Chapter 23
ON the same morning, as the planned heist, the Colonel saw in the un-locked greenhouse suspicious and unhealthy-looking plants, with the smell of cannabis that needed refreshment. He decided to help their future. Mixing petrol and oil together, he poured the contents across the cannabis plants. Running out, he took a second can and poured most of the gallon of petrol over the plants. As he began, he heard Sonny Summerton’s distinctive voice. Dropping the can, he dashed back into the garage. The can fell on its side, seeping out the remaining petrol. It formed a small pool next to the door.
As the four prepared for the ‘great event’, the Colonel looked out of the dusty and cob-web-decorated window overlooking the front lawn of the Retreat. “The garden looks good; now the plants are back,” he muttered.
Dressed in his gorilla costume, without the head in place, he looked out of the window. As he did so, Lenny and Jock lifted Reg’s folded up four-wheel walking aid with the full-length, 12bore shotgun strapped to the right-hand handle with a copious amount of black masking tape. The Colonel looked at his wrist watch and announced, “It’s nearly eleven.” All Four were now fully dressed as gorillas. The Colonel insisted each wore Bermuda-style shorts. “To hide our true gender,” he’d decided. Although baffled at his logic, the others didn’t challenge it. They went along with the incongruous disguise, along with the wearing of high-vis yellow jackets of the type workmen wore.
The Colonel stepped over to the car and opened the rear door, picked up the sawn of shotgun and walked back to the window. As he began loading his shotgun, he heard the distinctive howling of police car sirens. Then, two police cars and a van with small side windows pulled up. As this happened, someone dashed past the grubby garage window as seven burley policemen piled out of the three vehicles. The Colonel stepped to one side so if anyone looked at the garage, he couldn’t be seen. “Stay still,” he barked. “We’re surrounded by cops.”
“Oh gawd,” another member of the gang gasped. “We’ve been rumbled.”
The gang of four stood still as the police entered the home. Ten minutes elapsed, and they came out with a handcuffed ‘Bishop’ wearing only a dressing gown, furry carpet slippers and sporting a black, Homburg hat.
He was complaining bitterly. They bundled him into the rear of the police people carrier. They heard him shouting very unclerical style oaths. The four looked at each other, bewildered and astonished. The Colonel said, “What’s that all about? They usually let any arrested person dress.”
Jock commented, “What they doin’ nickin’ a churchman?”
When the police had departed with their sirens howling, the Colonel and Lenny looked out of the window. Just a figure, dressed in a long fur coat, emerged from behind a large oak tree.
As the mystery figure left the front garden, the Colonel commented, “I’m sure that’s the woman who looks after the bishops publishing interest.” Lenny quipped, “Yeh, and what else?” Sylvia Clissold was late for her usual Friday morning pseudo-tryst with the Bishop. If she had been on time, she would have been detained with him. She saw the police leave the gardens. She stopped, looked around and ran into the street, muttering, “What’s he been nicked for? I’ve just lost a hundred quid. I did turn up; wonder if he’ll pay me next time.” She began to walk into the town centre, with her fur coat tightly wrapping her. High heels were tapping an unknown rhythm as she walked al-la Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot. Her long blonde hair bounced from side to side as she walked. She muttered, “I wonder why the cops took him away.”
She was oblivious to the screech of car tyres and the speeding red Jaguar Mk2 roaring past. She had no idea that minutes before, a red Jag had forced a dark blue, top-of-the-range Ford to swerve and avoid a collision.
The police driver assigned to take the ACC to a conference was still holding the wheel. His boss could only mutter, “What the hell!”
“Couldn’t avoid him, sir. He just came straight at me. Couldn’t do anything. The driver and one of the rear passengers were gorillas. I tell you, gorillas. He still protested his ‘no blame’ defence has his passenger, in full uniform, managed to get out of the rear seat onto dry ground. I was only going see my father.”
