Hostage to Death

by Roderic Jeffries

  He walked the length of the bank to the swing door and went along the open passage and down to the strong-room, now empty. One of the bundles of twenties — the large size, he judged, containing fifty thousand pounds — had been ripped open and the notes scattered about: it was odds on Ginger had stuffed a number of the notes into his pockets, knowing there was not the slightest hope of hiding them through any search, yet unable to resist the illusion of wealth.

  He moved on, through the gap between the shelves, and stared at the collection of suitcases, boxes, strong-boxes, cartons, and tea chests. Roughly half of them must be ripped open and their contents scattered about. Then the remaining money must also be scattered everywhere so that it would take the staff hours to check out the total amounts. Until the final figures were calculated, the police would put the mess down to the childish resentment of villains who’d failed.

  How much dare he try to get out initially? It must be the maximum whose bulk would not draw attention: twenties were out because banks still kept their numbers (inflation now prevented their keeping the numbers of lesser denominations) and so they could only be regarded in the light of a long-term investment.

  Timing was all important and he decided to set H hour at twenty to ten — soon after the bank would normally have opened. He’d better start sounding like a beaten man so that their capitulation did not come so unexpectedly as to make someone wonder why. No one must wonder why until it was too late.

  *

  Rook stepped out of the patrol car to come face-to-face with Mellon.

  “What do you want this time?” asked Mellon.

  Rook spoke with quiet satisfaction. “To know if we’ll go easy with them if they give up peacefully.”

  “So!” Mellon’s round, tired face showed his satisfaction.

  “I told ’em we’d guarantee nothing.”

  “Of course.”

  There was no ‘Of course’ about it, thought Rook with brief resentment. Some D.I.s would have half-promised help in return for an immediate surrender — but, as always, he had abided by the rules.

  “How did he take your answer?”

  “Swore and slammed down the receiver.”

  Mellon nodded. That was the kind of initial reaction to be expected. He looked up at the cloudless sky. By this time tomorrow, he thought, it would quite possibly all be over.

  Chapter 4

  Thomas sat on the edge of the table in the first part of the strong-room and stared at Drude. “Whatever happens, play it cool.” He fidgeted with a bundle of ten-pound notes, running his thumbnail up and down the corners. If only he could do the job himself… “Contact Dutch as soon as you’re clear and if he’s sober give him this signature — if he isn’t sober, get a stomach pump.” He handed over a sheet of paper on which he had signed the name A. R. Parsons. “And watch him, eh?”

  “I’ll watch him closer ’n my own shadow, Val.” Thomas stared at the hard, muscular figure of Drude, who wasn’t wearing a hood. His face was regular and it only missed being handsome because it was a shade too long: it was not a face readily recalled when at the time there had been no reason to note it. In any case, the coppers’ real worry would be the gunmen in the bank. “Don’t get any clever ideas afterwards,” he said softly.

  Drude shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not that big a mug.”

  They both knew that but for his wife and children he would at least have been tempted. There’d be enough money to make even a saint think twice.

  Thomas slid off the table. “O.K. Let’s have a check to make certain we can fix enough folding on to you.”

  Drude, like the rest of them, was wearing new dark blue cotton shirt, dark blue jeans, plimsolls, socks, pants, and thin nylon gloves, all bought in multiple stores and untraceable. He pulled off his shirt to reveal a well-bronzed torso. He unzipped his trousers and slipped them off after removing the plimsolls.

  Previously, Thomas had separated a bundle of two thousand five hundred ten-pound notes into five bundles of five hundred and these had been fitted into the pockets of a rough money-belt fashioned out of a length of linen towel from one of the cloakrooms. He tied the money-belt around Drude’s waist, stepped back, and examined it critically. “Get dressed.”

  When Drude was dressed it was possible to make out the uneven bulge around his waist, but Thomas was satisfied that no one would casually remark it. “Try moving about.”

