlie, pointing at the sailors.
‘All of us, Charlie. Tranquilla, por favor’.
Charlie handed over the money, which the captain took and began to count.
‘Check it later,’ said Charlie. We need to get going now’.
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