by Timlin, Mark
Meanwhile, on the other side of London, preparations were being made towards the very job that Jimmy had hassled Gerry over that same morning. Daniel Butler had discovered an old printing works on one of his reconnoitering missions through east London. The building was dilapidated and leaked water, but it was ideal for Butler’s needs, being around the size of a football field and hidden away behind high, gated walls. The printers had gone out of business years before, when new technology had overtaken them. All around were new developments of flats, but somehow that particular brownfield site had been forgotten. Using one of his shell companies, with registered offices in the Isle of Man, Butler approached the owners with an offer of a short term rental with an option to buy. They, a City bank who had purchased great swathes of the East End with the intention of sitting on them until the boom and bust property market sorted itself out, agreed. To them it was a small part of a much larger portfolio. To Daniel Butler it was part of a master plan. To the local citizenry it was just more fucking yuppies on the make.
One Monday morning in late spring, a couple of heavy-looking lads in dungarees and big boots moved into the premises. They cleaned up the toilets and made the office inside liveable. They weren’t going to be around for too long, but it helped to be able to make a cup of tea and have somewhere comfortable to drink it. There were rats in the building, so they brought in air pistols and spent many happy hours picking the little bleeders off.
A week later, a truck arrived, complete with another couple of men who set about getting it ready for its big day.
It was a ten-wheeled Volvo semi-tractor of the type seen every day pulling trailers up and down the motorways of Europe. Bringing in tools and materials, the four began converting this commonplace vehicle into an urban tank that would throw open the doors of a building that, within a few weeks, would contain a king’s, queen’s, indeed, a whole royal family’s ransom.
First of all, they took all the glass out of the windows of the Volvo. The last thing anyone needed when they came smashing through metal gates and doors was a faceful of safety glass. They fitted racing harnesses to the triple seats in the cab, plus anti-roll bars and a huge rollover bar. If, by bad luck, the motor did take a tumble, it would be good to know that the roof wasn’t going to crush the occupants.
They beefed up the already massive suspension and welded girders all around the body. At the back they strapped full cement bags between the twin axles and wet them, then let them dry until they became solid. Not only would that hold down the rear wheels, it would also add weight to help the truck smash through solid steel. The job took a week. When it was ready, they raced the Volvo from one end of the huge building to the other and back again. Once they were satisfied that the driver had a feel for the vehicle, they tarpaulined it up and left it behind heavily secured doors.
Butler was forever popping in and out, checking on progress and generally getting in everyone’s way, but the mechanics usually just ignored him and got on with their business. This included servicing and spraying a stolen seven-seater Chevrolet Suburban, the other vehicle to be used on the heist, plus making sure that another pair of cars, to be parked up on the escape route, were in equally tip top condition.
THIRTY-FOUR
As the work continued at the old printers, Butler decided it was finally time to unveil his complete plan of attack to everyone involved. Phone calls were made and Gerry Goldstein called Jimmy late one night on his mobile. ‘It’s on,’ he whispered.
‘When?’
‘Yo’ll find out. You remember that bloke Bob you met?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘He’s going to give you a call, let you know what’s what.’
What was what was that Bob was to pick Jimmy up at his flat the following Sunday night and drive him up to Essex for a meet. ‘You know where I live?’ said Jimmy, not best pleased.
‘Course we do. Who do you think you are, James Bond? You’re not hard to find,’ said Bob.
Soon time to move on, thought Jimmy, as he put down the phone. As soon as I’ve got some decent dough. Spain would be nice, he decided, and maybe Jane would like a holiday in the sun too. Maybe a permanent one. He could see them living together in a villa on the Costa del Sol with a load of his old mates for company – when they needed company, that is.
Sunday night rolled round and, at about ten, there was a knock on Jimmy’s door. He took the pistol he’d liberated from Mrs Smith to the door with him. Though the spyhole he saw the man with the goatee standing outside.
Jimmy slid the pistol down the back of his trousers and opened the door.
‘Hello Jimmy,’ said Bob. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not too bad.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. You fit?’
