More Short Fuses

by Stephen Leather

  ‘You deserve it,’ she said.

  ‘For what?’ He started the engine and revved the accelerator as he always did, boy-racer style.

  ‘For being such a good husband.’ She stroked his thigh and smiled to herself. She wasn’t going to tell him yet, not until the time was absolutely right. The food was in the boot, all the ingredients for his favourite meal. And a bottle of his favourite wine. She’d only have a sip to celebrate and that would be the last alcohol she’d touch until the baby was born. She wasn’t going to do anything that would remotely jeopardise the health of her child. Their child. The child they’d been waiting for for almost three years. Their doctor had insisted that there had been no medical reason for her inability to conceive. She was fine. Jonathon was fine. There was no need yet for medical intervention, the doctor had said, they just needed to keep trying. They were both young, fit and healthy. Jonathon’s job meant that he was under a lot of stress most of the time, but other than that all they needed was lots of sex and a bit of good luck. They’d had lots of sex all right, thought Trish with a smile. The sex had always been great, from the moment they’d met.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Jonathon, putting the car in gear and driving away from the curb. He pushed his way into the traffic without indicating, waving a careless thanks to a BMW that had to brake sharply to let him in.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. She wanted to tell him there and then, but she wanted it to be perfect. She wanted it to be a moment that they’d both remember for ever. The moment when she told him that she was pregnant. That they were pregnant.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ muttered Jonathon. Ahead of them was a set of traffic lights. Jonathon groaned as they turned red. ‘See that?’ he said. ‘Now we’re stuck here.’

  ‘There’s no rush,’ she said, patting his thigh. She looked across at her husband and smiled. He was so good-looking, she thought. Tall, broad-shouldered, and a mop of black hair that kept falling across his face. Perfect teeth. A toothpaste advert smile.

  He grinned at her. She loved his grin. It was the grin of a mischievous schoolboy that had never grown up. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You. You’re smiling like the cat that got the cream.’

  She wanted to tell him. God, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to grab him and kiss him and hug him and tell him that he was going to be a father. But she just smiled and shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  A large black motorcycle pulled up next to them. The pillion passenger leaned down so that he could look into the car. Trish thought for a moment that he wanted to ask directions, then she saw the gun and frowned. It was so unexpected that for a few seconds it didn’t register. Then time seemed to stop dead and she everything clearly. She saw the gun. A dull grey automatic in a brown gloved hand. The pillion passenger wearing a bright red full face helmet with an black visor. The driver wearing a black helmet, his visor also impenetrable. Men without faces. The driver revved the engine. The passenger held the gun with both hands. Jonathon was still looking at Trish, but as her frown deepened he started to turn, to see what it was that she’d seen. As he moved, the gun kicked and the window exploded and cubes of glass splattered across Trish’s face.

  The explosion was so loud that it deafened Trish and she felt rather than heard the next two shots. Her face was wet and she thought that she’d been cut but then she realised it wasn’t her blood but her husband’s. Her face and chest were soaked with his blood and she started to scream as he toppled forward onto the steering wheel.

  * * *

  There were eight of them in the minibus, all wearing blue overalls and training shoes and baseball caps with the logo of the pest control company above the peak. As the minibus stopped at the gate a bored security guard with a clipboard waited until the driver wound down the window and then peered at the plastic ID card clipped to his overall pocket. He did a head count and made a note on his clipboard.

  ‘No one off sick tonight then?’ On a bad night there’d only be four in the squad. Eight was a full complement, and with the company barely paying above minimum wage they were usually at least one man short. No women. The work was unpleasant and physically demanding, and while sex discrimination laws meant that women couldn’t be refused a job, few made it beyond the first night.

  ‘New blood,’ said the driver. ‘Still keen.’

  The security guard shrugged. ‘Yeah, I remember keen,’ he said wearily. He was in his late twenties but looked older with hair greying at the temples and a spreading waistline. ‘Okay gentlemen, hold your ID cards where I can see them, please.’

