Murphy's Heist

by David Chilcott

  Miller immediately hauled himself with agility up and over the counter, and pulling out a penknife, cut through the cable ties binding the girls. He retreated the same way, over the counter.

  “We should be on our way, or the police will get here, and detain us.”

  “Yes,” said Miller, leading the way through the office door, and running through the roller shutter door to retrieve his mobile from the store man. McBride gave him the gun he’d picked up off the floor. “Keep it trained on that guy you’ve got, until the police arrive.”

  “Let’s take one car,” said McBride. “Mine.”

  Miller pulled his laptop from his car, locked up and joined McBride. He opened the laptop, searching for the GPS signal.

  “He’s got a big lead on us,” said Miller, “but you can see he’s heading towards Liverpool, I’d guess. Presumably, to pick up the Belfast ferry, do you think?”

  “Could be, but he can hardly drive on in a van with Secure Express on it. And with a labelled load of valuables that aren’t his. Surely the police will be putting the news about, in what, a couple of hours, maximum?”

  “Yes, it can hardly take them long to piece it together, and with bodies, too. Especially with a policeman down.”

  They carried on through heavy traffic, and it seemed to Miller that the van’s lead was increasing. He suddenly realised it was not on the same route that they were.

  “John, the van’s shifted route.” The light winked out. “Shit, we’ve lost them. No signal.”

  “They’ve discovered the bug?”

  “Maybe, but that doesn’t help us. Best thing we can do is drive to where they signalled last.”

  “You know the spot?”

  “Not exactly, but I know the approximate location.”

  Neither man spoke for a few miles. They were making better progress, as the traffic thinned.

  After thirty more miles, Miller said, “We’re about as close as we can be without taking a detour. How about pulling in somewhere, and waiting?”

  “It couldn’t harm. I know that the next ferry out of Liverpool to Belfast isn’t until six tonight. If the worst comes to the worst, we can catch that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lefty was driving the pickup. The load area was empty. They hadn’t collected up any of the road works equipment, just beat a hasty departure. Ned was in the passenger seat, clutching a dirt smeared piece of paper, which had been given to him early today, before they’d driven away from Murphy’s house. On it were the directions they had to go with the pick-up. They also had a key. From the barn they were to assemble, in the yard in front, a selection of tatty antique furniture, especially four old blanket chests which were just inside the door. By this time, Murphy would have arrived, ready to issue further instructions.

  After two wrong turns they arrived at the old farmhouse, with its ragtag of buildings scattered over an acre of mud yard.

  “Number twelve, he said,” muttered Ned.

  “It’s here,” said Lefty pulling up near a pair of barn doors with a hefty padlock securing them.

  They undid the padlock, pulled open the doors. There was a switch on the wall, working a large overhead bulb in a huge metal shade. There was a central aisle, about seven or eight feet wide, and piles of antique furniture built to dizzying height on either side, extending to the walls on each side. At the front of the aisle, four old blanket boxes lay on the earth floor.

  “Pull those out into the yard, for a start,” said Lefty. Then he tackled a pile on the left aisle, pulled out three Windsor chairs, a toilet stand, complete with basin, several more dining chairs, and a couple of occasional tables. He emerged into the sunlight.

  “Get that furniture I’ve sorted, put it in a pile with the boxes.” Then Lefty sat down in the dust of the yard, and took from his pocket a cigarette packet. He had been up for most of the previous night, and he felt his eyes closing involuntarily, in the sunlight. Ned, busied himself, and when he had a pile of furniture in the yard, joined Lefty, leaning against the barn wall.

  The sound of a motor screaming at full speed in low gear woke them to see the white van with the Secure Express signs tear into the yard and pull up in a swirl of dust. The door opened, and Murphy tumbled out in haste. “Quick” he shouted, “It all went to fuck.

  O’Connor’s been caught, and the pressure’s on. I’m not moving the van now, we’ll back it into the barn. Next, you two get the signs off the sides and the back.”

  He dashed inside the barn, came out with a sheaf of plastic. “Put these signs on, one each side. Then burn the old signs, they’ll burn well, I’m telling ya.”

