The Colour of Violence

by Jeffries, Roderic

  “So you’ve still not seen or heard anything of Patricia?” she said, her voice hoarser than usual.

  He tried to exert some authority. “My dear Hermione, what on earth…?”

  “Haven’t you guessed?”

  “Guessed what?” he demanded testily.

  “What the truth is…I suppose you’ve got too old to be any good in bed?”

  He blushed, as he hadn’t blushed in years. “Good God! How dare you say a thing like that?”

  “You’re not much good, either, at seeing what’s right under your nose. You still can’t even suggest a name for the bloke, can you?”

  He stared at her, feeling a cold, icy numbness as in one sentence she stripped away all his careful self-pretence.

  “I can tell you his name,” she said.

  He stared at her and tried to speak twice before he mumbled: “Brian?”

  “Where would he suddenly find the guts to walk off with another man’s wife?”

  “Then…You’ve got to tell me.”

  She hesitated a long time before she said: “George Armitage.”

  He searched his memory and finally remembered the man. “That writer fellow? But he hasn’t got two farthings to rub together.”

  “She wasn’t after money, was she?”

  He tried to disbelieve her, but her air of malignant triumph was too obvious. “How do you know about him?”

  “She used to come to me in order to pull the wool over your eyes and then go off from me to see him.”

  Then Patricia’s unfaithfulness was not even as a result of a sudden flash of passion, but came from a deliberate, drawn-out, sordid affair. He began to shiver. And she’d used this mistake of a woman as cover, knowing how he hated Hermione so that he’d never hear or check up on what was really happening.

  “He’s living in Ethington. Twenty-two, High Street.” Hermione watched him and slowly her triumph turned into bitter ashes as she understood that, pompous, vain and snobbish though he was, he’d truly loved Patricia and how he was hurt beyond recall. She gestured with her hands, as if trying desperately to explain and excuse, then turned and ran to the front door, her bumpy body bouncing, pulled open the door, and ran out.

  He did not move until he heard the car drive away, then he shut the front door, returned to the sitting-room, and poured himself out a very large whisky. He drank. Now, he had to know. She had gone off with another man, a penniless, unsuccessful writer. He’d take Armitage to the divorce courts and teach him the cost of adultery…He finished the drink and poured himself another. Of course, a divorce could only mean bad publicity. The county families would very quickly desert a solicitor who got himself mixed up in a juicy scandal. Gould he show true Christian magnanimity and take her back, knowing that another man had lain with her? Sex wasn’t everything once a man had put a few years behind him. Age and wisdom taught one that the security of possessions was far more valuable than the temporary heat of sex. And looked at in a forgiving light it had to be admitted that she ran the house pretty much as he wanted it run.

  Surely the thing to do was to talk to her, calmly and without rancour, and tell her that provided she realised and admitted the extent of her stupidity, he would forget and forgive and have her back. Of course, at the same time, he’d put the fear of God into the writer fellow and frighten him off.

  He poured himself a third drink. He’d act now. He’d drive into Ethington, face the author fellow, and bring Patricia back.

  On the drive, during which he did once wonder if he might have had one whisky too many, he decided exactly what line he’d take with each of them. He rehearsed the words he’d use, altering some of them when he decided he was being just a little too lenient towards Armitage.

  Number twenty-two was over a shop. This increased his sad disgust. Couldn’t the man even choose a respectable place for his liaison?

  He rang the bell and waited, rang it again. A full two minutes passed. He pushed in the button for the third time and kept it pushed in. If they thought they’d escape him by the juvenile expedient of trying to make out they were not in, they were mistaken. Eventually, the door was half opened, and Armitage, appearing strained, as well he might, looked out. “What do you want?”

  He could no longer stay calm. “What the devil do you think I want? I wish to speak to Patricia.”

  “I’m sorry, Dudley, she isn’t here and hasn’t been for days.”

  “Would you mind not using my Christian name any longer?…Please don’t lie. I’ve been told on unimpeachable authority that my wife is here.”

  “She isn’t.”

  “I insist on coming in to see her.”

  “You can’t come in.”

  “Don’t,” he said, with considerable dignity, “be utterly ridiculous.” He pushed the door more fully open and went inside. The door was slammed shut. He was aware of the figure of a man, only very hazily perceived, and then something hit his head with violent force. He tried to cry out, as he collapsed, but more blows landed on his head, rocketing him into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Weir looked away from Sails Fegan, one of the two extra muscle hands they’d taken on, and stared down at the unconscious man and thought that luck was finally riding with them. A man forced his way into the flat so that he had to be dealt with and he turned out to be the woman’s husband.

  “Are you sure the old fool was only trying to speak to his wife?”

  Sickened by the sight of Broadbent’s bloody head, Armitage answered hoarsely: “That’s what he said.” Weir frightened him sick because of his obvious, twisted viciousness. Like Patricia, though, he should have been far more frightened because Weir was not bothering to wear a hood.

  When a man set out to find his wife, decided Weir, no one was going to be surprised when he didn’t return too soon.

