Guns of Brixton (2010)

by Timlin, Mark

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Break it.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  He phoned Linda and gave her the bad news, and he heard the same old disappointment in her voice when he did. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Monday’ll be here sooner than you think.’

  ‘Just don’t let me down,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be there. Four o’clock on the dot.’

  ‘You’d better be.’

  He phoned Sean back and and simply said: ‘It’s me. I’ll be there.’

  And he was, and either Sean had kept his word or else the tail was much better. Even so, Mark made Sean drive him to Stockwell tube station, where they pushed through the barriers, ran down to the platform, caught the first train that came in, got off at Victoria, and took the first south bound train back. As far as Mark could see, no one followed them. ‘You are careful,’ said Sean when they got off at Pimlico and went into the nearest pub.

  ‘It’s kept me alive,’ said Mark. ‘You can get a cab back to your car.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘Still got a date?’

  ‘No. You screwed that up good and proper.’

  ‘Sorry. Now listen. There’s a back door at the depository leading into a car park. The car park is walled, but there’s another door leading on to some waste ground. That door will be open and I’ll be waiting outside with a car. You take the car, drive away and dump it somewhere. I don’t care where. That’s your out. Clear?’

  Mark smiled. ‘Sounds good to me. But we could’ve done all this on the phone.’

  ‘I wanted to see you again,’ said Sean. ‘You remind me of someone, but I can’t think who. Are you sure we haven’t met before?’

  ‘Maybe in a previous life.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Sean shook his head. ‘I just can’t place it,’ he said.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Mark, who’d gone cold at Sean’s words. ‘Perhaps it’ll come to you.’ But I hope not, he thought.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Sean.

  ‘So, see you Monday,’ said Mark.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘You’d better.’ And with that, he left his drink and walked out of the pub. Arsehole, he thought. And for the last time – at least Mark hoped it was the last time – he ducked and dived a circuitous route back to his hotel.

  The die was cast, and all he had to do was get out of it alive, meet up with Linda and everything would be fine.

  The next morning, Sean Pierce went in to see his boss. ‘I met him last night,’ he said.

  ‘And everything’s going ahead,’ said Mobray.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What about the people at the depository?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Will they be ready?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the operation. Will the armed guards be stood down?’

  ‘How can they be? We know they’ve got someone on the inside.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re armed.’

  ‘So are we.’

  ‘And so are the gang. Surely they’ll be told on Monday.’

  Mobray shook his head. ‘We’ve spoken to the chairman of the board. He’s prepared to let the raid go on.’

  ‘But he won’t be there.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You mean you’re just going to let seven men armed with automatic weapons break in and not warn anyone inside?’

  ‘If we do our job, no one will get hurt.’

  ‘Sir. This was my operation.’

  ‘My operation, Pierce? This is not a private war. It’s our operation. In fact it’s a Serious Crimes operation out of our ground, and you’re lucky to still have anything to do with it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. You go there on Monday and get your man away. Let Serious Crimes and SO19 do the rest. Understood?’

  ‘Understood, sir,’ said Sean. But afterwards, standing in the corridor outside Mobray’s office, he felt the cold hand of dread clasp at his gut.

  Mark had only one more job to do before the robbery. He called Chas up and checked that he and Martine would be home on Sunday lunchtime. ‘Yeah,’ said Chas. ‘But don’t make it early. Her highness likes to sleep late. She’ll be out clubbing ’til all hours Saturday night.’

  ‘No problem. Mind if I drop by? I’d like to see you both.’

  ‘No problem with me,’ replied Chas. ‘You’re always welcome here as far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t be so sure about her, though.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  Two o’clock Sunday afternoon, and the streets of Tulse Hill were deadly quiet as Mark parked the Explorer outside the gates of John Jenner’s old house. He pressed the buzzer by the gate and looked up and down the familiar street as he waited for an answer. ‘Yeah?’ It was Chas. ‘It’s me,’ he said, and with a grunt and groan the gates began to swing open. Chas opened the front door and the two men hugged. It was an embrace that encapsulated years. ‘Is she up?’ asked Mark.

