by Martina Cole
At the scene of the robbery, pandemonium was breaking out. Becton and Tomlinson were both receiving the sharp edge of Chief Superintendent Liversey’s tongue. He was absolutely fuming.
‘The bloody lorry has disappeared off the face of the earth. You two didn’t even have the sense to arm your men!’ He was spitting with temper as he spoke. ‘How the hell am I supposed to explain this one away? That’s what I’d like to know. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were communists! You bloody fools!’
He was interrupted by an ambulanceman. ‘Excuse me, sir, but there were no fatalities. I thought you would like to know. Only one major casualty and that was a gunshot wound. I gather that in the course of the van crashing, one of the men in the back inadvertently shot the fellow sitting opposite.’
‘What about the helicopter pilots?’
‘Burnt to death, I’m afraid.’
‘Then how can you say there were no fatalities? You’re all bloody fools!’
Liversey stomped away from the men. He knew this much - heads were going to roll over this and he had a feeling that his would be one of them. He would have been even more galled if he’d known that the articulated lorry that had been carrying nearly twenty million in gold bullion was buried, with the engine still hot, not two miles away.
At eight o’clock that morning, Jim Dickenson opened his yard. By eight-fifteen it was a hive of activity. He loved his plant hire firm. He loved Michael Ryan for letting him have it. By five that afternoon the newly filled-in hole was just part of the usual landscape. Not one of the men who worked there even guessed that they were walking and driving over twenty million pounds’ worth of gold. Yet the robbery was to be their only topic of conversation for ages. At six-fifteen, Maura and Michael were driving along the M4 back into London. Leslie and Garry had driven off earlier, as had Roy. Lee was to dump the Range Rover in Langley, Slough, where he had left his car. Everyone agreed it had been a good night’s work. Gerry Jackson had left earlier than everyone else as he had to open the main betting shop in Wandsworth. After all, life had to go on.
Maura walked into her house in Rainham at nearly nine in the morning. She was tired out. Little Joey was there to greet her and she kissed and cuddled him for a while before going up to bed. She noticed that Carla did not enquire where she had been all night. After a warm bath, she slipped naked into her bed. The coolness of the sheets was reassuring to her somehow. She had managed to talk Michael out of a killing spree, but he had still allowed Garry to shoot at the helicopter. She burrowed into her pillow. She had heard on the news that the men had been burnt to death. Both were married with children. The radio announcer’s voice had been so matter-of-fact about it.
She turned over again in bed and attempted once more to get comfortable and empty her mind of all the bad things. She had too many bad things filed away. She heard Joey’s joyful laughter float up the stairs and into her bedroom and the thought of the helicopter pilots’ children rose up in front of her. They were small and helpless in her mind’s eye. And faceless. Like her own baby which still wandered into her thinking sometimes, especially when she was done like now. The robbery itself bothered her not one iota. It was the killing. She did not think for a moment that what she had told Leslie to do to Danny Rubens counted. He was scum. He had cut up one of the girls who worked for them and he had paid the price. She could not look on the police as her brothers did, as the enemy. An omnipotent force that had to be thwarted at every turn. She did not really care about the police much, one way or the other.
Except for Terry Petherick . . . She sat up in bed and rearranged her pillows, sinking back into their coolness. If she started to think about him she would never get any sleep. She heard the bedroom door creak open.
‘Are you asleep?’
Carla’s voice was soft.
‘No, love. Come on in.’
Carla walked into the bedroom with a glass of brandy. She went to Maura and put it on the bedside table. ‘I thought you could possibly do with this. I left Joey watching a Postman Pat video, so I have a few minutes to myself.’
Maura sat up in the bed. She knew that Carla was offering her an opening, if she wanted to talk to her. And she did want to talk; she wanted to tell her how unhappy she was about all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. But she couldn’t. She picked up the glass of brandy and sipped it. Carla tried again.
‘William Templeton rang last night. He wants you to call him as soon as you can. I forgot to tell you.’