  “Lofty,” said Fegan hurriedly, “’e just came busting in and we couldn’t stop ‘irn.” He was a tall, broad-shouldered man and had used so much force that the cosh, made from canvas and sand, had burst.

  “Drag the stupid bastard upstairs.”

  “But he needs a doctor,” said Armitage.

  “Are you crazy?” demanded Weir, before leaving them and going down into the cellar to see how the tunnel was progressing.

  They’d tunnelled eight feet from the cellar wall and, after a final check with the plan, Weir crawled along the tunnel, lay down on his back, and began to use the ribbed cold chisel and a padded hammer. They could probably have safely used a power tool, but he refused to take further risks.

  The job was difficult, painful, and uncomfortable, because flakes of concrete and the dust kept falling down on his face. But once again, luck was with them. The conduit had been laid lower in the concrete than the plans had specified so that he reached it sooner than expected. He cut the heavy pipe with a specially made tool, which he could use one-handed.

  Hyman took Weir’s place at the end of the tunnel. He had with him a compass, very heavily insulated wire cutters, and two rolls of insulated tape. He separated the mass of wires and was able to gain enough slack on each set to give fairly reasonable working conditions. The compass showed which of the outgoing small wires was carrying current: all these, he cross-contacted. Wires not carrying current, he cut. All alarms leading through the conduit had been immobilised. He cut through the outer cover of the mains lead-in to expose the three inner wires and separated these as far as was possible. Satisfied he was ready, he called out to go ahead.

  Up top, everything was prepared for a critical exercise in timing. When the ingoing mains were cut the TV camera would cease to work, so that this must be done immediately after a P.C. had made a routine inspection of the screen and Dunder had the maximum time in which to set up the fake shot of the strong-room door.

  They’d broken through from one of the upstairs bedrooms into the office above the bank and now Farnes cut through the wall between the office stairs and the bank. It was one of the more dangerous moments because the
re might just have been an additional system of alarms to those on the plans, with vibration sensors set in this wall. But all remained peaceful inside and outside.

  They climbed through the hole into the bank and Beaver, the second new member of the mob, brought with him the very long, heavy electrical lead whose other end was plugged into the power supply in the flat. It proved to be an eerie experience for all of them. Through the tall glass windows they could see the street and even as the last of them entered, three people walked along the near pavement seemingly staring straight at them as they passed.

  Initially, Carver was detailed to keep watch through the window while the rest of them went past the manager’s office to the stairs down to the vault. There was a door at the foot of the stairs and Weir opened it. Opposite, illuminated by bright overhead lights, was the huge strong-room door, metallic coloured, convex and ribbed, with massive red control wheel and a yellow panel above, in which were the time controls. The metal surround stretched from floor to ceiling and four feet either side of the strong-room door the plan told them that hidden steel “fingers” stretched out another four feet into the concrete.

  Weir stared at the door for several seconds, then jerked his gaze away and up to his right. High up was a TV camera on a tripod built out from the wall. “Lou,” he said, and instinctively he kept his voice low.

  Dunder put down his equipment or passed it across to others to hold and come past Ricard.

  Weir pointed to the camera.

  After a short while, Dunder said: “O.K., Lofty. No trouble.”

  They waited, nervous, even frightened by the camera.

  Word came through that a P.C. had checked the screen and moved on. Weir gave orders to cut the electricity and within thirty seconds the message reached Hyman. Very soon after that, all the lights went out.

  Powerful torches were switched on. They moved quickly, each man knowing exactly what to do. Dunder went over to the wall, unplugged and unlocked the camera, took it down, and examined it. Beaver paid out the long power cable and fitted a multi-head socket and then he and Ricard fixed up two portable searchlights so that the vault was once more sharply illuminated.

  Dunder worked quickly and confidently. He set up his camera, checked the lighting and had one of the portable searchlights altered, then shot a two minute take of the door. He spliced the tape so that it became continuous running, put it through a viewer to make certain all was well, then plugged in the camera and transmitted the take. “O.K.,” he said. But it would not be until a patrolling constable looked at the screen above that they could be certain Dunder was right.

  They split up. Farnes, Ricard, Carver, Gates, Hyman, and Fegan began the back-breaking job of carrying the gas bottles from the flat down to the vault while Aaron checked that all windows in the bank were shut so that the distinctive smell of the oxy-acetylene burner wouldn’t escape the building at street level and then assembled the high-speed burner with special nozzles that allowed the consumption of oxygen to rise to ten thousand gallons an hour.

  Above, in the main area of the bank, Dunder watched a constable approach. The P.C. stopped and lit a cigarette, using the palm of his hand to hide it, then lifted the flap and studied the TV screen. He lowered the flap and walked on, clearly satisfied by what he’d seen.

  *

  Aaron switched off the gas and the flame died. He lifted the visor and used his forearm to wipe away the copious sweat from forehead and cheeks.

  Weir came forward. He spoke thickly, because of the atmosphere. “What’s up, Burner?”

  “There ain’t nothing the matter ‘cept I’ve sweated myself dry and need a drink and a break.” He left, to go up to the manager’s office where the provisions were laid out.

