by Echo Freer
Once she’d heard the door being locked, Mercedes took some time for her eyes to adjust to the dark, then took a small torch out of her pocket and flashed it round the interior; it hadn’t changed a bit! Despite the humidity outside, inside the lock-up it was as cold as a mortuary. The sound of the rain and a slow dripping of water coming from somewhere to her left did little to make it feel more homely. Mercedes stood for a moment reflecting on the last time she’d been there. It had been a regular treat when she was small, to come here with her dad. She would sit on his leather swivel chair while he attended to business. It was almost as though she could hear him now. ‘You’d better keep your sunny shut, mate, or I’ll tuck you up good and proper and make sure you go away for a long stretch.’
Another train went over, rattling the fabric of the building and startling her back to the present. She gave a shudder, this was no time for sentimentality. Part of her was tempted to agree to Zak’s offer to stay but she knew it was too risky. If she got caught at least she’d got her family ties to fall back on; that and the little matter of Frankie’s relationship with Honey Coombes. She wasn’t quite sure what her story was going to be but she was hoping that, as it was half an hour before the meet, she’d have time to look around and find some inspiration.
She shone the torch up to the vaulted ceiling and then along the depth of the cavernous workshop right to the back. In the centre of the building were two shapes that were obviously cars, covered with tarpaulins. At the back, another tarpaulin covered a pile of something that she couldn’t make out and there was also a long row of trestle tables near the back wall as well as what had been her father’s office at the far end, separated from the main area by glass partitions.
Ignoring the cars she slowly made her way to the back. The door to the office was open. With some trepidation she went in and sat in the large leather swivel chair again - just for old time’s sake. She shone her torch over the papers on the desk, looking for something - but she didn’t know what. There were some letters she didn’t understand from an address in the Cayman islands. They were addressed to a ‘James Squires’ and seemed to be related to the purchase of the casino next to the bank. But what were they doing in her brothers’ lock-up?
She flashed the torch over the desk and noticed something else interesting - and this she did understand. It was a copy of Chic-Chick magazine. Although Mercedes initially thought it a little odd that either of her siblings should be interested in women’s fashion, the reason for the magazine’s presence became glaringly obvious when she saw the cover. There, pouting seductively from the glossy jacket, was Honey Coombes. Mercedes checked her watch; it was two thirty five. She still had some time so, taking care not to disturb the other papers on the desk, she opened the magazine. On page four, under the heading, ‘Chic-Chick Chat’ there were more photographs of the model, this time on the arm of some other man. Mercedes ran her torch over the photograph and shivered at his cold dark eyes. She moved closer so that she could read the caption:
The words bees and pot certainly applied to supermodel Honey Coombes when she attended the premier of Jay Ridley’s latest film, Grab, last week. And the buzzword was that one of those swarming for her attention was none other than millionaire playboy Jonathon Sabatini pictured here.
The note she had read in Frankie’s study had mentioned a Jonnie ‘Schizo’ Sabatini and she thought the odds on there being two Sabatinis with first names of the Jonnie/Jonathon genre were so remote they didn’t even warrant doing the maths. And hadn’t the note said that he was going to do over her brothers, in the pay of Spinks? Mercedes felt sick. She didn’t want her family involved in the robbery in the first place but she certainly didn’t want them to then get done over by their arch-rival’s firm, especially if he was employing someone affectionately known as ‘Schizo’. What she couldn’t work out was why her brothers seemed to be going ahead with it even though they knew. And who had told them? She had a sudden recollection of the slinky cow of a woman at the club tucking a note into Frankie’s top pocket shortly before she kissed him. Was that the same note that Mercedes had seen? In which case did that mean that Honey Coombes was on Frankie’s side or the schizo guy’s?
The throaty sound of a car being revved outside alerted her and Mercedes realised that she had wasted precious minutes that she’d intended using to find a hiding place. She closed the magazine and shone the torch around the cramped office. There was nowhere there to conceal herself for any length of time. She went back out into the main area and flashed the torch over the space. She could hear both her brothers’ voices now and the heavy sound of metal banging on metal as they opened the padlock. She was frantic. The only place that she could conceal herself was under the tarpaulin right at the back so she switched off her torch and slid between a pile of old car tyres and the wall before dragging the heavy fabric over her hair just as the fluorescent lights flickered on.
