Stanley sighed. “This could take all fucking day the way Smith plays.”
“I’ll nip out when the coast is clear and get some coffee and sandwiches.”
“Get some newspapers and magazines as well.”
“Hustler or Penthouse?” the Colonel quipped as he got out of the van.
Jane woke early after a restless night thinking about her undercover role at the wedding. She felt nervous, not just about what she was doing, but also at the thought of seeing Carl again. Although part of her looked forward to it, she felt she was prolonging the agony for herself—and Carl—before she walked out of his life. She wondered if, after the Ripleys were arrested, she should tell him the truth, and that although she had lied to him she genuinely thought he was a nice man. It was all too much. As she sat in the kitchen eating her breakfast, she began to wonder if she should have told Murphy that she didn’t want to go to the wedding.
After a lot of indecision going through her wardrobe, she finally decided what to wear. She chose a knee-length pleated floral print dress in shades of pink, blue and yellow, with ruched shoulder straps that could be worn on or off the shoulder. To go with the dress, she chose some pink flat-soled shoes with a matching ribbon on them, and a beige wide-brimmed hat with an organza flower bow.
Before ironing her dress, she had a bath and washed her hair, then blow-dried it and put in some sponge curlers. Looking at the clock, she realized she still had five hours before Teflon would be picking her up. She put on her dressing gown, lay on the sofa and went back to reading Medea.
The day shift guard got out of his car with the engine running and pressed the intercom of the gated entrance to the Security Express depot in Curtain Road, Shoreditch.
“It’s me, Harry. Open the gates, will ya?” Archie said. “And stick the kettle on.” Harry checked the TV screen linked to the front gate camera and, satisfied it was his work colleague, pressed the button to open the large electric gates. Archie drove in, then parked his car in the corner of the yard and heard an Irish voice call out.
“Excuse me, my son, I was wondering if ya can help me.”
Archie saw an elderly, grey-haired, bearded man with stooped shoulders shuffling towards him as the gates closed. He was dressed in a black suit and shirt, and wore thick-rimmed brown glasses and black leather gloves.
“You can’t come in here, mate,” Archie said, warily holding his hand up.
“Oh, I’m sorry, my son, it’s just that I’m a bit lost and can’t find the church. I’m the stand-in priest and supposed to be taking the service in fifteen minutes.”
Archie noticed he was wearing a dog collar, and carrying a Bible and rosary beads in one hand and a map in the other.
“What’s the church you’re looking for, Father?”
“St. Leonard’s in Shoreditch High Street.” He showed him the map.
“Are you in a car?”
“No, I’m walking.”
“You need to go up Curtain Road, then turn right into Bateman’s Row and keep going until you come to the T-junction and the church is up on the left. It’s about a five-minute walk.”
Harry could see Archie was talking to a priest and giving him directions. He got up and put the kettle on.
“Bless you, my son, you’re a guiding angel to be sure.”
“My pleasure, Father. I’ll let you out.”
The priest held up the Bible and started to open it. Archie thought the old man was going to read a passage and bless him. It was only when he felt the gun pressed against his stomach that he realized the Bible had concealed a gun.
“One fuckin’ wrong move and you’re a dead man, ya understand me?”
Archie nodded. The priest made him walk to the entry door to the building and stood close to him with the gun in his back. Archie entered the key code, opened the door and the priest put a small wooden wedge in it so it didn’t close. They walked up the stairs, then, as Archie opened the control room door, the priest smashed him over the back of the head with the gun and let him fall to the ground. On seeing the gun, Harry instantly stuck his hands in the air and backed off. As Archie sat up groggily the priest got a thick roll of duct tape from his inside jacket pocket and threw it down on his lap.
“Tape his hands, legs and eyes, then gag him.”
With the gun pointed at Harry, the priest told him to lie face down on the floor and put his hands behind his back. When Archie had finished, the priest kept the gun pointed at him while he checked that the tape was secure.
“Open the gate,” he told Archie.
He did as he was told and a green Ford Transit van, with the Security Express logos on the side, drove into the yard and reversed into the loading bay. Four men dressed in blue coveralls and balaclavas got out of the vehicle while the driver, also wearing a balaclava, lay across the front seats. One was carrying a sawn-off shotgun and the other three had handguns. Two of them ran up to the control room and one remained in the downstairs corridor by the entry door. When they arrived, the priest dragged Harry to the toilet. Then he took off his glasses and put on a balaclava and stayed with Harry.
The man with the sawn-off pointed it at Archie.
“When the supervisor arrives to do his check, you let him in, or I’ll blow yer fuckin’ brains out,” he said in an Irish accent.
A terrified Archie nodded repeatedly as he was pushed down into the control desk chair, while the other man held the gun to his head.
“The keys to the cash vault are locked in the safe and we don’t know the numbers for it,” Archie said.
The man with the gun slapped the back of his head hard.
“If yer hand so much as twitches towards that panic button, I will pull the trigger.” He also had an Irish accent.
Archie folded his arms, squeezed them tight to his chest and began to shake with fear.
At 8:30 a.m. on the dot the supervisor pulled up at the gate, got out of his car and pressed the intercom. The man with the shotgun ran down the stairs and joined his colleague.