  ‘I heard some movement. Come into the kitchen, have a drink.’

  ‘A beer would be good.’ Mark followed Chas downstairs and through to the back.

  He sat at the kitchen table and Chas pulled two bottles of Beck’s from the chiller and popped the tops. He handed one to Mark and they touched the bottles together. ‘Cheers,’ said Chas.

  ‘Cheers,’ Mark echoed.

  ‘What a cosy scene,’ said Martine’s voice from the doorway, and the two men looked around.

  ‘Hello, Martine,’ said Mark. ‘Late one, was it?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. She was fresh from bed, wearing a silky housecoat and, for a moment, it could have been Hazel standing in the doorway. Except for the expression on her face. Hazel had never looked that sour in her life.

  ‘Just come to say goodbye,’ said Mark.

  ‘Going away again?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘You needn’t have bothered. Why did you let him in, Chas?’

  ‘This used to be his home.’

  ‘Not any more. Not since Daddy died.’

  ‘Still think it was my fault?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. You know I loved the man.’

  ‘For what he did for you, you mean.’

  ‘No. Him. Him and Hazel. You and Chas. You were my family.’

  “‘Were” is right.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel like that.’

  ‘What other way is there to feel?’

  ‘Do you want a cuppa, Martine?’ Chas interrupted.

  ‘Always a cuppa, eh, Chas?’ she replied. ‘The answer to all our problems.’

  ‘Don’t have a go at him, Martine,’ said Mark. ‘This was my idea.’

  ‘Fine.’ Martine flounced over to the sink and filled a glass with water from the tap. ‘So where are you going?’

  ‘Dunno,’ replied Mark. ‘Somewhere far away. Somewhere warm and safe.’

  She fixed him with a gimlet gaze. ‘All on your own?’ Mark didn’t reply. ‘You’re not taking that bitch with you, are you?’ she said. Mark still remained silent. ‘You are.’

  ‘You still can’t bear it, can you?’ said Mark. ‘That I’d choose her over you.’

  The glass left her hand and smashed against the wall behind Mark’s head. ‘You bastard,’ she said. ‘And I thought I’d fixed you.’

  ‘What?’ said Mark.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No. Not nothing. Fixed me, how?’

  ‘Forget it.’ And she made for the door.

  ‘No,’ said Chas, blocking her exit. ‘I want to know too. Fixed him how?’

  Martine said nothing.

  Suddenly it dawned on Mark. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he said to Martine. ‘It was you who told Old Bill.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘That day down in Basingstoke when I near
ly got captured. The cops knew I was going to be there. Then they came around here. Someone grassed us up. It was you.’ Martine swallowed hard, but still said nothing. ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Mark. ‘You turned snout on your own father just to get at me. And you’ve blamed me all the time. But you put him in the frame. If it wasn’t for you he’d never have been arrested that day and ended up in hospital.’

  Martine started to sob quietly.

  ‘Christ,’ said Chas.

  ‘Yes, I did it,’ she shouted. ‘You came back here like a conquering hero and Daddy fell for it like he always did.’

  ‘He asked me back,’ said Mark.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ said Martine. ‘Kill me?’

  Mark shook his head and stood up. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Oh yeah, I could kill you, Martine, and maybe I should. Or ruin your face, but you look too much like Hazel. It would be like hurting her. No. I reckon doing nothing is best. Your punishment is living with yourself.’ He turned to Chas. ‘Sorry about all this, mate. I didn’t have a clue, honest. I’d better go.’

  The two men picked their way through the broken glass on the floor back upstairs to the front door. ‘Shit,’ said Chas. ‘I had no idea. She more or less killed John.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mark. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Christ knows. I can’t stay here. I should’ve gone months ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Who knows. I’ll find something. Maybe I’ll look you up. Somewhere warm and safe, you said. Sounds about right to me.’