‘You are something else, you know that, Chubbs? How can you ’ave lost it?’
‘I dunno. I could’ve sworn I put it on my keyring when Nick gave it back to me.’
Mercedes felt a twinge of guilt that she was the cause of Chubby getting it in the neck from Frankie again, and made a mental promise to make it right with him when all this was over. Then she snuggled down behind the dirty tyres and prepared for the long haul.
At three o’clock sharp, just as Frankie had ordained, it started.
‘Where’s Sid?’ he asked, drumming his fingers on the top of the table.
‘Said ’e might be a bit late,’ Gary replied.
There was a communal sharp intake of breath. It was obvious to all those gathered around the tables that being late for one of Frankie’s meetings was not a good idea for anyone who had even the slightest interest in self-preservation.
‘Right then, for those of us who can be bothered to be here on time, let’s see what we’ve got,’ Frankie continued. ‘Let’s start with you, Nick. What little delights did you manage to locate for us?’
The small Greek dragged a bundle of bin bags from under the table and placed them carefully on the top. He pulled out what looked like three rolls of blanket and proceeded to unroll them one at a time, then lay out the contents along the length of the table.
‘What are these?’ Frankie said, picking up one of the semi-automatic guns.
There was a slight pause. ‘They’re the shooters, Frankie.’
‘I can see that they’re the shooters, Nick.’ The other men in the room shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Let me put this another way. Do you remember that conversation we had in the Terra Firma?’
‘Yes, Frankie. You said you wanted me to get some shooters and I asked you if you’d got any particular shooters in mind and you said, “Sort of.” But then you didn’t say no more so I used my initiative.’
‘Really? Well, a word in your shell-like. Put your initiative back under the stone where it belongs and get them ears of yours cleaned out because I didn’t say, “sort of”, I said, “sawn offs”. We are robbing a bank, not mobilising a coup in some former Soviet republic.’ Frankie paced round the table running his hands through his hair then he picked up the third gun and tossed it along the table with disdain. ‘And what is this?’
‘My source could only lay his hands on two of the AK47s, so I brought my lad’s air gun as well.’
‘Jeez!’ Frankie slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘So two of us is going in with enough hardware to take out a platoon of guerrillas while the other can occupy his time popping sparrows with an air pistol?’
‘Ah, well, that’s the other thing, Frankie. They wouldn’t be able to take out anyone ’cos my supplier had a bit of a problem with the ammo.’
‘I thought you said we wasn’t going to use guns, Frankie,’ Chubby interrupted.
‘We ain’t gonna use them, bruv, but we want to look the part; put the frighteners on a bit if t
here’s any aggro. Orright?’
Nick saw an opportunity and seized it. ‘You see Frankie, I’m with Chubby on this ’cos I thought, if they was just for frighteners it didn’t matter what they was or if they worked,’ he explained with some trepidation.
Frankie waited for another train to pass before speaking. ‘You see that’s where you went wrong, my old Bubble and Squeak - you thought. Do not think - OK?’ He took a roll of twenty pound notes from his back pocket, peeled off a hundred and handed them to Nick.
‘Er, that’s a bit short, isn’t it, Frankie?’
‘Yes, mate. But so are you and so is the order I placed, so clear off.’
As the disgruntled Greek reached the door at the other end of the lock-up, Sid entered. The atmosphere round the table was electric as the group waited for Sid to join them.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he mumbled.
‘You will be,’ Frankie threatened. ‘Now, let’s check on the rest of the equipment. Kev, where’s the boiler suits and masks?’
Kev heaved a sports bag on to the table and took out six ski masks and four navy blue boiler suits. He proudly spread one out along the table.
‘I thought I might as well get top of the range.’
As soon as Frankie saw the boiler suit he gave Kev a look of disdain. ‘There we go with that thinking malarkey again! How many times do I have to tell you lot that it is very dangerous to do a job when you do not have the proper equipment. And you, Kev my old china, definitely do not have whatever’s necessary for thinking purposes.’ He picked up the sleeve of the boiler suit and pretended to scrutinise it. ‘Did you check these before you nicked them?’