Jimmy nodded.
‘Let’s go then.’
Jimmy shut the door and followed Bob to a waiting Audi saloon. Jimmy was still a little miffed that Butler & co knew where he lived, but he managed to stay cordial during the ride, which wasn’t difficult as they probably only exchanged half a dozen words the whole journey. The meeting was to take place at Daniel Butler’s house, and they drove through the big iron gates – past the guard in his hut who gave them a wave – as the digital clock on the dashboard of the Audi read midnight. Bob parked up on the turnaround in front of the house, next to an assortment of cars, ranging from the mundane to high-end luxury. ‘Some people are doing well,’ said Jimmy as they climbed out of the Audi. He lit up, the smoke from his cigarette hanging in the misty air.
‘We’ll all be doing well if this works out,’ said Bob, leading the way to the front door, which stood ajar.
Bob led Jimmy to the vast old ballroom of the house, where a row of mismatched chairs had been laid out. Butler was standing in front of them, and beside him hung two blackboards, pinned with what looked like maps or blueprints or both, covered over with plain paper. At one side of the room, on a long table, was a huge chrome coffee dispenser, together with milk, sugar, cups, saucers, and bottled water and glasses.
A group of hard-looking men were scattered around the room and when Bob and Jimmy entered, Jimmy recognised Tony Green from the pub on the Isle of Dogs. The others were strangers. When Butler saw them enter, he clapped his hands and said: ‘Right, gentlemen, we’re all here. Please take your seats.’
Jimmy and some of the others helped themselves to coffee, and they all sat down, their chairs scraping on the polished wood floor.
A small man with the face of a boxer sat next to Jimmy and offered him a cigarette. Jimmy took it with a light, and the little man said: ‘Don’t I know you?’
Jimmy looked again and shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he said.
‘Walton, weren’t it?’ said the little man. ‘E Block.’
‘Could have been,’ said Jimmy.
‘My name’s Toby Lee,’ said the little man. ‘And on the big day, I’m driving one of the motors.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Jimmy. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Although he wasn’t particularly. He was there for the job. Do it, collect his cut and vanish. He hadn’t come all this way to make new friends.
‘And you are?’
‘I’m Jimmy.’
‘Nice to see you, Jimmy,’ said the little man.
Butler clapped his hands again. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘This is the first time we’ve all been together. Some of you know each other. Some don’t. But you all know me. And I don’t piss about. You can use your real names here or not, as you please. I couldn’t care less. All I do care about is that we succeed in the venture I’m just about to describe to you.’
Butler turned towards the first blackboard and peeled back the plain paper, revealing a large scale map of east London.
Butler took a laser pointer from his pocket and switched it on. He directed the beam at the map; the red dot picked out the Isle of Dogs and moved right. ‘This is Docklands,’ he said, ‘as you’re all probably aware.’ The dot moved past the old Royal Docks. ‘In particular, Silve
rtown. Not a particularly salubrious area, but trying hard. The City Airport’s close by, a university, shopping centres, and new developments of apartments. There are also several industrial estates, and this one, close to the Woolwich ferry, is where we’ll be heading on bank holiday Monday, two weeks from tomorrow.’
There was a rumble of comment.
‘This is going to be dangerous, gentlemen,’ he continued. ‘Because where we’re going will be guarded by armed men, who will do their very best to see that we don’t succeed. That’s why all of you will be armed too, and some of you will – I repeat, will – have to use those guns. Now, you’ve all had this explained before and I will only say it once: there’s no backing out. You’re in now and you will remain in. That’s a fact, and I can’t emphasise it enough. There’s only one way out for you now. Feet first.’
Jimmy knew Butler meant it, and when he looked around the room, he knew the other men realised it too.
‘This is a seven-man job,’ Butler went on. ‘Seven on the ground, that is, plus support staff. They have been preparing the vehicles you will use for the job and for the getaway afterwards.’
