by Andy McNab
The Grey Man
( Quick Reads )
Andy Mcnab
A STUNNING ACTION THRILLER FROM A REAL–LIFE HERO
Kevin Dodds leads a dull, uneventful life. He has a steady job at the bank, a nice house and car. His wife goes to Bingo on a Saturday night, but he usually stays in to save money.
But Kevin has spent enough quiet nights in watching TV and decides he'd like a night out himself. And he's not talking about a pint and a packet of peanuts down at the local. He's going to attempt to pull off a daring bank robbery single handed.
Kevin is about to take a heart-thumping step into the unknown.
For once, he's going to stop being the grey man…
Andy McNab
The Grey Man
CHAPTER ONE
The Bank, Ipswich
Friday, 3 February 2006, 4.51 p.m.
From his desk Kevin looked through the glass security screen at the three men in long raincoats about to rob the bank. He could see the shapes of their sawn-off shotguns bulging out from under their coats. His heart started to beat faster, almost jumping out of his chest. Why hadn't anyone else noticed?
One robber stood at the credit point. He was going to make sure no one got in or out of the bank's main door once the robbery went down. Another was in the queue for Gary, the only clerk on duty at that time in the afternoon. He would hand a note to Gary that read, 'Put both hands where I can see them and call the manager. If not, you all die.' The third man, the leader, was reading a poster about bank loans. He was close to the security door that led to the staff side of the screen.
Kevin knew what would happen. Gary would call the manager and he would be told to open the security door. The gang leader would burst in and grab the cash while the other two controlled the customers and staff.
The plan was simple, quick and violent. Anyone in their way would get the good news from the business end of the shotguns. They must be on drugs because Kevin couldn't understand why they weren't worried about the cameras, which would already have taped enough film for the police to ID them. But Kevin didn't have time to think about that now. He had to take action. He reached under his desk and felt for the alarm that would alert the local police station.
His hand shook a little as it hovered near the button. From his office he watched Gary say goodbye to Mr Field and start talking to another customer. The robber was next in line.
The second robber, standing at the credit point, headed for the main door. The leader undid his raincoat, ready to draw down his gun before he burst through the security door. Kevin's throat was dry as he moved his hand away from the alarm button. It was too late. The police wouldn't get there in time. Customers' lives were in danger and someone had to save them.
That someone had to be Kevin. Only he could see what was about to happen. He couldn't shout and raise the alarm. The gang might panic and try to shoot their way out. The only way to stop the robbery was to jump the leader before he passed the note to Gary. If Kevin had the leader's gun, he could arrest the robbers himself. If the other two drew down their weapons to take him on, he would just have to shoot it out with them. He felt a little excited at the prospect.
Gary had nearly finished with his customer. The robber was next. Now wasn't the time for thinking. It was the time for doing. Kevin took a deep breath and prepared to take down the three-man crew.
CHAPTER TWO
'Dodds! Wake up. If you stopped dreaming, you might get some work done! You're the laziest man I've ever met.' Albert Symington, the bank manager, was clearly in another bad mood. 'Remember, Dodds, I want that report in first thing on Monday morning.'
Kevin watched Gary greet the robber. Well, actually, it was Greg Jameson who ran the local heel bar. In fact, none of the three robbers were really robbers. And it wasn't only the robbers who were wearing raincoats. Every customer had one on today because it was raining. It had been all day. But that didn't worry Kevin. He liked to day-dream, and play 'what if. He was bored out of his mind at work. He wanted a bit of excitement.
Symington was still yelling at him but Kevin just smiled. He always smiled when his boss yelled. 'The report? I've already done it, Mr Symington.' He pulled it, in its new blue folder, from his desk drawer. 'I finished it today, during lunch.'
'About bloody time too.' Symington snatched it out of Kevin's hand and stormed off to find another victim.
It was a shame his day-dream had been ruined just before the good bit. Kevin wouldn't play action hero today. Never mind, there was always tomorrow. No doubt he would finish his work early then too.
Kevin got up and went over to Gary, who was counting a wad of twenties. 'Got the stapler?'
Gary nodded at it. 'He does like having a go at you, doesn't he, Kev?' He kept his voice down. Nothing wrong with Symington's hearing.
Kevin shrugged as he watched Gary's fingers flick through the notes. 'Yep, but what's new?' He picked up the stapler. Symington didn't only shout at Kevin, he shouted at all four of the staff for being too slow or lazy. It was really Symington who was slow and lazy. He was the only one not doing his job properly. Unless, of course, he was meant to go around and shout at people all day.
Gary slipped a paper band round a thousand pounds' worth of twenties, then started on another wad. He was the only one of them who could count and talk at the same time. 'Don't know why the little shit doesn't leave you alone. You always get the worst of it, and you're doing his job as well as your own.'
Gary didn't even look at the notes as he counted them. Kevin thought he would be better suited to dealing cards in Las Vegas than working in a bank.
'I reckon he's scared you're going to take his job, mate.' Gary often said exactly what Kevin was thinking.
