“Those words are pure music.”
He opened the sitting room door and switched on two of the standard lamps, then left Young and went along to the kitchen. He uncapped a couple of bottles of lager, carried glasses and bottles along to the sitting room.
“First today,” said Young, “and ten times welcome for it.” He drank eagerly. “Now I feel more human, I’ll tell you what the trouble is.” He opened the plastic bag and brought out of it the deposit and withdrawal book. “Take a gander at that, will you, and tell me if anything about it strikes you as odd.”
Very conscious that he must appear to do everything naturally — an inhibiting necessity — Steen opened the book and leafed through it. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Try the end page with entries.”
How soon should he draw attention to that last entry?
“Which of the entries are in your writing?”
He counted them. “Seven deposits and two withdrawals.”
“Can you say who handled the other three movements?”
“George Abrahams did two of them — not that you’d believe those could be his initials.”
“And the third?”
Steen studied it. “Frankly, I don’t know.”
“Shouldn’t you?”
“In theory, yes: in practice I’m often too busy to cope and one of the other staff handles the deposit or withdrawal. This must be someone who hasn’t done it before.” He paused, then said: “When I think about it, that really is odd. I handled the penultimate deposit and it was pretty late on Tuesday afternoon.”
“How late?”
“Within a few minutes of shutting up shop to the public… Yet according to this there was another deposit after that one.” He looked up and frowned. “I didn’t see anyone with a suitcase on my way up from the strong-room and certainly no one made a deposit after I returned to my desk.”
“Perhaps you were too busy to notice for certain?”
“I don’t think so. For a Tuesday, we were slack. No, I’d have said there definitely wasn’t a deposit after the one I handled. And yet…” He looked down at the book once more.
“It’s a pity you didn’t notice that much earlier in the day,” said Young.
*
The reporters picked up the story on Saturday and it was printed in the Sunday papers.
Thomas, because he was on remand, was allowed to buy whatever papers he wanted and he read the story in the Sunday Express. Three hundred thousand altogether, slipped out from under the noses of the splits. It’d make a dying cat laugh. He began to calculate what his share would be, allowing that all Drude had taken with him would go on expenses.
Chapter 10
July brought a sharp change of weather: days became cloudy and by the fourth the sky was darkly overcast and the air smelled damp.
Drude walked into the solicitor’s office and winked at the receptionist. “Is his nibs in?” he asked.
“I’ll see if Mr Smith is available,” she said. As she pressed down the call switch on the small inter-office telephone exchange, she noted the smart way the coat sat on his broad shoulders: that had never seen the inside of a multiple tailors. She spoke to Smith’s personal secretary, then said, “He’s free just for a moment. Do you know the way?”
“Sure.” He winked at her again, opened the door marked ‘Private’, and went along the short corridor to the office.
Smith was tall and thin and he had a patrician featured head which was topped by grey hair. His appearance suggested a character so upright as not fully to understand and sympathise with the more outrageous foibles of a few of his clients. Once upon a time, his appearance would not have been a liar.
Drude spoke brashly. “You’ve got to get another remand at the next hearing.”
Smith stared out through the window. Regretfully, he still suffered from just enough pride — it was difficult to know why — to be angered by Drude’s attitude. But he could not afford prideful anger. He said quietly: “It’s not going to be easy: the police naturally want a quick trial. I’ll do my best, but if they…”
“Balls to that. You just get a further remand.”
He wondered why they wanted to prolong things when they’d been caught red-handed so that there was no feasible defence open to them and their only real hope must be to try for a lesser sentence than armed robbery and hostage taking usually received?
*
The justices of the peace, chaired by a retired county councillor, were far too intent on maintaining the majesty of their position to wonder why the defence solicitor was obviously so passionately eager to gain a further remand. And thus, when the police forcefully argued that the defence had had plenty of time to prepare their case — what case? — the J.P.s allowed the remand order to show everyone that they, and not the police, were in charge of events.
*
During the day the strong-room was, of necessity always open and the huge circular door with its locking lugs withdrawn was kept swung right back. Since there was only one way of reaching it, down the stairs in the basement, no one could get to it without being observed by other members of the staff — especially since Miss Tucker worked at the nearest point to the doorway at the end of the open passage.
Steen walked towards the doorway and smiled at Miss Tucker. In return, she gave him a toothy smile in which there was little warmth: wrongly, she bracketed him with Gaitshead.
He went down the stairs. Deeding was inside the strong-room, searching through the drawers of one of the filing cabinets and he looked up. “Hey, Bill, have you seen the Walters papers? The old man’s screaming his head off for ’em. I could’ve sworn they were here.”
He stepped over the circular sill. “I haven’t seen ’em for weeks.”
“Well, he’s not going to get them today, that’s for sure.” Deeding looked at his watch.
“Aren’t you going to offer to stay on to search every last nook and cranny?”
“That’s a dirty joke.” Deeding slammed shut the drawer of the filing cabinet. “I suppose now I’ll have to slide out without him seeing me or I’ll get one of his interminable lectures on how things used to be in his day when the staff was keen and loyal.”
“And naught was heard but the scratching of quill pens.”
