“Well, Dad, I don’t think Reg will give us too much trouble. The letter says he has to rely on a walking aid. It seems he ain’t goin’ to run away like he used to. I’ll pay ’em a visit.”
“Yes, son, good idea. Give the old Colonel me regards. God, he had some strange views. He once knocked a youngster clean out when he heard him swearing at a young girl in a Streatham pub. He later told us he’d warned the kid, who wouldn’t stop usin’ foul language, so he shut him up. God, I remember him well. You know, the oddest thing about this hardened crook; he didn’t like anyone who stole from the elderly. I’ll tell you one story about him, which is how he got his busted nose.”
“Go on, Dad.”
“Well, he and three pals were robbin’ a bank on Balham High Road. Can’t be sure; I think it was a Midland Bank before it became HSBC. Gawd, me memory’s not as good as it used to be. Anyway, the bank was right opposite a supermarket car park. To get to the bank, they had to cross a busy main road. Right next to the bank was an old-style street market. It was busy. Anyhow, the Colonel, Reg and Lenny ran across the road complete with masks, with one, later identified as the Colonel, openly carrying a shotgun. They left Jock in charge of the stolen car. Once inside, they, in time, honoured fashion and scared everybody in the bank by blowing a hole in the ceiling. Now comes the funny bit.”
He chuckled. Sergeant Wallace listened, “What happened next, Dad?”
"Gawd, what a laff! The area was crawling with cops, mainly probationers or cadets distributing leaflets about crime prevention. Anyway, all three ran out of the bank, the Colonel was last. The first two managed to get across the road with no trouble and headed for their stolen getaway car in the supermarket car park. The Colonel became snagged up with customers at the fruit and veg stall in the alleyway alongside the bank.
"Well, the next bit was straight out of a comedy sketch. A large, white delivery van was driving past when the Colonel, in his blind haste, collided with the side of it. He went flying, still holding the bag of stolen money and the full-length shotgun.
"He hit the side of the van with such force; he dented it. He also broke his nose and a leg. That’s why he needs a walking stick. Nobody noticed his bloodied nose at first because he still had a mask on.
"My colleagues were on the scene damn quick. Now just to add to the comedy, his two pals had reached the Jag they’d nicked as a getaway car only to find it was blocked in by a dotty, old, dear who’d stalled her mini. I think it was six or seven plod trying to help her. The whole area was swamped by young cops.
"There was a lot of shouting that there was a gun. It was said at their trial that people ran out of the bank pointing to the unconscious Granger as one of the three raiders. They nicked the two hooded men and the driver, who was wearing a Mickey Mouse mask. Old Granger pleaded guilty as did the others. They all got fifteen years. I think they let them out after they’d done eight. He was very polite to the court when they sent him down. Comical it was!
"One thing I will tell you. He and his team weren’t free long enough to spend the loot. All fer nuthin’ were their efforts. My recollection is the getaway bag of loot, which contained hundreds of thousands in cheques and some two-hundred pounds in cash.
“In the nick, he had a grand plan to solve the problem of drug and illegal phones getting into prisons. He urged the governor, I think it was Brixton, to call in the army, stick ’em on the roof and use the drone things as target practice. He reckoned it would be good for training snipers. Nothing came of his idea.”Anyway, I’ve been talking too long. See you. I’ll tell yer Mum you called. Bye."
Sergeant Wallace vowed to meet the legendary Granger and his ‘team’ as soon as possible.
The four reprobates began to their new type of ‘prison’. There were no nightly lock-downs and sudden searches for contraband. For the first time in years, they had the freedom to explore the locality and enjoy the hospitality of the pubs and bars. All they had to do was behave themselves.
They had become too old to ‘blag and run’. Within hours of their new life-style, they were missing the camaraderie of their age group and cultural friendships. Still despising the type of young hoodlum that had become a feature of the new-style criminal underworld, the Colonel had no time for the new type of violent, young criminals. His warped thinking was such that he thinks blowing a hole in a bank’s ceiling, whilst robbing it, is acceptable, providing no one is hurt.
