The Final Heist

by William Pullar

  Mary was having problems keeping her weight down.

  Despite her increase use of the gym and a strict died, on went the pounds. Her bewilderment was solved by her GP, who told her she was six-months pregnant and had to control her fitness classes and take-on a healthy diet.

  Sylvia kicked her shapely legs in the air at the thought that she could be part of the oldest Burlesque troupe in town, no more ‘entertaining’ certain type of gentlemen and reading the Bible to a naked ‘Bishop’.

  She was looking forward to a meeting of SOBS that evening. She thrust Glynis’ letter down her ample cleavage, muttering, “Maybe I can attract someone permanent and give up entertaining doddery old geezers, who can’t raise a smile, never mind anything else.”

  The Colonel worked on his memoires and was delighted when two more after-dinner speaking engagements were booked by the legal profession. Things were looking up.

  The SOBS practised their high-stepping Burlesque routine and finally agreed they’d take on the new name of the Tartanettes, with Jock providing some of the musical background.

  In the lounge at The Retreat, Reg sat alone in his wheelchair when Mary, James and an elderly grey-haired lady arrived. Before anyone could say anything, James thrust an A4 envelope into his hand. He pulled out a pen and ink life like drawing of himself. Before anyone else could utter a word, the youngster announced, ‘You did a nice one of me, I did one of you.’ He clutched his hands in front of him and smiled.

  The elderly lady looked astonished, Mary quickly said, "That’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard him mutter. Oh, let me introduce his grandmother, my mother, Janice’

  Then James stood alongside Reg as he shook the grandmother’s hand, before anyone could say another word James announced, "I call him grandpa’.

  In the next few minutes he discovered Janice’s husband was called Reginald. James’s father had died in a car crash when he was two.

  As the three were leaving the youngster gave Reg a hug. His only reply was to say, ‘Do drawings of yer Grandma and Mum. They deserve it’.

  As the three left Reg wept quietly saying, ’Late in life I’ve got a family and it’s too late to enjoy it. He stared at the drawing, took out a handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blew his nose.

  A nervous Lenny stumbled out the words, “I… I… just chatted to him.”

  “The drawing, you encouraged him to do it. His ability to communicate has improved. I don’t know how you did it. From a young lad saying nothing to anyone, he now talks, well, in a limited manner, to people he likes. Thanks to you. What do you think of his drawing?”

  That evening, as he sat eating his take-away, he thought of his up-coming trial and how he would miss helping James if he was banged up. He wiped away a tear with his sleeve.

  Chapter 26

  THE three visited Reg in hospital before taking the bus for their Crown Court trial. He had been admitted urgently a few days before.

  Lenny was the first to say anything. “He’s bad. Don’t think he’s got long to go.”

  “Didn’t even know us,” Jock responded.

  The Colonel remained silent for a couple of miles of the journey, finally saying, “I hope they let us out fer his funeral. Can’t see why not.”

  The three were silent for the rest of the journey to the court, where they met with their legal team and made it clear they would be pleading guilty to the Jaguar car theft and attempting to rob the post office. They wanted to make it easy as possible. There was no mention of any gun charges.

  At eleven o’clock, Guy Granger, Leonard Smith and John Mackenzie sat side-by-side, missing in the dock was Reginald Crowther. He had been declared too ill to plead and had been given a few weeks to live. Guy ‘Colonel’ Granger was denied his walking stick. He grumbled, to no avail.

  The three stood when Judge Sir Guy Carrington-Worth entered the court. It was to be his last time presiding over any court and handing down a sentence to some miscreant. In this court’s tradition, had it that where possible, the presiding judge’s last case should be as lenient as possible. He’d chosen sentencing of the three with some care and with the connivance of court officials, and a little help from prosecution and defence lawyers.

  Five gorilla suits had been confiscated. The judge picked one up and smiled. He put it down and pulled his robes and wig and strode into court.

  His excellent lunch and fine wine had put him in a cheerful and mischievous mood.

