UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  That was how most of the reports set off. They all agreed Heather had been eleven and three-quarters, and that she’d recaptured an escaped bull weighing in at two thousand three hundred and fifty pounds. “That’s not like facing the Keighley front row,” the Yorkshire Post said. “Brutus wasn’t so far off the weight of the whole Cougars team.”

  The Craven Herald was most thorough. Vic suspected the other reporters had used them as a crib. Their report included a photo which put everything into perspective. Brutus hadn’t just been a bull; he’d been practically a mammoth, and an angry one at that. Vic had tried to imagine facing up to such a ferocious-looking creature and simply couldn’t do it. She couldn’t imagine anyone else she’d ever known facing up to him either. Not even armed with bazookas or tanks.

  Brutus wasn’t the all of it though. There was a related story link that took Vic deep into Keighley News’s own archives. She’d clicked it almost absently, bringing up a more recent article about a completely separate incident.

  Heather had been nineteen and en route to a lecture at her plate-glass university. Stopping off at a shop for energy drinks and bars of chocolate, she’d been second in the queue when a drugged-up robber burst in. He was waving a knife and demanding money from the till, calling the shop-owner horrible, racist names . . .

  Spurring Heather into action.

  According to the linked article, the would-be robber had turned on Heather with his knife. She’d thrown him over a rack of magazines, kicked away the weapon and then pinned him down until help arrived, maybe as soon as twenty minutes later.

  Skipping over a question about response times, a police spokeswoman said Heather had excelled. The Force didn’t encourage have-a-go-heroes, but nobody was going to fault someone who’d made so spectacular an arrest. Not when the villain was sixteen stones of tattoo-faced nastiness, while the arresting citizen wouldn’t weigh eleven stones after three fish suppers. The would-be robber’s broken arm hadn’t evoked much sympathy either. He’d got it trying to resist arrest. How unfortunate.

  Sixteen stones, Vic mused. That’s two hundred and twenty-four pounds: a tenth of Brutus. The would-be robber had got of lightly when you looked at it like that.

  Bazookas, tanks . . .

  Heather with her dander up . . .

  Vic knew who’s side she’d be on if it ever came to a fight.

  My hero, she’d said.

  Right!

  Although Vic wasn’t intending to wimp-out herself. Not right now. She was strong too, even if she suddenly did prefer stronger.

  At the very least she could die trying.

  The latest orgasm really was close. It was going to be huge and it had been hammering at her door far too long. She fought it off, determined not to be first for once, trying to conjure up images of boring columns of figures, boring progress reports on terribly boring topics . . .

  Struggling like crazy.

  And oh . . .

  Ye . . .

  Gods!

  Heather was accelerating. Vic’s groan was entirely unforced as she made her body accelerate with her.

  Please make it soon. I can’t take much more.

  ‘That’s me!’ Heather cried out of the blue. ‘Oh Vic . . . you’re so good . . . oh good grief, yesss!’

  Vic let go, her fanny still grinding wetly against the other girl’s even wetter fanny, their cries uniting.

  ‘Oh yesss, Hev!’

  It was ages until they’d actually, finally finished and were lying, lower bodies entwined, panting and gasping, sweatier than ever.

  ‘”Hev” is it now?’ Heather laughed. ‘I thought I’d never hear you say that.’

  ‘Sixth time lucky,’ Vic replied.

  ‘More like six hundred.’

  ‘What can I say? Terms of endearment are very important to me.’

  ‘So I noticed, Honey Pie.’

  ‘Never mind Honey Pie, come down here. I want to talk to you.’

  Heather untangled herself more slowly than usual. Perhaps she wasn’t superhuman after all. They had managed some sleep this last week, but not a lot.

  Not that lack of sleep was turning her into a quitter.

  ‘Fancy some sweet sixty-nine?’ she cajoled. ‘Or do you really want to chat?’

  ‘Just a short one, then we can do anything you want.’

  Heather had a friendly grope. ‘Anything? I’ve got drawers filled with sex toys, you know.’

  ‘No limits, Hev. Hear me out, and I’m all yours.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vic said, ‘really, really, really.’