“Morning, Archie.”
“Morning, boss.”
“Has Harry not gone home yet?” the supervisor asked, noticing his car was still in the yard.
Archie felt the gun being pressed hard against his head.
“Answer him.”
“He’s just having a cuppa and a chat with me.”
“OK, make me one, will ya?”
Archie pressed the button to open the gate and before he knew it, he was dragged out of the chair, slammed to the ground face down and a pillowcase was put over his head. He was then tied up with duct tape and dragged to the toilet by the man with the handgun. The priest let the two blindfolded guards know he was with them, so not to bother trying to escape.
As the supervisor opened the ground floor door and stepped into the corridor, he saw the masked man pointing the sawn-off shotgun at him. He wasn’t aware of the other man behind the door, who kicked it shut and stuck a gun in his back.
“Top of the mornin’ to ya, mister supervisor,” he said in a deep, calm voice.
The supervisor was forced upstairs to the control room and tied to a chair. The man with the deep voice spoke to him, while his colleague held the shotgun to his head. The third man with them watched the monitor in case anyone came to the gates.
“What’s the code for the safe dat holds the vault keys?”
“I don’t know,” he said nervously.
“Don’t fuck me about, son, or I’ll be toasting yer fuckin’ head.”
“I swear to God, I don’t know the code—only the depot manager does and he’s not in today.”
“Well, I’m the god of hellfire,” he said menacingly.
He got a can of lighter fluid out of the pocket of his coveralls and squeezed the flammable liquid over the supervisor’s head. The terrified hostage could smell the fluid as it trickled down his face. He began to shake uncontrollably as the man got a gold lighter out of his pocket and flicked the top open.
“Believ
e me, son, this is gonna hurt. And you’ll be disfigured for life.”
He flicked the friction wheel with his thumb, releasing a spark, which lit up the tiny stream of butane gas. He moved the flame towards the supervisor’s head.
“All right, all right, please don’t burn me! It’s 200258.”
He flicked the lighter lid back down and lightly patted the supervisor’s cheek.
“Good boy . . . Now ye can go be with your friends in the shithouse.”
The man with the shotgun then duct-taped the supervisor’s mouth, put a pillowcase over his head and dragged him to the toilet. The priest stayed with the guards, while one man watched the TV monitor and the other two got the keys from the safe, then opened the vault.
“Jesus Christ, there’s got to be millions here!” the man with the sawn-off said with delight.
“I told you there would be—most of it’ll be from the Ideal Home Exhibition,” the man with the deep voice said. “Open the loading bay door and get the duffle bags from the van.”
His colleague did as he was told and quickly returned with six large duffle bags. They hurriedly filled them with cash and the man with the deep voice looked at his watch.
“One more each and we gotta go,” he said.
“There’s still loads here.”
“It’s too risky, we need to do everything to plan and stick to my timing. We’ve got enough to make us rich for life.”
“The Costa Brava, champagne and caviar, what more could a criminal want?” The man with the sawn-off chuckled.
Once they had loaded the bags into the van, one of the men went to get his two colleagues and the priest warned the guards they were still being watched before quietly leaving the toilet. Before leaving they ripped the false Security Express signs off the side of the Transit van and threw them in the back.
“Christ, I’m bored. What time is it now?” the Colonel asked, looking through binoculars at the eighteenth green.
Stanley was reading the paper. “10:35.”
“How can anyone play a game that takes so long?”
“Stop moaning. A cricket match can take five days.”
“I wouldn’t mind if we were doing something positive, but this is like watching paint dry. Tell you what—I’ll bet you a quid the guy on the green misses this putt.”
“Go on then.”
As the ball fell into the cup, the Colonel sighed, fished a pound note out of his pocket and handed it to Stanley.
“That bloody siege is still going on,” Stanley said. “They’ve threatened to shoot a hostage if they don’t get what they want. I wouldn’t want to be that poor PC they grabbed. He’ll probably be the first.”
Stanley folded the paper, put it down and took over watching with the binoculars. At ten to eleven he saw the four men walking up to the eighteenth green.
“They’re on the green,” he said.
Teflon picked up the camera and started taking photographs.
“The way that Smudge bloke plays, I thought they’d be a lot longer,” he remarked.
They watched as the four targets finished their game and shook hands with each other. Ten minutes later they all left the course in the same vehicles they had come in.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was nearly 1:30 p.m. Jane stood in front of her bedroom mirror, put her wide-brimmed hat on and did a left and right half-twirl.
“You look good,” she said to herself with a smile. She went to the living room, looked out of the window to the street below and saw Teflon pull up in the black cab. She picked up her coat, then checked her Kodak Instamatic camera was in her clutch bag, along with spare film before leaving the flat.
Teflon waved when he saw her walking towards the cab.
“You look absolutely stunning,” he said, his eyes wide.
“No need to look so surprised,” she laughed, getting in the back. “I last wore this outfit when I was godmother at my nephew’s christening.”
“Where to, lady?” Teflon asked in a cockney accent, as if he was a real cabbie.
“All Saints Church, Chigwell, please.” She smiled.