  The three of them worked quickly. The original signs came off easily, because Murphy had been sure not to press the adhesive too severely. When the old signs had been completely removed, Murphy showed the others where he wanted the new signs, which said: Cheshire Antiques, in red lettering.

  Then they scrunched up the old vinyl signs, and Murphy used his petrol lighter, and they burned quickly to a sticky ash.

  “Just take the ashes, and spread them round the back in the trees,” he ordered. Meanwhile, he got back into the van, and reversed down the central aisle of his lock up, as far back as he could get it. Finally, he threw an old dustsheet over it.

  Then he remembered the plates. He rummaged in the barn until he found the original registration plates, and Lefty and Ned replaced them. He went out again and round the back, and using the plates as shovels, dug a hole that would hide them. He scraped the earth back into the hole with his hands, trampling on the new soil to tamp it down. He scattered dead leaves over the freshly turned soil.

  Murphy returned to find that his men were lounging by the pickup awaiting instructions.

  “Come on, you lazy sods, get all this furniture loaded on to the pick-up, tie it down, and we’re going. I’ll treat you to a trip back to Belfast by boat. But you’ll take the pick-up with the furniture. You know Antique Jack? Leave the whole lot with him, and I’ll pick the truck up some time. Tell him he can use it return for housing it, and I’ll expect him to pay me for contents. There’s a cabin booked for two on the ferry which leaves at ten o’clock tonight. So you’ll have time for a drink in Liverpool. But I need a lift with you. To a friend’s house, he’ll put me up tonight, out of harm’s way. Come on, we’re going. Give me the barn keys.”

  He held out his hand, and used the key to fasten the padlock.

  McBride had parked his car in a lay by of suburban shops. A kebab takeaway, closed during the day, McBride assumed, a chippy, closed too. Miller was in the passenger seat, asleep after his night on surveillance. McBride was outside the car, leaning on the rear, surveying the traffic heading for Liverpool. His eyes ached from looking for white vans. There’s never any when you’re looking for them. Trucks and buses, yes, even Transit pick-ups. Like this one approaching. The one leaving Murphy’s house early this morning, and seen again at the road works, before the explosion. McBride could hardly believe his luck.

  The traffic was one slow snarl up, so McBride had time to look through the windscreen at the occupants as the pick-up came towards him. The two mock roadmen, and there was Murphy, on the left hand side seat, who caught McBride’s eye as he passed.

  McBride climbed back into his car, and forced his way into the traffic stream, amid angry horns blowing. The sound of hooting, and the movement of the car woke Dusty Miller, who rubbed his eyes.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Murphy and friends just went by in the Transit pick up,” said McBride. “The platform was full of tatty furniture, quasi-antique. And, wait for it, at least four large blanket chests. What do you think is in them?”

  “Bullion, you’re hoping?”

  “We’ll see,” said McBride.

  They followed the pick-up, three or four vehicles back, all the way through the centre of Liverpool, then lost it.

  “Never mind,” said Miller, “they’ll be on the Liverpool to Belfast ferry tonight. That’s th
e only reason they’re here. Hardly likely they’d hack all the way to Stranraer. God, have you ever been there? It takes like for ever.”

  “And they won’t be going to Holyhead. They’ve been coming the wrong way. I have to agree. You think it’s worth going back to the hotel?”

  Miller looked at his watch. “Well, it’s two o’clock now, and it would be about two hours back, and then what? Why don’t we eat here, and do some sightseeing, or shopping, if that grabs you.”

  The pick-up was out in the suburbs now. Murphy said to Lefty, “You can drop me here. Just pull into the side.”

  Murphy got out, made to step away, then turned round to the pick-up, stuck his head through the open window.

  “Just thought you ought to know it’s called the Liverpool to Belfast ferry, but it leaves from Birkenhead, that is through the Mersey tunnel, and then follow the signs. There’s also a map on the tickets I gave you. Suppose they don’t call it Birkenhead to Belfast ferry, cos no- one would know where it was.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  McBride’s car rolled into the ferry terminal at seven thirty that evening. Not only had they lunched, but also had early dinner.