  ‘Superb! Come on then, let’s get this chatting business out of the way.’

  * * *

  Eddie Goddard was surprised to find the security cabin empty. Dave was usually in there, hopping up and down, impatient to be off for a few jars before last orders. Eddie checked his watch, hoping he hadn’t screwed up and arrived early. No, it was twenty-five past.

  So where the hell is he?

  It was a mystery. The warehouse lights were off and Dave wouldn’t be in there by torchlight; he was scared of the dark, which was why he insisted on doing the day shift. Even twilight made him nervous.

  Eddie used his keys to manually open the gates and went up the steps into the cabin. The monitors were all blank and the recording machine was flashing DISC MISSING. Liking this less by the second, he over-rode the recorder and clicked the monitors back into life.

  His attention was caught straightaway by the screen featuring the entrance to Joey’s office, which seemed to include a man’s legs on the floor. Trembling now, he turned the lights on remotely and adjusted the camera angle to see most of a uniformed body, lying in a big black pool of blood.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he gasped.

  Fear washed over him in great clammy waves. He wanted to run before he ended up lying next to Dave. But nobody in their right mind ran out on the McGuires. Without looking away from the screen, he scrambled for the highly illegal gun drawer, finding it empty.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  On the monitors all was still. There couldn’t possibly be anyone else in there. He should get moving. See if there was anything he could do for his fallen colleague . . . except he wasn’t cut out to be a hero. Not when shooters were involved.

  His trembling fingers completed dialling on the fourth attempt.

  ‘Hello, Joey McGuire here.’ Joey sounded to be in a busy pub. The background music and laughter seemed to be coming from a different, far nicer planet.

  ‘Joey, it’s Eddie Goddard. I’ve just got here. Peters is inside. He’s been attacked.’

  ‘You mean inside the warehouse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you been in to help?’

  ‘Not yet. The gun’s gone. And he . . . he looks beyond helping.’

  ‘Okay. Stay outside. We’ll be there in five.’

  Stay outside? Fucking right he was staying outside.

  Joey and Mike arrived soon after Eddie’s call. He opened the gates for them and they all studied the monitors before going into the warehouse. Joey was coolness personified and even Mike was less grouchy than normal. Eddie was glad to be with them. He suddenly felt much, much safer.

  ‘It’s a set up,’ Mike growled after taking in the scene. ‘That bastard's out of his skull. No way could he blast Peters in a straight fight.’

  Eddie reckoned the younger McGuire was right. Alcohol was coming off the wounded man in waves. He could smell it from ten paces, even standing with two guys straight out of the pub.

  Joey was examining Peters’ gun. ‘Three shots,’ he said.

  ‘Two hits and a wall,’ Mike added. ‘Three out of this one as well. All grouped in the chest? Like fuck.’

  ‘This is how I see it,’ Joey said. ‘That bastard had someone with him. He was doing the safe, his mate was looking out. Peters disturbed them but didn’t see the lookout. While Peters concentrated on the safecracker, the lookout slotted him.’

  ‘Then
grabbed the money and ran, leaving the safecracker to fend for himself.’ Mike scowled. ‘I don’t believe anyone this pissed could crack a safe.’

  ‘Who is he, anyway?’

  Mike felt in the drunken man’s pocket and came out with a wallet.

  ‘According to this Barclaycard, he’s Arthur J Laing. Card’s well out of date, so he hasn’t just nicked it.’

  Joey got out his mobile and made a call. Mike, meanwhile, studied the beer mat he’d found lurking between tatty banknotes and even tattier receipts.

  HARRY 12 O’CLOCK PRIDE SOBER 26/10 BRING KIT

  On impulse he pulled off Laing’s ring and saw From Harry & Sylvia inscribed inside.

  ‘He’s with Harry Williamson,’ Joey said, shutting down his phone. ‘He’s a cracksman. Works best when he’s pissed.’

  ‘I know.’ Mike showed him the ring and beer mat.

  ‘That’ll be The Shipley Pride,’ Joey said. ‘Williamson uses it as a base.’

  ‘What’s he got?’

  ‘Ten to twelve grand, give or take. Some of it cash he paid us himself.’