  Sir Walter ‘Wally’ Watson QC, for the prosecution, stood and glanced at the three, sitting side-by-side in the glass-fronted dock. The press bench was empty. Three elderly women sat in the public gallery.

  “May it please the court,” he began with his usual theatrical wave of his right arm, shuffled his wig then held the lapels of his black gown and after a pause, continued.

  "M’Lud, this is a very strange case. It is almost taken from the script of a second-rate crime novel. It has its own incredulity, humour and pathos. These elderly gentlemen, all in their late seventies and early eighties, are best described as recidivists. It seems they chose to rob a post office in the seaside town of Crabby-by-the-Sea, which the Crown Prosecution maintain, was with the sole intention of getting themselves back into Her Majesty’s penal system. It beggars’ belief, why they chose an establishment that had effectively closed down.

  “The only element still open was the small café. More of that later. They chose a Friday. It was the last day of trading for this establishment, which had been in its heyday a small grocery-cum-post-office and café. The post office and grocery business had already closed-down and moved to new premises. There were no takings in the till. It could be said they were trying to raid an empty purse.”

  Sir Walter rambled on, as some barristers are inclined to so do. He once told a newspaper reporter that the aim in court was to make matters as horrendous or as pathetic as possible, depending on whether prosecutor or defence, so as to sway the jury.

  Sir Albert looked down at the assembled few in court. He looked bored and yawned.

  James Arbuthnot QC of the Crown Prosecution Services stood, shuffled his papers and with his habit of repeating parts of his ‘brief’ and almost ‘trademark’ lisp, began his defence speech, "M’Lud, may it pleash the court. You see before you three very elderly gentlemen, who by their own admishion, are, or have been, profeshional, armed robbers. Shadly, the fourth member of this team is too ill to enter a plea and stand trial.

  “It has to be said that from the outset, the three carried out this attempted robbery on a closed down post office, with what could be described as comical results. All of this planned by their defined leader,” he waved at the dock, Guy Granger, better known by all, as the Colonel.

  "He and his team decided to have some fun in this effort to rob a closed-down post office. They dressed as gorillas, rather bizarrely, wearing multi-coloured Bermuda shorts and high-visibility vests, the type council workers wear.

  "There is sufficient evidence to show Granger discharged the contents of shotgun cartridges into the ceiling, which then collapsed, showering him, his companion and as members of police armed response unit, with debris. Another shotgun blast went off at the same time, destroying a working television inside the café.

  "They were immediately surrounded by the team who happened to be taking a quick tea break.

  "Granger and co-defendant, Leonard Smith, were quickly arrested along with Reg Crowther after he also discharged a firearm, which destroyed the TV.

  "They offered no resistance, claiming they were researching material for Granger’s after-dinner speaking enterprise, entitled ‘how not to be a bank robber’, a subject, of which he has considerable knowledge.

  "The driver of the getaway car abandoned his fellow-robbers when he discovered the car had run dry of petrol. All three, before the court, were wearing gorilla costumes and the garish Bermuda shorts and high-vis vests.

  "Still disguised as a gorilla, wearing like the others, garish shorts and the yel
low vests, John Mackenzie was soon found at the bar of a nearby public house, sipping whisky though a straw.

  He couldn’t remove the head of the gorilla costume." Following his usual style, he repeated himself.

  "None of them offered any form of resistance. The one, known as the Colonel, maintains he was studying reactions. He was conducting this research for his new-found plans as an after-dinner speaker talking about the futility of crime.

  “May it pleash the court, all-in-all, they acted like complete idiots. There is little more to say.” With a theatrical wave of his hand, he looked around the court as if expecting applause. None came from the virtually empty courtroom. He sat down.

  Their ‘brief’, Barry Brundle, rose to his feet and looked at the defendants.

  "This is a tale of failure, nearly all of their robbing enterprises have resulted in failure or minimal return. In one of his talks, Granger admits that he has spent many thousands of pounds planning and executing various crimes. His return was the equivalent of a month’s wages for a middle-ranking bank clerk.

