Civvies

by Lynda La Plante

  Harry held up his hand. 'Hang about…' He did a slow sweep with the torch round the edge of the door. 'You see any wires?'

  Dillon ran his fingers along the top and down both sides of the door frame. 'I'd say we're okay.'

  Harry moved back a pace or two. He switched off his torch and craned upwards, peering through the frosted glass. 'Don't go in,' he warned Dillon. 'See that red dot? We got to find the main electricity circuit. We cross that beam an' all hell breaks loose. I'll go, just stay put.' He flicked on the torch and went off.

  Dillon and Cliff hunkered down, backs to the wooden panels.

  Down in the basement Harry followed the circuit cables along the wall, which led him eventually to the mains box. He opened the cast-iron cover and propped his torch at an angle to provide illumination. He leaned in, lifting two wires clear with his screwdriver, clippers poised. 'Our Father which art in heaven…'

  He snipped. Nothing happened. He isolated two more and snipped again. Still nothing.

  'Lovely,' Harry grinned, and carried on pruning.

  Hunched against the wall of the office, Cliff shone the torchbeam on his wristwatch. Ten after five. 'It's gonna be daylight soon!' he hissed at Dillon. Drops of moisture filled the air. 'Christ!' Cliff stuck his hand out. 'It's raining…'

  Dillon squinted up, his face wet. The sprinklers had come on. The wavering beam of a torch through the racks marked Harry's return. He came up grinning, dead chuffed with himself.

  'I clipped every wire, turned off every main switch.'

  'Yeah, an' put the sprinklers on.' Dillon got up, rubbing his knees. 'Can we go in now, or not?'

  CHAPTER 38

  Dillon and Cliff knelt in front of the safe, a squat, old-fashioned green job with a brass handle, their heads close together as they studied the combination dial in the pale wash of light filtering through the windows. Harry was rummaging in the desk, still using the torch to peer into drawers, even though the office was brightening by the minute.

  'Try it again… turn it left, left,' Dillon said. Cliff twiddled the dial. 'If we can't open it, we'll blow it. Harry, turn that off, or stop flashin' it around!'

  'Hey, look at this -' Harry reached into a drawer, a greedy kid who's discovered a cache of Mars bars. 'It's a 9mm Beretta. Oh very nice… it's got a custom-made silencer.' He checked it was unloaded, clicked the trigger on the empty chamber. 'I'm havin' this…'

  'Leave it!' Dillon shot him a fierce look. 'We're not liftin' anythin', we're just lookin' for evidence.'

  Cliff twiddled some more, then shook his head, mouth turned down. Dillon took out two small packs of plastic explosive, a wad of putty, and from a separate pocket a detonator with trailing wires. He nudged Cliff aside. 'Get back, lemme stick it.'

  Harry rooted, searching for cartridges. Dillon set the charge, attached the detonator wires. 'Get under the desk,' he said to Harry. 'You too, Cliff.'

  They took up positions. 'Okay. Here we go.' Dillon scuttled behind an armchair and put his head in the crook of his elbow.

  It wasn't a huge bang, more like a heavy door slamming shut in the wind. Short and sweet. They waited till the puff of grey smoke had cleared and had a peek.

  'Beautiful, Frank,' breathed Cliff. 'Neat as a whistle. That Jimmy's gear?'

  Colin half-turned in the driver's seat, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. 'I sorted it personally, Mr Newman. The van's crushed, you could carry it in a holdall.'

  At his ease, Newman sat in the back of the Jaguar Sovereign, gloved hands lightly clasped, resting in his lap. The car moved along the dingy street, passing a few parked vehicles; it stopped in the middle of the road and backed up. Newman operated the window and leaned his head out into the chill morning air. 'That's Dillon, isn't it?'

  Colin went round to the Jag's boot, took out a short crowbar, walked across and broke the Granada's windscreen. He smashed the rear window and was about to start on the side windows when Newman said curtly, 'That's enough.'

  Colin returned to the car. Newman leaned forward, rapped him on the shoulder. 'Let's go, they gotta be close… get some back-up round fast!' The car sped off.

  'Take a look at what we got here!' Dillon slid open a deep metal tray, packed to the brim with small brown envelopes. He picked one up and tossed it to Cliff. 'The lazy so-an'-so's didn't even take it out of the wage packets.'

