by Robert Ryan
Janie claimed her motivation was simple: Bruce & Co made a change from Mr Riley who, she said, was a dull civil servant whose idea of excitement was having sex with the 60-watt left on.
Bruce touched her hair absentmindedly, letting some of the strands fall through his fingers.
'You know, you are a very gentle man for a thief.'
Bruce thought she was being sarcastic, but her face was a picture of innocence.
He nodded over to indicate the man with the incongruous handlebar moustache who was fencing the air with his umbrella. 'Well, when you have friends like Gordy and Charlie, you don't need to come the hard man.'
'Oh, I'm sure you can come the hard man when you want to.'
Bruce smirked at the innuendo. 'Right. But Janie, we get caught, this is no laughing matter, you know. It'll mean doing time. Even if you are just a passenger.'
'I'll say you forced me.'
Bruce laughed. 'I never forced a woman in my life.'
'Never had to, I'll bet.'
Bruce wagged an admonishing finger at her. 'Behave yourself.'
Janie pouted at him. 'Why should I?'
He consulted his watch again. This was work; the saucy banter could wait. 'Because we've got a job to do.'
Roy emerged fully uniformed, grey double-breasted jacket and trousers, with a matching peaked cap. He saluted smartly and Bruce threw him a thumbs-up.
'Gentlemen,' Bruce said. 'Start your engines.' He looked at his watch for the tenth time in less than a minute.
8.20 a.m.
Thirteen
Heathrow Airport, November 1962
At 9.35 a.m. precisely, Buster Edwards walked into the Gents on the third floor of Comet House, swinging his briefcase. He had been in there so many times, he thought, it was beginning to feel like a home from home. Or a khazi from khazi. Behind him was Charlie, umbrella over his arm, looking, if you stared too hard, a shade too beefy to be a convincing City gent. Both men were relaxed and calm. The jitters, if any came, always hit before kick-off. Once everything was underway, every fibre was concentrated on playing your part, not letting your mates down and, above all, not screwing up the score. There was no place for nerves.
Buster nodded to the lavatory attendant in cubicle two. The old boy, happy to see a familiar face, returned the gesture and carried on sprinkling Vim into one of the lavatory bowls.
Charlie put down his umbrella, removed his gloves and took up position at the urinal, slowly undoing his fly buttons. Buster decided to stand next to the window and wash his hands, once he had put down his nice new briefcase. He began to whistle a Frank Ifield tune. From his position he could see the turning from the bank perfectly.
'Beautiful morning,' came the voice from the cubicle.
'Marvellous,' said Buster, in his plummiest accent. 'Makes one glad to be alive.'
Charlie craned his neck and looked out of the window. Beautiful? It was a grey November day, the sky sullen and featureless. Ah well, just making conversation, he supposed.
The attendant came out. 'Follow the football, do you, sir?'
Charlie realised he was talking to him. 'No,' he said, not wanting to be drawn. 'I'm a rugby man.'
The attendant sniffed. 'Right.' He moved to the next cubicle with his brush and powders.
Buster turned to Charlie and gave the slightest inclination of the head, just to let him know all outside was as it should be. He could see his watch now he had rolled up his shirtsleeves. It was 9.37 a.m. Things should be moving at the bank.
Inside Barclays Bank (Bath Road Branch) the second hand of the enormous Wessex wall clock swept round and the minute hand jerked to show 9.38 p.m. Cecil Cochrane, the Manager, waited an extra minute before he gave the signal for the vault to be opened. His deputy and his assistant then inserted their keys while he himself dialled the combination lock.
Behind him came the security guards with their trolley, ready to collect the strongboxes sitting within. The BOAC wages had been sorted and packaged up the night before. Once they were loaded and left the premises they were no longer Cochrane's concern.
The door opened and Cochrane pulled it back. He gave a last glance at the wall clock before entering the vault: 9.40 p.m.
