Wendy’s immediate hurt had now turned to anger. She had given up so many years to Terry and she had let a good opening as first cashier at a different branch of the bank pass her by. Now she was thinking of transferring to another area where she could make a new start. Fresh surroundings might help her to forget about Terry, and there was no reason why she should not rise high in the bank; the married women cashiers tended not to want advancement, as their aim was to fill in two or three years while they built up their homes before starting families. Wendy had missed out. She would not marry now so she would make a life out of her career.
She had an early lunch hour and the shops were still open when she left the bank. She went to the chemist’s, and to the cleaner’s to collect a skirt, then into The Copper Kettle; since Terry’s departure she had gone there a lot, for the therapy of eating well, and she had put on weight. The coffee gâteau which was one of their puddings was, Wendy had found, very hard to resist.
The newly dedicated career woman sat down to a lunch of chicken risotto and coffee cake, with a Jean Plaidy novel from the library. She felt better when she returned to the bank, and to her solitary place at the counter.
When one o’clock came along, Robbie wondered about the weather and asked Wendy, returning, if it was fine.
‘The sun’s out,’ she said.
So Robbie left his raincoat and hat in the bank but he took his gloves out with him, tucked into the Marks and Spencer green carrier which also held the pistol in the spare carrier, and his sandwiches.
There were a few cars parked near his own. Suppose he used his own and then alleged it had been stolen? That should complicate things – but then he would have to abandon it some distance from the bank, which would run him short on time. The notion amused him, however, as he ate his sandwiches on a bench in the recreation ground, under a thin, fitful sun. When he had finished them, he sauntered across and looked at the cars. None had a key within. So he couldn’t do it – take one and park it outside the bank. He went into the lavatory, which again was deserted, and into the cubicle where he had left his disguise. It was still there, in the carrier behind the cistern.
He could put it on, walk into the bank and act as if he’d forgotten something, so that he could leave immediately, resume his normal appearance and return to duty in plenty of time before his lunch hour ended. That was enough of a challenge. Robbie stood in the small cubicle which smelled of urine and disinfectant and put on the wig, the beard, the dark glasses, the raincoat and the cap. He put on the shabby gloves, and he put the empty carrier which had held the disguise inside the green one, stuffing them both behind the cistern to wait for his return from what was to be really just a dress rehearsal. Finally he put the toy pistol in his pocket.
Then he came out of the lavatory, carrying the empty blue bag, and walked towards the bank, after several strides adjusting his normal brisk pace to a more loping tread.
He met no one, and the service road by the bank was empty except for a red Renault parked outside the Copper Kettle, almost opposite the bank. He swerved and glanced inside it. The keys were in the ignition.
So he could have carried out the whole raid today. The weather was right; there was no one about; he had a car; all that now remained was for the bank to be free of customers.
He opened the door and it was. Wendy Lomax, the only cashier on duty, was sorting out dirty and torn notes, her till open.
Suddenly Robbie was standing in front of her, the gun in his hand, pointing it at her beneath the glass.
‘Keep quiet. Give me the money,’ he growled hoarsely. ‘All the notes.’
Wendy, seeing the shadow of a customer at the counter, had been on the point of putting down what she was doing to attend to him, when she heard the gruff voice and saw the dull grey snout of a gun pointing at her. She was aware of the brown-gloved hand, the knuckles stained with oil.
The bank’s instructions were not to have a go. As she pressed the alarm she began, very slowly, to take out the money.
‘Hurry up,’ snarled the voice.
Wendy took as long as she could. Delay was inevitable before the alarm could be relayed from the security system to the police, but surely someone would look over from the rear of the bank and see what was happening? The robber had picked his time well, though; most of the staff were still at lunch and he would be screened from anyone who did look across at them by her body. He would seem just an ordinary customer. She pushed the wads of notes over the counter and saw the gloved hand with the gun begin scooping them into an open carrier bag held in the raider’s other hand. He thrust the money into the carrier very quickly, and while he did it the gun still pointed at her. Wendy thought, I must be able to describe him, and she looked up from the counter and the threatening hand to his face. She saw a tweed cap and a mass of red, untidy hair, some on the raider’s head and some forming his beard; she saw the dark glasses. Then the man was gone. Only seconds had passed.
Robbie’s heart thudded as he ran out of the bank and across to the car. He pulled open the door and flung himself inside, throwing the laden carrier on to the seat beside him. The controls were unfamiliar to him and he was rough with the clutch as he moved off, but afterwards he thought it was because the dark glasses obscured his vision that he failed to see the woman who seemed to spring up from the ground in front of the car. He pulled the steering wheel round but he struck her. There was a loud thump and she vanished.
Robbie drove on, round the corner towards the recreation ground, past his own car towards the laurel hedge that screened the lavatory. He went inside and took off his disguise. Then he pulled the carriers from behind the cistern and put it all – the dark glasses, the wig, the beard, the cap and the raincoat – back into the white carrier. The gun went in with them, and the carriers, the blue one which held the money, and the white one, he loaded into the large green Marks and Spencer bag. Then, wearing the gloves, he left the lavatory and walked over to his own car where he calmly opened the boot and dropped the green carrier inside. Then he opened the driver’s door and got in. He sat there for a little while with his heart thumping, unable to believe what he had actually done.