‘Thanks. I’ll ring him later.’
‘I was listening to the news just now. It seems that two of the policemen who were guarding some gold that got stolen were shot dead about half an hour ago. The police think that the raiders may have thought they could identify them.’
She watched Maura’s face closely and was not surprised to see her blanch.
‘A Vecton I think it was, and a Tomlinson.’ Her voice trailed off as she watched Maura’s features. Her aunt’s mouth was moving but she seemed unable to speak.
Maura’s mind was whirling. Not Vecton . . . Becton and Tomlinson. The two who were being blackmailed. She put the brandy on the bedside table and, pushing Carla away roughly, jumped out of the bed.
She practically ran to the wardrobes that covered one entire wall. They were mirrored and Maura could see the reflection of her breasts, bouncing as she ran to them. Pulling one of the doors open she started to dress herself, dragging the clothes on to her body in her haste. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater, and then, pushing her bare feet into some leather moccasins, ran out of the room and down the stairs, Carla following her.
‘For goodness’ sake, Maura. What’s up?’ Carla’s voice was troubled. She knew that Maura was upset over what she had said. She felt responsible.
‘Nothing. I just have to see Michael, that’s all.’ She picked up her car keys and ran from the house to her car.
Carla went into the lounge where Joey was sitting in front of the television set, watching Postman Pat and Jess. She sat on the sofa and stared at the screen, wishing that she had kept her mouth shut.
Michael was asleep when he heard the pounding on his door. He immediately thought it was the police, and jumped out of his bed naked. Then he heard Maura calling through the letterbox.
‘It’s me. Let me in now!’
Thinking that something had happened he rushed to the front door and let her in. As he opened up she almost fell into his hall. Her hair was dishevelled, her face streaked with mascara. He shut the door quickly and tried to grasp hold of her. She pushed him away roughly.
‘You bastard! You rotten stinking bastard!’
Michael’s mouth dropped open with shock. ‘What? What have I done?’
‘You had those two policemen shot after you promised me . . .’
Michael yawned. ‘Oh, is that all? I thought it was something important.’
His voice was low and full of sleep.
Maura stared at him in astonishment. Is that all? she thought. That is the extent of his morality.
‘I thought something had happened. Something terrible.’ He walked into his bedroom and pulled on a dressing gown. She followed him and, as he turned to face her, tying the belt, launched herself at him, hair and nails flying. Her right hand dug into his face and she felt the skin tear as she scratched him deeply.
‘You rotten bastard! You stinking lousy bastard!’
Within seconds he had grabbed her arms and thrown her on the bed. He held her there, with her arms pinned to her sides, while she fought him like a wildcat. Using every ounce of her strength she tried to get away from him, so she could carry on her fighting. She could hear herself spitting obscenities at him, all the bad things that she had carefully locked away over the years bubbling out of her body. Spewing out from between her lips. And still Michael held her down on the bed, his face placid and closed. Finally, after what seemed to Maura to be an eternity but was only about five minutes, the tears came. Hot gushing tea
rs that soaked her face and hair in seconds with their salty residue. She felt the fight leave her body as if it had been exorcised.
Then Michael had her in his arms. He was stroking her hair and murmuring calming words and phrases. And Maura was aware that she was letting him. She needed him. His arms were circling her like steel bands and she knew she would forgive him anything. Had, in fact, already forgiven him for what he had done. It was herself, Maura Ryan, she would never forgive.
Michael held her until she was calm again and her crying just little hiccups. Then, pushing her away from him so he could see into her face, he spoke.
‘Listen, Maws. Those police were on the take. One was a child molester. He hung around the train stations looking for little rent boys. Now I’m queer, Maws. Or gay, whatever you want to call it. But most gay men would no more touch them little boys than they would cut their own arms off. That’s pervert country, Maws, where all the nice Mr Respectables in their city suits and briefcases get a quick blow job off some poor little bugger, before going home to the wife and kids and their dinner.’ His voice was low and sure and hypnotic.