  ‘Do it, mate. I’ll let you know where I am, one way or another.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  They hugged again, and Mark left the house for the last time.

  And he didn’t look back once.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Bank holiday Monday dawned fair. An unusual enough event for it to feature heavily in the local news bulletins that morning. ‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Daniel Butler as the men gathered at the old print works. ‘Perfect.’

  There were a dozen men inside the building altogether, including the clean up crew whose job it was to make sure that nothing was left behind for the cops to find.

  Mark packed his bags and checked out of the hotel after breakfast, then he drove to Croydon with his things in the Explorer, which he left in the public car park next to East Croydon station. Then he caught a train up to London Bridge and took a taxi on to east London. He got the cabbie to drop him off about half a mile from the printing works and walked the rest of the way. The sky was high and blue, criss-crossed with vapour trails, the sun was hot on his head and what tiny breeze there was whipped dust devils across the dirty tarmac of the road. The only sound was the tattoo his boot heels beat on the pavement.

  He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a grey T-shirt. Just a bloke taking a morning stroll, maybe to pick up a paper or a pint of milk, or to find a pub with early doors. The night before he’d looked in the bathroom mirror and considered shaving off his beard, but that would have made things too complicated, so he compromised by trimming it down to a thick stubble. It felt strange under his fingers, but there’d be time later, if there was a later, to worry about things like that. And now his almost-shaven hair was beginning to grow out, he began to recognise himself as himself again after so long. He’d left the contact lenses off, keeping them in their case in his pocket, and the deep blue of his eyes was disguised behind his mirrored shades. His eyes felt strange without the constriction of the fine plastic. Free. As if he’d got his own personality back after hiding who he really was. Which of course he had. He wanted to face Sean and Jimmy Hunter wearing his own face. His father’s face. The last face Jimmy would ever see on this earth. At least, that was the plan.

  From his stash of weapons, he’d chosen a Glock 19 with the safety on the trigger, and a fifteen-round magazine. It nestled in a sheepskin-lined leather shoulder holster under his jacket, together with a fully loaded spare clip. As backup, he slid a Colt Commando .38 calibre revolver down into his boot.

  The last thing he’d done before going to bed the night before was to phone Linda and confirm their meeting that Monday afternoon. Mark knew that it would be all over one way or another by then. He told her not to worry, that everything would be fine, and that he loved her. He told her to sleep well and that by the same time tomorrow they’d be well on their way to a new life. She told him she loved him too, and when they’d hung up, he hoped that everything he’d said would come true. He’d considered not showing up at the print works. To simply forget the whole thing and let the gang go in without him. But so much time and effort had already gone into screwing Butler and Hunter that he felt he had to go through with it.

  He was still thinking about Linda as he crossed the deserted industrial estate, everyone who worked there, it seemed, taking advantage of the extra day on their weekend. And the only movement he saw as he walked the empty streets was an old tabby cat, washing its paws in the shade, its yellow, almond-shaped eyes following him as he went. ‘Here, kitty,’ he said as he passed. The cat ignored him, trying instead to prise something out from between its claws. ‘Sod you then,’ said Mark.

  The old works loomed ahead, looking as empty as the buildings around it, but Mark knew that that was only an illusion. He walked through the open gates and across the concrete yard, overgrown with weeds whose crushed stems were the only hint that anything was going on inside.

  Mark knocked on the Judas gate next to the metal roller door aware, not for the first time, of the irony of the name. An armed man opened it and beckoned him inside. ‘Cheers,’ said Mark, and wondered if the man would live to see the evening. If, in fact, any of them would.

  Inside was a hive of industry. He walked over to Bob and they shook hands. ‘All ready?’ Bob asked.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ replied Mark.

  ‘Need a weapon?’

  ‘I brought my own.’

  ‘Show.’

  Mark slipped the Glock from its hiding place, reversed the gun in his hand and passed it to Bob who nodded his approval. ‘Nice weapon,’ he said. ‘Traceable?’