  Drude walked round the table, bent down, twisting his body to the right and left. Thomas heard no rustling of paper. “You’ll go through as easy as a dose of salts,” he said, feeling almost as confident as he sounded.

  “Who are you going to take for clothes, Val?”

  “There’s two blokes look to be your size: we’ll try one of them.”

  “I’d give a lot to be around to see the splits’ faces.”

  If he was around, thought Thomas, he’d get his bloody neck broken.

  *

  It had just turned dark when Thomas came up to the line of hostages, stopped in front of a man, and said: “You — get up.” He then indicated the two men on either side. “And you two.”

  They hesitated.

  “Get on your feet,” he ordered roughly.

  Aspinall was the first to rise. He was in early middle age and had the slack flesh of someone who ate a little too much and seldom took exercise. “What… what’s the matter?” he asked hoarsely.

  Thomas ignored him, suddenly went forward and booted Cantor in the side. Cantor cried out, as much from the shock as the pain. Deeding, the third man, hurriedly scrambled to his feet.

  “Get along to the manager’s office,” said Thomas.

  As soon as Cantor was standing, a hand pressed to his side, they went along to the swing door.

  Watching them, Steen wondered if he would ever see them again. Thank God, he thought ashamedly, that he had not been chosen.

  *

  A uniform P.C. hurried up to where Rook stood. “P.C. Shrewsbury reports three men have been taken under armed guard into the manager’s office, sir.”

  Rook swung round and stared at the front of the bank, once more harshly outlined by the arc lamps.

  There was a shout. “Telephone.”

  He ran the twenty yards to the patrol car, climbed in the back and lifted the receiver as a cycle of ringing ended. “This is Detective Inspector…”

  “I’ve got three blokes all ready. Get the cars or I’m taking ’em one after the other.” The connection was cut.

  He dialled the bank’s number and the ringing began, but the call remained unanswered. He held the receiver close by his left ear as he leaned out of the opened doorway. “Call Mr Mellon.”

  Mellon had been close to the car and he came over. “What’s the panic, then?”

  “They’ve just been on the phone, sir. They’ve picked out three hostages and taken ’em through to the manager’s office. They’re threatening to kill ’em, one after the other. I didn’t get a chance to talk and I’m still trying to get back.”

  Mellon stared at Rook for several seconds, then put his hands in his trousers pockets and began to jingle the coins in them. His expression which had sharpened began to relax. “They’re trying one last time to break our nerve.”

  Rook was worried that Mellon could be quite so confidently certain. “You don’t think that it’s just possible…?”

  “Not them. They can see the odds just as clearly as us. But they’ve nothing to lose by a final try.”

  Neither of them realised that something concrete had been gained — a strengthening in the police’s belief that the bank robbers were close to giving up.

  *

  The strong-room was now an Aladdin’s cave of riches. All the green canvas bags had been emptied and notes were scattered everywhere. In the far half, strong-boxes, boxes, suitcases, cartons, tea-chests, had been smashed open and their contents piled higgledy-piggledy all over the floor and shelving: there was a confusion of documents, silver teapots, coffee-pots, jugs, can
delabra, sauceboats, epergnes, cutlery, of paintings, of incunabula, of porcelain, of necklaces, rings, brooches, tiaras, in gold, silver, platinum, pearls, sapphires, emeralds, diamonds, rubies…

  Chase, who’d helped Thomas set the scene, swore with violent anger. A silver tankard, crested and inscribed, had spilled out into the front part of the strong-room. He kicked it and it hit the wall with a metallic ringing and dropped to the floor on to a loose heap of notes. He longed to destroy all this wealth rather than leave it behind.

  “Let’s get back up,” said Thomas.

  Chase moved forward and reached past the shelves to pick up a diamond necklace. The setting was heavy and the diamonds were large. “What’s it worth — ten grand?”

  “More like twenty. Throw it back.”

  He hurled it back.

  Thomas checked the time. Nine o’clock. Three-quarters of an hour before they surrendered. If things worked out they wouldn’t end up with the fortune they could have had, but they wouldn’t starve and they’d have made the coppers look a bunch of ripe Charlies.