Just to the side of the runway, Billy Naughton lit another cigarette, his fingers cold and sore from a shift of changing bulbs. It had been a novelty at first – exciting, even. Now though, the noise, the frantic rushing, the broken fingernails as he struggled to free a stubborn housing, had all taken the shine off it. His back was also giving him gyp from all the crouching and bending over. One muscle was going into spasm every now and then, dancing to its own internal rhythm. And he was a young man. Some of the gangers were in their fifties. How did they manage it in all weathers?
Winter was already beginning in earnest, the metal housings cold and painful to the touch first thing in the morning. He didn't want to do too many more days of this. He found himself willing the thieves to show themselves, to make their play. Come on, fellas, he thought. Get a bloody move on.
It was close to quarter to ten when Roy, looking splendid in his grey chauffeur's uniform, swung the Mk 2 off the M4 and towards the airport access road. Behind him, Janie and Tiny Dave Thompson balanced on folding stools, placed where the back seats should have been. 'Telstar' by the Tornados was twanging out of the Jag's radio. Tiny Dave – whose gym- pumped frame filled most of the back window – was tapping his armrest in time to the instrumental. Janie was smoking a cigarette, slightly nervy. She looked every inch the smart businesswoman, right down to a briefcase, but the fag was somehow wrong.
As they approached the main entrance, she wound down the window and tossed the stub out. Good girl, thought Roy. Don't do anything that makes you seem ill-at-ease, like smoking too aggressively.
Janie leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Thanks for agreeing to this.'
'That's OK, Janie,' Roy said. 'What's an extra passenger?'
'Always wanted to see Bruce and you lads work up-close.'
Roy chuckled. Those on the receiving end wouldn't share that sentiment, he thought. He checked his mirror. Mickey Ball was right on his tail. He could make out the silhouette of Ian in the rear of the following car, his bowler hat in place.
'Dave?'
'Yup?'
'Hat on.'
Dave slotted the bowler onto his head. Roy looked away before he started giggling. For some reason he couldn't stop thinking of Bernard Breslaw.
He checked the Smiths clock on the dash. Almost ten minutes to ten. Right on time.
At Barclays Bank, the security guards loaded the four steel boxes into the rear of their armoured security Bedford van. They were observed by two policemen, parked a few yards away in a Wolseley 6/110 area car. The driver's fingers were thrumming on the wheel. His colleague suppressed a yawn.
Cochrane, the Manager, stood on the pavement, looking to right and left, feeling himself to be more alert than the two coppers, who seemed bored silly. They wouldn't be quite so sanguine if an ammonia gang suddenly heaved up.
The door to the Bedford slammed shut. 'All done,' said the security supervisor.
'Sign it off, please,' said Cochrane, indicating for his deputy to step forward with the paperwork.
A signature was scribbled.
'And add the time, please,' said Cochrane, looking at his wrist. 'I have nine fifty-two.'
Charlie was still at the urinal and he had been there long enough for the attendant to take notice. Charlie realised he must think he had problems with his plumbing. He and Buster exchanged glances and swapped places, Charlie moving to the sink to wash his hands, Buster to empty his bladder.
The attendant, finished in the cubicles, came out to make conversation when the door opened. Bruce stepped in, followed by Harry.
'The thing about Carstairs', said Bruce, 'is he just doesn't understand figures. Show him an accounts book and he goes cross-eyed.'
Harry grunted.
'I think you would do a much better
job in the wages department.'
'Tea-break,' announced the attendant as the new arrivals manoeuvred around him. One of them was large enough to make the place seem overcrowded. 'See you later, gents.'
Bruce checked his false moustache in the mirror. It was still there, despite the sweat trickling down from under the brim of his heavy, modified bowler. As soon as the attendant had gone, Bruce turned to Charlie and the window. 'Well?'
'Where's Gordy?'
'Tying his shoelaces down the hall. See anything?'
There was a pause before Charlie said, 'The van has just come into view. Followed by the police car.'
'Right,' said Bruce. 'Places, everyone.'
Billy Naughton's radio crackled and he pressed the button to receive it, giving his call sign.
'Anything that end?' It was Len. 'Over.' 'No. Over.'
'Well, keep sharp. Something tells me today's the day. Over.' Billy laughted. 'You said that yesterday. Over.' 'And I won thirty bob on the horses. I was right about something happening.' 'Over.'