All Four agree their time in the small jail near Reading had been pleasant. He boasted that he persuaded the governor to decline to re-house any prisoner involved in riots at other jails. The governor shook his head in bemusement. Other prisoners groaned at his views.
The use of drones as delivery agents to get contraband into prisons grew. The Colonel continued his campaign against the drones. ‘Shoot ’em down’ was his regular call, much to the bemusement of the prison authorities.
Chapter 3
AT 10 am, at the start of their first full day at The Retreat, they met the manager of Who Care, one of the companies looking after the needs of some residents. Liz Forgan had worked for the company for three years. She had become immune to people changing the company’s name, by adding an S with the aid of a felt-tip pen, from Who Care to Who Cares.
She opened the meeting, “Well, chaps, happy to see you all. Let me say from the outset that the local authority will need to agree to you receiving any funding for our services. Don’t think that will be a problem.” She looked at Reg holding the handles of his trolley. She paused, and then continued, “If they agree, they will pay either the whole or the bulk of our fees.”
She was about to continue when Reg raised his hand and intervened, “Miss Forgan.”
She answered, saying, “Missis, actually. I’m married with two young children.”
Lenny coughed as Reg continued apparently unfazed, “What sort of care do you give?”
“We have care plans that may suit your needs.” She looked at him suspiciously. She’d learned, after years of care work, that elderly, sometimes invalided men, would ask questions that led to embarrassing dialogue.
“I see,” he answered, then added without changing his deadpan look, “What about night care?”
Liz shuffled in her chair without replying.
Jock was quick to intervene, looking down at the floor and avoiding any eye contact with Liz, “Ay, a man’s a man fer all that.” He went quiet.
Liz closed her folder, then stood up, saying as she left, “Thank God, I’m leaving.” Without another word, she strode out of the room.
Lenny spoke first after she had gone, “Didn’t take to us too well, did she? Never mind I expect we’ll find you a carer for all the right reasons, Reg.”
Reg smiled in response.
For the next few weeks, the four tried to settle into their new social environment. Since entering the home, none had made any real attempt to build any form of relationship with their neighbours. They rarely appeared at coffee mornings or other social events. The Colonel told Mary Murphy that it was not the way prisons worked.
Some weeks elapsed before Jock’s daughter turned up complete, with his range of highland regalia, his piano accordion and a set of bagpipes. To him, life in Civvy Street was beginning to make sense. Meanwhile, he and his pals continued their campaign of causing as much annoyance to Mary Murphy and embarrassment to Martha Samuels.
By a combination of sheer luck and devious planning, they managed to avoid meeting the formidable Martha Samuels. They used a range of subterfuges, such as hiding in the broom cupboard on either floor, locking themselves in the toilet near reception when she came into view. However, one jocular remark had ‘investigative’ consequences.
It was Sunday midday, and All Four were on their way out of the building to keep their usual daily appointment at the Talbot. It had become their regular local, despite the grumpy landlord. As they reached the door, Martha intercepted them. “Now, gentlemen, I have here a list of your unwillingness to obey the rules,
and you,” looking sternly at Jock, “Causing particular annoyance when you play that accordi thing.”
Jock sharply interrupted and quickly corrected her, “Accordion. It’s an accordion.”
She ignored the correction and proceeded, “There’s also the awful noise you make with that windbag thing.”
Jock interrupted her again. “They’re bagpipes, ye ken. But then, you woudna ken the fine music a piper can play. Och, awa with yer, woman,”
She ignored the interjection, thrust out her ample bosom, gave a short cough and was preparing to continue to read from an A4 sheet of paper, “This list contains all the transgression all of you are responsible for.”
She was about to begin when the Colonel bellowed at her and waved his walking stick, “Neither my friends nor I intend to listen to any complaints generated by you. Now, get out of a way. We’re late for an appointment to rob a bank.”
In a stunned silence, she stepped to one side and watched speechless as All Four walked past her, Reg pushing his trolley and the Colonel waving his walking stick. On their way to the Albert, the four laughed at the encounter.