  They parked the car, and went into the terminal, bought foot passenger tickets, and a couple of cabins. It was still early when they got outside the terminal. There was a coach to the ferry for the foot passengers. Some cars were already arriving to board.

  “Do you think we’ll be able to see the cars embarking from inside the ferry?”

  “Pretty sure to,” replied McBride. “But if we don’t see Murphy’s truck actually going aboard, we’ll be in Belfast, and Murphy might be anywhere.”

  They decided to walk to the boat, since they had lots of time to kill. It was not a pleasurable walk; dreary desolate, post-industrial scenery.

  They stood by the bus terminus, and watched vehicles coming up the road to the waiting area for boarding.

  They waited for an hour, and then spotted the pick-up with its load of scrap furniture take its place in line.

  “Okay, let’s go on board,” said McBride.

  “If I can get a good signal, it’s time to contact the Belfast police,” said Miller, when they had arrived in the lounge. He fiddled with his phone, moved over to the window, and was soon engaged in animated conversation.

  From the look on his face, the phone call had gone well. “My old mate’s a super, now. He’s arranging a quayside welcome, about a dozen coppers, at least five cars. They’ll pull that truck to pieces. They’re also interested in talking to Murphy. The media’s full of this morning’s heist, and Murphy’s name’s been mentioned.”

  McBride looked around the lounge. There was a television set, not yet switched on. He walked over to the bar, where barman was listlessly setting up.

  “Can we have a news channel on?” he said, gesturing towards the large screen. The barman moved across the bar, and the screen lit up.

  Miller came over to join McBride.

  “…said the Cheshire constabulary this evening. It appears that the robbery at Northern Bullion involved a consignment of platinum, worth in the region of eleven million pounds, although it would probably only fetch half that when fenced, or even less. The main use for platinum is as a catalyst, and is used in exhaust systems of every petrol vehicle. A smaller amount is used for jewellery. The robbery involved the death of four people, two in the blowing up of the security van as it was en route to Northern Bullion. The fake security van then made the scheduled visit to pick up the consignment. A police inspector was in attendance at the time. This was an insurance requirement, we understand. Usually a constable attended, but not on this occasion. The inspector was shot dead with a bullet to the head, and the security guard was shot in the chest, and died almost immediately. One of the gang was captured at the scene by stores men. He is still being interrogated tonight. This is the largest robbery to take place since the bullion theft at Heathrow in the eighties.

  Other news now…”

  “Higher value than I expected,” said McBride. “Murphy really went for the big one to retire on.”

  The ship had now finished loading vehicles, and the lounge area was more than half full, a few people waiting for the bar to open. They found a table, and eventually got a drink.

  “It’s spot the criminal time,” said Miller. “You’ve more chance, because you’ve seen the two who blew the van.”

  McBride started to systematically scan the crowd. More people were entering, and someone shouted, “Lefty” and started waving, standing in the doorway. People looked over, including McBride, who was one of the few people who recognised the man. Over at a small table by the window, there came a shout “Ned, over here.”

  “Those are the boys,” McBride said.

  “So where’s Murphy?” said Miller. “He could be in his cabin, of course. Under his circumstances, I might do that. Can only be a few hours at most, before his face is going to be on television. He was seen by a lot of people at Northern Bullion.”

  “Trouble is, we don’t know what cabin he’s in.”

  “Whoa, John, I’m not getting into a gun battle on this boat. Civilians will end up getting killed. The man’s ruthless.”

  McBride was quiet for a few moments, the said, “Stay here, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He made his way through the now crowded room, and into the large lobby by the stairs, which displayed a sign that said ‘Reception’ over a low counter manned by three women:

  John decided his officer voice might produce results. He had long ago found that if you speak with an ‘upper class’ accent, people accepted that you could be trusted. Hence the millions of scams pulled by ‘toffs’. He joined a queue of two people, and almost immediately one of the girls said: “Can I help you, sir?”

  McBride gave her a warm smile. “I’ve got a small problem, actually. I was due to meet a colleague on this sailing. We’re attending a meeting in Belfast in the morning. Unfortunately, I can’t find him. Is it possible to check whether he boarded?”