Jimmy shook his head. Plans. Too many plans and too many people. And where there were people there were big mouths ready to boast about the job. And others prepared to sell out the whole deal for their thirty pieces of silver or to save their own skins. Jimmy knew that, only too well. But it was the only game in town for him and he knew it. Maybe his last chance to put something away for an old age that was creeping up fast. So that was that. No point in worrying. He just had to do his best and hope for the same.
‘Right,’ said Butler. ‘Let me get down to specifics.’
‘Where we’re going is a depository for precious stones.’ Butler pulled the paper covering the second blackboard to reveal a photograph of a concrete building that resembled nothing so much as an oversized pill box. There was one main door of truck height, with windows that were tiny and heavily barred. ‘That’s why the stakes are so high,’ Butler went on. ‘Inside the main vault of this anonymous-looking building in east London, fortunes come and go. On bank holiday Monday there will be a minimum of twenty-five million pounds’ worth of uncut diamonds in the building. Possibly more. With your help, I intend to take them. We have a buyer who will pay cash at the rate of fifty per cent of their market value. Fifty pence in the pound. Fifty cents on the dollar. I think we can walk out of this with over twelve million quid. I know this because, as you may have guessed, I have someone on the inside. This information is kosher.’
Butler paused, triggering off another rumble of whispering.
‘And I guarantee each of you here tonight with a minimum of one million in cash,’ said Butler with a big smile. ‘At the very least. Very possibly more…’
‘And how much for him?’ whispered Lee.
‘I heard that, Toby,’ said Butler. ‘And it’s a good question. I take a third off the top. In exchange I know the where and when, organise the crew, pay them their wages, supply transport and ordnance and provide a safe getaway. Don’t you think that’s fair?’
‘Fair enough, Mr Butler,’ said Lee. ‘I weren’t complaining. Just wondering.’
‘And so you should. The rest of you, it’s a straight split, including my inside man… or woman. Don’t worry. There’ll be more bunce than you can spend for a very long time. Even you Toby, with your bad habits.’
More laughter.
‘No probs, Mr Butler,’ said Lee. ‘Nuff said.’
‘Right,’ said Butler. ‘It’s a simple job. Two vehicles. One, a truck to batter down the front gates and hit the main doors. Two up. Tony driving, Bob with him. Then another car containing the rest of you, Toby driving that one. The stones will be being sorted and graded and the vault will be open. There are two guards inside, armed with automatic weapons. They have to be taken out. You load the diamonds into the boot of the number two car, leave the truck and get out fast. There are alarms, panic buttons through to the local police station and CCTV on site. The alarms won’t be switched on during working hours, but the panic buttons will be available. And the local nick, believe it or not, only opens nine to five during weekdays, and closes for lunch. I think it’s a disgrace, the cuts in public services…’ There was laughter at that.
‘And on bank holidays there’s only a skeleton crew on duty in the area. But there will be crime cars floating about, so it’s a quick in and out. If you see any police vehicles, put them out of action. You’ve got the firepower. Use it. There will be two more cars waiting at a designated spot. Transfer the stones to Bob’s motor and he’ll bring them to me. Tony with him. The rest of you will be dropped off as and when from the second car and Toby will lose the motor. Bob’s motor will also be lost after the stones are in my possession. The money will be available within forty-eight hours, and the split will take place here as soon as possible afterwards. Any questions?’
No one spoke.
‘Fair enough,’ said Butler. ‘We’ll meet again soon. This time it’ll be where the vehicles are being stored. Feel free to study the maps and blueprints. I want you to introduce yourselves to anyone you don’t know. You’re going to have to trust each other with your lives. Some of you may not survive. That’s a fact. Deal with it.’ And with that, Daniel Butler turned and left the room.
Bob gestured for Jimmy to join him, and they joined the others. ‘Jimmy, meet Ronnie, Les and Paul,’ said Bob. ‘Tony and Toby you’ve met. Tony’s going to drive the truck we’ll use to get inside. I’m riding shotgun with him. Toby’s driving the other car with Jimmy and the rest of you. It’s simple. But what Mr Butler said was right. There’ll be armed men on the plot who’re prepared to shoot to kill. You’ve got to be ready too. Any problems with that?’
