‘Right. First one, Anglo-American Interbank, Cornwallis Street.’ ‘
Len touched the starter. The engine kicked over and roared. Len slipped the revs to four thousand and let in the clutch. A hundred policemen and three hundred spectators watched the Consul, rear-deck down, burn black lines of tyre prints down Eastcheap and slew round the west corner of the road heading deeper into the City.
‘Squad 501, Squad 501,’ Regan calling MP at Scotland Yard, shouting into the head-set which he held against the door of the screaming, yawing car, his other hand jammed against the facia, as also his knees.
‘Squad 501, receiving,’ the Radio Room at the Yard came back.
‘Squad 501, our car registration Hotel Juliet Juliet fifty-one L, Lima, proceeding over limit to various addresses City of London. For reasons of surprise approach, we will not be using Winkworth gong. Inform City police patrols we are in this area and not to intercept, message timed 0730 hours, over.’
‘Squad 501, we have message for officer in charge to report immediately to his superior officer at CO, repeat immediately and urgently, MP over.’
Regan wound down the window of the car which now hitting ninety on City Road, and stuck the hand-mike out into the airflow. That would sound like bad static back at MP. Then he pulled the mike half-way in and shouted at it. ‘Squad 501, please repeat. Reception poor, try another channel over -’
Regan stuck the hand-mike back, wound up the window, looked at Len’s white face, hazel eyes boring into the thin line trickle of early morning traffic, trying to work out the equation between tyre adhesion, brakes, and the moves of fellow car travellers in the dazed perspective of their early morning driving. MP blathered on, uncertainly calling for Squad 501, but eventually concluding an R /T fault, or the car travelling in some freak reception area. Regan was not reporting to any senior officer. He was now on his own.
Len pulled the car screaming off Fenchurch Street and burned a path in rubber smoke on a right-hander north up Cullun Street and into Lime Street, heading for their third American bank. Like the first two banks they’d covered, they’d evolved a system. The instant Len braked, Regan was out of the car, testing the bank’s front door, looking in the windows. Or, as in the case of the first bank, where the glass was frosted to ten feet above ground, Len pushed the car up on to the pavement and Regan climbed on the car’s roof.
At the New Boston Chartered Bank, Lime Street, Regan slammed out of the car and himself skidded to a halt. The front door of the bank was wide open, like some security man’s nightmare. Although he approached carefully, he was finally in and out of the bank in less than two minutes. Not a soul inside. The main safe at the back of the building wide open, and cleaned out.
Regan was hardly into the car when the tyres were burning off again. Len took a second’s look at the next address in the ripped yellow sheet.
‘Where?’ Regan barked.
‘Finch Lane, off Cornhill."
‘Are you sure we’re motoring the shortest route between these banks?’
Len’s eyes came off the road for one glance at him, ice cold. ‘Finch Lane is one way south to north, sir,’ Len said hard.
‘Sorry.’ Regan realized it was probably the first time in their years of working together that he’d ever had to apologize to Len. He felt it would not be the only historic landmark of this day.
Finch Lane was a developer’s afterthought which happened during a stroll down Cornhill EC2 by a couple of Victorian hustlers who spotted, some time in the final decade of the last century, that families were moving out of Cornhill to be replaced by office edifices. And that the fine little mews lane where servants lived and loved in damp decrepitude could be flattened, and a red brick phoenix arise. Tall offices and higher rents. But it was not the Victorian architecture that interested Regan as Len slewed the car in a protesting lurch and then a skidding halt into Finch Lane. It was the sight of a half dozen Securcom vans, four of which were parked sideways, blocking the street at each end. From inside the building of the City American Bank of London, half way up Finch Lane, came the sound of gunfire.
As Len slammed on the brakes, Regan’s head nearly went through the windscreen. Then he was out and running past the first two vans that blocked the south exit of the street. In his hand he held the Smith and Wesson .38.
He saw a Securcom bloke armed with a truncheon who seemed to have more gold braid than any of the others. Regan headed for him. ‘Detective Inspector Regan, Flying Squad. How many in there?’
The gold braid looked relieved by Regan’s arrival. ‘Three blokes, inside, down below.’
‘What happened?’
The gold braid started to explain. There had been six altogether, four had escaped.
‘So who’s in there?’
‘Mr Ewing and two of the gang, armed. I think one may be dead.’
‘How did the other four escape? Is the rear of the building covered?’
‘There’s no way out. Rear of the bank is a solid wall.’
‘What the fuck happened?’
‘We were here first.’ The Securcom man said it carefully as if there’d been so much confusion he had difficulty in recalling what happened. ‘Mr Ewing didn’t expect so many. There were six, plus the two kidnapped security guys.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘When the shooting started they ran off.’
‘When did all this happen?’
‘Three minutes ago.’
‘Jesus, why didn’t you say! So it’s Ewing and two robbers in there?’
The security man nodded.
Regan missed the nod. He ran on, hit the front porch of the bank, and threw himself in and down.
There was a man lying a yard away from him, his hair entirely soaked in blood, as if a tin of red paint had been emptied over him. Only his eyes clear of blood, and open, staring at Regan. The name on Carter’s report under the photo of this man had been James Kavanagh — nickname, the Broker. The Broker was dead.