  Weir stared at the vault door. Aaron was trying to burn out a rough circle some two feet in diameter and along part of the circumference he had managed to break through the outer skin of metal, but elsewhere the metal appeared to have been no more than darkened.

  When Aaron returned, Weir said: “You’ve not got far.”

  “The door’s good,” said Aaron shortly.

  “But you’ll get through?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He put on the helmet, picked up the burner, re-lit the gas, pulled down the visor, fed in the oxygen, and resumed burning. The door was very good, but if it was humanly possible he was going to show it wasn’t quite good enough.

  CHAPTER XX

  Overcoming the heat, the weakening effects of dehydration, the choking atmosphere, Aaron worked on. It was going to be touch-and-go. If the door had been just a little stronger, even one more thickness of copper plate reinforced with manganese steel, he wouldn’t have stood a chance in the time available, but as it was…The pile of empty gas bottles was growing too rapidly. There was now the chance they would run out of oxygen.

  *

  Aaron completed the burning at ten past six. He tried to kick out the blackened, jagged central mass of metal, but was so weakened that the force of the kick sent him backwards and he collapsed to the floor. Farnes went past him and with several heavy blows knocked out the centre.

  Inside, in addition to a couple of filing cabinets and a large collection of trunks and cases belonging to customers, there were a very large number of sealed khaki canvas sacks, each of which contained ten thousand pounds in various combinations of denominations either in new notes, green labels, or used notes, red labels.

  They threw water on the twisted, melted steel of the door and at first this was flashed into steam by the residual heat, but gradually they reduced the temperature. Then they laid sodden sacks over the bottom half and Weir scrambled through, at the cost of a sharp burn and a deep scratch in the right leg.

  The air was solid with fumes and he coughed and gagged, but the excitement of success helped him to forget all discomforts. The fortune was his.

  *

  From time to time during the night Armitage had dozed off, but far from resting him, these brief periods of sleep had left him feeling washed-out and he had a pounding headache. He stared across the sitting-room at Gates, who was the only one of the three guards he’d had who’d been willing to talk to him. “What would happen if you didn’t succeed?” he suddenly asked.

  Gates said: “We wouldn’t be rich.”

  “I mean, what would happen to Mrs. Broadbent?”

  “Aw! She’ll be straight, no matter. Wouldn’t make no difference to her.” Gates tried to cover up the uneasy embarrassment the question caused him.

  “And she was all right the last time you saw her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But all that screaming over the phone?”

  “It didn’t last.”

  Armitage was silent for a while. The nightmare was beginning to end. “Where will you let her go? I’d like to get to her as soon as she’s free.”

  “You poor, stupid sod,” thought Gates.

  “D’you think someone’ll drive her back down here?”

  “Lofty’ll say as to that.”

  “Is he the big bloke with a face like a battle scene?”

  “Lofty’s the little bloke.”

  Armitage spoke slowly and uneasily, as if saying something he wanted to keep hidden, yet for some reason felt compelled to put into words. “He gives me the creeps — like a chap I met years ago, who ended up in jail for something. He looks queer, with that soft skin. It’s funny how often the runts of the world are mentally twisted — maybe it’s because…”

  The door slammed open and Weir came in, followed by Farnes who had a length of manila cord in one hand. Farnes walked round to come up behind Armitage. Gates, eager to clear out of the room before the garrotting, hurriedly stood up.

  “What were you saying?” demanded Weir in a high, thin voice.

  Armitage was shocked by the violent hatred evident in Weir’s face and he pressed back in the chair as if he’d been physically threatened.

  Farnes looped the cord between his hands and prepared to throw it over Armi
tage’s head.

  “Hold it,” ordered Weir.

  Astonished, Farnes waited, with his hands held at waist height. Armitage had no idea that death was just behind him.

  Weir stepped over the still unconscious Broadbent. “What were you saying about small blokes like me? I look queer? Funny how the runts of the world are all twisted?”

  Armitage gripped the arms of the chair.

  Weir’s voice dropped to its normal level and pitch. “You’ve got a lot to learn,” he said slowly. Ostensibly, he was once more calm, as if this had been one of those occasions on which he could switch off his anger, but Farnes could judge that the anger had merely been carefully stored away. Weir said to Gates: “Take him downstairs to the lorry. He’s going along with us.”

  Gates muttered to Armitage to get moving and Armitage got up from the chair. His legs were trembling. He was about to say something to Weir when Gates grabbed hold of his arm and forced him out of the room.

  Farnes coiled up the cord. “Why ain’t you doin’ ‘im in now, like you said?” he asked.

  “Because I reckoned he could be useful on the journey in case a car gets stopped.”

  It was so weak an explanation, Farnes wondered that Weir should have bothered to make it. The truth was obvious. Armitage wasn’t going to be allowed to die easily: he’d called Lofty a twisted runt and Lofty was going to prove to him that such words came expensive. Farnes stared at Weir, annoyed that a man clever enough to organise this robbery should be stupid enough to worry what a bloke called him. But even now Farnes wouldn’t argue beyond a certain point. He stuffed the cord in his pocket.