  “We’re not supposed to reveal passenger lists, sir… but I suppose this can’t harm. What name was it?”

  “Mr Murphy, initial E.” He gave her another friendly smile.

  She busied herself with the computer screen. “Mr Murphy. Yes there was a booking tonight, but it was cancelled this afternoon, together with a Mr O’Connor.” She continued to inspect the screen for a few moments. “The tickets were transferred to the names of Brown and Peterson, Mr Murphy’s colleagues. Perhaps you know them? They’ve certainly boarded. But they have cabins, so they might be there. I can’t help you any further, I’m afraid. We don’t disclose cabin numbers.”

  “You’ve been more than helpful. A goodnight to you”

  McBride sat down at Miller’s table. “We have a problem. Murphy’s not on board.” “You’re joking!”

  “No. The original booking was in the names of Murphy and O’Connor. It was changed this afternoon. The clowns over there were booked instead.” He pointed surreptitiously.

  “But Murphy was in the pick up this afternoon. You saw him. So he must still be in Liverpool. Shit! Christ, we’ve pulled out a police parade on the quayside.”

  “Yes,” said McBride, “but the bullion might still be in the truck, look on the bright side. Perhaps Murphy’s on his way by other means, and meeting up with the boys in Belfast.”

  “Would you trust eleven million quid with those guys?”

  “There is that,” said McBride.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Despite Miller’s fears, he slept well. He’d been awake most of the previous night. At five thirty there was a general morning call on the ship’s speaker system, gratingly cheerful. Miller hurled a boot in the general direction of the wall-mounted device. Instructions followed about times of breakfast, and arrangements for disembarkation, admission to the car deck, all spoken in the same cheerful manner. Miller refrained from throwing his other boot. He showered and dressed in the clothes
he’d worn yesterday. They’d brought no luggage.

  He walked into the restaurant, and immediately spotted McBride, who was queuing for coffee. He looked towards the large picture windows and saw that they were already in Belfast Lough, the ship barely moving now, dawdling along. Whilst looking out of the window, he saw a table with Lefty and his pal sitting there. Two of the chairs were vacant. He nudged McBride, and they walked over, carrying their coffees.

  McBride said, “Hello there, chaps, I’m sure you won’t mind us sharing your table. Lovely view, isn’t it? And it is such a lovely day again.”

  Lefty scowled at him.

  The ship began a lazy turn, so that the shoreline moved past them like a movie camera pan. McBride could see the quayside coming into view now, the Stranraer boat not yet set off. That was why their ship was waiting. Then McBride spotted the police cars, and police in their yellow shiny jackets, lounging around in the sun, gossiping to each other it seemed from here, up on the ship.

  “Oh, look Lefty, your fan club is waiting. Probably give you a lift into Belfast, eh?” Lefty’s eyes looked where McBride was pointing. Miller chuckled, but Lefty began to

  fidget, and then stood up. “What the fuck’s happening,” he shouted, and Ned just looked on blankly. He seemed to live in a world of his own. Several diners turned to look, disturbed by the profanity.

  Lefty pushed his chair away from the table. “I’m not going to land there, if that’s what they think.” He rushed to the door of the restaurant, chased now by McBride and Miller, with Ned trailing behind. Once out of the restaurant, Lefty dashed through the lobby, pushing people aside, and made for the stairs to the next deck. He took the steps two at a time, and pushed through the doors on to the deck. McBride was closest and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Lefty, calm down. There’s nowhere to go.”

  He turned on McBride: “Leave me, I’ll kill myself rather than go to prison.” He dashed over to the deck railings, clambered on to the top rail and without pause, launched himself into space.

  McBride was already peeling off his jacket, slipping out of his shoes as he looked over the rails. Maybe forty feet below Lefty hit the sea with a tremendous splash, and the sounds of his scream could be clearly heard. Then he began thrashing around, clearly unable to swim. McBride waited no longer. He couldn’t leave a drowning man. Thrusting his jacket at Miller, he said, “Chuck a lifebelt in and dial 999.” Then he was climbing over the rail and making the highest dive of his life. He knew that he would dive deep and prepared for it mentally.