by Roland Moore
He knew that Amos was greedy. He knew that the gangster could make five hundred pounds selling all that sirloin. Slowly Amos’s hand went to his pocket. He pulled out a wad of bank notes. He counted out one hundred pounds and held it out in his jewel-encrusted paw.
“You’d better be there, otherwise I’ll turn London upside down,” Amos growled.
Vince reassured Amos that he would be: he wanted the rest of the money, after all. He tucked the notes into the inside pocket of his cheap jacket and said thanks, before turning on his heels and walking away. It was the longest walk of Vince’s life: with each step he was fearful that Amos would change his mind or he’d rumble the con and Moustache Man would whack him on the back of the head.
But Vince made it out of the warehouse and found himself in the cool rain of the alley. He glanced up as he walked so the water could cool his hot, tired eyes. And then he strode away as quickly as he could. He had half the money. Now to con the rest.
One hour later, Glory was waiting in an ambulance on Barnes Common. She’d killed the lights and was listening for any sound in the semi-darkness. The moon provided some illumination but she couldn’t see much. Shadows were all around and soon Glory imagined danger in every one of them. Any sound startled her, from the cawing of a crow somewhere in the trees to the whistle of a man seeking his dog. Her hands were clammy so she rubbed them dry on her dress. Swallowing hard, she started to hum a tune – ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ – to pass the time and to distract herself from the horror stories playing out in her mind.
She was wearing her best jacket and her white blouse. As always, the cloche hat sat incongruously on her head.
Suddenly, there was a tap on the window. Glory jumped out of her skin. But it was only Vince. He opened the door and whispered to her in an urgent voice, worried that someone might be in the dark listening.
He told her that he’d got one hundred pounds in his pocket and that Amos was on his way to complete the deal. Glory was nervous. She pleaded that they should quit while they were ahead. Take the hundred and scarper. It was a lot of money and they could get a long way away with it.
“Gotta keep your nerve,” Vince said. “In twenty minutes, we can double it. And then we’ll be gone. Promise.”
Glory looked unsure, scared. At this moment, the already young-looking seventeen-year-old looked about twelve – a nervous and petrified child with a ridiculous hat. Vince patted the back of her hand where her fingers were clenched tightly to the steering wheel.
“Think of your cottage,” Vince pleaded, playing her. “Hold your nerve, yeah?”
Glory hoped he was right. She wished she could be anywhere else. It was so easy how this had happened – so easy how trouble could find you if you made the wrong decision; took a path of least resistance because that’s what the charming man in your life told you was best.
Vince went to the back of the ambulance and unlatched the back doors. The inside had been modified and instead of a bed and hospital supplies, the back was full of wooden crates. Vince moved the topmost crate nearer and opened the wooden lid. Inside were twenty greaseproof packages nestled in straw. Vince opened a greaseproof pack and looked at the succulent red steak within. Glistening in the moonlight, it looked wet with blood. Satisfied, he wrapped it up and put it back in the box.
The scam would work because of the fifty or so wooden crates; this was the only one that contained any steak. The other identical boxes were weighted with straw and wood to make them feel as if they contained steak as well. When Amos got here, it was crucial that he opened and inspected this one box. If he picked any other, then he would immediately realise that Vince was trying to con him. And the consequences would be severe. It wouldn’t only be the steak that was covered in blood.
Glory had asked him, when she was pacing around his bedsit, wearing a furrow in the already threadbare carpet, how he would ensure that Amos Ackley opened the right box. How could he do that when there was only a one in fifty chance? Vince had smiled a reassuring grin. “Magic,” he’d said. And with that he produced – with a magician-like flourish – a hair grip from behind his hand. As if on cue, a strand of Glory’s hair fell down over her face. She was impressed with the trick, but it didn’t relieve her of the knot of cold fear in her stomach. It was all very well making your friend laugh in the comfort of your own room, but a different matter when you so much relied on getting it right, in the middle of a common in the dead of night.
So how would Vince ensure that Amos would open the box?
With ten minutes to go, Vince wished Glory luck. He told her that if anything went wrong she should run for it and save herself. There would be no point in them both being killed. Glory hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She shook Vince’s hand. He looked at her young and innocent face and smiled. Did he feel a pang of guilt for involving her in this crazy scam? “See you, Glory.”
“See you, Vince,” she said.
Vince kissed her on the cheek.
And then Glory walked off into the night.
Now Vince had been right. The plan would involve magic, or rather the magician’s trick of misdirecting an audience. You want a person to pick a certain card? You misdirect them. You want a person to lift a particular cup where you haven’t hidden the bean? You misdirect them. Vince knew that Amos would want to see the back of the ambulance. Naturally, he would want to inspect the merchandise he was buying. The thing was, instead of a van full of meat, Vince had one box which contained meat. When Amos came to inspect the merchandise, he wouldn’t be very impressed if Vince chose the box, opened it and showed him the contents. He’d smell a rat. No, so the trick would be to make Amos think he had free rein in his choice of box and then to switch the chosen box for the only one that contained any meat. But how?
Misdirection.