  Cliff unzipped his windcheater and took out a foldaway bag. He batted it into shape and he and Dillon started scooping wage packets into it. Newman must have stashed the rest of the money elsewhere, Dillon thought, because this was only a fraction of the stolen payroll. But that didn't matter. The fact that Newman had some of the laundry wage packets in his possession was the real clincher. Let the slippery bastard try to wriggle out of this one!

  Harry's eagle eye had lighted on a metal box, and his itchy fingers were in there quick as a shithouse rat. He rattled it and prised it open with his thumbnail. All shapes and sizes, several different hues, the heaped diamonds sparkled in brilliant profusion. Harry hissed in a breath between his teeth.

  'No, put them back! I mean it, Harry, put the box back,' Dillon ordered sternly. 'You're worse than a ruddy kid! Do as I say – just get the evidence.'

  'Okay Sherlock!' Harry obeyed, though his heart was weeping.

  The floor in the main warehouse was awash. Coat collars up around their ears against the sprinkler jets, the three of them legged it for the main entrance. Dillon slid back the bolts, eased the door open a fraction, then quickly slammed it shut.

  'Newman's outside. He's out there!'

  Cliff did a sliding turn, feet slithering on the wet floor. 'We go the back way across the roof!'

  They set off down the central aisle, heading for the fire exit door. Newman and Colin burst in. As he ran, Dillon grabbed one of the racks and brought it crashing down behind them. Harry and Cliff got the general idea and did likewise, bringing shelves of elephants, brass trays, fertility totems, candlesticks, temple bells and earthenware pots tumbling down.

  'Dillon – wait!' Newman ran forward, kicking an elephant out of the way. 'Dillon!' He stepped on a tray and went skidding into one of the racks, bringing the whole lot down.

  Colin came panting back. 'The roof – they're goin' to try and cross by the roof, the crazy bastards. It won't hold their weight…'

  Limping and cursing, Newman followed Colin into the yard. They stared up in the grey light to the three figures running as nimbly as cats along the apex of the old warehouse roof, crumbling yellow brick supporting a slanting metal-framed structure of skylights. They were balanced on a lead strip no more than six inches wide, sloping glass either side, so that a single slip could be fatal. Dillon, bringing up the rear, yelled down, 'I warned you to stay off my back, you bastard!' He hoisted the bag high. 'I got the wages, an' I'll have you, Newman!'

  As he turned to run on, Dillon's foot caught the lead flashing. He slithered down, a swinging foot smashing through one of the skylights. As the glass gave way he lost his hold, Harry snatching his wrist and hauling him back up. Cliff had the rope unfurled. He secured one end, tossed it down, and moments later all three of them vanished from sight over the rear of the building.

  A truck piled high with the heavy mob pulled into the yard with a squeal of brakes. Colin ran up, waving his arms. 'We'll get 'em – back up, turn around! They'll be headin' for their car…'

  'Leave them.' Newman walked back to the main door. 7 said leave it!' He beckoned Colin. 'Get them inside.' As the men jumped down Newman said, 'One of you try and track Dillon, see where he is an' get back to me… Move!'

  Three streets away, Dillon, Harry and Cliff were running like the clappers. As they rounded a corner Harry glanced behind, checking for signs of pursuit, but there wasn't a soul to be seen. 'We did it!' he exulted. 'Come on… come on!'

  Even the sight of the Granada's shattered windscreen didn't wipe the smile from his face. He brushed the broken bits from the bonnet and unlocked the door. 'Get in – let's get out of here!'
r />   The rooftop escape had infected the three of them with an adrenalin high. Dillon especially was abuzz, the joy of triumph so sweet he could almost taste it. 'We got enough evidence here to get that bastard ten years,' he chortled. 'Hey! That laundry offerin' a reward?'

  Driving off, they were too busy laughing like drains and congratulating one another to notice the black Jaguar Sovereign creeping out from a side street and ghosting behind at a discreet distance.

  Newman straightened up from the safe, the metal box in his gloved hand. He could practically tell by the weight of it that the contents were untouched, but just to make absolutely certain he did a cool, professional appraisal of the stones in their padded velvet lining. Snapping the lid shut, he slid the box into his overcoat pocket. Colin was hovering by the door, cracking his knuckles.

  'I want this place cleaned up – like now!' Newman said, his voice as lethal as cold steel. 'If it takes ten or twenty men, get 'em. This never happened, understand me?'