No one spoke.
‘Fine. Now all of you but Jimmy know what ordnance you’re using. Jimmy, come with me and find something you’ll be happy with. The rest of you can go. Now, you ain’t got wheels have you, Jimmy?’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Toby, you going back to London?’
Toby nodded.
‘Hang around for a bit, will you? I’ve got to stay here. Can you give Jimmy a lift?’
‘No problem,’ said Toby. ‘A pleasure.’
‘Right,’ said Bob. ‘The gun room’s down here.’
They left the others and Bob led Jimmy along several corridors, before they came to a blank door which Bob opened with two keys. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said as he switched on the lights.
Fluorescent tubes stuttered into life and Jimmy walked through to be confronted by a row of glass-fronted cabinets bulging with guns. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘What’s this? Woolwich Arsenal?’
Bob grinned. ‘Mr Butler likes to have some firepower on hand. What do you fancy?’
Jimmy walked along the row of cabinets, inspecting the contents. There were H&K MP5s, Kalashnikov AK 47s, Skorpion Model 61s, Beretta Model 12s, Mac 10s and all sorts of other automatic weapons, plus rifles and shotguns and enough revolvers and semi-automatic pistols to equip a terrorist army.
Jimmy went for a Remington pump-action shotgun with a short barrel and a six-shot capacity. ‘Don’t know machine guns,’ he said. ‘This’ll do me.’
‘Used one before?’ asked Bob.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Jimmy, not elaborating. He’d killed Billy Farrow with something similar. He’d used one before all right.
‘Take a handgun too,’ said Bob.
Jimmy already had one tucked down his strides but didn’t let on. Instead he helped himself to a Browning nine.
‘Want to give them a go?’ asked Bob.
‘Do what?’
‘There’s a range downstairs. Come on.’
Taking the two guns, Jimmy followed Bob out of the room, which he locked behind him, and through another door which led down a flight of stairs. ‘Got big cellars these old houses,’ said Bob as they descended. ‘Useful for wine and all sorts.’ They came to another door, which Bob opened before hitting a light switch. Inside wa
s a full size shooting range.
‘Fully soundproofed,’ said. Bob ‘You could let off an H-bomb in here and no one would be any the wiser.’ A touch to another switch and an extractor fan sprang into life. ‘No expense spared,’ he added.
At the side of the range was a long table piled with boxes of ammunition. ‘Help yourself.’ said Bob. ‘There’s goggles and muffs in the drawer underneath.’ Jimmy grabbed a handful of double ought shotgun cartridges and loaded six into the Remington, then carefully placed it on the table, the barrel pointing at the wall, the safety on. He then took out the Browning’s magazine and broke open a fresh box of fifty 9mm rounds. He loaded the clip with thirteen bullets and slapped it into the butt of the gun to make sure it was firmly in place. He pulled back the slide to put a round into the chamber, set the safety, found a set of yellow shooting glasses and ear muffs and put them on. He picked up the shotgun and approached the range, setting the Browning on the shelf in front of him, barrel pointed away again, and squinted down the length of the room.
There was a cardboard target set at twenty metres, with a picture of a grim-looking soldier, weapon cocked and steel helmet firmly on his head. Jimmy let go with the Remington and the target blew up in a cloud of cardboard dust. It only took three shots to completely destroy the target and Jimmy stopped shooting. Bob operated the pulley that brought what was left of the paper soldier up close, so that Jimmy could check his work and replace it with a fresh one. It was barely recognisable, ripped and torn apart as it was. He clipped on a new target, and the wires hummed as it was sent back to ten metres. ‘Handgun,’ shouted Bob, and Jimmy picked up the Browning, clicked off the safety catch, took a stance and fired. The gun kicked hard in his hands and the bullets chopped holes in the target around the heart and the head. When the gun was empty and the action blown back, he put it on the shelf and stepped back.