‘No need, Frankie. Like I said, top of the range.’
‘Tone,’ Frankie turned to one of the other men. ‘Help me out here, mate. Where do we get the overalls for the lads down the car yard?’
‘Begum’s down Whitechapel,’ Tone replied. Frankie turned to Kev. ‘And where did you half inch this little lot from?’
‘Begum’s down Whitechapel, Frankie.’
Frankie flipped over the boiler suit so that the back of it was upwards and the words ‘Bent Ent.’ could be seen embroidered between the shoulders. ‘You stupid plonker!’ he shouted. ‘What did you do for the ski masks, Kev, get your Auntie Dolly to knit ’em with everyone’s names across the forehead just so the Old Bill don’t have too much trouble identifying us?’
‘Sorry, Frankie.’
‘What is the first rule of our profession, Kev?’
‘Don’t nick what’s already yours, Frank.’
‘Sort it - tomorrow! OK?’
Kev gathered up the boiler suits and pushed them all back into the holdall.
‘Chubby, you was getting the spray paint for taking out the CCTV cameras,’ Frankie said, wearily.
Chubby removed two cans of car paint from his pockets and put them on the table.
Frankie lowered his head into his hands and walked round the lock-up in exasperation. When he came back to the table he sighed, heavily. ‘Where d’you get these, bruv?’
‘Halfords. I got a receipt.’
Frankie gripped the edge of the table and leaned forwards so that he was staring at the floor. ‘Did I, or did I not, specify matt black?’
‘Erm,’ Chubby scratched his head.
‘Not glossy black; not satin black; certainly not...’ he picked up one of the cans and read the label, ‘...metallic jade - with sparkly bits in it!’ He banged the tin down and looked at his brother. ‘I said, matt black, Chubbs and that was not just because I thought it would go with the décor. It’s because it obscures everything and dries the fastest.’
‘Sorry, Frankie.’
Frankie straightened up and lit a cigarette. ‘Dare I ask how we’re doing with the walkie-talkies? Have we got the pukka goods or did we go for the Fisher Price end of the market on them an’ all?’
‘Sorted,’ Horace reassured him, placing three handsets on the table. ‘One for each driver and one for you. They’re all tuned in and charged up.’
‘Cheers, ’Orace. And the motors?’ Frankie was visibly relieved that at least one member of the firm seemed to be on the ball.
Horace walked over to the first tarpaulin and pulled it back to reveal a silver BMW. ‘Three series. Poky little job. Get us out of the square in no time.’ He was a man of few words. ‘Nicked in Manchester last week. False plates. Ready to go.’ He went to the other car and pulled back its covering to reveal a dark blue Escort. ‘Kev’s car. Not as fast but not as conspicuous neither.’
‘Right!’ Frankie pulled out the architects’ drawings of the bank and the casino and spread them on the table. ‘Let’s run through this one more time. Sid, talk us through it.’
The older man stepped forward and plumped up his chest. ‘As you know, I will be on duty next Friday night from ten till six. There’s always two of us and one of us does a check of the whole building once an hour on the hour. It takes about fifteen minutes. On Friday, at five to midnight I will suggest to my colleague that he should do the round. That way, he’ll be out of the way until about ten past.’
Frankie came in. ‘At this point, ’Orace will be dropping us off outside the casino before going round the block and parking in Pall Mall.’
‘What about security cameras?’ Tone asked.
Gary, who until then had remained silent, spoke up. ‘The ones on the bank are angled on the front door and don’t take in much else and,’ he grinned, ‘the ones on the casino ain’t operational yet. Shame, innit?’
‘Wouldn’t it just be safer to go in at the back though?’ Tone persisted.
‘It would, Tone, it would,’ Frankie said. ‘Except that there ain’t no service entrance at the back so it’s the front or the front. Take your choice. But we make it look like a break in. We don’t want no one getting a whiff that it’s an inside job.’
‘Alarm?’ Tone asked again.