Kevin had worked in this poxy bank for nine years now. Since leaving college, he had slogged his way up the ladder from trainee to deputy manager, and what thanks did he get? He'd saved Symington's arse hundreds of times, but all he ever got was abuse. Symington was great at sucking up to Head Office, but he was crap at running a bank. Even a bank as small as this one. He made The Office's David Brent look like Richard Branson. But instead of answering Symington back, and telling him how crap he was, Kevin kept quiet. For nine years he had held his tongue and covered up Symington's mistakes. He had done it so often, that it had become the norm.
He felt he had no other option. Head Office was always looking to cut costs. If they decided to close a branch, Middle Street, Ipswich, would be the one. There were two larger banks in the city centre, and theirs didn't rake in millions. It also looked old-fashioned. It hadn't had a refit in twenty years and soon it would need money spending on it. But, much as he hated his job, Kevin didn't want the bank to close. He needed his wage, and he didn't want to be sent to a branch on the other side of the country. His wife Linda wanted to stay in Ipswich to be close to her mum, whose health was poor. There never seemed to be any jobs going at the other banks in town, and Ipswich wasn't full of good jobs for guys like him. So he had to stick with what he'd got. So what if he had to save his boss now and then? He liked his three workmates and one day Symington would retire. Then maybe The Bank, Middle Street, Ipswich, would be the hot ticket in town. That was why good old Kevin just smiled and got on with his work when Symington shouted at him. But it was harder and harder to force that smile.
'I know I should tell him where to go, Gary, but I want next Friday off, remember?'
'Yeah, right.' Gary wasn't fooled. They both knew Kevin would never step out of line. 'Planning anything special for the big day?'
'Not really. It's just nice to have the time together. Linda loves that Italian in Morton Street. We go there every year.'
'Dodds!' Symington was back. 'If you're no
t day-dreaming, you're chatting. Get those safe-deposit records updated before you go home. And make me a coffee while you're at it, will you?'
Symington went back to his office and slumped into his leather chair. Even from where he was standing, Kevin could see sweat dripping on to his mad-Major moustache.
CHAPTER THREE
Kevin went to the staff kitchen and filled the kettle. He had already updated those records, so he didn't have any work to do. He liked looking after the safe-deposit boxes down in the basement. He got to see all sorts of wonderful things going into them. He had to step aside while a customer placed their items in their box, but sometimes they asked for help, or they made a show of loading the box with jewellery or money. Often they wanted Kevin to look. Last week, old George Rowlands had brought in a skull. His hands were shaking so much with some illness that he couldn't open his box, so Kevin had had to help him.
Kevin had wondered why George might have made that deposit. He wasn't what you would call a nice man to deal with, so Kevin had come up with some not very nice theories. He had decided that George had murdered his wife, then dug up what was left of her from under the patio. His two sons were planning to build him a lean-to so old George was bringing in her body piece by piece before they started. His deposit box was one of the larger ones. That was because it contained a black box, about the size of a briefcase, in which George kept nearly £100,000 in fifty-pound notes.
George had boasted to Kevin about his cash when he came into the bank one afternoon to pay some money into his current account. He always came in at the same time each month and paid in the same amount — two hundred pounds. He had had quite a lot to drink that day and couldn't stop himself spilling the beans.
Apparently he had cheated the VAT man when he had had his own building firm, and this little nest egg was the result. He had to put it in a deposit box, he said, because if it ever got nicked he wouldn't be able to report it. He was proud to say that he'd never looked inside the money box from the day he had put in the cash. He'd never touched it, and never would. He had more than enough money going into his current account to last him the rest of his life. Not even his wife and two sons knew about the secret stash.
That seemed a shame to Kevin, because George's wife had died of cancer two years ago. Maybe she could have spent it on better care. He had gone to school with George's two sons and had kept in touch with them over the years. He knew that they helped out their dad with any spare cash they had. He wondered if that was where the two hundred pounds came from each month.
It didn't seem right to Kevin that stingy George took money from his kids and never let on that he had all that cash of his own. He was keeping it for a rainy day, he said. And he wasn't going to let anyone else have a penny of it. Certainly not those useless sons of his — the wasters. Kevin knew it was none of his business what George did with his money. His job was to open the first lock on the deposit box for George and that was it.
Kevin took the lid off the jumbo-sized Nescafé jar that was sitting on the table.
When Symington had lost his diary last year, the names of customers who had deposit boxes had been written on the back page. Kevin had been saying for months that they should put the records on to the computer, and so had Head Office, but Symington refused. He didn't do computers, he said.
The day the diary got lost, Kevin had never seen Symington in such a state. He ran round the office like a headless chicken, checking every desk, every filing cabinet, every waste-paper bin. He twirled his moustache, as he always did when he was upset. Kevin would have found it very funny if the bank hadn't been expecting a visit from Head Office that day. They had phoned in the morning to say they were coming down later for a safe-deposit system inspection. Symington was likely to lose his job because the records weren't on the computer.
When the man from Head Office came in, Kevin had lied. He said the computer was down. He had saved Symington's arse again and maybe all of their jobs too. Since then, Kevin had pieced together which deposit box belonged to whom and finally put everyone's name on the computer. Symington had never thanked him. Just like he wouldn't on Monday when Kevin sent off the monthly report as if Symington had done it himself.