  Colin glanced behind uneasily. The sprinklers had been turned off, but the warehouse was a total shambles, water inches deep in places. 'Barry, what about the lads, their cut? They won't go for this -'

  'They'll go for anythin' I tell them,' Newman sneered, his thin, wide mouth twisting contemptuously. 'Fuckin' ex-soldiers are all alike, they're conditioned to take orders, why you think I use them?' He suddenly kicked out at the desk, livid with a furious spite and overwhelming rage. 'I made a point of helpin' the bastards, handin' out work to them. I did it for Billy, my Billy… well, not any more. An' that Dillon.' He spat the name. 'I tried! I'd have given that stupid bastard more money than he'd ever dreamed of, because he was good to my Billy – but no! Legit. He wanted to be legit. Well, we'll see how he gets himself out of this one!'

  Breathing hard, Newman wiped spittle from his moustache. His voice sank to a murmur. 'He was never here, understand? And you get on the first plane…'

  'I dunno.' Colin cracked his knuckles. 'What about my wife?'

  'You don't know, son,' Newman sighed, managing to sound fatherly and patronising at one and the same time. 'I do. I survive, an' I got,' he patted his pocket, 'one-point-five million here. An' if you want your cut, you do as I tell you – you weren't here tonight. Nothin' went down here tonight.' He raised his eyebrows. 'Get over to Spain, call it a holiday!'

  Colin nodded unhappily. It had the ring of a friendly invitation but he knew it was a command.

  CHAPTER 39

  Dillon bounced into the office, dumped the bag on the desk.

  'Cliff, get the motor over to Fernie, see if he can fix it up by tomorrow afternoon. Harry, check over the jobs we got lined up.' He unzipped the bag. 'We get cleaned up, then first thing I go to the cops.'

  Eyes all aglow, Dillon scooped up wage packets and held them high, tightly bunched in his fist. 'We got that bastard!'

  Newman paced along the aisles, head swivelling left, then right, left, right again, noting every tiny detail, every slight discrepancy. He adjusted the position of a set of brass candlesticks, nudged a china figurine back into line with its fellows. The boys had done good. Just over the hour it had taken them, and you'd never have guessed that at six-thirty that morning the place looked as though a bull had rampaged through it and pissed all over the floor. Three blokes were finishing off the mopping up at the far end; once the floor dried it would be as if nothing had happened. Newman pursed his lips and smiled. Nothing had.

  He strolled back to the office. Derek, the guy he'd put on Dillon's tail, came in the main door and hurried over.

  'Dillon went straight to his gaff,' he reported.

  'You see him carry the gear in?' asked Newman quietly.

  Derek nodded. 'You want us to pick him up?'

  'No, but I'll get him picked up, all right,' Newman smirked. He held open the office door. 'Come on, you got a call to make!'

  Derek stared at him, mystified, and in he went, scratching his head. Newman and his smirk followed.

  'Morning!' Harry was using his electric shaver when Susie breezed in with a bag of shopping and a cheery smile. 'As Frank didn't make it home, I reckoned you had a busy night, so…' She held up three paper bags, their contents seeping through '… breakfast! Bacon butties!'

  There was the sound of running water from the washroom, where Dillon was engaged in his morning ablutions.

  'How you feelin'?' Harry asked, unplugging the shaver. 'You okay now?'

  'Yes, I'm fine.' Susie showed him her hand, now out of plaster, and waggled her fingers, almost as good as new. 'I'd have started back days ago but Frank wouldn't hear of it.' She opened a cupboard. 'No coffee? Any milk?'

  Harry nipped out behind her back to forewarn Dillon. Susie switched on the overhead light and shook her head at the state of the place. Leave three fellas alone for a few days and they could turn a palace into a pig-sty.

  Dillon appeared, drying his hands on a towel. 'Hello, love, you're early.' He gave her a peck. 'I was just havin' a wash. Kids get off to school okay, did they?'

  'Yes.' Susie loaded a tray with dirty coffee mugs. 'Kettle's on. I'll get some milk. Looks as if I came just in time.'

  'Cliff not back?' Dillon asked Harry as he came in.

  Harry shook his head. His eyes flicked a sidelong look at Susie. 'How do you want to work it this morning?' he asked Dillon, making it casual.