At the local nick, a constable answered the phone. At the end of a brief conversation, he turned to Sergeant Craig Wallace and said, “Ere, Sarge that was control, they say we’ve got a bank robbery underway in Crabby, according to an informant. Got a description. Seems it’s four old geezers, one with a wheelchair, one with walking stick and two others, who seem unsteady on their feet. One is said to be a Scotsman.”
Another constable, who had just arrived, was listening in, said, “I’ve just seen four old blokes, one pushing a wheelchair sort of thing, answering that description going into the Albert. I stopped to let them cross the road. They seemed to be laughing about summit.”
The Sergeant looked bewildered. “They can’t be after robbin’ a bank. There ain’t one in Bogwash. Anyway, banks don’t open on a Sunday.” The sergeant left the office returning in his Civvy clothing. He said to others, “From what I know from the description, I think it must be the infamous gang of four. It’s time I met the Colonel and the others. Just so they know we know they’re in town.”
Jock was downing the last of his second glass of Glenmorangie when Sergeant Wallace came into the bar. He was in plainclothes and tie-less. He smiled at All Four genially. He knew all of them as octogenarian villains. The notes from the prison said one relied on a wheeled walking-aid, another of military bearing with a week leg and needed the help of a walking stick and another with apparent language difficulties and often high on whisky. The fourth seemed to be OK but he wasn’t sure. “Well, lads you alright?”
“We’re just fine having a couple of bevys. Is something wrong? You have the smell of Old Bill about yer,” the Colonel responded.
Craig supped his beer and leaned forward, “You’re quite right Mr Granger. My father sends his regard.” He looked at the others and slowly said, “Mackenzie, Smith and Crowther. Am I right?”
The Colonel leaned his chin on his hands, which were clutching his walking stick, and replied, "Why ask? You know anyway. Who’s your father who sends his regards?
"Wallace, Former Chief Superintendent Duncan Wallace. Before he retired he was based at Croydon.
“Ah, that Wallace. Now there was a decent copper. Always polite. Did things right. Straight as a die. Used to apologise when he nicked yer. Now, what can we do fer you?”
“Well, it’s like this, you see.” He paused, took a gulp of Flowers’ Best Bitter, and continued. “So, you’re not on your way to rob a bank? You know it’s Sunday, and the banks are closed.”
“Yes, we’ve never planned a blagging on a Sunday in the past. It’s against my religion. Besides, they’ve never opened on the Sabbath in my day. Nor do they now,” replied the Colonel. He tapped the side of his nose, stood up, pointed at the sergeant’s nearly empty half-pint of bitter. “Would you like a refill officer? I think I can solve your alleged crime.”
He returned to the table, a member of the bar-staff followed with the drinks on a tray. “Martha Samuels, yes Martha Samuels. Now there’s a lady to reckon with.”
Before he could say anymore, Lenny interrupted, “Nough to make yer swear, officer. She’s summit else. She is.” Before he could say anymore, the Colonel said, “Now Lenny, let’s not talk ill of the silly cow. She can’t help being an idiot. It’s like this sergeant we were about to leave the home when she accosted us.” “Blocked our way; she did,” Reg added.
The Colonel shuffled in his seat, “OK, Reg. I’ll tell the officer what happened.”
Before he could continue, Jock uttered a phrase which could be understood by all. The whisky was having its usual effect. “Ay, she’s a blethering fool. Why can’t she leave us alone and let us get on with our ways. She’s a menace. She is. Ever moaning about me, harmlessly playing my accordion or me pipes.” He stopped, sipped a little whisky and said no more.
The sergeant grimaced at the thought of the noise of the skirl of bagpipes.
“Well, as I was saying,” the Colonel continued, taking a mouthful of Tangle Foot Bitter, “Just to get her out of our way. Anyways, there’s no banks in Crabby.”
There was a few moments’ silence. Then, the sergeant asked, “How are you coping with the world outside prison? Father still talks of you as the gentleman blagger.”
“Well, it has its moments, like the Mrs Samuels episode,” the Colonel replied.
The sergeant turned to Reg, and said, “Can’t see you running away from a bank job the way you used to.”
He answered in his best whisper, “Nah, those days have gorn. Too much whisky and brandy brought this on. Haven’t touched a drop fer five year. They don’t have pubs in nick, yer know.”
