“Tell me,” Julia asked, “What do you think caused all the wildlife to run away the way they did?”
The Colonel leaned on his walking stick and look at her seriously, saying, “The vicar and his campy lot aided and abetted by the bats in the belfry.”
“Yeh,” Lenny added, with a mock speech pattern of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, “The bells, the bells. It’s them darn bells.”
“So, you think it’s a conspiracy?” Julia asked with a smile. She made some notes in her spiral-bound notebook and kept her small tape recorder running.
The Colonel responded, “Oh, yes. It’s definitely the bats. They want the bell ringing stopped and the campy lot ousted.”
Julia smiled, thinking she had a strange exclusive, “Tell me,” she paused. Then she asked, "Do you belong to a campaign
group? I’m sorry I didn’t catch your names."
Jock responded, “We didn’t throw ’em, Hen.”
The Colonel, in his best military style, said, “I’m Colonel James Wobbly-Winkle BRAL, JTS and Bar. I used to be in the banking business and relocation of funds. On me left,” he gestured for Jock to state his name, “You’ll need a pen to spell it, right. It’s òirhearcas of that ilk.”
He slowly spelt it out for her adding, "It’s Kal-ic, yer ken.
You’d call it Gaelic. It has a funny comma thing above the O." Reg came out of apparent sleep, took gulp of his pint of bitter and said, “What’s going on?”
“Tell the lady your name, Reginald.”
“Oh yes, ’Reginald,” he paused, “Reginald Rightun.”
Reg had his back to the girl and had been scribbling on a white napkin. He quietly passed it to the Colonel.
“Yes,” the Colonel added, looking at the note. He paused and with a hint of a smile, said, “We all CRABS.”
“Crabs?” the girl queried. “What does that mean?” she asked.
“Oh!” the Colonel added grandly. “The Crabby Regional Animal Beloved Society.”
He paused, took a gulp of beer and went on, “We also are the founder members of the militant wing of VABOS.”
“What’s that an acronym for?” Julia smiled as she jotted the name down in her notebook. Her hidden tape recorder remained live.
The Colonel replied, “Vicar and Bats Out Society.”
Julia hadn’t spotted the wind-up and carried on, believing she had world exclusive, her first ever.
Reg suddenly came to life and slammed his pint jug on the table and growled, “I’m dry. Want a refill?”
As if by some magical password Julia asked, “Can I get you a refill?”
“Right on,” Reg and Lenny replied in unison.
Jock responded, looking at Julia and holding his whisky tumbler in front of her, saying as he did, “Oh! Yer a grand lass. Mine’s a large malt. They’ve got a fine one from Islay on the shelve.”
The others emptied their glasses and passed them to her, the Colonel saying, “The guvnor knows our tastes, oh! And Jock’s Islay,” he smiled at her and leaned his chin on his walking stick.
Julia stood up, leaving her smart phone still recording. Not one of the four realised this. She ordered the round of drinks and walked to a quiet area, out of earshot, making a call on her second mobile phone to the feature’s desk.
“There’s a real rebellion here. I’ve found the leading lights of the campaign. Got it all on tape. I’ll rattle out a piece and send the recording. It’ll give you a flavour.” She put the phone down and returned to get more juicy bits from the Crabs.
She transmitted the contents of the recording, including a session when she was talking to the feature’s desk.
Sub-editors were listening to the whole exchange, including the period when she’d left the four and phoned the feature’s desk.
The feature editor groaned when he heard the later part of the recording, muttering, “God, those old-geezer are stitching her up.”
The team heard the Colonel’s comments, “What a dimwit dame! She might be all la-de-da. She’s just a well-bred dimbo.”
A member of the News’ team commented, “The old man ain’t gonna be too happy when he hears this. God, the Chief Executive’s daughter is well and truly being stitched-up. Oh! What a day!” The rest of the team stifled their laughter as they heard Julia continue her interview with the ‘old codgers’.
“Get her outa there,” the features editor bellowed. “For God’s sake, phone her. Tell to abandon this nonsense. Those old guys saw her coming. Just get her outa there.”