  Dillon gave a quick frown, gestured towards the passage. He said, 'Can I borrow your shaver? An' get me a clothes brush…'

  Susie was standing with an armful of empty beer cans, about to drop them in the waste basket. 'Frank!'

  Dillon whipped round in the doorway.

  'Is something going on?'

  He blinked at her, wide-eyed innocence. 'No…' and went out.

  When Harry came through into the washroom with the electric shaver Dillon had done a lightning change into a clean white shirt, black tie and neatly pressed grey trousers. Dillon turned on the tap and started shaving. Under the sound of running water he whispered, 'I don't want Susie to know what went down last night.' He noticed his cuffs, slightly puckered, and fretted, 'Should have had it laundered!'

  The phone rang and they heard Susie answer it. Harry rubbed his palms briskly. 'What we do? Go to the cops? If there's a reward, maybe we can do a deal -'

  Dillon nixed that with a swift chop of the hand. He had other worries on his mind. 'We're bound to have repercussions from Newman…' He frowned towards the door. 'I don't want Susie left down here, that bastard could try to get my kids again. Soon as I'm cleaned up I go straight to the cops, no deals. Get that shooter they used, we'll need that.' He smoothed his hand over his chin. 'Gimme me jacket… tie okay, is it?'

  Harry unhooked the chauffeur's grey jacket from behind the door and tore off the plastic cover. He helped Dillon into it, then climbed up on the lavatory seat, reaching inside the big old-fashioned wooden cistern. 'I stashed it up here.'

  Dillon twitched as the phone went again. He fumbled with his jacket buttons, a bundle of nerves. 'We're doin' the right thing, Harry, trust me. I won't let you down. Cops'll want to question all of us.' Harry stepped down with the Sterling, wrapped in The Sporting Life. Dillon looked him in the face. Now it came, what was really troubling him. 'You and me made a terrible mistake.' he said in a hoarse whisper. 'One we have to live with, but, we're for it if so much as a word gets out about what we done, right?'

  'Yeah.'

  'So, that's finished, that never happened, we never discuss it, agreed?'

  'Yeah.' Harry nodded. 'I hear you, gov'nor. I'll put this with the dough.' He grinned. 'You're lookin' good…'

  Dillon turned to the door, whitewash all down the back of his jacket.

  'Hang on!' Harry batted it off. 'Whitewash on the back… s'okay now!' He brushed Dillon's shoulders. 'You sure about this, Frank, maybe we can do a deal – not with Newman, the geezer from the laundry, he hadda be insured.'

  'I said no deals.' Dillon ground it out so that it stuck. 'We play it straight. So far we been lucky! Don't
push it, Harry. I'm going in, that's final.'

  He took down his chauffeur's cap, flicked off an imaginary speck of dust. He opened the door and Cliff came barging in, face shiny, out of breath. He'd changed too into his chauffeur's gear. 'I've left the motor at Fernie's. Where's the dough?'

  'Where's Susie?' asked Dillon, fractious and fussing. 'I look okay?'

  'Gone for some milk.' Cliff squinted sideways at his shoulder, brushing it. 'Mind the walls… whitewash comes off!'

  'Come on then,' Dillon said decisively, 'before she gets back, let's get this sorted between us -' Cliff started to move as the telephone rang, and Dillon hauled him back. 'Just leave it, we got to talk.' Dillon emphasised his words with his bunched fist. 'When we go to the Old Bill, we got to all have the same story. Why we went to Newman's, why we got that gun…'

  Cliff's eyes shifted uneasily to Harry, who was sucking his moustache. Two very unwilling volunteers, the pair of them couldn't have looked less enthusiastic if they'd rehearsed. Dillon faced them, attempting to chide and jolly them along. 'Come on, this is the only way… we sort this out, well, like Harry says, might even get some kind of reward, right? But what is important, and it's gonna stay that way – we're legit, an' we stay legit, an' I reckon we got a future, one we can all be proud of…'

  Dillon's fist shot up.

  'We made it! an' we're gonna go on makin' it! What's past is past, agreed?'

  He spread his raised hand. 'Harry?'

  Harry whacked it.

  'Cliff?'

  Cliff whacked it.

  'Yes…!'

  Dillon was convinced himself. Edginess, uncertainty, doubt were banished, he was psyched up and raring to go. A new confident Dillon now, on his way to the top, and nothing on the planet short of a thermonuclear warhead could stop him. At last he was in control. He had a grip. He felt great!