by Jason Ayres
Today, though, he couldn’t lose. He had the best inside information than anyone had ever had about any horse ever. All he had to do was figure out how to navigate the bookmaker’s websites and get the money down. He wasn’t exceptionally savvy when it came to computers, doing enough to get by at work and that was about it. Most of the technological advances of recent years had passed him by.
He was well aware of the world of social media. The station had had to deal with a number of cases in recent years where residents had claimed they had been the victims of hate crimes on Facebook perpetrated by other people in the town. It was nearly always over some petty squabble or other, which necessitated little more than a warning for the instigator, but Kent didn’t have a clue about how the whole thing worked. He just delegated any such complaints down to Hannah and Adrian. They were younger and understood that sort of thing.
But he knew his way around a laptop well enough to find his way onto the bookmaker’s betting sites, and when he got there he found them easy enough to use. He spent the first part of the morning armed with his credit card, registering with as many firms as he could and placing bets on Auroras Encore. He was delighted to find that although the horse had been 66/1 at the off, many bookmakers were offering longer odds than that in the morning. He was able to get a significant amount of his cash on at 100/1.
He was able to do this relatively undisturbed as he had told Debs that he had been called into work unexpectedly. By timing this announcement to just before she was about to leave to do the weekly big shop at Sainsbury’s, she was left with no option but to take the children with her. With everyone safely out of the way he now had the house to himself.
The boys had been disappointed, as apparently he had promised to take them to the park. He felt a twinge of guilt over that but again resolved that he would make it up to them in the evening, once his plans had all come to fruition. They wouldn’t be complaining come teatime when he would be rolling in money and offering to take them out for the evening.
Before lunchtime he had managed to place bets totalling over £1,500 with 15 different bookmakers. He hadn’t bothered messing around betting each way like most people did on the National. The whole lot went on the nose. He couldn’t lose.
He wanted the satisfaction of collecting a big wedge of cash as well, so for good measure, he headed into town and drew £500 out of the cashpoint. That was the maximum that his card would allow in one go. He then went directly to the very betting shop where the robbery was due to take place.
When he asked to put the bet on there was an irritating delay. The manager was forced to phone up head office to authorise the bet as apparently it was too much. There was then further irritation when the traders at head office said he couldn’t have the bet on at the early price of 100/1. They would only let him place it at the starting price. Kent didn’t care. 66 x £500 was still a lot of money.
“Get the wheelbarrow out,” he had joked to the manager before he left the shop. “You’ll need it later.”
By the time he had left the betting shop it was gone midday, less than three hours before the robbery was due to take place.
It was time to put the next phase of his plan into action. He walked back up the High Street and through the small park that led to the main road upon which the police station was located.
When he got there, Adrian, a sandy-haired man in his mid-twenties, was manning the desk. More precisely, he was sitting at the desk with his feet up, eating a sandwich and reading the paper. When Kent came in he leapt up.
“Morning, sir,” he flustered, caught off guard. “I was just…”
Ordinarily Kent would have chastised him for having his feet on the desk, but he needed to keep Adrian sweet for the plans that lay ahead.
“That’s OK, Johnson, relax. You were having your lunch break – perfectly acceptable. All quiet on the western front?”
“Yes, boss, haven’t had a single visitor all morning. It’s like this most Saturdays. It’s hardly worth us opening, really.”
Kent knew that Adrian had a young son at home and hated working on Saturdays, but the three of them had agreed to share the rota. If he shut the front desk at the weekend it would send out the wrong message to his superiors. The next thing he knew, they would be cutting back his staff again.
“Oh yes, you’d prefer to be at home with Miles, I guess?” asked Kent.
“It’s Miley, actually, and yes, I would,” replied Johnson. Kent always got Adrian’s son’s name wrong, much to his annoyance. “This is hardly Crime Central, is it?”
“Well, it will be today,” replied Kent. “There’s something big going down, that’s why I’ve come in. Get Benson on the phone, she needs to be here for this, too.”
Half an hour later he had the two of them in his office, as he eagerly outlined his plan.
“So, the key thing is, we wait until they actually leave the shop before we nick them. Is this all clear?”
Twenty-two-year-old Hannah Benson was a fresh-faced recruit, having only joined Kent’s team two months before. To Kent she seemed impossibly young and pretty, with short, blonde hair that she kept tightly cropped. Her youthful looks betrayed a wisdom that was beyond her years and she had quickly proved herself to be a competent young officer.
Despite her recent arrival in the job, it had not taken long for her and Adrian to become as thick as thieves. Even at this early stage of her career, there were signs that she had Kent’s measure. She certainly wasn’t shy about coming forward with her opinions. Right now she was more than ready to make her thoughts on Kent’s plan blatantly clear.
“I can’t believe what you’re asking us to do,” she said. “You tell us that there’s going to be an armed robbery, but you won’t say how you know other than some vague story about overhearing it in the pub. And then you want us to take on trust that these guns are fakes and calmly wait outside the back of the bookies to arrest the gang when they leave. How can you be so sure the guns aren’t real? What if you’re wrong? Are you really willing to put our lives on the line like this?”