Suddenly, a well-spoken female at the back intervened and addressed the news editor. “John, can I have a word?” The gathered news team turned and saw the Chief Executive’s wife smiling at them.
John Wilson joined her and stood away from the others. No one heard the conversation. He returned with the hint of a smile, saying, “As I said get her out of there, quickly.”
Soon after Julia’s mobile rang, she took the call away from the four. A short time later, she returned and without saying a word. She paid the bar bill, gathered up her belongings and fled the pub in tears.
Reg spoke first as he looked into his empty pint jug, “She could’ve bought us a farewell drink.”
Lenny turned to the Colonel. “What’s this BRAL and JTS thing? Sounds daft t’ me.”
’Simple," the Colonel replied, “She obviously thought I was ex-military, so I invented some awards. Just that simple.”
“Yeh, OK, but what d’ they mean, like?”
“Oh, what do they mean?” the Colonel replied and leaned forward, saying, “Bank Robber At Large and Jail Time Spent. The Bar means I’ve done it more than once.” From Lenny’s quizzical expression, it was clear he didn’t comprehend the humour.
Julia’s World Exclusive didn’t appear, nor was she seen again at the News.
Chapter 21
EARLY the next morning, the Colonel discovered his ‘guest’ once lived with an elderly man, who lived in a house near The Retreat. He had died six weeks before and the cat vanished. He now had a new ‘friend’ and he had to keep her hidden from the council, who banned pets.
Jock was beginning to despair at finding a decent getaway car in Crabby. He might have to look further afield. Then, out of the blue as he walked down Sandways Road, on his way for a tipple at a seafront bar, Eureka, in the driveway of a large house, a red Mark Two Jaguar was parked. The keys were still in the car. Seconds later, it careered out of the drive and drove towards the Retreat, narrowly missing a large Tesco re-supply lorry which swerved to avoid hitting the Jag. The lorry slowly fell over on its side.
A bemused tenant of the house returned and found the Jag was missing. It was due, along with another car, to be shipped to Holland that day. It had arrived with him that morning having been ‘acquired’ in Warwick overnight.
As the car was being hidden in the garage attached to the Retreat, the Colonel was discussing the missing garden with farmer George, who told him he knew the identity of the garden thieves. He said he’d seen two men loading a large van with garden furniture and many plants, including the greenhouse stuff. Both, he added, used the Talbot pub and one was known as Dave the Dip. “Ah! The two of ‘em have set up a small gardening shop in Felthorpe. Talk is they sell drugs. Their place is next to the Swan. Seems they suddenly get a load of stock. It wuz them ’aright. D’ yer think I should tell the plod?”
“Not just yet. Let’s make sure it’s the stuff from here,” the Colonel said. “Not just yet.” Here were two-character types he despised – stealing from the elderly and selling drugs.
Later, he met the other three. “I think we’ll pay him a visit. He might need a talking to.”
At lunch-time, they met in the Swan next to Garden’s Is Us. “Right,” the Colonel growled. “Let’s pay the little blighter’s a visit. Some of that gear is from our place. Little tykes. Gotta be taught a lesson.”
They finished their drinks and prepared to head for the shop when Lenny spotted a familiar face. “So, he does have a
body.” “Wotcha on about, Lenny?” Reg asked.
“It’s him, yer know, that fella whose face pops up and now and then, no body, then vanishes. It’s him alright.”
Just as he finished, the landlord arrived collecting empty glasses. Lenny tugged his sleeve and pulled him closer, and in a whisper, said, “George, who is that geezer at the bar, the one in the green jacket and cap?”
"You should know. He’s got a flat at your place. Stranger blighter. Says he’s a retired Daily Telegraph Reporter. Load of tosh. He was a driver with the local evening paper when after a few months, they got rid of him. Used to claim he wrote the pieces that appeared in the paper. What a clot! He has a nickname of ‘Bent’ from his days as a crooked, used-car salesman.
"He had to give that up when the Trading Standards prosecuted him for selling clapped out old cars. He wouldn’t know the truth if it stared him in the face.