  ‘For weapons he drove away with?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Eddie was used to Mike McGuire’s temper but the look in his eyes now was new to him. He never wanted to see it again.

  ‘We need to get Peters disposed of,’ Mike said. ‘And we need to stop Laing bleeding to death. He can save that until we’ve got our money back.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Vic buried her fingers in Heather’s lovely jet-black hair. Liking the dampness she felt. Not caring it was there through unladylike perspiration. In a way she was reassured Little Miss Perfect did perspire.

  ‘Hev, I want to run something by you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Vic took a deep breath. ‘I’m looking for a partner.’

  ‘Why? Haven’t I been giving you enough?’

  ‘Not that sort of partner. I mean for a moneymaking venture.’

  ‘I’m already gainfully employed. So are you.’

  ‘I know that. The venture’s work-related. And before you ask, it’s not in any way dodgy. I’m aiming to benefit WYB and its shareholders. And my partner and me, of course.’

  Heather’s forehead creased. It was hard to tell how much she was feigning. She was bright as well as beautiful . . . very bright. ‘Nothing to do with Jack the Hat, then.’

  ‘No, my dad was the bank robber, I’m strictly legit.’

  That took a moment to sink in. ‘A bank robber!’ The younger girl propped herself on one elbow and gaped at Vic, her tits bouncing becomingly, ‘Never!’

  ‘I’m afraid he was. Successful too. One of Clerkenwell’s finest. How else could he have sent me to St Helena’s?’

  ‘Hang on a sec. Are you seriously telling me your dad was a bank robber?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Don’t the directors know about him?’

  ‘Apparently not. He changed his name. And he was clever enough to go to Italy after his last big job, not the Costa del Sol like everyone else. Just as well if you ask me. He met my mum in a village in Lazio.’

  ‘So that’s where you get your looks.’

  ‘And some elements of my figure,’ Vic smiled. ‘Mamma’s fifty and still turning heads wherever she goes. She looks like Gina Lollobrigida in her prime. Dad’s more like a fat Sid James, so I was lucky there.’

  ‘Gina Lollobrigida? Wasn’t she the most beautiful woman in the world?’

  ‘Second only to Mamma. I think they’d both still set records down in Bingley.’

  ‘Never mind setting records.’ Heather’s tits were bouncing again. ‘Tell me about Sid James.’

  ‘You appreciate this is in the strictest confidence?’

  ‘Mais naturellement. Please expound. You’re exciting me. I’ve never had a bank robber’s daughter before.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t.’

  ‘Hmmm, I bet some of the girls at The Manor had dodgy dads too. Anyway, there’s not much to tell. My dad kept his head down for a few years, then Mamma got pregnant and we came back to one of the better parts of Islington.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone split?’

  ‘On a boy from Clerkenwell? Not a chance, Hev.’

  ‘Insular, is it? Sounds like Micklethwaite.’

  ‘Probably more insular than Brutus’s field.’ Vic’s laugh was a little nervous but Heather didn’t seem to notice. ‘Let’s talk about the future,’ Vic went on,’ not the past. I do things honestly and above board, by working towards targets. I’ve always been into targets. Work hard and play hard, that sort of thing. When I started at WYB I aimed to reach a certain level. I got there last month, a year ahead of my most optimistic target. Now I’m planning to get to the very top.’

  ‘World domination?’

  ‘No.’ Vic gave her lover a poke in the tummy, ‘just domination of WYB. Or, more precisely, I’m going to get into a position where I qualify for the mega bonuses.’

  ‘You and everyone else.’

  ‘Listen, Hev, it can be done. There’s no glass ceiling. I reckon I can make it in another five years. Then I’m going to cash in for the next five. And the more I help the Bank perform, the more I cash in. That’s the beauty of it. All I have to do is get myself onto the executive scheme, which is almost a foregone conclusion. I’m already the one they go to for new products and initiatives. And I’m the best at putting right anything that goes wrong. And I’ve got authority to appoint whoever I want for my latest project . . . within my exceptionally flexible budget, of course. I’m going to use that authority to bring in the very best person for each role, creating a team that’s so good it won’t be broken up in a thousand years.’