  The men did as they were asked and the security guard shone his torch at the cards one by one. He was too far away to check if the faces of the men matched the faces on the cards, but even if he had checked he would have seen nothing wrong. A lot of time had been spent to make sure that the ID cards were faultless. The van was genuine, as were the overalls and baseball caps. The original occupants of the van were in their underwear in a disused factory in east London, gagged and bound and guarded by another member of the gang. He would stay with them until told that the job was done.

  The faces that looked back at the security guard had the bored resignation of men about to start eight hours of tedious night work. Three were West Indian, including the driver. The rest were white, all of them aged under forty. One of the youngest yawned, showing a mouthful of bad teeth.

  The security guard nodded and stepped back from the minibus. He waved across at his colleague and the white pole barrier with its ‘STOP’ sign rose gently up. Standing at the gatehouse were two uniformed policemen wearing bullet- proof vests and cradling black Heckler and Koch automatics. They watched the minibus drive by, their fingers inside the trigger guards of their weapons. The driver gave them a friendly wave and drove towards the warehouses. Overhead a British Airways 747 swooped low, its landing gear down, wheels ready to bite into the runway, engines roaring in the night sky.

  The man with bad teeth ducked involuntarily and one of the West Indians laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Don’t fuck around,’ said the man sitting next to the driver. He was a wide-shouldered man in his late thirties with sandy brown hair cropped close to his skull. His eyes scanned the darkness between the warehouses. He wasn’t expecting trouble, virtually all the security was at the perimeter of the airport.

  In the rear of the minibus, the men began pulling sports bags from under their seats.

  ‘Right, final name check,’ said the front seat passenger. His name was Ted Verity and he’d been planning the robbery for the best part of three months. ‘Archie,’ he said. He opened the glove compartment and took out a portable scanner. He switched it on and clipped it to his belt.

  ‘Bert,’ said the man directly behind Verity. His real name was Jeff Owen and he’d worked with Verity on more than a dozen robberies. Owen pulled a Fairy liquid bottle out of his sports bag. He sniffed the top and wrinkled his twice- broken nose.

  Verity took a second scanner from the glove compartment, switched it on and placed it on the dashboard.

  ‘Charlie,’ said the man next to Owen. He was Bob Macdonald, a former squaddie who’d been kicked out of the army for bullying. Verity didn’t know Macdonald well, but Owen had vouched for him and Verity trusted Owen with his life. Macdonald pulled a sawn-off shotgun from his holdall and slotted a red cartridge into the breech.

  ‘Doug,’ said the man next to Macdonald. He shoved a clip into the butt of a handgun and pulled back the slider. He was the youngest of the West Indians, a career criminal who’d graduated from car theft and protection rackets to armed robbery after he’d done a six-month stretch in Brixton prison. That’s where Verity had met him and spotted his potential.

  The alphabetical roll-call continued. A to H. The young guy with the bad teeth was Eddie. He had a revolver in his right gloved hand and a stun gun in his left. Eddie pressed the trigger of the stun gun and blue sparks crackled between two metal prong
s. The high voltage charge was enough to disable a man without causing permanent injury. The tall lanky West Indian next to Eddie was Fred. He had a twin-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. Sitting on his own in the back cradling a pump-action shotgun was a thirty-something Glaswegian with a shaved head and football tattoos hidden by his overall sleeves. He was George and he had an annoying habit of cracking his knuckles.

  The West Indian driver was Harry. Verity didn’t know what Harry’s real name was. He’d known the man for five years and worked with him on a dozen jobs but had only ever known him by his initials, PJ. He was one of the best drivers in London and claimed to have once been Elton John’s personal chauffeur. Verity nodded at P.J. and he brought the minibus to a halt.

  ‘Anyone uses any name other than the ones you’ve been given and I’ll personally blow their head off,’ said Verity, turning around in his seat.

  ‘Right Ted,’ called George from the back of the minibus, then he slapped his forehead theatrically. ‘Shit, I forgot already.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Verity. He pulled a sawn-off shotgun out of his bag and flicked off the safety. ‘Remember, we go in hard; hearts and minds. Don’t give them time to think. They sound the alarm and we’ve got less than six minutes before the blues and twos arrive and we’re up to our arses in Hecklers. Everybody set?’

