‘It’s an LCD, but knock yourself out,’ said Mickey.
Wilson came over with Townsend’s Guinness. He took it, knelt down next to the screen and took a connecting lead from his case.
‘I don’t believe he’s deaf,’ said Mark, putting his feet up on the coffee-table.
‘You always say that,’ said Mickey, sitting next to him on the sofa.
‘Hey, Professor, your wife gave me a blow-job last night but she wouldn’t swallow!’ Mark shouted.
‘Mark!’ protested Mickey.
Mark grinned. ‘What?’ He gestured at Townsend, who was plugging his lead into the side of the television. ‘You said he was deaf. If he’s deaf he can’t hear me so it doesn’t matter.’
‘Don’t be a tosser,’ said Mickey.
‘Why the sense-of-humour failure?’ asked Mark.
‘Because the Professor’s a good guy and I don’t want you taking the piss,’ said Mickey. ‘Where the hell would we be without him? Do you want to sit outside a bank for four weeks with a stopwatch?’
Mark held up his hands. ‘I apologise.’
‘Fine,’ said Mickey.
Mark slid off the sofa, went down on his knees and bowed to his brother. ‘I am so, so sorry,’ he said.
Mickey pointed a warning finger at him. ‘Stop taking the piss,’ he said. ‘Kickboxing or no kickboxing, I can still give you a seeing-to.’
Mark straightened and grinned. Townsend finished connecting his computer to the television and turned. He saw Mark on his knees. ‘Something wrong?’ he said
‘Just my idiot brother fooling around,’ said Mickey.
Yates walked in, unshaven, hair tousled. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Rough night.’ He grinned at Black. ‘Get me a hair of the dog, Davie. Singha.’
‘What’s the magic word?’ asked Black.
‘Now,’ said Yates. ‘Get me a bloody Singha now! Please.’
Black took a bottle from the fridge and tossed it to him. Yates caught it one-handed and sat next to Mark. He gave the bottle to him, Mark bit off the cap and beer sprayed all over him. He spat the cap over the back of the sofa and gave the bottle to Yates. Mickey stared at them in disgust. ‘You two live like pigs,’ he said.
‘That’s what we’ve got maids for, Mickey,’ said Yates, swinging his feet onto the coffee-table and belching.
‘Pigs,’ repeated Mickey. He nodded at Townsend. ‘Ready when you are, Stuart.’
Townsend tapped on his keyboard and a nondescript concrete building filled the screen. There was a sign on a patch of grass in front of it, with the name of the company and the address of its website. ‘I’ve been watching this place for the past two years, on and off,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the biggest cash distributors in the southeast, handles several of the big supermarket chains, collects and delivers to most of the high streets south of the M25.’
He pressed a button on his keyboard. The picture on the screen became a video, hand-held and shot from the front of a car. An armoured van with the company’s logo on the side drove up to a set of large metal gates covered by two CCTV cameras. They rattled back and the armoured van drove inside. Its way was blocked by a second security gate. The outside gate rattled shut. ‘They use the same systems prisons use,’ said Townsend. ‘The main gate opens into a secure area. The internal gate won’t open until the outer gate has closed. The vehicle is checked by a man on duty and by CCTV from the control centre. Both have to give the okay for the van to go any further.’
He tapped on his keyboard. ‘The staff entrance is at the side of the building.’ Another picture filled the plasma screen, of stairs and a ramp leading up to a glass door. It was covered by two CCTV cameras high on the wall. ‘The same double security procedure applies to the staff. The glass there is armoured and it’s opened by the man inside in the secure area, which is also covered by CCTV and monitored by the control centre. The men in the secure area and the control centre both have to authorise admission. But there’s a biometric key, too. There’s an iris scan that has to be approved and has to agree with the data on a biometric card, which is passed through a card reader. So there’s effectively three checks to get in – a visual, an iris scan and a company ID card. If any one of those is off, the secure area can be locked down.’
‘So it’s a tiger job?’ said Mark. ‘We take the family of one of the managers and he walks us in?’ Townsend’s eyes were on the plasma screen so he didn’t react.