Sergeant Wallace had taken to the four old reprobates, “Well, lads, if there’s anything I can do to help, just ask.” Lenny was quick to take advantage of this new friendship.
“Yes, there is summit yer can ’elp us with.” “Go on,” the sergeant replied cautiously.
“On the day that we moved into the Retreat, an ambulance was just leaving, and four cops were trying to tell an old dear she didn’t need to go to the nick. Well, she kicked up a fuss, and they eventually took her. What was that all about? I know it had summit to do with the quack staying in the place.”
“Ah that. Well, I shouldn’t really tell you, but it’s quite funny. It seems the old dear, Jessica Creswell, is well known to us as a campaigner of lost causes. Apparently, she’d gone to the doc to get something to cure an irritating cough. Well, it seems he got confused and told the old dear that she’s seventy-eight, yer know, and a confirmed spinster, who’d never been with a fella in her life, that she was pregnant.”
Sergeant Wallace chuckled. "She battered him over the head with her walking stick, telling him he was a pervert. She demanded to be handcuffed, nicked and charged. They took her to the nick, and we managed to calm her down, releasing her with a promise that we would investigate. The old doc told us later he’d made a genuine mistake. We quietly let the matter drop. She’s a retired school mistress, who believes in disciple. She lost her job some years ago, after caning a lad. He went on to become a right, little villain.
“She later told a television programme that if she had been allowed to complete her punishment plan, he potentially would turn out a decent member of society. Shouldn’t really tell you all this, but it came out in the papers at the time. Just watch the walking stick. She’s known to use it if you get out of line. If you’re interested, she gives one-to-one English lessons.”
None of them responded to this last piece of information.
They all sat in silence for some moments. Then, Craig stood up, shaking each by the hand. “Anyway, you’re behaving yourself now. Thanks, lads. You’ve just solved the great bank robbery case.” He looked at each in turn, smiled and added, “Telling people about fictional bank robberies can be fun. It keeps me and my lads busy checking out silly stories. It’ll be fun telling Mrs Samuels she’s been t
he butt of a good joke. Thanks, lads. But cut out the fictional bank robbery nonsense. If you need any help, let me know.” He drunk the last of his half-pint, looked at Lenny, smiled and said, “Just be careful. She likes using a cane and a walking stick.” With this, he left the bar.
This brief encounter would stand them in good stead for their future life in Crabby. “Just think a seventy-something-year-old being preggers,” Reg commented.
Lenny looked downcast saying, “What makes that cop think I’ve gotta be careful of that old, school-type of woman. He made it sound as if I said summit wrong; she either batter me with her walking stick or cane me.”
“You’ll probably enjoyed both,” Reg quipped.
All Four were silent for a while. The Colonel began to talk when Jock also started in his now whisky-assisted speech. “I’ve got it.”
“Got what?” Lenny queried.
“A way of shutting that woman up and leaving us alone.”
“Oh, what is this plan that will create peace in our time? And which woman?” the Colonel queried.
Jock leaned forward, shuffled in his chair, answered conspiratorially and tapped the side of his nose with his right index figure. “The harriden, you’ll see, it should be a good giggle. T’ see that bint speechless is going to be fun.”
With that, he slumped back in his chair, raised his empty whisky glass and said, “A refill will help me with the idea.” No one responded; he had to buy his own whisky.
Lenny left the others, telling them he had to get a few items of shopping.
Back at the Retreat Harriet, St Claire parked her car, from it, Martha Samuels, the ‘Bint’ as Jock called her, Glynis Carstairs, who was rarely seen with other residents and Anne Pritchard emerged. The three passengers were returning home after one of their ‘secret society’ meetings.
The Colonel was becoming despondent with life out of prison and told the others he hankered after the socialising inside any penal warehouse.
At Tesco, Lenny was peering at the shelves, deciding if he needed to buy a piece of fruity cake. Suddenly, a young boy aged about ten, standing next to him started shouting in an indecipherable speech pattern. A woman appeared and pulled him away. Standing at the check-out, the assistant told him the boy was autistic. He wandered home, wondering what that was. He didn’t understand.
The Final Heist Page 3