  The six men in the back nodded.

  ‘Masks on,’ said Verity.

  The men took off their baseball caps and pulled on black ski masks with holes for eyes and mouths. Verity nodded at P.J. and the West Indian drove forward. Verity’s heart raced. No matter how many jobs he did, no matter how many times he’d piled in with a gun, the fear and excitement always coursed through him like electricity. Nothing compared with the high of an armed robbery. Not even sex. All his senses were intensified as if his whole body had gone into overdrive. Verity pulled on his own mask. He connected an earphone to the scanner and slipped the earpiece under his mask and into his left ear. Just static.

  P.J. turned sharply to the right and pulled up in front of the warehouse. Verity swung open the door and jumped down, keeping the sawn-off close to his body. The earpiece buzzed. A suspicious passenger in the arrivals terminal. An IC6 male. An Arab. Good, thought Verity, anything that drew attention away from the commercial area of the airport was a Godsend.

  Owen pulled back the side door and jumped out of the minibus. He had a revolver sticking in the belt of his overalls. The rest of the team piled out and rushed over to the entrance to the warehouse. There was a large loading area with space for three trucks but the metal shutters were down. To the right of the loading bay was a metal door. The men stood either side of the door, weapons at the ready.

  Verity walked up to the door and put his gloved hand on the handle. The door was never locked, even at night. There were men working in the warehouse twenty four hours a day, though there was only a skeleton staff at night. Four men at most. Two fork lift truck drivers, a security guard and a warehouseman. Four unarmed men in charge of a warehouse containing the best part of twenty million pounds worth of goods. Verity smiled to himself. Like taking candy from a baby.

  Verity pulled open the door and rushed in, holding his shotgun high. To the right of the door was a small office containing three desks and wall-to-wall shelving filed with cardboard files. A uniformed security officer was sitting at one of the desks, reading a newspaper. Verity levelled his shotgun at the man and motioned with it for the man to stand up. As the man got to his feet, Eddie rushed by Verity and pressed the prongs of the stun gun against the guard’s neck and pressed the trigger. The guard went into spasm and slumped to the floor. Eddie caught him as he fell and dragged him behind the office door. He took a roll of duct tape from his overall pocket and used it to bind the man’s hands and feet as the rest of the men fanned out, moving through the warehouse. It was about half the size of a football pitch with cartons of cardboard boxes piled high on wooden pallets. Most of the boxes were marked ‘Fragile’ and came from the Far East. Japan. Korea. Hong Kong.

  An orange fork lift truck reversed around a stack of boxes and Doug ran up to it and jammed his pistol against the neck of the operator, a middle-aged man in white overalls. Doug grabbed the man’s collar and pulled him from the vehicle, then clubbed him across the head with the gun.

  Verity could hear the second fork lift truck whining in the distance and he pointed in the direction of the sound. Fred and the Glaswegian ran off, their training shoes making dull thuds on the concrete floor.

  Doug rolled the fork lift truck driver onto his front and wound duct tape around his mouth before binding his arms.

  Verity motioned at Macdonald and Owen to start moving through the stacked pallets. They were looking for the warehouseman.

  The three men moved silently through the warehouse, their weapons at the ready. Macdonald looked at his watch. ‘Plenty of time,’ whispered Verity. ‘Radio’s quiet.’

  The second fork lift truck stopped, and there was a bumping sound in the distance as if something soft had hit the ground hard. Then silence.

  The three men stopped and listened. Off to their right they heard a soft whistling. Verity pointed and they headed towards the noise.

  The warehouseman was in his early thirties with receding hair and wire-framed glasses. He was holding a palm computer and making notes with a small stylus as he whistled to himself. He was so engrossed in the tiny computer that he didn’t see the three masked men until they were almost upon him. His jaw dropped and he took half a step backwards, then Verity jammed his shotgun in the man’s stomach. ‘Don’t say a word,’ hissed Verity. ‘Do as you’re told and we’ll be out of here in a few minutes.’