The driver scrambled out onto the lawn surrounding the pond. The car see-sawed on the wall until it eventually plunged in engine-first cascading water across a middle-aged lady standing next to the pond, holding a witches-style broom used for sweeping leaves. Her look of incredulity intensified as a miniature concrete replica of the Venus de Milo swayed, then slowly toppled onto the now partially submerged bonnet of the car, heavily denting it and destroying the windscreen.
As this happened, the driver hid behind a large oak tree, his irritable bladder syndrome had woken up. As he took the pressure away, he heard a loud scream, followed by a female voice shouting, “You heathen, you vandal.” The driver was zipping-up his flies where, from behind the tree, he saw the ACC running past, with a woman swinging a broom, clouting him. His uniform looked distinctive in a battered way. She was still shouting, “You vandal, you vandal. You’re a useless oaf.” The ACC struggled to open the gate as she battered him over the head, then he tripped and fell.
As this saga was being played out, Sonny Summerton stood outside the door to the greenhouse. He had developed a cold, and his ability to smell any odour was diminished.
He took out a partially smoked ‘spliff’ and struck a match, throwing the un-doused match into the greenhouse.
A loud ‘whoomph’ could be heard from the rear of the building. The ACC benefitted from the distraction and ran for the safety of the Retreat. The left sleeve of his uniform jacket was missing. He was still wearing his cap. The top had been ripped open, all resulting from the battering with the broom. Once inside, he urged Mrs Murphy to call the police and an ambulance. “They’re on their way, our greenhouse has exploded, and the gardener injured. Thankfully, the district nurse was here. I’ll get her to look at your injuries,” she enthused.
Meanwhile, a red Mark Two Red Jaguar careered down the road, causing every member of a protest march about the bellringing approached St Jasper’s, their placards declaring interests from local-residents, including the Sikh and Muslim communities and member of animal rights group and an ornithology club. They all leaped to safety as Jock’s eyesight played tricks. All the marchers reported the driver and passengers were gorillas.
As this saga was unfolding, Sylvia sat in the Red Lion and read for the umpteenth time the letter sent to her old address in Bournemouth. She liked the idea of being in a dance line-up even at her age.
Crabby Sub-Post Office lay at the junction of Beech Road and Cliff Way. It doubled as a small store and café. A 48-inch TV adorned a wall facing the front sliding door. Anyone entering the shop couldn’t see who was sitting in the café; shelving blocked the view. It was to be the last day of trading for the Beech Road business.
Trading had already begun at new premises in nearby Coast Road. Large notices extolled the virtues of the new branch, its small shop and café.
Gupta Singh had owned the enterprise for twenty-years with his English wife, Arlene. They had never experienced a robbery. Both were now retiring. Their son, Jon, would run the new Post office, store and café.
A large unmarked people-carrier pulled up in front of the post office. Five burley men emerged, dressed all in black, with their automatic rifles strung across their chests. With their helmets, they resembled black-clad warriors from a Star Trek movie. The five sat down in the café and ordered tea and coffee for six. The sixth member of the team remained in the driving seat, scanning the Sun’s racing pages so he could place bets on the 1.30 at Kempton Park and the 2.45 at Warwick.
As the police team parked their transport and headed for the post office, none knew of the exploding greenhouse or the crashed police car with the ACC aboard, nor had the incident with a red car and the protestors yet filtered down the line.
The gorilla-suit clad gang of four parked the Jag in fron
t the white people-carrier. Jock stayed on the car with the engine running. All of them had abandoned the idea of walking and behaving like gorillas. Reg, pushing his trolley, couldn’t get the posture right. The Colonel and Lenny strode to the front door of the old post office, the Colonel clutching a sawn-off shotgun.
They paused to let Reg catch-up when he called after them, “Slow down, lads. The old legs aren’t so good.” As he stepped forward, the front two wheels of his trolley became stuck in drainage, grating in front of the door. The electric doors slid backwards and forwards.
The Colonel and Lenny charged in shouting. The Colonel pulled both triggers of the sawn-off shotgun. The blast blew a hole in the old ceiling, which then creaked and a large chunk fell down, smothering the Colonel, Lenny and depositing large chunks of debris on the armed response team.