‘Let the Professor tell us what he’s got planned,’ said Mickey. ‘That’s what we pay him for.’
‘I hate tiger jobs,’ said Mark, ‘kidnapping wives and kids – they’re unpredictable.’
Townsend turned in time to catch the last few words. ‘Kidnapping isn’t going to work,’ he said. ‘It might get you in through the main door but it won’t get you anywhere near the main cash depot. Access there is controlled by biometric passes and two managers act in concert to open the doors.’
‘Bloody hell, talk about overkill,’ said Black.
‘They’ve learned the hard way what happens if you allow a single manager access to all areas,’ said Townsend. ‘Their depot in Leeds was done five years ago. The deputy manager’s family were taken and he let them in at close of business. Took them for three million quid.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘This place has ten times that so they’re taking no chances. Like I said, access requires duplicate codes and iris scans.’
‘So we do a double, right?’ asked Mark. ‘Take them both.’
Townsend wasn’t looking at Mark so he didn’t answer. He tapped the keyboard again and a second video started, this showing staff reporting for work at the side entrance. ‘The staff have all been issued with phones that have GPS capability so the company knows where its people are twenty-four-seven. And I mean all the staff, not just the drivers. Most of the monitoring is passive – they can go looking for a particular individual if they need to know where he is – but the managers who have the access codes for the high-security areas are actively tracked. If they go to the pub, their bosses know. If there’s any deviation at all from their regular schedule, it’s picked up and investigated.’
He pressed a key on the laptop and the video was replaced by a Google Earth satellite view of the southeast of England. ‘Okay, so here we go,’ said Townsend. He tapped on the keyboard and the camera zoomed in until main roads and larger buildings could be seen. ‘The depot is on an industrial estate close to a dual carriageway that’s ten minutes from the M25. The location was chosen for the ease of making deliveries rather than security. The nearest major cop shop is ten minutes away, and that’s driving flat out. The area is mainly rural so there’s bugger-all chance of running into an armed-response vehicle. There’s another cop shop in the village nearby but it’s not manned all the time. It’ll be empty when we go in.’
Wilson laughed harshly. ‘We?’ he said.
Townsend scowled at Wilson. ‘I like to think I’m part of the team,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well, you can think that, but at the end of the day it’s me and the guys who go in carrying guns while you’re sat at home watching Match of the Day.’
‘Leave it, Barry,’ said Mickey. ‘Go on, Stuart, we’re all ears.’ He winced. ‘Sorry, no offence,’ he added.
Townsend turned back to his laptop and hit another key. Mark grinned his brother and mimed shooting himself in the head. Mickey glared at him. On the screen the depot could clearly be seen, surrounded by a thick wall. They could see the sterile area, where the vans were checked, and a car park beyond the second gate where half a dozen vans were parked in two lines. Three buildings formed a U shape, with the open end facing the main entrance. Townsend walked up to the plasma screen and tapped the building on the right. ‘This is the admin block,’ he said. ‘Every inch of the car park is covered by CCTV, which is monitored in the control room in the heart of the admin block. It’s always manned by at least three employees. They monitor the CCTV cameras, the staff GPS locators and all their vans.’
&
nbsp; ‘How many vans?’ asked Mickey, then realised Townsend wasn’t looking at him. He stood up and went to tap him on the shoulder. ‘How many vans?’ he repeated, when Townsend was facing him.
‘Twenty-six,’ said Townsend. ‘At any one time four are being serviced and they always have at least four in the car park as backups.’
‘Three-man teams in the vans?’
‘Always,’ said Townsend. ‘Two in the cab and a guy in the back. He feeds the cash in and out through the hatchway. But you can forget about the vans. The most we’d get knocking one off is a quarter of a mill.’ He tapped the admin block again as Mickey returned to the sofa. ‘Entrance to the admin block is by biometric scanner again. Only management have access and only then when it’s approved by the control room. Again, it’s a double-door system so if anything goes away the sterile area is locked down. Bomb-proof glass, the works.’ Townsend tapped the building directly opposite the entrance to the depot. ‘This is the main cash-storage area. A steel door pulls back, allowing access to a sterile area. Again, the inner door can only be opened once the outer door has closed. There’s another visual check of the van by an operator on the other side of bomb-proof glass and a cross-check by the control centre via CCTV. The van then drives through into the cash-storage area.’