  He grabbed at the man’s collar with his left hand, swung him around so that he was facing in the direction of the office, then frog-marched him with the shotgun pressed into the base of his spine. ‘There’s no m-m-money here,’ the man stammered.

  ‘I said don’t talk,’ said Verity. He rammed the shotgun barrel into the man’s back for emphasis.

  When they reached the office the two fork lift truck drivers were lying on the ground outside the door, gagged and bound with grey duct tape. Owen was standing over them, his gun in one hand, the Fairy Liquid bottle in the other.

  Verity pushed the warehouseman to the floor next to the two fork lift truck drivers. The man rolled onto his back and his glasses fell off, clattering on the concrete. Verity pointed his shogun at the warehouseman. ‘The Intel chips,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘The ones that came in from the States this morning.’ Voices buzzed in his earpiece. A Police National Computer check on the Arab. A name, date of birth. Nationality. Iraqi. ‘Bastard ragheads,’ muttered Verity.

  ‘What?’ said the warehouseman, totally confused. He groped for his spectacles with his right hand.

  Verity nodded at Owen. Owen squeezed the Fairy Liquid bottle and sprayed the contents over the three men. Macdonald frowned as he recognised the smell. Petrol. The fork lift truck drivers bucked and kicked but the warehouseman just lay on the floor in shock, his hand clutching his spectacles.

  Owen emptied the plastic bottle, then tossed it to the side. He took a gunmetal Zippo from the pocket of his overalls and flicked it open. ‘You heard what the man said, now where are the chips?’ He span the wheel of the lighter with his thumb and waved a two-inch smokey flame over the three men.

  ‘Archie, what the hell’s going on?’ shouted Macdonald, taking a step towards Verity. ‘No one said we were going to set fire to anyone.’

  ‘You’ve got a shotgun in your hands, this is no different.’

  ‘Have you seen what third degree burns look like?’

  Verity turned and levelled his shotgun at Macdonald’s legs. ‘Have you seen what a kneecapping looks like?’

  Macdonald raised the barrel of his shotgun skywards, showing that he wasn’t a threat. ‘Just wished I’d been fully briefed, that’s all.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re right. In for a penny...’

  The warehouseman
scrabbled on his back, away from Owen. Owen followed him, bending down to wave the flaming Zippo closer to his legs. The warehouseman backed against the wall of the office, his hands up in front of his face. ‘I’m not sure how close I can get before you go up in flames,’ said Owen. ‘The Intel chips,’ he hissed at the warehouseman. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I’ll have to check the computer,’ stammered the warehouseman. A dark stain spread down his left trouser leg.

  Owen clicked the Zippo shut, grabbed the warehouseman by the scruff of the neck and dragged him over to the office door. Verity followed. The earpiece buzzed and crackled. There’d been a car crash outside the departures terminal. Two minicabs had collided and the drivers had started fighting. Verity smiled under his ski mask. The more distractions, the better.

  Eddie threw the warehouseman into the office. Own snapped the Zippo shut. ‘You’ve got ten seconds, then it’s barbecue time,’ he snarled. He grabbed the warehouseman and pushed him down onto a swivel chair.

  The warehouseman’s hands trembled over the keyboard. ‘I have to think,’ he said. ‘I’m only the n-n-night man.’

  ‘Think about this,’ said Owen, lighting the Zippo again and waving the flame close to the man’s face.

  The warehouseman shrieked. ‘Okay, okay, wait!’ he shouted, stabbing at the keyboard. ‘I’ve got it.’ He wiped his sweating forehead with the arm of his coat. ‘Row G. Section Six. Twelve b-b-boxes.’

  Verity turned to the office door. ‘Fred, Doug!’ he called. ‘Row G. Section Six.’ The earpiece buzzed. Despite the clean PNC check, the Arab was being taken into custody.

  Owen closed the Zippo and used duct tape to tie the warehouseman to the chair. ‘I d-d-did what you wanted, d-d-didn’t I?’ asked the warehouseman fearfully. Owen slapped a piece of tape across the man’s mouth.

  Verity pointed at Owen. ‘Tell P.J. to get the minibus ready,’ he said, then jogged towards Row G.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Macdonald.