As the shop ceiling collapsed the TV set in the café, part of the shop simultaneously disintegrated into a million pieces.
Inside the shop, Lenny was trying to help the Colonel up from the floor. The recoil of the gun had unbalanced him. The two realised that they were looking at three armed policemen pointing guns at them. Lenny stood up and backed away, leaving the Colonel lying on the floor.
Outside the shop, Reg was lying on his back, with his trolley and the attached shotgun attached. In a final effort to free his trolley from the grip of the drain, he’d given it a hefty tug, pulling it free. His gorilla clad finger had stuck between the trigger guard and trigger, sending him tumbling back. Lying on his back, he was pushing his trolley to one side and trying to get up. Two policewomen shouted at him to stay still. He looked up to find he was looking at two armed policemen. Darth Vaders were pointing their guns at him. Behind them, stuck to the shop window, he saw the sign:
CLOSING DOWN
WE’VE MOVED
THE NEW
POST OFFICE
IS AT
38 BEECH ROAD
As the three were entering the post office, Jock looked at the fuel gauge of the Jag and realised the spluttering sound the car had just made. And the engine ceasing to work was the result of lack of fuel. He was hot and sweaty beneath the gorilla disguise.
He got out of the car and began walking up the road. His gorilla head-gear was stuck. He sat down at the bar of the Talbot, still trying to remove his furry head. Jock ordered a large whisky and a straw.
The barman nervously served the brown, furry shape sitting at the bar. A few minutes later, he ordered a second large whisky from the bemused barman. Has he sucked the liquid from the tumbler? Two armed policemen arrived. He held his hands up, saying, as he struggled to remove the gorilla headgear and sucking more whisky through the straw, “I’ll be right with ye, just finish me wee dram.”
Before he could be handcuffed, the contents of the glass disappeared up the straw. “Ah, that was fine. Shall we be awar?” He held out his arms to be handcuffed.
Back at the Retreat, Ernest had been discharged by the physiatrist, following his latest ‘I’m a ghost’ episode.
Angela and her son, James, were at Heathrow, about to board a BA flight to Dallas. James was excited.
Chapter 24
THE four, to their surprise, were given police bail. Returning to the Retreat, Jock was met by Martha Samuels, who insisted she made him dinner to ‘help overcome such a bad day’. She told him she was returning to the ‘boards’ and Glynis wanted to talk to him. He went to bed more worried about this development than that of the screwed-up robbery.
Martha did her nightly exercises. It was an effort to get her weight down and improve her high-kicking technique.
One peculiar development was with the Colonel, who had become secretive and spent less time with his pals. Lenny had his eyes tested and now wore glasses. Reg’s condition worsened and rarely went with the others to the pub. When he did, he had to rely on them to push him in a wheelchair.
The Colonel believed he had developed the right tone for any after dinner speech. Keep the talk amusing, keep it simple.
Lenny pushed Reg to the Beach View Pub. The four drank their usual tipples, two pints of bitter, a large malt whisky and an orange juice. The Colonel finally opened the mail for that day, the usual begging letters from some obscure charities and one in a plain, brown envelope.
“Ah, it’s a note from Gary, the Gun,” he paused. “The cheeky beggar. He’s sent us an invoice for non-return of shotguns.”
“That’s a bit much. We paid him in advance. Seven hundred and fifty knicker for the hire of the blasted things in the first place,” he paused and added, “Can’t asked the Old Bill fer ’em back ’cos their overdue to the supplier, can we?” “Not likely,” Reg added.
The Colonel continued, “It says here on an invoice that we owe him seven hundred and fifty for non-return of items, namely two Purdey shot guns, one suitably modified.” He held the invoice in front of him, looked at the others and added. Before he could say anymore, he was interrupted by Lenny, “What does he mean modified?”
Jock was now on his third Glenmorangie, and said, "It was sawn off, both barrels and stock shortened, OK?
The Colonel nodded and continued slowly reading, "It says we still owe him seven hundred and fifty nicker, and we gotta return the tools. At the bottom, there are Terms and Condition of Hire. It says penalty for failure to return of due date or payment for overdue items. It reads,
One. Two weeks’ non-settlement. Gentle reminder.