No one else in sight in the main bank hall,
The gunfire started again below. Regan looked around. The vault and the safe were approached by stairs at the back of the hall.
The gold braided guy from Securcom was approaching Regan’s rear, worming himself flat out across the carpet from the front door. ‘Are there more Force on the way, sir?’
A burst of semi-automatic gunfire ricocheting off the walls below prevented Regan replying for a second. ‘No. Get my driver to call MP,’ Regan shouted at him. ‘Tell him to get the Special Patrol Group here, move!’ Regan started forward, working his body along on his elbows.
The Securcom man retreated quickly.
Regan reached the top of the stairs, brought his eyeline just over the top stair, and looked down.
It was a short flight, ten steps. At the bottom an open area and again the same set-up as in the New York Bank and Trust Company, Eastcheap. The steel bar wall with the door set in it, wide open. The huge safe beyond it, its door slightly ajar. Probably open about twelve inches.
Regan’s first glance also took in the geography left and right of the bottom of the stairs. He could work it out from the way the strip of brown carpet went down the stairs and met another strip which had further strips sewn to it, suggesting two carpeted corridors going back from the steel bar fence.
Still on his stomach, he slid back a few feet into what he considered to be dead ground, safe from gunfire below. He cupped his hands to project his voice. ‘Ewing, you down there?’
A long pause before the American’s voice came back, as if he had been considering not answering. ‘I’m here. Purcell’s inside the safe. He has a pistol, and what looks like an FN 303. I’m stuck back of the left-hand corridor. He has the drop on me from behind the safe. He’s protected by the safe door. You see it?’
Regan didn’t answer for the moment. He was concentrating on the alternatives. He edged himself forward once more to raise his head slightly over the top of the stairs. He saw the safe d
oor. He saw the tips of the fingers of Purcell’s right hand come out from behind the edge of the door holding a lid broken off from a tin box — the kind of tin box that held Webley ammunition. Purcell was using the tin lid as a primitive mirror to spot the vaguest shadows on the stairs or in the corridor. Regan made a quick calculation that the safe was probably about eight feet square, inside. Regan misjudged Purcell, the man he’d never met. The polished tin lid caught the three inches of the top of Regan’s head emerging above the steps. The polished tin lid disappeared and the hand that had held it suddenly reappeared with a Biretta 380 automatic pistol and thumped off five shells up at Regan.
Regan jerked fast backwards. He cupped his hands again. ‘Ewing, hear me?’
A muffled voice from below. ‘Yes!’
‘There may be a way to get this man out of the safe.’
The hand and the Biretta came out from behind the safe door to loose off four more shots. Regan felt the brush of air as they sailed past, a foot above his head, to thud into the ceiling plaster. ‘The way I see it, Purcell has to keep the safe door open enough to be able to traverse his gun if you make a move. If he opens it too wide, we’ve got him. But he must have it open nine inches at least to cover us.’
A pause. Then Ewing’s voice. ‘So?’
Regan manoeuvred himself over to the left-hand side of the staircase. He was going to attempt something definitely a little too ambitious for a gun not built for sharpshooting. He was going to fire off two or three shots rapidly down the stairs and try and get one through the gap of the open safe door and the doorframe. From his line of fire the gap was about three inches wide.
Purcell’s two fingers holding the reflecting tin lid eased out from behind the door and checked the reflections of Regan and Ewing’s areas. Regan from his recumbent position raised his left hand. The tin quickly disappeared. This was the moment before the hand with the Biretta would reappear to fire the shots. Regan’s body jerked up, right arm out, three rapid shots at the aperture, two wide, one dead centre about a foot above Purcell’s hand, which now reappeared with the Biretta and then hastily withdrew.
And Regan knew why that hand withdrew. Because he could hear the fast thumps of six ricochets of the slug that got into the safe, as it slammed from one steel wall to another.
There was no scream from Purcell. The ricocheting bullet inside the safe in its half-dozen rebounds had somehow managed not to hit him. But Regan could imagine what Purcell was thinking. ‘You get it Purcell?’ Purcell’s hand had not reappeared with the Biretta. ‘If you close the door of the safe you’re finished and trapped. If you open it a bit more to get a bead on me or Ewing, you’re also in trouble. I’m going to lie here potting shells in through that gap, and one of them, on its ricocheting path is going to hit you. The odds are in my favour, right?’
The odds were not all in Regan’s favour, as he had learned a second ago. One of the bullets that hadn’t got through the aperture had hit the steel door and ricocheted back up the stairway to pass within a yard of his head. There was a distinct chance in calculating the angles that he might intercept his own ricochet off the safe door, up the stairs. He decided he’d take the risk.
He allowed a minute’s silence, jerked up fast again, loosed off another two shots. Again one of them got through the gap, and he could hear it bouncing from wall to wall and then a sharp scream that lasted a second. Then silence. But no sound of any body falling over.
‘Purcell, are you coming out?’ Regan asked matter of factly.