I must get back to the bank, he thought. I mustn’t be late.
He took off the gloves and put them in the locker where they normally lived. Then he got out of the car and locked it. He told himself that he had been moving so slowly that the woman could barely have been brushed by the car, but the thump as it hit her had been considerable. As he turned the corner to walk towards the bank he saw two police cars already drawn up, and there was a huddle of people bending over something that lay by the kerb.
Robbie walked faster when he got near to the bank. The normal reaction of a trusted employee when he saw that something was wrong was to discover what it was, and when a constable at the door told him he could not enter, Robbie protested.
‘What’s the trouble, constable?’ he asked, with the command that would have earned him promotion had he only shown it years before. ‘I am the first securities clerk here. I’ve been at lunch.’
‘Oh, thank goodness you’re back, Robbie,’ came a voice from behind the officer. It was Philip Grigson, on whom the mantle of greatness was now lying like a mighty burden. ‘Please let Mr Robinson in,’ he added to the policeman.
‘I can see there’s been an accident,’ Robbie said, gesturing towards the scene in the road, where the supervisor and Angela Fiske were among the people gathered around the body that lay on the ground. He had not expected that, thinking an ambulance would have arrived long since, but it had to come from right across town, through the dense traffic in the centre. Even with bell and blue light that would take time.
‘There’s been a raid on the bank, sir,’ the policeman was saying. ‘The getaway car hit a woman.’
Robbie wanted to ask if she was badly hurt, who she was, all sorts of things, but he did not: as a bank employee his immediate concern should be for the safety of the staff and the security of the m
oney.
‘Is anyone hurt in here?’ he asked, stepping inside.
He saw that the staff remaining in the building were clustered together in the rear working area behind the counter, obviously shocked. A constable was with them. The door to the manager’s office was open and Wendy Lomax was seated on a chair by the desk; there was another policeman with her. Philip Grigson almost fell on him with relief.
‘Robbie, we’ve been held up,’ he said.
The policeman who was in the office with Wendy emerged. To his eye, the newcomer appeared senior to Philip Grigson but he already knew that the young man was acting manager in the manager’s absence.
‘This is Mr Robinson,’ Philip said distractedly.
‘You’ve been to lunch, I gather, Mr Robinson,’ said the second policeman. ‘Did you see anything? Which way did you come?’
‘From the recreation ground. I always go there at lunch time, if it’s fine. For a stroll,’ said Robbie.
‘Did you see a red Renault? I rushed out in time to see it vanish round the corner,’ said Philip.
‘No, I didn’t notice one,’ said Robbie. ‘How long ago did this happen?’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. He was back a few minutes early, as usual.
‘Fifteen minutes. Wendy looked at the clock right away,’ said Philip.
‘Sensible girl.’ approved Robbie. ‘Well done.’
He felt as if he were acting in a play. None of this was taking place in real life and it was easy to act as if he did not know what had happened. Some other person seemed to have invaded his body for the past three-quarters of an hour and taken independent action, and he was responsible for none of it.
‘He’ll be miles away by now,’ said the policeman.
While they were talking, the ambulance, bell clanging, arrived outside. Angela Fiske and Betty Fox, the supervisor, returned to the bank a few minutes later, and Angela was white faced.
‘There was blood all over the place,’ she said, turning even paler, and she had to be put into a chair with her head thrust forward to prevent her from fainting. Wendy Lomax, however, victim of the hold-up, appeared calm, talking to the policeman who had now returned to her and who had his notebook out.
While all this was happening another car arrived outside and two more men came into the bank: they were policemen, but they were in plain clothes.
‘My name’s Thomas,’ said one of them, a thin man, dark, with a pale, lined face. ‘Detective Inspector Thomas, and this is Detective Sergeant Briscoe.’ He spoke to Robbie. ‘Are you the manager?’
‘No. Mr West is away,’ said Robbie, and motioned Philip Grigson forward. ‘This is Mr Grigson, who is acting in his place.’
Philip had pulled himself together. He could not be blamed for the raid having happened.
‘They didn’t get away with much,’ he said. ‘About three thousand pounds in notes.’
‘They – were there two of them? More than two?’ pounced Thomas.
‘Only one came into the bank,’ said Philip. ‘But he may have had someone outside in the car. I couldn’t tell as it drove away.’
‘What about the car?’ Thomas snapped, and a constable told him about the Renault. Thomas nodded and said, ‘It’s too late for road blocks. Where’s the young lady who saw the robber?’ He looked at Angela, now reviving.
‘Miss Lomax is in the office,’ said Philip, and pointed. Thank goodness he’d been in the bank himself, not out at lunch but eating sandwiches. It would sound good to head office.
‘Right.’ Thomas gave a nod to his sergeant and the two men vanished into the office, closing the door behind them.