Two. Four weeks’ non-settlement Gentle talk, pat on the cheeks.
Three. Six weeks’ non-settlement Good seeing to. Broken limbs.
Four. Any longer De-commissioning of private parts.
Outstanding payment by cash. No further action."
The Colonel put the invoice down, looked at the others, sighed and said, “Well do we pay him? How much can we raise?”
The next day, Lenny arrived at the door of ever-cheerful Guy, the Gun, with the amount and a note of apology for loss of items. At the door of the shop stood two policemen, who told him the place was closed-down and Guy was in custody. He couldn’t find out why.
He headed back to Crabby with the money in his pocket. The Colonel will be pleased.
Glynis was to make sure he would give some backing for the team and get measurements for a new kilt in the colours of the Tartanettes. She failed to tell him Martha was designing the outfits and was working hard to keep he weight down and helping with the choreography.
The Colonel gave his first speech to local police and solicitors.
He sat on a high stool with a microphone on front of him. He’d hired a black dinner suit for the event and bought a red bow tie. No one would suspect he was once a busy ‘blagger’ of banks, post offices, building societies and security vans. The audience knew otherwise as he began his first public utterance of his chosen theme. “The futility of being a bank robber,” he began. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he looked nervously at his notes and went on, "I’ve been involved in robberies since I was sixteen. I’m now in my late seventies. I’ve spent much of that period banged-up in one nick or another.
"To those of you with an analytical mind, I will tell you that these various enterprises have cost me more than one-hundred thousand pounds to plan and execute.
“My total earnings of been in the order of, five-and-a-half thousand. A poor result by any standards. The only advantage was that I got free board and lodgings. I also got free legal advice thanks to the state.”
The audience chuckled.
"As hard as I tried to be successful at relieving banks and others of their dosh, I was spectacularly unsuccessful, as some in the audience know.
“I formed a team around me that I knew I could trust. Meticulous planning was the order of the day. What you couldn’t plan for was the unexpected. Let me tell you of some of me and me teams more spectacular blaggin’s that went wrong.”
Strangely, the audiences’ usual boisterous, after-dinner chatter was subdued. The audience sat quietly taking in the Colonel’s wor
ds of wisdom. He went on, "I have a broken nose and a gammy leg because of a failed attempt at robbin’ a bank in South London. I blew a hole in the ceiling and was runnin’ away with what I thought was a decent haul. I ran out of the door and collided with a passing van. I woke up and was surrounded by the fuzz and medics.
“M’ team also got nicked because an old dear’s broken-down car blocked their getaway. The whole place was crawlin’ wiv young Old Bill, ‘and in’ out anti-crime leaflets. I later discovered the haul was mainly cheques. The total haul of cash was some two hundred and fifty odd pounds. It cost me nearly a grand to set up the heist. You couldn’t make it up. The saga that is. I did five years for that failure.”
The audience clapped and burst out laughing.
Spurred on by the audience reaction, he took a deep breath and saw Sergeant Wallace give him the thumbs-up. He went on to regale their attempts to rob a security van, which was said to be on a special run on a Sunday morning. “Our info was duff. It turned out to be an empty van on its way to an auction. Our time keeping was out by an hour. The clocks had reverted to British Standard Time the same day. We were an hour late for robbing an empty van.”
The audience clapped and laughed.
He went on recalling his teams’ many failed attempts and empty-handed rewards for their efforts. “The truth is that it wasn’t worth the efforts. We would have earned more cleanin’ cars.”
He was later told that the members had enjoyed his self-deprecating reminiscing. This was to be the begging of the Colonel’s first honest undertaking.
Chapter 25
SYLVIA looked at the closed photo album. She slowly opened the book and viewed the pictures. They showed a line of high stepping, scantily clad ladies.
She turned the pages, a shot of her alone in full burlesque style with a frock coat, top hat and a cane. “Oh! Those were the days,” she said out loud. “Those were the days.”
The Final Heist Page 13