“He claims the story about the animal saga was all his. I know for a fact that people in cars and on the train sent in pictures and text. Tell ’im something ridiculous and he’ll try and sell it to a gullible newspaper. Oh! Well we’ll let him dream on.”
With that, he collected more glasses and headed for the bar.
After the landlord’s departure, the Colonel said, “We’ll have a refill, then pay the two idiots a visit.” With that, they headed for the bar.
After finishing their drinks, they stood opposite the garden centre and watched Dave, the Dip, and his pal moving around the plants and furniture and enter the shop. The four followed them inside and Dave, the Dip, approached them, “Can I ‘elp you, gents? Lookin’ fer somethin’ special?” As the Colonel was about to say something, Reg blocked the entrance to the street, and Lenny did the same with the rear door. Jock stood next to the Colonel.
“How’s yer dad, still in Wandsworth nick? Let me see got nicked fer robbin’ old folk, wasn’t it?”
The young assistant found his escape routes were blocked. Dave looked worried, but bravely said, “What der want? If yer don’t want anythin’, get out.”
The Colonel smiled, "Followin’ in yer dad’s footsteps, eh!
Now nickin’ stuff from old folk’s homes ain’t sensible."
“Look ’ere, if you lot don’t clear off, I’ll get the cops.” All Four laughed at the threat, Dave began to look worried. The Colonel patted his cheek and said quietly, “Now that sounds a good idea, if yer want to spend time in nick, you silly boy.”
Reg added, “Idiot, I spent some time banged-up wiv yer dad.”
Dave, in an attempt to wriggle out of his dilemma, pointed at the Colonel, and said, “Go on prove it, old fella.”
“Simple, yer see these two benches. They’ve got brass plaques on the back, saying they were a gift to the Retreat from, let me see, oh! Yes, the Borough Council. Then, there’s this wooden flower box. It says it was a donation from a Mrs Jennifer Watson to, let me see, oh! The Retreat. Then, you’ve got on display some plant pots we know came from the Retreat. We can go on. Not very bright, are we?”
Dave gulped and coughed, his younger accomplice groaned.
"You’ve also nicked stuff from other old people’s homes. I should think that all this stuff you’ve got ‘ere has been nicked. As fer yer threat to call the cops, well, they already know someone’d been thievin’ from these places. You ain’t very bright, are yer?
“Now,” the Colonel paused, “If the nicked things find their way back, like today, then we won’t tell the cops where t’ find the stuff. This offer applies to all old-age premises you’ve nicked the stuff from. Got the message?” The Colonel patted Dave, the Dip’s cheek.
“Lenny and Jock here will stand over yer, ter make sure my suggestion is carried out. Got the message?”
Dave stepped out of range of the Colonel’s hand and nodded. His accomplice said in a nervous voice, “We gotta do that, Dave, we gotta do that, ain’t we?”
At six in the following morning, the Colonel took an early constitutional. He was delighted to see the plants and garden furniture were back in place. He noticed the greenhouse plants were also back.
The geraniums, as Guy referred to them, had a distinctive look of cannabis plants. Their few days on ‘holiday’ had left them looking in urgent need of water, heat and light. The Colonel had a pathological dislike of drug dealers, cannabis growers and anyone connected with drugs. “Those plants have t’ be destroyed,” he muttered.
From the branch of the oak tree, Minnie watched the entrance to the Retreat. It was quiet. She stretched, then jumped on the balcony of the Colonel’s flat and climbed through the small open window. She was sitting by the front door when the Colonel arrived. “Oh! I see you’ve made yourself at home. I’ve bought some special food for yer. If you’re gonna stay, then we’ll have to make sure it’s in secret. OK?”
Minnie’s tale swished, and she gave out a quiet meow. The Colonel had found a lady friend with a difference.
As this was happening, Reg was sitting in the library. He’d worked out that he needed to read a dictionary to discover what the fancy words in the book about autism meant. He now knew that neurodevelopmental disorder meant a brain problem. “Gawd, this ain’t simple,” he muttered. He discovered that some with the condition couldn’t talk to others properly. He also found out that autistic people can be very clever and often could make friends with the most unlikely.
He went home happy that he knew about James’ problems.