Deeding grinned. “Think how peaceful it must have been with no computers to snarl up everything! …That’s that, then, no Walters papers today.” He walked over to the circular doorway. “See you tomorrow — provided I don’t drop down dead in the meantime.” He left.
Steen entered the valuables compartment and looked at his watch again. The tellers would be down in five minutes with their cash floats and other staff would bring the confidential files which had been used during the day. He looked through the shelf area to make certain the strong-room remained empty, even though it must have since he’d have heard anyone who came down the stairs, then he took a key from his coat pocket and unlocked the suitcase marked T. Edey. He stared at the mass of bank notes and felt awe and fear.
He’d made for himself — based on what presumably the escaped bank robber had worn — a cotton money belt with four pockets. He was wearing it and he unbuttoned his shirt, reached down with his right hand, unhooked the belt and withdrew it. He filled one pocket with ten pound and three with five pound notes.
Replacing tire money belt when it was filled was, he discovered, far from the easy job practice had suggested it would be. The belt kept ruckling and the pockets collapsed back on each other. In the end he had to undo his trousers, pull up his shirt, and tie the belt around his waist. He had just secured it and was reaching down to pull up his trousers when he heard the clump of heavy footsteps beginning to descend the stairs, followed by the booming voice of Gaitshead.
He suffered a panic which seemed to freeze his limbs. Then he managed to regain some self-control, went to draw up his trousers and realised the open suitcase was far less easily explained and shut that first. He pul
led up his trousers, zipped them, buttoned up his shirt and was astonished to discover that he had been able to do all this before the leading man, Gaitshead, had reached the foot of the stairs. There was still time for him to lock the suitcase.
“I’m telling you,” said Gaitshead loudly, as he stepped down on to the basement floor, “she’s the neatest, tastiest bit of crackling this side of paradise. And is her old man loaded!”
“It’s never advisable to marry for money,” said Cantor, who was peculiarly adept at saying something trite with the utmost sincerity.
“But don’t run away too hard if ever you find it, eh?” Gaitshead stepped over the sill but caught his foot, making him have to hop to keep his balance. He swore.
Steen looked down at his waist and checked it didn’t bulge. He called out: “What you need is a brewer’s daughter.”
“So you’re down here, are you? Slacking again. Some bloke’s make life easy for themselves, that’s for sure.”
Steen stepped through the gap. “Just think of the advantages — free beer for the rest of your life.”
“Sure. But what if it’s a brand I don’t like? Anyway, the only brewer’s daughter I’ve ever met looked like one of their dray horses.”
“You’ll never get everything, so decide on your priorities.”
They heard the sound of other people descending and Gaitshead and Cantor began to put away the files they were carrying. Four women, carrying the black metal boxes in which they kept their cash floats, came down into the strong-room.
Steen and Gaitshead left ahead of the others and as they reached the top of the stairs they met Wraight and the chief cashier who were on their way below to close the strong-room and set the time lock.
“Is everything in order?” asked Wraight briskly.
“All’s tickettyboo,” replied Gaitshead.
Wraight stared briefly at him with obvious disfavour, then carried on and downstairs.
“No sense of humour,” said Gaitshead, when certain Wraight couldn’t hear him.
“Would you have much left if your bank had been robbed of three hundred thousand quid?” asked Cantor, who’d come up behind them.
“I wouldn’t give a hoot what was missing just so long as none of my personal cash was involved. Why should the old man get his knickers in a twist over it? It’s all insured.”
They separated. Gaitshead went into the men’s cloakroom, Cantor threaded his way through the open offices to his own, and Steen turned off into his. He checked that, apart from the voluminous collection of ever-changing Bank of England regulations on currency export, the working surface was clear, leaned over to open the cupboard to the right of the typewriter well to make certain Miss Beard had taken all travellers’ cheques and foreign currency down to the strong-room. He straightened up and patted his stomach and wondered whether to have his coat buttoned up or unbuttoned.
Wraight returned from the strong-room. He stood in front of his office, visually checked that everything was in order, then said: “Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Parade dismissed,” murmured Gaitshead predictably.
The staff hurried to leave and Steen, careful to be caught up in the main crush, passed through the doorways and out on to the pavement. He said good night to Miss Beard — young, pretty, and efficient — and crossed to the island. It had all, he thought worriedly, been too easy. He’d walked out of the bank with several thousands of pounds and no one had even looked at him with doubt, let alone suspicion. The traffic eased and he continued over to the pavement… It was ridiculous to be worried because it had been so easy — who was to suspect, when the police and the staff believed the money had left the bank over a fortnight ago?
When he arrived at Tudor Cottage, Penelope was working in the garden and she came across the lawn to meet him at the gate. “Hullo, darling, have you had a good day?”
“It’s been no worse than usual.” He smiled as he studied her. Colour had returned to her face and the lines of pain and worry had gone. If only, he thought wistfully, he could take her away now… But he had to play things slowly if he were to be able to play them through to the end so that she never learned the truth.
“Bill, why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what? Lecherous or hungry?”
“No, not for once. It was as if… As if you weren’t certain of something and that something wasn’t very nice.”