'Yes, yes, over. Hold up.' Len went off-air for a moment. 'Apparently, there's a suspicious car over at your end. Registration Bravo, Mike, Alpha seven two three. Can you check it out, Billy?' 'On my way. Over.'
The passes that Gordy had sourced worked a treat. As soon as Roy had flashed his to the uniform at the gate, the barrier arced skywards. He had hardly slowed. The guard threw Janie a salute and she raised an imperious hand. Christ, they think we're royalty, thought Roy. He watched as Mickey came through behind him and together they turned onto the perimeter road. Roy put his hand out of the window, waving it up and down to tell Mickey to slow down to 15mph. It had just gone ten o'clock. They didn't want to get there too early.
A Comet 4B roared in overhead, trailing a dirty brown cloud of burned fuel. Noisy bugger, thought Roy.
As Buster and Charlie waited for the lift to arrive, Buster began to whistle 'Colonel Bogey'. Meanwhile, Bruce, Gordy and Harry took the stairs down to the ground floor, the stairwell echoing with the sound of metal Blakeys on bare concrete. 'Stop that,' said Charlie. 'I hated that film.' 'Fair enough. Got any requests?' 'Yes.'
'What?'
Charlie winked at him. 'Don't whistle.'
Buster felt the pouch of the briefcase that held the cosh. A little spark of anticipation shot through him and he let the adrenaline flow, enjoying the thump of his heart.
A bell pinged and the doors slid back. Both men stepped smartly into the empty lift. Charlie looked at his watch and jammed his umbrella against one of the doors. 'Two minutes, yet. Don't want to be too early.'
Buster eased the cosh from his case and put his right hand behind his back to keep it out of sight. Anyone entered and made a fuss about a jammed lift, he'd take care of them.
Outside Comet House, the Bedford security van had pulled to a stop in front of the revolving door and the hinged glass double doors beside it. The police Wolseley slotted into place behind the armoured vehicle, allowing enough room for the guards to gain access to the rear of the Bedford. The supervisor came round from the front seat, banged on the door and the two guards inside opened up. The trolley was manhandled out and the four boxes quickly placed on it. The door was slammed shut again.
In the police car, one of the officers was surreptitiously reading the sports pages of the Herald, spread out on his knee. 'You know what? I wouldn't mind doing some breaststroke with that Anita Lonsbrough.'
The driver shook his head, more in pity than disgust. 'You wouldn't mind doing some breaststroke with Dorothy in the canteen.'
'Leave it out. I do have some standards.'
'Yeah. Low ones.'
The lead Jaguar, driven by Roy, rolled to a smooth halt in the parking bay ten yards behind the police Wolseley. Roy feigned disinterest, but from the corner of his eye he watched as the two security guards started to push the trolley towards Comet House and the basement vault. A third man appeared to be riding shotgun. But without the shotgun, just a baton dangling at his belt.
'Seats,' Roy said quietly.
Janie exited the rear and moved quickly to the passenger seat next to Roy. Tiny Dave quickly collapsed the two folding seats and remained crouching, his powerful thigh muscles able to take the strain for as long as need be.
Roy again looked in his mirror. He could tell that Ian, the other heavy in the back of Mickey's Jag, was also dismanding his stool. Excellent. Ten past ten and all was well.
Still crouching, Tiny Dave reached into his inside pocket. From it he extracted a new quarter-inch chisel and removed the red plastic cover protecting the tip. He gripped the handle like a knife, careful not to catch anything with the unused, factory-sharp business end.
At eleven minutes past ten, the two guards plus the supervisor entered the foyer.
'Morning!' the supervisor shouted to the male receptionist. One of the guards pressed the lift button. Nothing happened. The supervisor stepped in and stabbed it repeatedly. 'Come on, come on,' he grumbled. 'Is this lift OK?' he yelled at the receptionist.
The lad shrugged. 'As far as I know. Could be someone holding it while they load stuff in. It happens.'
The supervisor muttered a curse under his breath.
Somewhere in the shaft above them a distant bell pinged and an arrow above the metal doors illuminated, showing that the lift was on its way down.
