Black by Rose

by Andrew Barrett

  So, he was a slightly complex character who was no good at remembering things. And not one of their collection of words, ranging from ‘Blake’ to ‘Heart’, from childhood favourites like ‘Ninja’ to ‘Nintendo’, seemed to fit with him as a person.

  “So? Which one?”

  “So he’s shit at remembering passwords?”

  Monty nodded.

  Slade picked up his jacket and fished out a second mobile phone. This one was bulky and looked expensive. It also looked brand new, or at least, hardly used. He scrolled through a menu, and hit a button. The screen flashed, and he placed it to his ear, looking with some amusement at Monty’s face. He knew what he was thinking: Not bad for a technophobe! The phone clicked in Slade’s ear and a crackly voice spoke.

  “It’s me,” he said. “I know. I’m sorry.” He paused. “I said I’m sorry, I ain’t gonna say it again!” Another pause, “Okay, I want some info from you. Did you find anything on Blake’s body that looked like a password? Anything in his car or in his pockets—” Slade stopped, held his breath, and eventually he smiled at his eager audience. “Yes, thanks.” And then, “It’s in hand; I’m expecting it concluded within a week.” He nodded once, and then again. “Bye.” He pressed another button and then slid the phone away without a word.

  “Who was that?” Tyler squinted at his father.

  Slade nodded towards the iPad, “Try this.”

  Tyler picked up the machine and said, “Yeah, go on.”

  “Black by Rose.”

  Monty and Tyler looked at Slade. “Black by Rose?”

  “Try it! Capital B, capital R”

  Tyler typed and then Monty asked, “Is it a pub? Or a club, y’know one o’ them fancy topless bars?”

  Slade frowned. “I have no fucking idea.”

  “I’m in.” Tyler sat on the arm of the chair so Slade could see what he was doing, and Monty peered at the screen from behind them.

  Tyler had navigated through the password box of the e-Dating site and was in Blake’s personal domain, with his chat box and his contact list, and another box of thumbnail images of potential suitors. There was only one person in the contact list. “Angel666,” he said.

  “Kind of name’s that?”

  “They don’t use their real names, Dad. There’s all kinds of nutters out there.”

  No one made any comment in response to that, but there was a raised eyebrow or two.

  “So we’re stuck, then?”

  “Not yet, we’re not,” Tyler said. “I’ll browse through his emails to this Angel666, see if she’s opened up to him a bit.”

  — Four —

  Scrotes had a strange sense of smell. They were always cautious – if they were serious. The average crack-head or the average dunce who’d steal something on spec tended not to think too far in advance; they tended to think only of the opportunity, and of nothing more. This crew, these robbers, were not of that particular ilk; they had plans, it was easy to see. They took their liberty seriously and had prepared for the worst, posting one man around the front of the building, and another in the old blue van around here, at the back; both no doubt in radio comms with the two inside. Would they be armed? Cooper asked himself. Of course they would be. I would be.

  Coppers had the same sense of smell, perhaps more acutely tuned, certainly more calculating. They didn’t have their continuing freedom to consider, or the need for an escape route to confuse the thought process. They had the villain, and they had the crime; and paramount in the thought process was catching one in the act of the other.

  And that was exactly what they would be doing during tonight’s little operation. Only not directly. It was fine locking up a gang for screwing over a cash machine, but he wanted the kingpin. He wanted the big players, and the only way to get to the big players was to capture the little ones and in good time, persuade them to talk to the nice policeman about the big naughty men who paid their wages.

  In an empty bedsit above a nearby shop, a man from the imaging unit was videoing everything, all the comings and goings. Right now there wasn’t a lot to entertain him, but soon, no doubt, there would be.

  Cooper, until recently rubbing his face and stifling yawns, sat bolt upright, eyes scanning the triangle of tarmac and the poorly-illuminated surrounding area. He faced the scene through the wiper-smeared screen of an old Toyota which was parked directly beneath a broken streetlamp outside a corner shop. He was less than sixty yards from the old Transit that had one fidgeting scrote inside. Cooper bit his lower lip as the wipers cleared the screen again.