A long pause from below. Regan wondering why Ewing was saying nothing. He took out a clip and started to reload the Smith and Wesson. ‘You want more? Fine. Your choice.’ He wondered if Purcell believed him. He, Regan, didn’t mean it. This man he wanted alive to go on trial. He wanted Purcell on trial, so that Patchin, Maynon, Carter and the others would have to explain in a court their part in pointless panic slaughter at 300 Eastcheap.
Then suddenly the voice below said low and hard: ‘Okay, you shits, I’m coming out.’
‘First your guns. Throw them,’ Regan commanded.
‘Of course, of course,’ Purcell said, as if he’d heard that specific order a thousand times before and was getting bored with it.
The Biretta hit and bounced across the floor. Then the FN 303 was thrown out and the door of the safe pushed open. Regan stood up levelling his gun at Purcell. Ewing strolled into view below. Suddenly, as if by some sixth sense, Securcom men were milling into the bank. The one Regan had spoken to was saying something about an unspecified police car that had appeared outside.
Purcell stood there. The ricochet had sliced across the back of his left hand. The wound was bleeding on to the floor but the man didn’t seem to care.
Regan looked from the first American to the other, to Ewing. Ewing standing there, eyes slowly going up and down Purcell, working on some calculation. Was this the time to tell this other American, the cop, that he too was under arrest? Because Regan was going to nail him, was going to arrest him at some point, off his own bat, for the bloody assault and calculated torture of Declan Murray. But no, this was not the time. But the time would be soon enough.
Regan gestured with his gun. Purcell slowly headed up the carpeted stairs. The two cops headed after him. Regan’s expression was inscrutable.
They went out through the confused and bewildered Securcom lot into the street. Ewing took Regan’s arm. ‘I don’t want to hang around. I don’t want to get mixed up with Maynon, Carter. I want some answers before they get their hands on this man. Do me a favour. Leave your driver here to deal with these cops. You, me, Purcell go in my car to an interview room in your nearest police station. Right?’
Regan was already nodding, agreeing. He also wanted Purcell and Ewing alone, just the three of them in an interview room somewhere where he could get straight answers to some complicated questions. He paced over to Len, gave him a twenty second rundown on what had happened, told him to wait for Maynon, Haskins and the others, and deal with a uniformed traffic patrol which had arrived and had exchanged words with the Securcom people and was now approaching Regan. Regan nodded to the two cops. ‘Detective Inspector Regan. He’ll tell you.’ He thumbed towards Len. Then he crossed the road to where Ewing was leading Purcell to the hired Jaguar.
‘Would you drive?’ Ewing asked.
Regan got into the driver’s seat. Ewing indicated for Purcell to get in the back, then he got in the front of the car with Regan. But he sat sideways in the seat, his big Navy Colt covering Purcell through the gap between the front seats.
Regan accelerated the car forward. ‘We can go to West End Central, Cannon Row, or maybe Bow Street is nearer and..’
‘Anywhere,’ Ewing said quietly.
Ten seconds later the car was screaming up Leadenhall Street heading for Aldgate. Ewing suddenly ordered, ‘turn right here.’ He was pointing to the narrow opening of Mitre Street.
‘Why?" Regan asked, puzzled. He had understood the route was his province.
‘Don’t argue. Turn. I’ll explain.’ Ewing’s voice had an urgency in it.
Regan didn’t question further, lurched the car over right, and headed into the side street. There was no movement, traffic or people in the little street. Not one single person, male or female in the tiny street at that hour in the morning. And that was what Ewing was searching for. An empty street with no witnesses.
‘Brake. Stop the car,’ Ewing ordered.
‘Why?’ Regan annoyed and puzzled barked the question back. But he touched the brakes and the car slowed down slightly and steadied.
Ewing lifted the Navy Colt .45 containing his last dumdum bullet, and pointed it straight at the forehead of James Purcell, and blew most of his head off.
They sat and faced each other in Maynon’s office – Maynon, Haskins, and Regan. Regan had entered the office twenty seconds ago. Maynon had waved him to a seat. Regan had sat and waited whilst Maynon got the tobacco into his pipe.
Outside not a sound in t
he corridor, not even the tap of the Squad secretaries’ typewriters. Out there, sixty to seventy detectives and other personnel knew that something important was happening in the Guvnor’s office. And they knew positively that it was not going to be a meeting of words, but a collision.
It took Maynon a long time and a number of matches to get his pipe alight. The worrying thing from Regan’s point of view was that Haskins was saying nothing. At last Maynon looked up and spoke softly. ‘You’re a stupid bastard.’ He shook his head slowly from side to side. He looked at Haskins. ‘Show him.’
Haskins pulled out his wallet and took the typed note out as if it was his own private property instead of an official Scotland Yard Inter Office Memo. He handed it to Regan.
Regan read it, shrugged, handed it back.
‘That’s it in a nutshell. Within three days of Ewing arriving in England, Carter sent that memo to Haskins. Haskins didn’t act on it. That’s not the point. The milk’s spilt. We expect, with your co-operation,’ Maynon said it as if it was an element that was naturally to be relied on, ‘with your co-operation, we sweep the lot under the carpet.’
The Sweeney 01 Page 17
