by Alfie Robins
‘And you Mick,’ he said, ‘it’s been quite a while.’
Conway was shorter than he appeared on the videos Warren had watched, and fatter. It was difficult to conceive that this man had his fingers in just about all the pies that mattered, not referring to all the pies he must have eaten.
‘Come in mate, make yourself at home,’ Conway returned to his chair. Warren cleared some motoring magazines of the leather sofa and sat.
He dropped his rucksack on the floor beside him. ‘Cop for this,’ Conway passed over a can of lager.
Warren was grateful. Nerves had dried his mouth completely.
‘Cheers,’ he sipped, ‘I was ready for that.’
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Well what?’
‘The great escape, what else? I want to know how you sorted it. Like Houdini this fella,’ he said, turning to the youth. ‘Fucking Houdini, you could learn a lot from him.’ He settled back in his chair and swigged from the can and waited.
Warren told him the story, not the tale portrayed on the television, one with more than a few embellishments. A tale of “inside corruption”, of messages passed via one of the screws on the payroll, how he’d organised a team from Southern Ireland to take out the Prison van and sort him out with a motor.
‘Why use a team of Paddies?
‘Simple, I didn’t want to use anyone who might be associated with me. These lads flew into Heathrow from Dublin, did the job and then were on the next flight back via Manchester Airport.
‘I’m impressed, man. You sorted all that from inside?’
‘Easy if you find a screw up to his neck in debt and desperate for some readies, know what I mean.’
The lying was coming easier.
‘So, Ray, what can I do for you beside the obvious?’
‘First off I need a place to get my head down for a while until things settle down a bit. Secondly, money doesn’t last forever, my assets have been seized. Once I’ve got some cash together I’m away.’ Sounding good, he was pleased.
‘You skint then?’
‘Not skint, but you know what it’s like, I’ve got a bit of a stash but as I said it won’t last forever.’
Conway leaned forward in his chair. ‘What’s in it for me if I help get you sorted?’
So much for honour amongst thieves, thought Warren. He reached down to the backpack on the floor beside him, opened it and took out the package and threw it over.
‘Here’s a down payment.’
‘Sweet. Welcome to your new home, fella,’ Conway said smugly as he caught the plastic bag of class ‘A’.
The next half an hour tested Warren to the limit, stories of old, mutual acquaintances and deals gone down. His homework stood him in good stead and he managed to hold his own. It was a relief when the youth who had so far been sat quiet taking it all in, looked at his watch, and nodded his head towards the door.
‘Got to be on me way Ray, somewhere to be. This is your home for as long as you need it,’ he said tossing the package of class ‘A’ to the tat covered scally. ‘Give me your mobile,’ Warren passed it over and Conway proceeded to key in a number. ‘If you need anything give me a call on this number,’ he passed back the mobile. ‘Ok? And don’t forget, anything you want, women, boys, just let me know.’
‘Cheers Mick, I appreciate the help. And don’t forget about the other business.’
‘No problem pal I’ll keep you in mind, I’ll be in touch.’ Warren was glad to see Conway waddle his fat frame down the hallway. ‘Jimbo, here will get you some new clobber and supplies and drop them off later,’ the tattooed youth turned, half smiled and gave Warren the keys to the flat.
‘Jimbo,’ Warren called after them. Jimbo turned. ‘Don’t forget a bottle of tequila.’
Then they were gone.
Warren shut the door and locked it, then he gave the biggest sigh of his life as leaned against the closed door. The back of his shirt was soaked with sweat. He was desperate to quench his nervous thirst. He went through to the kitchen and sure enough the fridge was well stocked with Carlsberg Export. Standing in the kitchen, Warren held out the arm holding the can and it was shaking.
‘Thank fuck that’s over,’ he said out loud, as he tried to control the shakes.