‘As for the other one, he was more bent than a nine-bob note. His wife suffered because he was a violent wife-beater. And when he began to take his temper out on the kids, she went on the trot and divorced him. He still had an injunction order out on him, to stop him going around her house and belting her.’ He watched her face for any sign that she was weakening. He did not like this Maura. A frightened, beaten Maura. She sniffed loudly and looked into his eyes.
‘What . . . what . . . about the heli-helicopter pilots?’ She still could not control the little heaving sobs.
‘They were nothing to do with you, Maws. That was down to me and the others. All you did was help us plan it. Don’t go to pieces on me, Maws. Not you. Think of them as you would a scumbag like Danny Rubens. It’s Us and Them, girl, and up until now you’ve lived by that rule. Don’t go soft on me now. You’ve run this firm with me for years. You’ve been the mainstay of it. But I could do without you, Maws, if you really wanted out.’
His soft voice had an underlying threat in it that did not go unnoticed. She swallowed deeply.
‘I don’t want out, Mickey.’ And she didn’t. It was all that she knew.
He smiled. One of his best smiles that seemed to light his face up from within.
‘That’s my girl.’ He enfolded her in his arms again and she relaxed against him. Michael was right. In all the years she had worked for him and with him it had never seemed to bother her before. But deep, deep down in the bottom of her being she knew that the killing had always bothered her. She still woke up at nights with her body bathed in sweat, thinking about Sammy Goldbaum. She opened the little filing cabinet in her brain and once more filed all the bad things away. Until the next time she broke down.
Michael held her close and stared at the wall over her shoulder. Of all the things he had expected to come from the gold robbery, this was not one of them. He had only seen her like this once before, after Benny’s death, when Sammy and Jonny had been put away. Well, he would do now what he had done then. Keep her by him. Watch over her. And hopefully snap her out of it. He kissed the top of her white-blonde head. He did love her. He loved her very much.
The Gold Bullion Robbery hit every front page, as did the killing of the policemen. Everyone was blamed from the IRA to an Italian terrorist organisation, the latter in the Sun’s leader, three days after the robbery. The Guardian called for a Government Inquiry into how such a top secret operation could have been leaked to a person or persons unknown.
The police kept a low profile. They had their suspicions as usual, but no solid evidence of any kind. Chief Superintendent Liversey was given early retirement, as were two prominent members of the board at the Bank of England. If the police had held an Internal Inquiry they might have been given to wonder how so many high-ranking officers could afford holidays in the Seychelles and the Bahamas.
The robbery was finally knocked off the front pages by a Member of Parliament. He had been secretly photographed propositioning a prostitute who worked King’s Cross ‘rough trade’. As usual the British public much preferred to read about a good sex scandal rather than a robbery with violence and murder. The Daily Mirror called for another Government Inquiry, this time into the sex lives of prominent Tory MPs. The particular MP involved remained a favourite of Michael Ryan’s for some time.
Geoffrey Ryan wrote out all he had read about the robbery in the green folder. He then placed it with the file he was gathering on Maura and Michael. One day, though he did not know when that day would be, he would use it against them.
Chapter Twenty-six
12 October 1986
Michael Ryan walked along the Embankment. He turned up his coat collar to try to warm himself. People were hurrying by. A man walked up behind him and fell into step with him.
‘Mr Ryan, you’re very late.’ He had the soft Southern Irish drawl.
‘I know. I was caught up in some last-minute work. You know how it is.’
The man, although a full head shorter than Michael, was very powerfully built. His small dark eyes continuously scanned the crowds of people as if on the look out for something or someone.
‘We need to know if you can deliver, Mr Ryan. We have been waiting this last two weeks for word. That’s why I arranged this meet today. Every Garda from Belfast to Liverpool is looking for me. It’s only for yourself that I came out of me hiding.’