Gary shook his head in mock regret. ‘Sadly, it’ll have been playing up all week and the electrician won’t be able to fix it.’
There was a unanimous chuckle of approval.
Sid coughed officiously. ‘So at exactly midnight Frankie and Tone are going to come through the party wall into the basement. I will look shocked and try to put up some sort of struggle but Frankie’ll threaten me with a gun. Meanwhile Tone will be spraying the surveillance cameras.’
‘With matt black,’ Frankie said glaring at Chubby.
‘Then,’ Sid carried on, seemingly annoyed at the repeated interruptions, ‘I will instruct Frankie on the combination of the safe.’
‘How will you do that, Sid?’ Kev asked. ‘Banks don’t have a habit of telling their staff the combination.’
Sid’s face set. ‘I ain’t always been a security guard you know, Kev. I was a master locksmith for nearly thirty years - till the bloke I worked for went bankrupt.’ His face contorted with resentment. ‘More than a quarter of a flamin’ century I’d worked for ’im and I didn’t get a penny in redundancy! It weren’t fair.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ Kev said, puzzled. ‘How does being a locksmith mean ’e knows the combination?’
Another clap of thunder seemed to increase Frankie’s irritation. ‘You don’t need to get it, Kev. Sid is an expert and one of the advantages of his misspent adulthood was that he learned how to read a combination from the other side of a room. That is all you need to know.’
Kev eyed Sid suspiciously. ‘Why don’t we just blow it? Seems easier to me.’
‘Anti-explosive device,’ said Sid smugly.
Kev held Sid’s glare. ‘What’s wrong with cutting our way in then? We done it before.’
Frankie tapped his foot impatiently. He turned to Kev. ‘That was a tin-pot little number in a jeweller’s. Even that took about twenty minutes. Now, end
of! You was saying, Sid?’
‘They change the combination every Monday,’ Sid went on, ‘but by Friday, I’ll have had enough time to work out what they’re using and it’s a standard three wheel combination so that’s a piece of cake.’ He looked round the group. ‘But both locks must be done simultaneously.’
‘Cheers.’ Frankie took over again. ‘The money will be in bundles of notes and bonds, so me, Sid and Tone will stash it into nylon holdalls and take them back up through the casino.’
‘What about the deposit boxes?’ Kev piped up again.
‘Ain’t time. We’d need plastic explosives and there’ll be enough cash and bonds to do us all nicely this time.’
‘So you’re just leaving them?’
‘Who’s running this blag, Kev? You or me?’ Frankie challenged.
Kev held up his hands in a gesture of capitulation. ‘Your call, Frankie.’
‘As I was saying, Sid reckons there’ll be going on for five mill in there on a Friday night.’ The others whistled in unison. Frankie turned to Sid. ‘Then Tone’ll tie you up and give you a bit of a make over, just so you look the part, and we’ll be out of the building before laughing boy comes downstairs from doing his rounds. I want us in an’ out in under five minutes.’ Everyone nodded. ‘ ’Orace, I want you outside that building at dead on five past.’ Frankie traced their getaway route with his finger. ‘We go this way round the square and up Duke of York Street to Jermyn Street where Kev will be waiting.’
‘But Frankie, it’s a one-way system round there,’ Chubby pointed out, ‘And that would be the wrong way.’
Frankie lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Chubbs,’ he said, patiently. ‘We will be three geezers in boiler suits and ski masks carrying Kalashnikovs and a boot full of five million knicker. What part of that scenario suggests to you that I’m worried about going the wrong way round a one-way system?’
Chubby shrugged apologetically.
‘By the time we get to Kev I want the boiler suits off. Keep the gloves and ski masks and we’ll burn them when we get back here. Kev, you and ’Orace go up there this week and find a parking spot. There’s a couple of places what’s got cameras so steer well clear of them. Once we’ve transferred the gear, Kev and ’Orace will head west before turning down towards the embankment and then back here. Me and Tone will split up and get cabs or night buses and we meet back here Saturday morning at eleven o’clock. Any questions?’ No one said anything. ‘Right then, we’ll meet here on Friday at half ten. Be lucky!’