Philip Grigson looked appealingly at Robbie.
‘Better advise head office,’ he suggested, and Philip, glad of some action, went off to do it.
The rest of the staff were talking to one another, but in a moment Detective Sergeant Briscoe came out of the manager’s office and spoke to one of the other policemen who began to shepherd them together, ready to take their statements. There were customers outside, now, who were being turned away. One of the policemen took Robbie off to a desk and asked him to describe what he had seen. Robbie repeated his account of his return to the bank. Before that, he said, he had eaten his sandwiches in the recreation ground and then gone for a walk around, as it was fine; his usual custom.
In the manager’s office, Detective Inspector Thomas was thinking with some relief that Wendy Lomax looked calm and sensible.
‘Did you get much of a look at him, Miss Lomax?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know – I tried to think about doing that, but it was all so quick,’ said Wendy. ‘I think he must have been wearing a false beard. It was so bushy. And he had long red hair. It could have been a wig. He was extraordinary-looking. He had a tweed cap on – brownish. And dark glasses. And he was wearing a nylon raincoat – one of those thin ones that pack up small. Black.’
Briscoe was noting down what she said.
‘I’d like you to come to the police station, Miss Lomax,’ said Thomas. ‘We’ll see if you can help us to make up a photofit picture.’
‘Now?’ asked Wendy.
‘Yes – in just a few minutes, if you’d be ready,’ said Thomas, and turned to Briscoe. ‘Get some more help down here sharp,’ he instructed. ‘I expect chummy wore gloves but we’d better see what we can pick up.’
‘He did,’ said Wendy, on her way towards the door to fetch her coat. ‘Brown leather ones, with a stain of some sort on one hand. The right hand, the one that was holding the gun.’
‘We’ll show you some pictures of guns, too, in case you can recognize what sort it was,’ said Thomas. They’d got one or two actual weapons, which they could show her for real, too.
Wendy went off in a police car, and two detective constables arrived shortly after, to begin dusting around for fingerprints. Robbie knew that gloves could leave traces from which they could be identified and he knew that he must destroy his gloves, as a final protection for himself. But he felt very confident that no one would ever suspect the raider’s true identity.
‘Robbie, wasn’t Wendy brave?’ said Angela. ‘I’m sure I’d have screamed immediately.’
‘Then you’d probably have got shot,’ said Philip Grigson.
‘If you’d come back from lunch a bit sooner you might have caught him running away, Robbie,’ Angela continued. ‘Would you have had a go at him?’
‘I hope so,’ said Robbie. ‘But how can one tell?’
‘Head office want us to call back,’ said Philip to Robbie. ‘They’ll probably send someone round tomorrow. The amount’s not so large, and no one was hurt, and with the police here there’s really nothing that anyone can do.’
‘I suppose not,’ Robbie agreed. ‘Will they let us reopen?’
Philip went to inquire, and learned that the police would probably have finished their dusting for prints quite quickly. The bank could certainly open for a short time before its official closing hour.
‘Business as usual,’ said Philip, managing a smile. ‘Well, there’s work to do, everyone. Let’s get on with it, except for those whom the police want to talk to, of course.’
Remarkably soon, normality returned. Robbie went to his desk and picked up his own work but he kept thinking of the woman who had been knocked down. If it hadn’t been for that, the whole thing could soon have been forgotten, but he had started some sort of nightmare and because of her it would go on. He could not understand what had come over him in those seconds when he walked into the bank and saw Wendy, intent at her till, unaware that he had come in. By his wild action he had turned himself into an armed robber who would be hunted down with all the resources of the local constabulary.
The car would soon be found. But the police might not think of looking for it so near at hand, at first. Its owner would report it missing, of course – might already have done so. He felt unutterably weary, aware in his mind of all that he had done but quite unable to feel that the raid had had anything to do w
ith him.
Betty Fox, the supervisor, thought everyone had had a shock. She set the typist on to making cups of tea for all, including the police, and opened a packet of ginger biscuits from her private store.
6
A police car brought Wendy back to the bank at half past four. Philip Grigson told her she should go home but she said no, she might as well get on with her work, she’d missed enough of it as it was.
Philip was eager to leave at the end of the working day. He had a date to meet Dawn Smyth that evening. He was keen to become engaged to Dawn, the daughter of the town clerk; he had marked her out as a very suitable mate for an ambitious man, which he was, and he had already made sure of her. It was now important to impress her parents, and Philip had mapped out his evening thoroughly. He was collecting Dawn from her home, and it had been arranged that he would arrive in good time, to be offered some sherry by her mother, on whom he would turn his charm. Dawn’s father was at a meeting tonight and would be late. The idea was to earn the support of the mother before tackling the father, who was very possessive. Philip resolved to give a modest account of how well he had dealt with the aftermath of the robbery. Mrs Smyth would feel Dawn secure with so resourceful a young man.
‘And then I rang up head office,’ Philip would say.
All the same, he was still glad that Robbie had been there, and as they prepared to leave he suggested that Robbie might take Wendy home.
Death on Account Page 4