After taking a few deep breaths he managed to get himself together. Next, he did a quick exploration of the flat. There were two bedrooms, one was quite well furnished: double bed, chest of drawers, wardrobe and bedside cabinet and looked comfortable, even the decorating was passable. On the other hand, the smaller of the two was obviously used for storage. If he had been a smoker he’d never have wanted for contraband tobacco for the rest of his life. The bathroom wasn’t too bad, although Warren thought it might benefit from a bottle of bleach. The sitting room was snug, cosy his Mum would have called it, with the leather sofa and chair, dining table and of course a flat screen television, obviously. He did a quick search through the oak sideboard and cupboards, also a “sweep”, just in case there was any listening devices. Nothing.
It was time to make the call.
Chapter 6
John was the first in the office, he was always the early bird, first in the office and the last to leave. A few minutes later his colleague walked in bearing two takeaway cups of Costa coffee.
‘Have a good night?’ Bob asked as he set down the cardboard cups and dropped into a chair.
‘Not so good, I’ll sleep better when we’ve had a call. Cheers,’ he said holding up the cardboard cup, ‘thanks.’
‘So no contact yet?’
‘No not so far.’
‘Once he’s established himself things will take their own course and settle down – only a matter of time.’
‘True, no point worrying until we hear something.’
Then as if on cue the phone rang. There was only one person who would call on that particular number.
‘Gemmell Strategies.’
‘Warren here,’ Warren said and waited for a reply.
‘Greg, it’s good to hear from you.’ It sounded like John’s voice. ‘How did the meeting go?’
‘The meeting went fine, it’s my nerves that are shot.’
‘Any problems?’
‘None, looks like we’re in. I’m in a flat on Great Thornton Street.’
‘Yes we know, there’s a GPS tracker in your vehicle.’
‘Of course there is – the flat number is fifteen.’
‘Thank you Greg, keep in touch.’ He hung up, a short and maybe not so sweet conversation. John sat back in his swivel chair, relieved Warren had made contact. With his arms folded behind his head he visibly relaxed.
‘So, are you feeling better?’ asked Bob.
‘Marginally,’ he said smiling. ‘I think it’s time to make the call.’
‘Shall I do the honours?’
Bob didn’t wait for a reply. He walked over and sat behind his own desk, picked up his mobile from the desk and tapped in a series of numbers. The call was answered almost straightaway.
‘Today would be good, let me know when the obstacle has been removed,’ he said into the handset and hung up.
‘First stage complete, onwards and upwards,’ John picked up his coffee. ‘Cheers,’ he said once more, this time gesturing with the cardboard cup.
Chapter 7
Warren checked out the kitchen, thankfully there was something other than lager in the fridge, a pack of bacon and half a dozen eggs, plenty to satisfy his retuning appetite until the lad came back with supplies. He made himself a fry-up and waited.
A couple of hours or so later there was a hammering on the flat door, Warren looked through the viewer, it was Jimbo loaded up with paper carrier bags.
‘Bloody hell Jimbo, you bought the shop?’ The lad smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
He took the bags off Jimbo, tipped them onto the table and examined the contents.
‘Didn’t know what size to get, so I got large in everything,’ said Jimbo as he watched.
> Warren thought it looked like he’d bought enough provisions to keep him going for a week, along with a selection of new clothes from Primarni. Not his usual choice of clothing store, but perfectly in line with what Cole would wear, cheap underwear, jeans, T-shirts and jumpers and a new zip-up hoody jacket.
‘Not forgetting this,’ he said producing a bottle of tequila from a separate bag.
‘Top man,’ Warren said accepting the bottle. ‘Fancy one?’ He didn’t think Jimbo would refuse, and it was also an opportunity for him to drop in some sly questions. ‘Grab some glasses from the kitchen.’ Warren settled into Conway’s leather chair while Jimbo poured out two generous tots. ‘Cheers, mate,’ he said raising the glass and sipping. ‘You worked for Mick very long?’
Simple enough question Warren thought.
‘Two years, on and off.’
‘And what is it you do for him?’
‘This and that.’
Warren concluded it was going to be hard work, he doubted he’d get very much out of him. Not yet any way, he had to win his trust.