  There were two favourable escape routes for the robbers. Both were covered by plain armed response vehicles. Their remit was to follow them, interchanging with their colleagues every third or fourth junction so as to remain invisible. They were told to follow and radio in with details of the ultimate location – that was the important thing – that’s when Cooper would earn his money because that’s when he had to get the obs teams in quickly, find out what became of the money, and where the robbers went after that, and even more importantly, to whom they spoke. Cooper had plenty of information on Slade and his gang but anything new would be very welcome right now. Very welcome indeed. Operation Domino wasn’t a typical operation. Working within its confines were people who dared play the game by their own rules. All in the name of clearing the streets up a little – cleaning out the sewers.

  The other routes available to the robbers were possibilities, but unlikely ones; ones that would take them into the estates, the narrow, poorly lit back roads around Harehills and into Chapeltown. Not recommended. But if they chose that way, then cars would pick them up soon enough.

  “Can’t get my head round it.”

  Cooper looked across to Benson. “What can’t you get your head round?”

  “They’d leave a cash machine in a fucking Turkish teashop.”

  “Maybe they’re expensive to relocate.”

  “Not as expensive as having one emptied though.”

  Cooper nodded, contemplating it; it was a stupid thing to do. Apparently, the shop had once been a travel agency and it seemed a good idea having a cash machine embedded into the window pane outside, with all its workings inside, enclosed by a large wooden box with a door in it. He could imagine that most people didn’t even see that box as they’d entered, never noticed it; it was just another place for posters of beaches or pistes.

  But his mind was elsewhere right now – it was on Jagger, he was the important one.

  — Five —

  Tyler followed the trail of their relationship back over the last three weeks. It had gone from the usual cool approaches to something almost intimate. And since Blake had neglected to tell her of his past, it was obvious they would meet up at some point. He had posted some pictures of himself that were very flattering, and he’d gone out of his way to emphasise what a wonderful guy he was, dropping little hints about charity work and liking puppies. It brought a smile to Tyler’s face; the only charity work Blake had ever done was stealing collection boxes, and the only time he thought of dogs was when he was at Doncaster greyhound track.

  Still, hats off to him: it had worked.

  Angel666 was a bookkeeper for a small-time accountant somewhere on the south side of Leeds, so that was a lead they could follow up if things didn’t open out a bit further as he scrolled through and read their emails. And then he discovered her name was Angela, but most people called her “Charlie”. She didn’t elaborate further on the name, or why “Charlie”.

  And lastly, there were emails leading up to the meeting. How nervous she was, how much she was looking forward to it, but how shy she was, how inexperienced. “Don’t worry about experience, love,” Tyler said to himself, “he ain’t worried about trivial stuff like that.” And then details of the meeting itself.

  He was to meet her in a pub called The Spinney Nook in Castleford at seven o’clock. They could eat there and get to know each other a bit, maybe pop into the Hilton in Garforth, and liste
n to the pianist. It seems they had got to know each other quite well, thought Tyler; well enough for Blake to take a fancy to her, and well enough for him to lose control just like he usually did. No matter how hard he tried to restrain himself.

  When it boiled right down to it, Blake Crosby was always going to end up dead prematurely one way or another: either by a relative of a victim, or in prison from a nasty accident.

  — Six —

  Jagger felt pumped up. The place was dark, the torches he and Pikey carried only made the place even more eerie, elongating shadows and reflecting from chrome pots and glass jars, refracting water in jugs to spill rainbows across the ceilings.

  The room smelled sickly sweet, cloying. The floor was sticky under foot, and it was hot, with an ingrained stench of sweat. He dropped the holdall and then placed the torch across its bowed centre so it shone directly upon the large oval dining table as he pulled it roughly aside. Pikey strode past and his black shadow was like a moving stripe in his vision. Across the outside of the glass door and across the remaining shop window were the grey ribs of a roller shutter door, good sound insulation.