Michael took a deep breath. He was as good looking as ever and more than one woman gave him an admiring glance as they passed.
‘Look, Mr O’Loughlin, these things take time. Especially now. As you just said yourself, everyone is looking for you, and the people you are likely to be dealing with as well. Christ Almighty, I’m taking as big a chance as you are! All I can tell you is what I have been telling you for days. I am doing the best that I can. Everything is shitting hot bricks at the moment.’
Patrick O’Loughlin’s face hardened and he grabbed Michael’s arm.
‘Look here, Ryan, you have more than enough police and judges in your pocket. Rumour has it that you have more than your fair share of politicians as well. All I want is a few passports, that’s all. Jesus knows, we have enough guns and Semtex to rearm the bloody British Army. But it’s not guns or Semtex we’re after these days. It’s passports.’
‘Give me another couple of days. I have a big job going on in St Martin’s Wharf. I have Germans, Micks, the lot on it. I’ll get you passports and perfect watertight covers. Now let’s leave it there, shall we? I’ll be in touch in a few days. OK?’
‘I don’t seem to have much choice, do I?’
O’Loughlin nodded at Michael and, turning away from him, disappeared back into the crowd. As he walked away from Michael two men approached on either side of him. Too late he realised their intent. As his hand went inside his jacket for his weapon, he felt a gun being pushed into his side.
‘If you try anything, Pat, I’ll drop you here in the street.’
Then he was bundled into a waiting Daimler at the kerbside. As he was relieved of his gun one of the men spoke to him.
‘You’ve been grassed, Pat, me old mate. Well and truly grassed.’
Pat O’Loughlin sat back in the seat with a show of careless indifference. Inside he was like a seething cauldron. He stared out at the passing buildings. Michael Ryan had double crossed him. Only he could have fingered him. Involuntarily he clenched his fists. Michael Ryan would pay.
Maura got out of bed still half asleep. The low buzzing of her alarm had woken her too early, or at least that was how it felt. She stood by her bed and stretched. Pulling on a robe she went downstairs to her kitchen, picking up her mail and the daily paper as she went through her hall.
She made a pot of tea and, lighting one of the sixty cigarettes she would smoke that day, unfolded the paper. Staring out at her from the front page of the Daily Mail was Patrick O’Loughlin. She studied the p
icture, stunned. Then she looked at the headlines: IRA KILLER ARRESTED. Forcing her mind to work, she read the story.
‘Due to information received, Patrick O’Loughlin, wanted for the bombing of a military base in Surrey where four soldiers died, was picked up by the police as he walked on the Embankment yesterday. He is also an escaped prisoner. He was given four life sentences for sectarian killings in Belfast. The man he was seen with yesterday is still being sought by the police . . .’
Maura’s mind was racing. O’Loughlin had met Mickey yesterday and any policeman worth his salt would have recognised Michael Ryan. The ones who were not in their pay tried to make their careers by nicking him. She pulled deeply on her cigarette, got up from her seat and went to the telephone on the kitchen wall. She rang Michael’s number. It was answered almost immediately by his boyfriend.
‘Get Mickey, now!’
‘But he’s in the shower . . .’
‘Well, get him out then!’ Her voice was harsh.
Richard Salter pursed his lips. He did not like Maura and she did not like him. Placing the receiver on the small coffee table he went into the bathroom. Michael waved him away, soap running down his body as he washed his hair.
‘Mickey love, your sister’s on the phone. She says she must speak to you now.’
Michael stood under the water for a couple of seconds to get rid of most of the soap. Then pulling a towel from the rail he put it around his waist, knocking Richard flying as he hurried out of the bathroom. He picked up the phone, dripping water everywhere.
‘What is it, Maws?’
Richard watched as Michael’s face changed from undisguised shock to seething rage. He ran back to the kitchen to finish making the breakfast. Whatever that sister of his was saying had certainly given Michael the hump! Still, he reflected as he scrambled eggs, at least he had not done anything wrong.