“She’s got a point, boss,” said Adrian. “We can’t be sure the guns are replicas. I don’t think either of us is willing to risk getting blown away just on hearsay. I’d feel a lot happier if we had an armed response unit in tow.”
“And even if they are fakes,” added Hannah. “You’re talking a gang of men here up against the three of us, unarmed. I can hardly see them coming quietly, saying, ‘It’s a fair cop, guv,’ when they find us waiting for them.”
Kent was becoming exasperated by all of this but he could see they were making valid points. The two of them didn’t have his benefit of hindsight and were bound to have doubts.
“I wasn’t intending it to just be the three of us, but I don’t want the place to be crawling with armed police. If the gang get any wind of us being on to them, they will get cold feet and plan it all again for another day when we won’t be prepared. This is our one chance to catch them red-handed. And we don’t need an armed response unit. I’m telling you now, I know for a fact that those weapons aren’t real.”
“You still haven’t satisfactorily explained how you know that,” said Hannah.
“Look, you’re just going to have to trust me on that,” replied Kent.
“That’s what you said about that suspected burglar we pulled in last week who turned out to be a window cleaner,” retorted Hannah.
Kent could feel his blood pressure rising. He had forgotten about the window cleaner – yet another embarrassing cock-up. It was obvious Hannah thought he was hopeless. He was just going to have to try harder to persuade her.
“Look, Benson, I don’t like your tone. You’ve been at this station all of five minutes and already you’re questioning my authority. That business with the window cleaner was a genuine mistake. I can’t help it if some short-sighted old granny saw a man up a ladder and dialled 999, can I? We have to check these things out.”
“Yeah, he could have been
armed and dangerous with a sponge!” joked Adrian.
“And you’re just as bad, Johnson. In fact you’ve got a lot worse since she arrived. You two need to remember who is in charge here and show the appropriate respect. Perhaps I ought to think about splitting you two up. Maybe one of you could do with an entire week out on traffic duty while the other stays here.”
“You make it sound like we’re at school,” commented Hannah.
“Well stop acting like it, then,” barked Kent.
God knows what he had done to deserve these two. Yes, they were good at their jobs and he was grateful for that, but did they have to take the piss out of him all the time?
He glanced at his watch. It was past 1pm. He needed to get things moving quickly if they were going to have everything in place in time. He would have to win them round quickly. As long as he could reassure them that he had all the bases covered, he could get them to fall into line.
“I never intended it to be just the three of us, but I don’t want the regional crime squad and every other Tom, Dick and Harry getting in on the act and stealing our thunder. If I tell Oxford there are guns involved then that will be it. They will take over the whole operation and we’ll be left on the sidelines.”
“Might that not be for the best?” suggested Hannah. “This is pretty big stuff, after all.”
“No,” replied Kent, firmly. “Look, this is our town and this should be our moment of glory. Get this right and it’ll be major Brownie points for all of us. You two are young; something like this on your CV won’t go unnoticed in the years ahead. I do understand your concerns, though, so this is what I suggest we should do.”
He outlined a slightly amended version of his earlier plan, which they reluctantly agreed to. Then it was time for action. There wasn’t long to wait.
At five to three, Kent, Hannah and Adrian were holed up in the back room of the charity shop next door to the betting shop. He had commandeered the room from the shop’s manager who was under strict instructions to keep it business as usual out the front and to say nothing to anyone. To show his gratitude, Kent had stuck ten quid in the charity box and promised to come back later and buy some fair trade coffee. He didn’t bother asking for a receipt for the tenner so he could claim it back on expenses. He would have so much money by the end of the day, he wouldn’t need it.
The charity shop was the ideal place for them to base themselves. It meant they were nearby but not anywhere to be seen in the vicinity of the betting shop, front or back, before the robbery actually began. It was vital that nothing put the robbers off. Kent had also arranged for a police van to be on hand, ready to stop directly out the back of the shop at exactly 3pm.
The van was parked just up the road in a pub car park, out of sight and manned by four officers. He had called for backup from Oxford and given details of the crime that was to take place. He had conveniently left out any mention of the guns, for the reasons he had already given to Hannah and Adrian.
The D.C.I. in charge at Oxford had wanted to come up himself to oversee the operation. Kent had managed to persuade him that he could handle it, based on his local knowledge and the tight timescale involved. His superior hadn’t sounded convinced, aware of Kent’s past record, but had reluctantly agreed.
A squad car was also on standby with another four officers on-board. It was all ready to stop outside the front of the shop seconds after 3pm, just to ensure the robbers couldn’t escape that way if they realised their initial escape route had been compromised.
Kent was pretty sure he’d covered all the bases but couldn’t help feeling nervous. After his long history of career disappointments this was the one big chance to get it right.
He didn’t have to worry. This time, everything went like a dream. At 2.57pm he radioed the van up the road to tell them to get into position. At the same time, he, Adrian and Hannah left the charity shop via the tradesmen’s entrance. They walked down a short tarmac path bordered by a six-foot-high red brick wall to the right. It was on the opposite side of this wall where all the action was to take place.