‘Like what?’
‘What’s with all the questions?’
He was a suspicious bugger, his eyes narrowed as he spoke.
‘Just trying to make conversation. I’ve spent the last few weeks on remand, listening to a load of cons bragging about what they have and haven’t done. Just wanted a proper conversation with someone who hasn’t got a chip on their shoulder.’
‘Fair enough I suppose. I just do whatever he asks, courier work mainly – you know collections and delivery.’
‘So we might get the chance to work together. I’ll look forward to it,’ he lied.
‘Anyway, I’ve got to make a move, places to be.’ Jimbo stood to leave and downed the remaining tequila from the glass. ‘Be seeing ya.’
‘Thanks for the supplies,’ Warren said holding up his glass as he watched him leave. Then Warren immediately followed him and slid the dead bolts in to place. There was nothing more to do than play the waiting game. It was time for the long-awaited shower and a change of clothes.
Chapter 8
Life for Raymond Cole, the real Raymond Cole was not exactly one of luxury. After all he was being held on ‘remand’ in the segregation block of HMP Belmarsh, and life wasn’t meant to be pleasant, but he was the first to admit he’d had worse HMP accommodation. Cole’s gripe was that he couldn’t understand why he was being held in ‘special segregation’ without any explanation. He was a ‘real’ criminal why should they hold him on the same wing as the paedophiles, rapists and perverts?
Cole hated nonces.
All in all, Cole wasn’t expecting to be incarcerated for very long, after all, he hadn’t been charged. He had over the years been a frequent short stay visitor to Her Majesty’s establishments, and it was an easy life on the segregation wing. If the monotony didn’t get to you the boredom did, especially now as the issue of daily newspapers had stopped, strangely enough coinciding with his non-existent ‘escape’. Two days previous, there had been uproar amongst the inmates, with no explanation given every television and radio on the wing had been removed. When Cole asked what was going on, he was told ‘mind your own fucking business’ if he didn’t want to spend time in solitary.
Cole kept himself to himself, he didn’t want or encourage conversations with the any of the nonces, after all he was a proper criminal not some kiddie fiddler. When approached by a fellow inmate he made his feeling very clear – verbally and occasionally by resorting to physical violence. Only the previous week a nonce with a history of child rape and murder had tried to play the big man, bragging about his heinous deeds to anyone who would listen.
Cole had had enough of the heinous talk and put him in the prison infirmary laid on his front for two days having the wound in his arse taken care of. Needless to say, he made himself unpopular amongst his peers; any one of them would ‘top’ him given the opportunity.
Lunchtime came around, Cole picked up a tray along with the obligatory plastic cutlery and joined the queue in the canteen. He collected his barely edible meal, and as usual he preferred his own company and returned to his cell. He sat on the edge of his bed poking and prodding at the slop on the tray when Peter Price, the nonce he’d had a run-in with two days previous entered his cell. He stood leaning on the doorframe, like a man on a mission.
‘What the fuck do you want, twat?’
‘Not your arse that’s for sure.’ Price retorted, still bearing the battle scars of their previous encounter, namely twelve stitches in the cheek of his arse.
‘How is your arse by the way?’ asked Cole.
‘Wanker,’ he said as he walked further in to the cell, his right hand behind his back.
‘Just fuck off back under your rock.’ Cole put his tray beside him on the bed and stood up. ‘Hear me nonce? Just piss off, if you don’t I’m telling you your face will match your arse.’ Cole had stuck a broken plastic dinner knife into Price’s arse cheek and gouged out a chunk of flesh.
Price stepped forward; his right arm came from behind his back holding a nine-inch Perspex shiv sharpened to a point. He took one step further forward into the cell and he thrust the shiv into Cole, just below the ribs with an upward twist. Cole didn’t have time to defend himself as the shiv was deliberately snapped, leaving the blade buried deep inside his body. It was over in seconds.
Cole dropped to his knees, grasping his wound, blood seeped through his fingers, he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.