  “It could’ve been the biggest job ever,” said Chase.

  “Let’s get up top.”

  Thomas led the way out of the strong-room, across to the stairs, up to the main part of the bank and into the manager’s office. The electric light was on because the curtains were drawn.

  Brent sat behind the desk and on the desk was his sawn-off shotgun, the truncated muzzles pointing in the direction of the three bank staff who sat slumped against the far wall. They were ashen-faced, frightened sick by the long wait which must, they believed, end in their death.

  Thomas jerked his thumb at Deeding. “You — get up on your feet.”

  Deeding began to shiver. He looked vainly at his companions as if expecting help from them, then struggled to his feet. “Please, I…”

  “Get through to the next room.” Thomas crossed to the second doorway which gave direct access into the assistant manager’s office. He pulled the door open. When Deeding failed to move, he grabbed his right arm and forced him along. Deeding groaned. Contemptuously, Thomas shoved to send him spinning forward to crash into the desk. Thomas lacked the door shut with his feet. “Strip off.”

  “You can’t do it. I’ve a wife. And two children…”

  “Poor sods! Strip quick and maybe you’ll see ’em again.”

  Deeding stared at him, hope battling with fear, then with desperately clumsy fingers he removed his shoes, unbuttoned his coat, unzipped his trousers and took off both garments.

  “And the rest, except for your pants.”

  He removed shirt, tie, and socks.

  “Lie down on the floor, on your stomach.”

  He lay down and the sweat suddenly ran down from his armpits. Thomas brought his arms up behind his back, crossed the wrists and bound them together with adhesive tape, secured the ankles in the same way. He picked up the clothes, rolled them into a bundle, and took them out through the door which led into the open passage. Drude was waiting and followed him down to the strong-room.

  As Drude undressed, Thomas picked up the money-belt and checked that the five bundles of notes were still secure. Drude took the belt and tied it around his waist, then dressed in Deeding’s clothes. “The shoes bloody pinch my toes,” he complained.

  “If that’s all that gets pinched, our luck’s in.” Thomas studied him. Drude looked suitably shabby, since the suit was not a good fit, and suitably seedy, since his face was heavily stubbled. Would anyone begin to suspect he was not one of the hostages?

  *

  Rook yawned three times in quick succession. God, he was tired! If he put his head down now he’d sleep for a week. He stared across the road at the bank, looking pleasantly mellow in the morning sunshine.

  Mellon crossed over. “They’ve got to end it soon,” he said, in tones of annoyance.

  He was worrying, thought Rook with satisfaction. No longer the omniscient, he was beginning to think he might be wrong and that the gang weren’t busted. No doubt he was remembering those three men who’d been moved into the manager’s office the previous night… Mellon checked his watch. “Ring ’em up and…” He stopped. At this stage it had to be bad psychology to contact the gunmen. He dropped his left arm and looked at the bank. The mob, and in particular their leader, must be courageous, brutal, and to a degree, gamblers. His judgement had been that since yesterday they had accepted the inevitability of final defeat. Yet why had those three men been separated from the rest? Was it a last courageous, brutal gamble — yet to be played — to try to stave off the inevitable? A gamble already played and failed? A…

  There was a loud call. “All the hostages are being forced to their feet.”

  Mellon and Rook tensed. Behind them in the buildings police marksmen stared through their telescopic sights at the windows and doors.

  “This is it, Cyril,” said Mellon softly, now quite certain once more.

  *

  Steen stood next to Miss Tucker and noticed that she smelled. Wryly, he decided she was almost certainly making the same discovery about him.

  The gunman who was giving the orders approached the hostages, his sawn-off shotgun in the trail position and the twin muzzles pointing at them.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told him how to hold a gun safely?” asked Gaitshead.

  It was a good question, thought Steen.

  “Move to the doors,” ordered the gunman.