The wall ended where the path reached the road that ran along the back of the shops. On the other side of the wall was a large loading area about the size of a tennis court where vans stopped to make deliveries to a number of shops on the High Street.
The loading area was almost empty, with no deliveries currently taking place. The gang had prepared well. They knew that the stores didn’t take any deliveries after midday on a Saturday. The last thing they wanted was to get blocked in by an Iceland lorry full of fish fingers.
There was just one vehicle in the car park, a silver BMW, which Kent was delighted to recognise as the getaway car. The driver sank back down in his seat when he saw the three of them come round the corner, initially mistaking them for ordinary civilians in their plain clothes. By the time he realised they were heading straight for him, he tried to start the engine but it was too late.
What an amateur, thought Kent. Weren’t getaway drivers supposed to keep the engine running? Strangely enough, in all his years of policing this was the first time he had ever seen a getaway car anywhere other than on the TV. He flung open the driver’s door and grabbed hold of the keys.
“Out,” he barked. He had never seen the man before but he knew a villain when he saw one, even if he wasn’t very good at catching them. This one was about fifty, scruffy and unshaven with grey hair, and he had a shifty look about him. He didn’t recognise him as a local. What he did recognise was the car’s registration number. He had checked it at the station that morning, leaving no doubt in his mind whatsoever that for once he was about to arrest the right person.
“What’s this all about?” protested the man in a cockney accent, as Kent manhandled him out of the car. “I’m here to make a delivery, guv.”
“Don’t give me that,” replied Kent. “This car has been reported stolen and we’ve had a tip-off about what you’re up to. Consider yourself well and truly nicked, mate.”
Kent had longed for years to say something like that. It was another phrase he’d heard uttered countless times on TV but never found a suitable opportunity to utter himself.
The man didn’t seem to have any sort of weapon and with Adrian and Hannah right on Kent’s tail, he had no chance of getting away. They had him out of the car, spreadeagled across the bonnet and cuffed in seconds.
Right on cue, the white police Transit van he had requested pulled into the car park. This was going to be so easy, thought Kent. The gang didn’t even have their getaway car anymore and they were about to deliver themselves to him on a plate.
“Get this one in the van,” ordered Kent. “And get ready: the others will be out any second.”
Sure enough, the remaining three men burst out of the back of the shop brandishing their guns, carrying two large bags of loot. They stopped in shock at the unexpected scene in front of them, but quickly registered the lack of weaponry among the assembled officers.
The lead robber, who was wearing a rubber mask of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, raised his weapon, a very convincing-looking shotgun. He pointed it squarely at Kent who was standing at the front of the police vanguard, barely two yards in front of him.
“Back off! Get out of our way right now, or someone’s going to get hurt!” he shouted, also in a cockney accent. In support, his co-conspirators, disguised as the Prime Minister and Mayor of London, raised their weapons threateningly.
Kent took a deep breath, offered a silent prayer that he hadn’t got this all catastrophically wrong, stepped forward and reached out to grab the gun. Although he was 99.9% certain they were fakes, he still couldn’t help feeling more than a little scared, staring down the barrel at point-blank range.
“I mean it!” screamed the man. “Get back!”
“I don’t think so, George,” replied Kent, sarcastically. “You’ve robbed your last penny.” Banishing his fears, he coolly reached forward, grabbed hold of the gun and twisted it around, causing the
villain to lose balance.
“Come on, lads!” shouted Kent. “They’re fakes, just like I said. Grab ’em.”
The three robbers had no chance against the assembled officers. The one at the back managed to turn around and run back through the shop, but was tripped over by a pensioner who stuck his walking stick out at an opportune moment. When he tried to pick himself up off the floor he found himself face-to-face with two officers who had just come in through the front door.
Kent’s plan couldn’t have gone better. This had been a glorious moment for his career and now he intended to make the most of it. Within an hour the local news crews were all over the crime scene, and Kent made sure he got his face on all the TV cameras and in front of as many photographers as possible. He was revelling in all the attention he was getting. Before long, he had roving reporter, Seema Mistry, interviewing him for the local TV news.
Having already described his heroic role in disarming the robbers, the pretty, young Asian reporter was throwing more questions at him.
“So how did you know the guns were fake?” asked Seema. She was a rising star of the local news scene with a reputation for not taking any prisoners. She had made Kent feel extremely uncomfortable with some of the hard-hitting questions she had thrown at him over the years, making little attempt to disguise her contempt for him. On this occasion, back in 2013, all of those interviews still lay in the future. Historically, this was the first time they had ever met.
Things had got off to a bad start with Seema when this interview had taken place in the original timeline. That time the robbers had escaped scot free and she had asked him some very uncomfortable questions. That set the tone for all their future encounters which invariably took place after some policing mishap or other. It had reached the point where he couldn’t even bear to watch the TV news if he had been interviewed, because Seema had this uncanny knack of making him appear like a buffoon.