‘Now who’s a twat?’ He heard the nonce say, as Price left leaving him doubled over in a pool of crimson.
Price walked out of the cell onto the landing and passed the shiv handle to the screw standing by the side of the door, and then calmly walked through the open gateway to his own wing. Price had nothing to lose, he was already serving four life sentences, and he knew he was never going to leave prison alive. So what if he was convicted of killing Cole? They couldn’t do anything else to him. No words were spoken between Price and the screw. The prison guard calmly put the handle in his pocket and walked to the toilets and then dropped what was left of the Perspex shiv in the floor drain, washed his hands and made a phone call on his mobile. ‘It’s done,’ was all he said, ended the call. He removed the SIM card from the mobile, snapped it in half and sent it to join the shiv in the drain.
He then went back to Cole’s cell and pressed the panic button.
Chapter 9
Holed up in the flat with only the television for company, Warren was starting to get cabin fever. After forty-eight hours he was unwisely considering having a walk in the fresh air.
Then contact.
As they had arranged, Conway gave two rings on the mobile before he banged on the flat door.
‘Raymondo,’ he shouted from out in the hallway.
The dead bolts grated as Warren slid them open. Conway and his sidekick Jimbo followed him back into the lounge.
‘About time, I thought you’d forgotten about me, I’ve been talking to myself since Jimbo left.’
‘Yeah well, business, you know what it’s like. Some of that tequila left? Don’t really matter.’ Jimbo passed over a bottle he’d been carrying.
‘Came prepared,’ he held up a bottle of single malt. ‘This is more my tipple,’ he said as he made straight for the glasses. ‘Want one?’ He called from the kitchen. He didn’t wait for an answer and came back juggling three fat stubby glasses.
‘Cheers,’ Warren said taking the offered glass.
Compared to the tequila, the malt tasted like liquid heaven. Conway dropped down onto the sofa, while Jimbo pulled out a straight back chair. It was obvious Conway had already had a drink or three, at least.
‘Now here’s the thing, since you turned up I’ve been doing some thinking and I’ve got a deal to put to you. By the way, Bernie sends his regards.’
Warren searched his memory bank trying to remember the name. Nothing he couldn’t remember a Bernie.
‘Ye
ah well, can’t say I did that much business with him. Bit of a tosser if I remember rightly. So what’s this deal you want to put to me?’ Swiftly changing the subject.
‘Hang on a minute Ray, let’s not rush things. Jimbo, go grab us some cans to go with the Scotch.’
Warren sat patiently, he guessed he wasn’t going to like Conway’s latest proposal. Jimbo did as he was told and went through to Warren’s kitchen, it wasn’t as if he didn’t know where things were kept, and returned with three cans of Export lager.
‘Come on Mick, don’t have me sitting here all day.’ Warren said as Jimbo passed him a can.
‘Well, after your tale about the “great escape” I got to thinking, what if we pinched the idea?’
‘What do you mean pinched the idea?’
‘I mean we knock off a security van.’
‘It’s been done before Mick, it’s not very original.’
‘Maybe, but not for a good few years, it worked for you or you wouldn’t be sitting here now,’ he pulled the tab on the can and took a sip. ‘I’m thinking along the lines of a cash in transit van, you know all loaded up after doing a day’s collections.’
‘Bloody hell Mick, that’ll take some setting up.’ Warren was right, he didn’t like the way things were heading.
‘Not if we keep things simple, it’s just a case of knowing where to make the hit. All I say is keep an open mind while I work out some details.’
‘What would be my cut in all this?’
‘Eighty – twenty split.’
‘Pull the other one Mick – it plays Birdie Song! Fifty – fifty.’
‘Now who’s taking the piss! Sixty – forty, final offer.’
‘That’ll do nicely thank you very much, cheers. But it will have to be a bloody good plan, I don’t want to end up back behind bars.’
‘Good man, knew I’d be able to rely on you,’ he held up the can in a mock salute. ‘Cheers.’