Kevin made his boss a cup of coffee. He'd ask for next Friday off now. He couldn't wait to see the smile on Linda's face when he told her he'd swung a long weekend for their wedding anniversary.
He headed for Symington's office, careful not to spill the brew on the carpet. He felt himself tense up. He knew it was stupid to be nervous of the old git, but he couldn't help it. 'Come on, Kevin,' he muttered. 'Think tough. Think mean. Think killer shark. You can do it.' He started to hum the Jaws tune. He felt tough. He felt mean. He was that killer shark.
'Mr Symington, I wonder if—'
The coffee leaped out of Kevin's hands and splashed over Symington's neat pin-striped suit. Symington jumped out of his chair and pulled at his shirt to keep the hot liquid off his skin. 'Can't you even walk past a wastepaper basket?' he roared
'So sorry, Mr Symington. I didn't see—'
'You clumsy oaf. You'll get the dry-cleaning bill on Monday.'
'I'm sorry, I didn't see the bin and I—'
'What is it you want anyway?'
Now Kevin felt less like a killer shark and more like a beached whale. 'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Can't remember.' He stumbled out of Symington's office. At least it was the end of the week and he wouldn't have to see the man until Monday. Maybe he would have calmed down by then and Kevin could have another shot at asking him for next Friday off.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kevin sat on the top deck of the bus, with his briefcase on his lap. He normally sat downstairs because he hadn't far to go. Today he had helped an old lady and she wouldn't stop thanking him so he had come upstairs to escape. He could see the whole of the high street through the rain-stripped windows. Lots of men with briefcases and umbrellas struggled up the hill to the car park. Office girls huddled in the doorway of Boots, smoking.
A woman with a pram tucked a new mop under one arm as she pushed with the other hand. Then she lost her grip on the pram, which started to roll down the hill. She dropped the mop and grabbed the pram. The baby was safe. For a moment, Kevin saw himself as Superman, in red cape and blue tights, smashing the bus window to fly after the runaway pram.
The bus drew away from the stop. He pulled out his phone and texted Linda that he was on his way. This was the best part of the day, going home.
As usual, Symington had been too idle to put in the CCTV videos that recorded the bank overnight. He knew it was a sacking offence but he didn't understand the machines. The bank wasn't insured if the security devices weren't working, but Symington thought he was above the rules. Every night Kevin put new tapes into the machines before the bank closed and replaced them in the morning.
He could hear two women laughing as they climbed up to the top deck. He recognized one of their voices, and turned, slipping his mobile back into his coat pocket.
He hadn't seen Debbie Robinson since he had left school, almost fifteen years ago, but she had hardly changed. She still looked great and he felt shy, like he always had at school with her. She wore a black mini-skirt, biker boots and jacket. Her hair was jet black and punky, and she had the biggest blue eyes he had ever seen. She was chatting with her mate as they walked past him and took the seat in front. She didn't notice him. Just like at school, really.
Her mate's phone rang and she was soon talking about what pub to go to that night. Debs checked her hair in a compact mirror and caught Kevin looking at her in its reflection. She swung round. 'What the fuck d'ya— Hang on, I know you. You're Kevin… Kevin something or other. I remember you from school. You had one of those pogo-stick things, didn't you?'
That was Kevin Logan. I'm Kevin Dodds.'
'Yeah, right.' She thought hard. 'Got it. The podgy one, basin haircut, always in the back row.'
Kevin was sort of pleased she knew who he was, but he was still a l
ittle nervous talking to her. 'So, what are you up to, Debs? Married with kids and a poodle?'
'Married with one kid. No poodle. You remember Dave, don't you? Captain of the football team? But you didn't play football at school, did you?'
Kevin shook his head. 'Er, no. But I knew him.'
Everyone at school had known Dave. He played almost every sport for the school. That made him hated by the boys as much as he was loved by the girls. Worse, he was good-looking, always had money and never got spots.
Debs's mate closed down her phone and listened to the conversation while she shoved salt and vinegar crisps into her mouth. Her crunching was nearly as loud as Debs's voice.
'Well, he's got his own carpet business in Leadenbridge now. Got lots of staff. Doing really well,' Debs went on.
Debs's friend wasn't impressed. She pulled a face. 'Yeah, Dave's doing really well and still just as popular. That's why he's never at home, eh, Debs?'
Debs shot her a look that told her to shut it. She shoved some more crisps into her mouth.
Kevin had played football at school but only with the other kids who never got picked for the team. It wasn't that he was bad at it. He just never looked right. He was a bit plump, as he was now, but it was more than that. All the other kids had the right Adidas shorts, and the right trainers. Kevin's mum always bought him cheap ones from the market. Even at ten, kids could pick out a loser.
Debs was still going on about Dave. 'Anyway, I married him, and we've just moved into the new Bovis estate. We got the show-home up there. It's gorgeous. Three bathrooms. I'm a hairdresser at Cuts To Go in town. What about you?'
'Remember Linda Perry? We've been married seven years now. No kids, and definitely no poodle. I'm the deputy manager at The Bank, the one on Middle Street.'