“Just to show you how inaccurate a face reader you are, I was wondering what’s for supper.”
“Yes? …I’ve made an egg and bacon pie and picked the first of the lettuces for a salad.” She spoke doubtfully. “It’s not a very big lettuce. I don’t seem to be able to grow them to any size.”
“Never mind, I’ll bet it’s twice as sweet as a shop one… If you don’t mind, I thought I’d go up and paint a bit?”
“Of course I don’t mind. As supper’s cold, we can have it when you’ve finished.”
“I shan’t be very long, but I have an idea which I want to try out.”
She accompanied him into the house, showed him the lettuce, then said she was going to watch a programme on television. He went upstairs and along to the bedroom which officially was his ‘studio’.
He undid his trousers, removed the cotton money belt and took from this the four bundles of notes. He crossed to the bookcase against the far wall, which was cupboard space up to two feet high, and opened the right-hand cupboard. Inside was a jumble of sketch books, paint, rags, and bottles. He hid the bank notes in the corner and carefully arranged sketch books over them. Penelope would never inadvertently find the money there. She was a practical and down-to-earth person, yet she viewed his ability as an artist not only in a highly flattering light but also, curiously, with some awe and in consequence she never came into the studio to tidy it up for fear of moving something which might in some way affect his ‘inspiration’.
He shut the cupboard door, then crossed to the easel on which was a fresh canvas. He picked up a stick of charcoal and wondered what to sketch in to further his story of having had an idea? …And suddenly he had an idea, only it was to do with a way of ensuring he had an accountable income when they were living in Mallorca.
*
Together with all the other jails in the country, Mimblesham Jail had had its security strengthened over the past few years. There were now additional watch towers ensuring that every section of the surrounding fifteen-foot brick wall was under constant watch, the incurving four-stranded barbed-wire fence on top of the wall had been electrified, the floodlighting went right round, two workshops which had been set against an outside wall had been demolished, and a constant patrol with dogs outside the walls was maintained. Built nearly eighty years before in what had then been a rural setting on the outskirts of the town it was now surrounded by houses and the occupants of these houses were encouraged to report anything suspicious, such as a parked car in which the occupants sat for any length of time.
Venables planned the break with imagination, attention to the smallest detail, and complete disregard of the consequences to others. Timing was vital and here they were lucky because two roads away was the parish church of St Joseph: the church clock struck a carillon every hour. H-hour was fixed for five o’clock in the afternoon and the moment of go was to be marked by the end of the carillon and the first stroke of five. At that time Thomas, Chase, Brent, and Jenkins, would be down in the exercise yard on the north side, along with other men on remand.
The necessary cars were stolen early Friday morning. They chose large, powerful cars, but not Jaguars because these were used so often in jobs that there tended to be a question mark over any Jaguar seen near a point of security danger. Two of the cars were driven to Mimblesham and parked in a side road, two more were parked in Cheddington, the next town south to Mimblesham. This offered them a double change-over, greatly lessening the odds of the police’s being able to trail them through eye-witnesses’ evidence. Of the remaining cars, two were fi
tted with un-primed fire bombs and the boot of the third was loaded with TXL, a plastic explosive with many times the power of dynamite yet completely harmless unless armed with a detonator.
The last three cars left just after midday and they drove due south for three hours, after which they cut east across country and arrived at Mimblesham at four-thirty. They stopped in a large open carpark, just behind a new shopping centre, and Venables, who drove the lead Ford, under cover of rearranging the luggage in the boot, inserted a detonator in the TXL explosive and coupled this up to a battery and small radio receiver. Halliwell, who sat in the rear seat of the Ford and kept tight hold of an Alsatian bitch, was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he now sat in front of an armed bomb.
They drove out of the carpark at ten to five, Venables taking the Ford west, the Vauxhall and the Rover going south. The Ford entered Minters Lane at three minutes to five. Venables slowed, braked, and peered at the numbers of the houses as if searching for one particular one until Halliwell’s croaky voice said that there were only ninety seconds to go. He changed up, increased speed, and went round the corner into Rowley Avenue to come in sight of the prison.
A security guard, his Alsatian dog on a leash by his side, had just entered the road from the far end. Venables braked, to bring the car to a halt against the pavement on the left-hand side. Halliwell opened his off-side door and gave the Alsatian bitch a hard push.
The bitch was on heat and when she saw the dog she ran forward. Venables shouted, drew out from the pavement and began to give chase in the car, swerving over to the right-hand side of the road. He pulled up by the wall as the bitch reached the dog. The dog handler, faced with the suddenly triggered desires of his dog, had time only to shout once to get the car to move away from the wall before he was pulling madly at the leash to try to separate the animals.
In the nearest watch tower, a warden saw the two men run from the car towards the guard and the dogs and he laughed, amused by the sudden turmoil and sensing no danger in it. When he saw the two reach the guard and all three of them dump together he merely assumed, because of what had happened, that the two dogs had between them knocked all three together. He even saw the guard collapse to the ground without taking alarm — indeed, when the dog mounted the bitch he thought it so amusing that he picked up the telephone to speak to the switchboard operator and share the joke.
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