  The hostages shuffled forward, still uncertain, then the vision of freedom gripped them all and many began to push and shove to try to be the first out.

  Wraight called out: “Steady there. Come on, now, gentlemen, let’s have some order. Ladies first.” His voice was high-pitched, his choice of words primly old-fashioned, yet people immediately behaved in a more controlled fashion.

  The inner doors were pulled back and the stops pressed down to hold them open. The outer wooden doors were unbolted, unlocked, and opened. Immediately, the onlookers began to call out and, as the first hostage stepped into full view, there were shouts.

  Steen, towards the back of the queue, stepped down on to the pavement and into the sunshine. He eagerly looked around. He saw the crowds, the uniform P.C.s who controlled them, two dog handlers whose dogs sat by their sides, the patrol cars, and the group of policemen who were walking towards them, but there was no sign of Penelope.

  A policeman raised a loudhailer. “Will you all come this way: everyone this way, please.”

  They were ushered into a shoe shop and a uniform inspector said that the moment they’d been seen by the doctor and had given their names and addresses to the sergeant they could go home. He hoped they’d have a peaceful rest of the day at home.

  “Go home?” said Gaitshead loudly. “Let’s get the priorities right. Are the pubs open yet?”

  Steen noted that he was the thirteenth person to go into the manager’s office to see the doctor. He wasn’t normally superstitious, but he found himself hoping that this wasn’t an augury.

  The doctor was young and — perhaps understandably — somewhat brusque. “Sit down over there. Your name is…? Well, Mr Steen, how are you feeling? Have you suffered any hurt during your imprisonment?”

  He was feeling emotionally drained, dead tired, and on edge with worry, but obviously the doctor was only interested in more particular complaints. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Good. I’ll just give you a very quick check-up and first of all we’ll have a look at your reactions…”

  He was passed fit. The doctor, as he wrote rapidly on a form, said: “Get in touch with your own G.P. immediately if you have any cause. There might be some delayed shock.”

  He left the office. A sergeant, with opened notebook in his right hand, came up and asked him for his name and address. “We’ll try not to bother you, sir, but once we get inside the bank we may find we’ll need your help. If we do telephone you, please come back into town as soon as you can.”

  “Of course,” he answered, with total in
sincerity. The first thing he’d do after greeting Penelope would be to take the receiver off its stand.

  A reporter tried to question him, but he side-stepped the man. He went the length of the shop and out through the back door, which opened on to the large council carpark. He saw his car and began to run.

  *

  The assistant chief constable, the chief superintendent from H.Q., the divisional superintendent, Mellon, and Rook, stood in front of the patrol cars. To the right, ten P.C.s and two sergeants waited in a tight group, ready to storm forward. In the windows and doorways of the shops and flats behind, armed marksmen maintained their aims.

  “What in the name of hell are they waiting for?” murmured the assistant chief constable, his voice taut.

  It was a perplexing question. With all the hostages released, the mob had left themselves powerless. What could they hope to gain by hanging on?

  A uniform sergeant approached the group and made it clear that he wanted to speak to Rook. Rook moved over.

  “The doctor’s seen twenty-one hostages, sir, and they’re all passed fit enough to go home. We’ve taken their names, addresses, and telephone numbers, and warned the staff members we may have to call them back at short notice.”

  “Twenty-one?” said Rook, his mind more concerned with what the mob were doing in the bank than with what the sergeant was saying.

  “The twenty-second bloke never bothered to see the doctor. We checked with the manager, because this bloke’s one of the staff, and his name’s Deeding.”

  Rook shrugged his shoulders. It seemed of small moment that one of the staff should rush back to his family rather than wait for a medical check-up. He turned and went back to the group of senior officers.

  A man with a hood over his head and a gun in the crook of his arm came into sight in the porch of the bank. The crowd became excited and the TV cameras zoomed in. Three more masked men, each with a gun on his arm, joined the first one and the police were suddenly afraid that, against all the logical odds, it was going to be a shoot-out after all.