  The judge sighed, shuffled his papers, coughed and was about to begin his summing-up before sentencing when an usher came into court and handed the clerk a note. He read it, stood up and passed it to the judge, who then said, “In light of this information, I am adjourning for a short time. Would prosecution and defence council please join me in my chambers?”

  The three shrugged their shoulders as they were led out of the dock to the cells below the court.

  Thirty minutes later, the three defendants were led back into the dock. Soon after, prosecution and defence barristers returned to court without looking at the three, who were sitting looking at the floor in silence. The Colonel’s usual nervous quips were absent. They stood when the judge entered the court. He looked across at the three and unexpectedly said,

  "The defendants may sit. Before I begin summing up and sentencing, there is a sad matter that needs addressing. There should have been four men in the dock today. Sadly, Reginald Crowther died this morning. May I, on behalf of the court, offer my condolences to his friends? I understand he had no family.

  "It is not my intention to prolong proceeding at this sad time. You have all pleaded guilty to a crime that, as counsel has said, could be from the pages of a comic crime novels. We have four elderly men, one pushing a wheeled walking aid, all three were dressed in gorilla costumes, garish Bermuda shorts and high-vis vests. One with a walking stick enters a small post office, blows a hole in the ceiling, which then collapses across customers in the café, who, it transpires were armed police officers. You, Granger, fell over with the recoil of the shotgun.

  "Now, I have read reports about all of you. As a prison report states, you are, by any standards, professional idiots who have failed over the years to make a living out of any of your enterprises.

  "Granger, you have, to some extent, redeemed yourself by giving talks on how not to be a bank robber. I have listened to one of your talks and found it most amusing.

  "This is the fourth time you have been before me. The first time, the security van was empty on its way to be sold; the second, you tried to rob a bank that had closed-down to be refurnished; the third involved you running out of a bank, colliding with the side of a delivery van, breaking your nose and a leg. All-in-all, a disaster.

  "However, despite some sixty years of wrong-doing, much of it spent as a guest of the penal system, you have some quirky ideals. These include despising anyone connected with drugs or fleecing older people. Your records show you gave a new prisoner, who had conned some elderly people out of substantial sums, a taste of your form of punishment. He spent some time in the hospital wing of Brixton prison for recovery from broken fingers.

  "This report shows that you have made efforts to repent your life-long villainous activities by various schemes. Your probation officer reports the robbery at a closed-down post office was part of your research into your talks about the futility of robbing financial institutions and their support network.

  "The idea that you disguised yourself as gorillas wearing Bermuda shorts and high-vis jackets was simply a way bringing some humour into the escapade.

  "There are some issues. I do not propose bringing to the attention of the court. Now, we come to you, Smith. You came late into the criminal underworld. You are described by various sources as easily led and a career criminal. I see you are, according to probation reports, intellectually challenged. I see you look puzzled? This simply means you’re an idiot, to whom crime was no more than a bit of fun. I see you have begun taking lessons in communication skills, this being an effort to change your ways. It’s taken some time to penetrate your feeble brain that crime doesn’t pay.

  "Now I come to you, Mackenzie. You once had a promising career as a racing driver. Then, you took to crime in Glasgow as a getaway driver. You moved to London for better pickings. I understand, from the probation reports, that you are an accomplished bagpipe and accordion player, and you have a fine singing voice. These talents are finally being put to good use. Alas! Quite late in life.

  “I sentence the three of you to two years’ imprisonment, suspended for two years. You may leave the dock.” With these words, he left the court.

  In his chambers, devoid of his wig and gown, the judge picked up one of the gorilla costumes. The label stitched inside the neck simply said: ‘Guy’. Then, peering inside the neck of one of the others, he saw labels reading: ‘Lenny, John, Reginald and George’. He smiled at the memory.