That night, he finished his pencil drawing of James.
Chapter 22
AS a public-relations’ exercise, the Tesco management decided that all the damaged goods from the crashed lorry should be distributed in gift boxes around the various residential and care homes in the town. It was ironic that one of the beneficiaries of the gifts was Jock.
This act of kindness caused the four, great mirth. “It wouldn’t ’ave ’append if you’d done summit about yer eyes,” Reg commented. He turned to Lenny, “And you too.”
Sonny Summerton was so pleased to get his garden back and particularly the contents of the greenhouse. The Colonel had suspicions before the plants vanished. There was something odd about the blacked-out, padlocked greenhouse. Now, he knew he had unwittingly returned more than 100 cannabis plants with a street value of some £100,000.
As a way of celebrating the return of his prized asset, Sonny decided to hold a garden party. No one from the Retreat was invited. The only outsiders invited were his young friends and his buyers of his special ‘veg’. One included Carol Smythe. It was a happy affair that would lead to an unexpected aftermath.
As the party was in full swing, the Colonel walked along the beach thinking about the post office raid. He muttered, “It’s gotta look good.”
“The gorilla solution will give the cops summit t’ think about,” he chuckled. He smiled and muttered, “Now, what would they think if we disguised the gorillas. Don’t wanna make it too easy to find us. It’s gotta look good.” He didn’t explain how he was going to disguised four gorillas. Then he pondered, stopped walking and said to himself, “Now there’s a thought. I could wait a bit, then ask the governor to let me talk to the prisoners about ‘how not to rob a bank’. It could earn me a few brownie points and a few quid. I get free board, meals cooked fer me and any medical help I need. If I get it right, they’ll let me out on day release and for once, I can earn a few honest quid and give some talks. First, I’ve gotta find someone to look after Minnie.”
He walked to the Belfry pub to join the others. “What no Reg?”
“We’re goin’ to have to do summit about him. He’s findin’ it hard work to walk.”
“A wheel-chair, that’s what he needs, a wheel-chair,” Jock declared in his whisky-assisted style.
No one responded to his suggestion.
Lenny left early, telling the others he had an important meeting.
As he arrived at Miss Creswell’s flat, a middle-age, well-dressed man was leaving, red-faced and rubbing his posterior.
; Miss Creswell came to the door and led him into her plush lounge. After a brief chat, she said, “Well, what you need are lessons on good diction.” She stood up and flexing a three-foot long cane, she strode across the room, saying, “Now say after me. How Now Brown Cow.” An hour after practising various other phrases, he left, unpunished.
In the church hall, fourteen women aged between sixty-seven and seventy-two gathered for their first meeting of the revised Tappets and discussed the possible routines. All of them agreed it had to be good, but not too physical. Then, they tried several moves with various results and moans about being out of step. Martha urged that more rehearsals were required and possibly a new name.
With Jock providing a Scottish theme for the group, Martha suggested they were named the Tartanettes and wore tartan-style mini-skirts as part of their stage costume. After years of being out of the business as a costume designer, she planned on showing off her skills.
Within a week, she had organised the purchase of a tartan and instructed an Edinburgh kilt maker to provide fourteen.
Reg sat on the bench overlooking the sea, talking to Angela Worthing and her son, James. He handed the boy an envelope. James looked at the contents and burst out laughing, “Mummy, look, it’s me.” He turned to Reg, “Thanks, Reg. You’re my friend.” James’ mother looked at the drawing, then quietly said, “Thank you. You’re one of the few he talks to outside of the family.” James let out a squeal of delight.
He discovered Angela was a single mum and struggling to survive.
Reg began to ponder whether bank robberies had been worthwhile ‘career’ moves. He’d begun to regard the mother and son as daughter and grandson. He was becoming content with life.
He wasn’t concerned about taking part in the robbery. After all, he was on his last legs.
Lenny just followed orders, not caring about the consequences. Jock simply wanted to annoy the ‘Sassenach rabble’. The Colonel simply planned to end his, less than successful, career with a bang and write his life’s story and work on the idea of giving speeches about how not to be a bank robber.
The Final Heist Page 12