  Jagger pressed the button on the wire, “One, you there?”

  “One. I’m here.”

  “Two?” Jagger said, forcing open the flimsy wooden door of the cube.

  “Yep. I’m here.”

  He took off the head torch, rolled the wet balaclava down his face, making sure the small earpieces from the radio comms stayed in place. He replaced the head torch, pulled on a pair of goggles and then delved inside the bag for the ear protectors. This was going to be loud, very loud.

  Though he kept his mind on the task in hand, he couldn’t help feeling nervous. He had Pikey staring at him, he had the others outside waiting, listening, watching, and then he had Slade back at the ranch waiting for news.

  “Jagger, move it!”

  Jagger snapped back, looked up at Pikey. He had broad shoulders, a shelf of a forehead hiding sunken eyes that peered out through the balaclava. “Plug me in,” he said, throwing the flex of the angle grinder towards him.

  And then he took out the template, a cardboard shape that fitted over the metal door of the cash machine. He drew around it: two vertical lines precisely 87 mm in from the hinge side and 118 mm in from the lock side.

  Jagger nodded at Pikey, clicked the mic button, “Ready?”

  “Okay, go,” whispered Ste.

  “Clear to go,” said Wasp.

  Jagger pulled on heavy leather gloves, knelt in front of the cash machine’s rear 10 mm thick door, and flicked the grinder’s switch. Silence shattered in a howl.

  Pikey checked his watch as Jagger brought the cutting disc up to the metal door. A constant spray of sparks jetted from the machine and hit the floor in front of Jagger’s knees as he followed the black line down the hinge side of the door. The disc broke through, and Jagger swallowed as he pressed on. A three millimetre slit followed the machine as it cut its way from top to bottom. Four minutes.

  * * *

  Wasp concealed himself in the doorway of Mahmood’s Burger and Pizza directly over the road from the shuttered teashop. He squatted down and waited. From here he had an uninterrupted view right up Harehills Lane for maybe 200 yards, another 100 yards in the other direction down towards the junction with Spencer Place and on towards the top end of Roseville Road. The streetlights were better around this side, but the rain was just as heavy, sending a shiver scuttling up Wasp’s damp neck.

  It was two-fifteen and Wasp held back a yawn. His eyes watered though and his hands were fidgeting with change in his pockets one moment, then spinning the wheel of a cigarette lighter the next. He stood, feet never still, eyes flicking from side to side. “Hurry up, hurry up,” he whispered, quite suddenly wishing he was somewhere else.

  From across the road he could hear a faint squeal; the saw working on metal. Wasp was famous for being cool, laid back in the face of danger. And so far as he could see, there was no danger. But he felt far from cool. Ste had been right: this just didn’t feel good.

  * * *

  At seven minutes the hinge side was through completely and the lock side was almost there. Steam rose from Jagger’s wet balaclava, and twice he’d had to stop to wipe condensation from the inside of his goggles. At his knees lay an ever increasing pile of gritty metal dust, the cooled grindings that had left the door as sparks and had melted into the linoleum. The smell of burnt steel was heavy in the air. The Stihl ground onwards towards the bottom, and Jagger’s arms were burning, aching from the exertion, and beginning to shake. Sweat trickled down his back.

  It was at times like these that he understood why people did this. It was thrilling. Even if he didn’t need the money, it would be a high, an adrenaline rush; the chance of being caught now or later, the meeting later with Slade, the sharing of spoils, the camaraderie, the beer!

  The blade sliced into the floor and the heavy door tilted forward. Pikey tapped Jagger on the shoulder, and he slid backwards out of the way, grateful to shut off the noise and put down the Stihl. When he did, his hands carried on vibrating, like an external version of pins and needles. And when the disc finally stopped turning, Jagger’s ears were buzzing.

  Pikey grabbed the handle and used it to pull the door directly outwards into the shop. Jagger peered inside as Pikey put the door down by the dining table. “We missed the door wiring by less than half an inch.”

  “So long as we missed it, I couldn’t give a shit.”