'About bloody time.'
'Bacon butty after this,' said one guard.
'Starvin',' agreed the other.
The supervisor tapped his foot impatiently.
Billy Naughton approached the suspicious car at a crouch. There was a driver in the front, he could see the silhouette, but no passengers. He moved towards the rear so he could check the registration on the plate. It was the right car. A Morris Oxford.
Another aircraft came in low over his head, the screech of jet engines swirling around him, and his walkie-talkie squawked. He ignored it. What was this one up to? he wondered as he sprinted round and yanked the driver's door open.
Gordy, Bruce and Harry had reached the bottom of the stairs some minutes ago and watched the trio of security men waiting for the lift to arrive.
'Now?' asked Harry.
'Not yet,' said Bruce. The word had barely left his lips when the doors to the elevator began to separate and a louder bell sounded. 'Now!'
Gordy was out first, his long legs closing the distance between stairwell and reception desk in a few lengthy strides. He looked at the duty receptionist, a young man with bad spots, and decided he would give them no trouble. At the same time, a second internal voice told him it was always best to play it safe. Kid might be a black belt in karate, after all. Behind him he could hear Bruce and Harry crossing to the guards, the metal tips on Harry's shoes ringing on the parquet.
A puzzled look on his face, as if he wasn't certain what was occurring, the receptionist automatically reached for the internal telephone. Gordy whipped off his hat and brought it down on the kid's hand. It made a dull clang as metal hit bone. The lad, his expression transformed into a mask of shock and pain, buckled at the knee and he went down, disappearing from view.
Not a black belt after all, thought Gordy.
The driver of the car shrank into his seat as the door was pulled open and a wild-eyed figure lunged in at him.
'Who the fuck are you?' yelled Billy as he grabbed at a lapel and pulled the lad close to him.
'Who the fuck are you?' retorted the young man, raising his hands to cover his face.
'Flying Squad.'
'What? I ain't done anything. Honest.'
It sounded as if he was about to cry. Either he was a very convincing actor, or he really wasn't up to no good. Billy relaxed his grip. 'What are you doing here?'
The lad fumbled in his pocket and produced his airside pass. 'I work over there. Just showing the car to a mate. He might buy it.'
'Here? At the airport?'
'Perimeter road, it's a good place to try a motor out. Straight up.'
'Shit,'
said Billy, letting him go and stepping back. His walkie-talkie crackled once more. This time he answered it.
Unaware as yet of the commotion at the reception desk, the guards stepped aside as the lift doors opened, intending to let the smart gentlemen within pass out.
The supervisor felt a thump on the side of his head and stumbled. He'd been fetched a tremendous blow with an umbrella from Harry.
One of the guards, realising a snatch was in progress, whipped out a baton and smacked it down hard on Bruce's head. Bruce staggered a little, but recovered. The guard, puzzled, raised the baton again. As he did so, Buster swung his cosh and caught the guard in the jaw. There was a sickly cracking sound. He did it again and the man crumpled into a heap. Buster leaned over for a coup de grace when he felt Gordy's hand on his arm. Gordy indicated three prone men, all with blood on their faces, each groaning and out of the game. Charlie, Gordy and Harry were all panting from the short, sharp skirmish. Bruce was pulling the laden trolley clear of the fallen men. The first part of the snatch was over.
'What the bloody hell's going on in there?' shouted the police driver, trying to make sense of the melee through the distortion of the glass windows.
His partner looked up reluctantly from the newspaper and his tawdry fantasies. 'Jesus Christ, someone's havin' it.'
He scrambled to leave the car, extracting his truncheon as he did so, while the driver reached for the radio handset to call it in.
As the copper left the car, Tiny Dave and Ian bent down and stabbed the rear tyres of the police car with the chisels. The Dunlops exploded in a rush of fetid air.
When the policeman turned to investigate this new occurrence, Tiny Dave swung at him repeatedly with his phony umbrella. Under the rain of blows, the copper fell back; two more sharp raps on the head and he was on the deck. Ian, meanwhile, had jerked the driver out of the car and felled him with a blow from the steel bowler.