  The elderly women left the public gallery as the three left the dock. They were met by their probation officer, Mandy Mainwaring, who had been in the service for some years. She met the trio with a smile.

  The tall woman, with hip-length, dark hair and a ready smile, welcomed them, “That was a good result, lads. I’m sorry about Mr Crowther. Now I don’t intend to keep you today. I will need to interview you all. I’ll arrange to see you at your homes in the next few days. I think you have your fan club waiting for you.” She nodded to three women waiting by the exit to the court. Jock was the first to say anything in understandable tones.

  “Oh, my God! Will she never leave me alone?”

  As Sergeant Wallace approached, he said, “Ah, Colonel. How would you like a date for one of your talks? I’m sorry about Reg.”

  That night, at a table for six, in the Buon Appetito, the newly named gang of three, along with Hilary, Glynis and Martha, celebrated the boys’ freedom.

  Two weeks after their court appearance, they were the only mourners at Reg’s brief funeral.

  Geoffrey Stanfield was semi-retired and belonged to the old school of the legal profession, a large man dressed in double-breasted waistcoat, displaying the chain of his pocket watch. His double-breasted jacket remained un-buttoned. The wing-collar of his white shirt partially obscured a bright, red bow-tie. His depressed clerical spectacles were perched on the end of his large nose of a completely bald head.

  Already sitting in the office was Angela Crowther. She quietly said, “I’m so sorry. He was such a kind man to James and me.”

  "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this is a sad occasion. As I think, you know, I looked after Mr Crowther’s affairs for many years. This meeting is just preliminary. I took instructions from the late gentleman just before he was admitted to hospital and following, er… um… your little episode with the post office.

  "I am not, as yet, in a position to fully complete the winding up of his estate. I can assure you it is just a matter of banking and legal niceties. Let me assure you that you three and your son, Miss Crowther, are the only beneficiaries under the terms and conditions of his last will and testament.

  “I believe the matter will be sorted by the end of the month. I will ask you to return and then I can properly complete the reading of the will. I hope you understand. Just to give you some comfort, I have already received my fees for dealing with this matter.”

  The three left Stanfield & Co Brighton’s office. The Colonel was
the first to speak, “Don’t know what all the fuss was about. He had nought to fight over.” They and Angela adjourned to a nearby pub. She said little.

  Lenny announced that he couldn’t stay long as he had to take the girls to rehearsals. “C’mon Jock, I’ll give you a lift and I’m taking James to watch.” The Colonel went home alone.

  A month later, the trio and Angela received a letter from Mrs Stanfield, asking them to attend a meeting at two-thirty on the 28th, for the final reading of the will.

  Mr Stanfield opened the meeting, "Thank you all for coming. This will, I hope, be the last time I deal with any probate. This gentleman here, Mr Steven Chamberlain, is the new head of this practice. He will oversee the final matters, which I will explain. I’m now retiring. I don’t propose going into the complications of settling this matter. Steven Chamberlain nodded his approval.

  "Now you, Guy Granger, Leonard Smith, John Mackenzie and you, Angela Cowley, representing your son, are the only beneficiaries of Mr Crowther’s estate. My instructions are that it be divided equally between you four persons.

  “All his personal belongs, clothing etc., will be donated to ‘Help the Aged Charity’. Any monies in his bank accounts are to be paid to you individually by way of this firm’s clients’ account.”

  He paused and picked up four envelopes. Each had the Gang of Three’s and James Cowley’s names on.

  “Now before I give you these envelopes, I will explain the circumstances. Some six months ago, Mr Crowther asked me to set up an investment account and swore me to secrecy. The funds came from his winnings on a lottery ticket. These cheques are his gratitude for your friendships.” He handed each an envelope.

  Inside was a letter and another smaller envelope. The Colonel read his letter out loud. Jock looked at his copy and said nothing. Lenny just stared at it.

  The Colonel read the letter out loud:

  Over the years, I have valued your friendship. By the time you read this, I will have gone to meet the great jailer.