“Right you are,” he said and moved off.
Teflon drove slowly so he didn’t arrive at the church too early.
“You be careful, Jane. No matter what Murphy said, the wedding surveillance isn’t worth putting your neck on the line for. All we really need is the camel hair coat guy’s car registration so we can identify him. If he doesn’t turn up, then you may as well call it a day.”
“I was only intending to stay until the evening reception starts, then I’ll make an excuse to pull out.”
He nodded. “I’ll wait in the canteen at Chigwell nick. Call me when you want picking up.”
He handed her the station phone number.
The sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky as they pulled up on the road outside the church. Jane saw Carl outside, anxiously pacing up and down the gravel path. He had a top hat in his hand and was wearing a black and grey morning suit. As soon as he saw her he smiled broadly and waved.
“You look gorgeous, Jane,” he said as he helped her out of the cab.
“Thanks. You look very elegant in your suit.”
She winced as if feeling a sudden sharp pain.
“You all right?” he asked, looking concerned.
“It’s just a bad stomach cramp.”
“Is it something you ate?”
“No, it’s just that time of the month.”
He looked embarrassed. “Oh, right, I see.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll go away.”
“We’d best go into the church. Tina will be here soon.”
She followed him inside, feeling bad that she was lying to him about period pains, but she needed to lay down an excuse she could use later. Carl escorted her down the aisle to the front row on the left. It hadn’t crossed her mind that he would want her to sit next to him and his family. He introduced Jane to his mother, Maureen. She shook Jane’s hand limply.
“Pleased to meet you, darlin’. My Carl can’t stop talkin’ about you. He was right, as well—you’re a real looker.”
Jane sat at the end of the pew and a minute later she felt a tap on her shoulder, making her jump. She turned around and saw a smiling Tommy behind her with the much younger Maria Fernandez, who was wearing a red dress with a low-cut neckline that showed off her full figure.
Tommy whispered to Jane, “Thanks for coming, luv, you’ve made Carl’s day. I’ve not seen him as happy in a long while. This is Maria, me girlfriend. Maria, this is—” He paused, awaiting a reply.
“Jane. Pleased to meet you, Maria.”
As they shook hands, Jane recognized Graham Smith and Aidan O’Reilly from the surveillance photographs. They were sitting in the row behind Tommy. O’Reilly still had visible signs of the cut to his forehead, but he also had a rash all over his face, which he was rubbing with his hand.
The room was suddenly filled with the sound of the organ playing Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” and everyone stood up. Jane thought Tina looked beautiful in her wedding dress, though she felt nothing but contempt for George Ripley when she saw him. She wondered if Tina knew what her father was really like, and how the proceeds of crime had probably paid for her extravagant wedding.
The service was over in half an hour. Carl linked arms with Jane as they walked out of the church, then shook the vicar’s hand and said it was a lovely service. The bride and groom, bridesmaids, best man and ushers had a few pictures taken outside the church, and George announced that the family’s and friends’ photos would be taken in the grounds of Farthings.
Jane scanned the church car park to see if the Jensen Interceptor was there, but couldn’t see it. She looked around the guests for a man resembling Bela Lugosi, but again with no joy.
When the photos were done, Jane travelled with Carl to the house in a wedding limousine. The six-bedroom mock Tudor house was approached via electric gates and a swe
eping gravel driveway, and surrounded by over an acre of land, with a small fishing lake and woods at the bottom of the vast gardens. The impressive marquee was close to the house and several waitresses and waiters were serving champagne and canapes. Carl picked up two glasses from a tray and handed one to Jane.
“Thanks again for coming, it really means a lot to me. George reckoned you’d give me the boot after our first date.”
“Well, he reckoned wrong . . . Cheers.”
She raised her glass and he did the same.
George’s booming deep voice filled the air.
“Right, listen up, you bunch of reprobates. If anyone wants a piss, the ladies’ is in the entrance hallway to the left of the staircase, and the gents’ is in the utility room off the kitchen. Have an enjoyable day and make sure you drink all the booze.”
The photographer called out that he’d like the Ripley family to gather around for a photograph.
“Come on, Jane,” Carl said, taking her gently by the hand.
“I’m not part of your family, Carl, I wouldn’t feel right being—”
“Maria will be in it and she’s not family. Please, I’d like a proper photo of us together.”
She didn’t have the heart to say no, and also realized she could use the moment to her advantage. She handed her pocket camera to a guest and asked if they’d take some pictures for her. Carl asked the guest to take a quick one of him and Jane before they joined the family.
Although Jane forced a smile, inside she was mortified—standing in the Ripley family photograph next to Tommy, with George only a few feet away. After the photograph was taken she started to move off, but the photographer told everyone to stay where they were, then asked for close friends of the bride’s family to join them for a group shot. It went from bad to worse as she watched Graham Smith and Aidan O’Reilly join the group and stand right behind her.
“You should put some of Maria’s make-up on that rash for the photo,” George told Aidan and laughed, as did Tommy.
“Now we know why he prefers the soft touch of nylon,” Tommy added in a simpering voice.
“Fuck off, the pair of ya,” Aidan grumbled.
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