‘How much cash is in there at any time?’ asked Mark.
Townsend smiled. ‘Upwards of ten million,’ he said. ‘There’s a flow in and out. In from the stores, out to the banks. They try to balance it as much as they can but there are still times when there’s as much as twenty-five million in there.’
Mickey whistled, impressed.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ said Townsend. ‘The cash is at its peak on Sunday night because they’ve filled up from shops over the weekend and they don’t do the first bank delivery until Monday. But with what I’ve got planned, time’s an issue and there won’t be a chance to load twenty-five million into our vehicles. Also, the cash is stored in locked cages and it’ll take time to open each one.’
‘When are you going to tell us what you’ve got planned, Stuart?’ asked Mickey.
‘So you’re interested?’
Mickey wagged a finger at him. ‘What do you want? You want me to suck your dick, Stuart? Of course I’m interested. Now, spill the bloody beans. That place is a fortress, how the hell do we get in?’
‘That’s the problem,’ said Townsend. ‘We really need Terry for this. Or someone with military training.’
‘Terry’s out of commission,’ said Mickey. ‘But we might know a guy who could step in for him.’
Shepherd was in the pool swimming slow laps when his mobile phone rang. He pulled himself out of the water and padded over to it, removing the floppy hat he’d been wearing to protect himself from the fierce afternoon sun. It was Yates. ‘Hi, Chopper, what’s up?’ It had been two days since the Professor had arrived in Pattaya and Shepherd hadn’t called any of the Moores’ gang, not wanting to appear too eager.
‘Just wondering what you’re doing,’ said Yates.
‘Swimming. Are you heading out tonight?’
‘The guys are having a barbecue at the compound,’ said Yates. ‘Come on over. We’ve got a mate here who’s got some land for sale – be perfect for you if you still wanna build your own place.’
Shepherd picked up a towel and wiped his face. ‘What time?’
‘We’re starting now. Come over when you’re ready.’
Shepherd ended the call and went through the french windows into his bedroom. He rang Sharpe and told him where he was going. Sharpe grunted, as if he was in pain. ‘Razor, what are you doing?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Nothing,’ said Sharpe, but Shepherd heard the guilt in his voice.
‘Have you got someone there?’
Sharpe grunted again. Then Shepherd heard a muffled voice, as if Sharpe had put his hand over the phone.
‘What the hell are you doing, Razor?’ asked Shepherd.
‘My back was playing up so I ordered a massage,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘You’re supposed to be watching my back, not arranging to have yours massaged,’ said Shepherd.
‘I am watching your back, but right now you’re in a luxury villa on your way to a barbecue at an even more luxurious villa, while I’m stuck in a hotel room that’s barely big enough to swing a cat, listening to God knows what going on in the room above me. So, forgive me if occasionally I pay for something to help me relax.’
‘If Charlie finds out you’ve been having hookers in your room, there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘First of all, she’s a masseuse, not a hooker. And, second, how’s Charlie going to find out?’
‘I give up,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s no talking to you sometimes.’
‘You know what your problem is?’ said Sharpe. A shower kicked into life and the phone was muffled again as Sharpe spoke to whoever was in his bathroom.
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘You need to get laid,’ said Sharpe.
‘Screw you,’ said Shepherd.
‘You see, that’s where you’re going wrong,’ said Sharpe. ‘You’re in a town with more hookers per square foot than anywhere else in the world, but you’re the only red-blooded male here who’s not partaking of what’s on offer.’
‘Because I’m here to work, not to screw around.’
‘You’re not working all the time,’ said Sharpe. ‘You’re entitled to some time for yourself.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m under cover twenty-four hours a day. That’s how it works.’