  “Three cassettes,” Jagger said. “Full.”

  “How much, then?”

  “Twenty-five or thirty. Or thereabouts.”

  “Not bad for an hour’s work.”

  “We haven’t got it yet.” Jagger looked in closer. “They’re fitted with TN41 locks.”

  Pikey looked at him, “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “I can’t get past them.”

  “What!”

  “I can’t pick them, I mean. We can cut through them—”

  “So cut through them and let’s fuck off.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  Pikey sighed, “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  “They’re fitted with anti-tamper switches, which we can’t disable. They’re on a thirty second timer; once I begin cutting, we have thirty seconds to get the cassettes out – all of them.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “The alarm sounds in some monitoring station somewhere—”

  “Cool, by the time they phone the coppers—”

  “The coppers will take an age to get here, I know. But the shitty part of the deal is if we haven’t got them all out of the way in that thirty seconds, the dye-packs go off.”

  Pikey thought about it. “Bollocks.” He took a step back, hand rubbing his face through the wet balaclava. “What about the wiring? Can’t we cut it, or freeze it or melt it?”

  “I dunno, I’ve never played with this stuff before. Chances are the wiring is well routed behind the cassettes – the wiring we need anyhow. And if we fuck up, the job’s over.”

  “What about the dye-pack wiring? Can’t we cut that?”

  “It’s at the front of the cassettes. No chance.”

  “Bastard!”

  “And even worse, I don’t know when the thirty seconds begins.”

  “I ain’t going back empty-handed. He’ll kill us. I’d rather go back with dyed notes than nothing at all.”

  “I mean, I don’t know if the tamper circuit operates after I’ve cut through the first, or as I begin cutting through the first.”

  “This gets better.”

  “Look, I could probably be through one lock in four or five seconds. I just wanted you to be aware of the risks.”

  “The risks? What risks, other than ten years in the clink?”

  “It’s why you do it, isn’t it, the risk? I mean, you’re not short of a bob or two.”

  “You reckon you can slice all three locks in less than
fifteen seconds?”

  “With a new blade, yep.”

  “Fit a new blade, let’s crack on.”

  * * *

  Ste was scared shitless.

  He was on parole, was due at the parole office in eight hours, and if he didn’t turn up, he’d be straight back to Parkhurst. If a copper took a peek inside this van right now, at two-thirty in the morning, did a name check on him and found him to be outside of his curfew, he’d be heading south in a matter of hours.

  If he went back to prison, it would be the last time he’d see his kids, she’d already told him that. And he knew she wasn’t bullshitting. He looked at the radio, wondered whether to call them back. He could say he’d seen the law. That would get them back out in no time, and they’d be forced to abandon the job and he could go home and keep his appointment. And he could keep his freedom and keep his kids. Sounded good.

  But he’d be in the same boat again next week or next month.

  Ste shook his head, played with the volume knob on the radio, and wondered why he’d ever agreed to this shit. There were other things–

  “Fuck!” There, up ahead, on Harehills Lane. A cop car. He turned off the wipers and leaned across the seats, getting low. “Oh please no, go straight on, don’t turn down here.”

  * * *

  Through the rain, Wasp could make out a youth walking towards him, maybe 150 yards away. No threat right now. Well, he was just walking this way, actually, not specifically towards him; Wasp couldn’t be seen from the pavement up there. No chance. But it was the way the youth ambled that spooked him. It was pissing it down, and this guy was just walking along like it was seventy degrees out there and he didn’t have a rush in the world. Must be out of his fucking tree, Wasp thought.

  He crouched, focused his attention entirely on the youth. He left the cigarette lighter in his pocket alone, and instead, he curled his hand around the gun. And then he saw it, further up Harehills Lane, a cop car cruising slowly this way. He scanned right, towards the parade of shops, towards the shuttered windows of the Turkish tearoom. If the cop car kept coming, straight towards him, he would relax, but if it turned off the main drag towards their little triangle of glass-strewn tarmac around the back of that block, he would have to call it in.