  ‘Only to a robbery of a gun shop in Switzerland, five years ago.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Bob, returning the gun to Mark who stashed it away, before going to lean against the Chevrolet Suburban, that it was his job to drive, and watch the last-minute preparations as he smoked a cigarette. There was food and drink laid out on tables in one corner, next to a couple of old sofas the blokes who’d fixed up the Volvo had brought in, and two portable toilets had been set up in another. Jimmy Hunter walked over, carrying his shotgun over his shoulder, and Mark forced a smile on to his face. ‘Morning,’ he said.

  Hunter just grunted.

  ‘Been here long?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Too fucking long,’ replied Hunter.

  ‘That’s the breaks.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Hunter and turned away.

  Mark shrugged, left his perch and wandered the concrete floor. He didn’t want to talk to Hunter. Time enough for you later, he thought. He didn’t know anyone well enough to strike up a conversation, so he just sat down on one of the old sofas and made himself as comfortable as he could. He looked at the food, but he had no appetite, so he left it. He could feel the tension start to build up inside and his stomach grumbled. This was it, there was no going back now.

  The morning passed slowly. The rest of the gang armed themselves and they all got ready for the off. Handheld portable two-way radios were issued to both vehicles and every man was given a black wool balaclava in order to hide his face. CCTV covered the inside and outside of the target building, and no one was that keen to get their face on to Crimewatch UK.

  At precisely twelve-thirty, Daniel Butler clapped his hands for attention and climbed on to the running board of the Volvo tractor. ‘Right,’ he yelled. ‘This is it. Let’s get started.’

  Mark went back to the Chevrolet, where Jimmy Hunter was already sitting
in the front passenger seat, his balaclava on his head like a black cap, and the short Remington shotgun across his lap. Mark slid in behind the wheel and fired up the engine, which ticked over nicely. ‘Belt,’ he said, and Hunter grunted again but did up his seatbelt. They were joined by Ronnie, Les and Paul who jumped into the back as he watched Tony Green and Bob climb up into the cab of the Volvo. It looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘If any coppers spot that, I reckon they’ll make them produce their documents.’

  ‘Bob’ll produce something,’ said Les from the back. ‘And it won’t be fucking documents.’

  ‘You don’t see many Old Bill round here,’ said Paul.

  ‘Only when you don’t want them,’ said Hunter.

  ‘It’s a bank holiday, man,’ said Paul. ‘They’ll all be in the pub.’

  The Volvo turned tightly in front of them, and Mark followed it. The roller door opened, filling the building with sunshine, and both vehicles went outside, through the open gates and headed for Silvertown, just down the road from where Mark had met John Jenner, all those months before. Mark wondered if it was an omen. And if so, whether it was good or bad.

  The two trucks sped through the deserted streets of an east London on holiday. The traffic was light, and they were in position under the railway bridge, beside the depository, within a few minutes. Mark looked at his watch. They were ten minutes early. When he saw Bob get down from the Volvo, he switched off the Chevrolet’s engine. The five men decamped from the Chevy, and those who smoked, lit up. It was quiet and deserted where they were, the only sound being the burble of exhaust from the Volvo’s tall stacks. The guns Mark was carrying weighed heavily and he could see the slight tremble in his fingers as he held the cigarette. ‘Nervous?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Oh yes. Always. You?’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘Not too bad,’ he replied.

  Bob walked over and said, ‘You all ready?’

  The five men all made sounds of affirmation in reply. It was too late now to be anything else.

  Bob squinted down at his watch. ‘Come on, then, look smart,’ and the smokers dropped their cigarettes and everyone got back into their vehicles. Mark looked away from Jimmy so that the older man wouldn’t be able to see his eyes, removed his sunglasses, rolled the balaclava over his face, and put his shades back on. He knew it looked ridiculous, like something out of an old Invisible Man movie, but he didn’t care. Immediately sweat broke out on his face and the wool of the material started to itch. Jimmy rolled his balaclava down too, and the two-way radio burst into life.