‘Exactly,’ said Sharpe. ‘You’re under cover as Ricky Knight, a bank robber on the run in the sex capital of the world. Knight would be taking full advantage of what’s on offer, so by not dipping your wick you’re out of character. You’re putting the operation at risk by clinging to your virginity.’
‘I’m hardly a virgin.’
‘In Pattaya you are, and if the Brothers Grim realise it, they’ll smell a rat.’
In the space of less than a minute, Sharpe had managed to spin the conversation around and now he was making it sound as if Shepherd was the one in the wrong. And the hell of it was that his argument was convincing. ‘I’m leaving,’ he said. ‘I’ll phone you when I get back.’
‘I’ll be counting the minutes,’ said Sharpe.
Shepherd ended the call. He’d forgotten to tell Sharpe that Charlie had said he could move into a better hotel. He considered calling him back, then thought better of it. It would serve him right to stay where he was for a while.
The red and white pole stayed down as Shepherd drove up to the compound entrance in his Jeep. One of the two guards walked over, holding a clipboard, and Shepherd wound down the window. ‘ID card,’ said the guard. It wasn’t one of the men who had been on the gate the first time Shepherd had visited.
Shepherd frowned. ‘I don’t have one.’
‘Passport? Driving licence?’ The guard had the world-weary look of policemen everywhere, and a Glock holstered on his hip.
Shepherd took his John Westlake passport from his pocket and showed it to the guard. He checked the name against a list on his clipboard and Shepherd’s face against the photograph on the licence, then nodded curtly and handed it back. He spoke to his colleague and the second guard raised the pole. Both men saluted as Shepherd drove through the gate.
Yates was waiting for him at the top of the stairs leading to the main building, wearing an oversized shirt, covered with different-coloured elephants, and baggy shorts. ‘We’re in the bar,’ he said. ‘Come on through.’
Shepherd jogged up the stairs. Yates clapped him on the back and ushered him through the hall. ‘How many people are coming?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Lots,’ said Yates. They walked by the chill-out room. There was no sound, no buzz of conversation, no clink of glasses, no sign of any sort of party in progress. Shepherd slowed but Yates put a hand in the small of his back, pushi
ng him forward. ‘Mickey’s going to be doing the cooking and he’s a magician with the old charcoal,’ said Yates. Shepherd knew that Yates was talking to cover his nerves. Something was wrong, very wrong, and it was too late for Shepherd to do anything about it. ‘He had the steaks flown in from Australia, no expense spared,’ continued Yates. Shepherd heard the tension in his voice.
They walked into the bar. Mickey and Mark were standing in the middle of the room with their hands on their hips, wearing Nike tracksuits; Mickey’s was red and Mark’s was blue. Wilson was by the pool table, holding a cue in both hands. Black was sitting on a bar stool but slid off it as Yates closed the door to the bar.
‘What’s up, guys?’ asked Shepherd. He heard the uncertainty in his voice but forced himself to smile as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
‘Don’t give me that, you slag,’ said Mickey, walking towards him with his fists bunched. ‘We know what you’re up to.’
Shepherd stared at him unflinchingly. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Did you think you’d get away with it?’ said Mickey, his face just inches from Shepherd’s. ‘Did you think you could pull the wool over our eyes like we were born fucking yesterday?’
‘Mickey, what the hell is wrong?’
Mickey jabbed his finger at Shepherd’s nose. ‘Don’t you “Mickey” me, you lying slag.’
‘Let me sort him out, Mickey,’ said Mark. He grabbed the pool cue from Wilson and strode towards Shepherd, swinging it from side to side. ‘We know who you are,’ said Mark. ‘And we don’t like slags who take the piss.’
Shepherd’s pulse raced but he fought to keep his voice steady. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
Mark pointed the cue at Shepherd’s face. ‘You slag,’ he hissed.
‘Don’t hit him here,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ll never get the blood out of the floors. Take him outside, do it on the patio.’
‘Up,’ said Mark, gesturing at Shepherd with the pool cue. Wilson had picked up a second cue and was holding it like a club.
‘I don’t know what you guys have been taking, but you’re making a big mistake.’
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