  ‘You and Adolf,’ Heather observed.

  ‘He wasn’t all bad.’ Vic hesitated. ‘Well, obviously he was. But forget him. I’m not after his sort of world domination. Just enough domination to make sure I get nice and rich.’

  ‘You really are madly ambitious, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m ambitious, but hopefully not madly.’

  Heather reflected a moment. ‘What if there isn’t another project? Won’t the team have to be broken up then?’

  ‘That won’t be an issue. I’ve cherry-picked the follow-on projects so they get better and better. And I’ve more projects up my sleeve. Projects no-one else knows about. When I start introducing them I won’t be just the best innovator and trouble-shooter, I’ll be the best at pulling in new money. That’s when the really big promotions will start coming.’

  ‘Sounds as if you’ve got it all worked out.’ Heather nestled closer. ‘Have you finalized your team?’

  ‘Apart from two key positions. One of them should be Chris Woodhead, although there’s a fair chance he’ll turn me down.’ Vic shrugged. ‘I’ll worry about that next week, when I make my approach. At the moment I’m more bothered about finding my perfect PA. That’s a lot trickier than I’d expected.’

  ‘Can’t you poach one from the directors? Using some of that exceptionally flexible budget?’

  ‘There isn’t one that fits the bill.’

  ‘There are dozens of them. And they all look the part. Surely someone knows how to do the job?’

  ‘Believe me Hev, I’ve given every one of them serious consideration. They’re not good enough.’

  ‘You must set very high standards.’

  ‘I do. And my expectations are a bit different to the norm. All the other positions call for heaps of experience. I don’t want my PA to be lumbered with that. I want her, and it definitely has to be her, to have all the theory but minimal experience. That way she’ll think top-to-bottom, without being handicapped by shop floor clutter. More important, she has to be someone I absolutely trust, because she’s going to be closer to me than a twin sister.’

  ‘Sounds like you need Office Angels.’

  ‘I was thinking nearer to home.’ Vic took the plunge. ‘I hoped you might be interested.’
r />   * * *

  Pat sat back in his chair and drank lager, letting the others do most of the talking. He’d been against Sean’s masterstroke in the first place and what he was hearing now wasn’t converting him. As far as he was concerned everything in Angel’s report was out of control, like a wild bronco that had stood on a nest of wasps.

  Out of control? Okay then, berserk.

  He sighed inwardly. Good Ol’ Pat was easy enough with the idea of killing twats like Bunny Burrows. Burrows was a lying, treacherous bastard who’d set up Moggs and Swanny, expecting them to die. Twats like him and Williamson and Driller-frigging-Killer deserved everything they got. But David Peters . . .

  Peters was just an ordinary guy, doing a job that sounded glamorous but shouldn’t really be dangerous at all. No way should guys like him get involved with serial nutters like Angel.

  And Sean was as bad. His original plan hadn’t involved security guards (apart from avoiding them), but he’d nearly wet himself when Angel suggested a few enhancements.

  If Pat could have vetoed the operation he would have. Now it was too late.

  ‘They won’t buy the set-up,’ the former-biker concluded, grinning. ‘But they weren’t meant to, were they?’

  ‘Just so long as they buy the Williamson connection,’ said Sean. ‘Did I miss anything that might give us away?’

  ‘No. It was straightforward. Went like clockwork.’

  ‘Those two wore gloves all along,’ Tinner put in. ‘I wore ‘em most of the time. And I was careful. I hardly touched anything that didn’t go in there with me. And don’t worry; everything that went in or got touched came back out.’

  ‘Correct,’ Angel agreed. ‘The only thing that went in and stayed was the gun I left with Arthur. And that was clean in every sense of the word. So was Peters’ shooter. That had to stay, so I wiped it good and proper.’

  ‘What about Arthur?’ Sean asked. ‘What will he remember?’

  ‘Fuck all. I don’t care how hardened a drinker he is, he’s going to be out of it a while yet. He did two bottles of Bell’s on his own, and pretty quick at that. Then we piped a bottle of Pernod and some tranqs down him. I started on the Gordon’s but it made him retch. I didn’t want him throwing everything back up.’