That’s where the fact that all the boxes looked identical came into play. Vince would ask Amos if he wanted to see the stock. Amos would pick a box at random. Vince would get the selected box from the van. On the outside it would look like the box that actually contained the meat and it would even weigh the same, thanks to the weight of wood inside it. But before they could open it, a carefully timed distraction would occur.
Misdirection.
Identical boxes.
Glory, hiding in the dark, would provide this distraction by blowing a policeman’s whistle. She had to do it at the perfect time – when Vince had removed the box selected by Amos from the ambulance, but before Amos opened it. During this distraction, Vince would switch the boxes, for the one underneath the ambulance. The one that contained the meat. And then Amos would open the staged box, see the meat and be satisfied. Then he’d hand over the other one hundred pounds.
That was the plan.
Simple.
Glory’s house in the country and Vince’s life as a club owner depended on it.
At five minutes ahead of schedule, Amos Ackley appeared behind the van. Moustache Man, Eyebrows and two other men were with him. The men were jittery, moving their feet around in nervous agitation. In the distance, Vince could see the lights of the butcher’s van parked up, engine running, the exhaust pushing out white smoke in soft clouds over the dewy grass. Vince couldn’t be certain if more men were in the van. Could there be more thugs inside? It was a risk. There might be more people watching who might not take their eyes off him when the police whistle went off. Misdirection was all well and good, but you had to control where people were looking. Vince suddenly felt like running away.
“In here, is it?” Amos had an air of suspicion; the brusqueness of a man who wanted to get this over with. Vince had to tell himself that men like Amos always had an air of suspicion. It didn’t mean they actually suspected anything was wrong, just that they were open to the idea that it might be. That’s how they operated. Suspicion at all times. Trust no one.
“Yeah. It’s all there,” Vince said, indicating with as much nonchalance as he could muster, for Amos to take a look.
Amos stepped back
and Moustache Man opened the doors of the ambulance.
Row upon row of wooden boxes stood in front of them. Each crate was marked with a stencil saying “Property of US Military”.
Amos smiled. “Looks good. Let’s see inside.”
“Yeah. Choose whichever one you like,” Vince said, knowing that the only box he wanted them to look inside was the one hidden underneath the tail gate of the ambulance.
“One?” Amos laughed. “For two hundred quid, I might open them all.”
The others laughed. Vince felt his throat closing up. He knew he had to laugh as well and somehow he heard a small nervous giggle emerge from his lips. He hadn’t thought about this possibility. Why hadn’t he?
“Eeny meeny miney mo – that one,” Amos said, pointing a stubby, ringed finger to a crate two down from the top.
Moustache Man obediently started to remove the crates above it. Vince watched as they were placed on the ground. He still needed to get to the full crate and he was hoping, with all his soul, that Moustache Man wouldn’t block his access with the stack he was building.
Vince felt the plan slipping away from him.
Finally, Moustache Man reached the chosen crate and put it on the ground.
With no fanfare, Amos indicated for him to open it.
Moustache Man removed a small crowbar from his pocket and pushed the end under the wooden lid. But as he reached down, Vince leaned against the door of the van. It was the signal for Glory to cause the distraction.
Moustache Man started to prise the wooden lid off the crate, his black two-tone shoe pressed on top to get some leverage with his jemmy. In the deathless quiet, Vince heard the creak of the leather in his shoe as he strained.
Vince started to bite his lip. Come on, Glory.
The plan was falling apart.
Suddenly, a police whistle sounded in the night. Peep!
“Bloody hell,” Amos snapped. “Sort that out.” One of his men ran forward to the sound of the noise – while Amos and Eyebrows peered out into the gloom to see if they could spot how many coppers were out there. They didn’t seem overly alarmed.
They didn’t seem overly – misdirected.
Peep! Peep! Peep!
But to Vince’s horror, Moustache Man stood still and didn’t move. Moustache Man waited, with his foot still on the partially opened crate.
There was no way that Vince could do the switch!
The plan wasn’t going to work!
He glanced into the distance, where the dispatched gangster was running to the trees. He was yelling, “Hey, you there!” He was going to catch Glory – the girl to whom Vince had promised everything would be all right. The girl he’d promised could get her dream cottage.
Vince knew that the situation was going badly wrong. There was only one thing for it. There had to be a plan B. Vince had to go on the attack. He had to pull the focus back from Glory and onto himself, if either of them had a hope in hell of escaping.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Glory being dragged out of the trees by the gangster. She stumbled into the grass and was roughly yanked back up on her feet. Amos was shouting that he couldn’t understand why a girl was blowing a police whistle. And then he recognised her and everything fell into place.
“Gloria,” he said, anger rising in his voice.
Vince had to act fast. He grabbed the crowbar out of Moustache Man’s hand and brought it up hard under the man’s chin. The gangster slumped unconscious across the box. Vince turned menacingly to Amos, waving the crowbar at him.
“Give me the money. And you let us go,” Vince shouted.
The other gangster slowed, taking in the developments as he returned, dragging Glory from the trees. He waited for his boss to tell him what to do. On the ground, a disorientated Moustache Man was nursing a broken jaw.
“I’ve got your girl,” Amos growled.
Glory looked more wide-eyed than ever. Her cloche hat was askew on her head. Vince felt a pang of guilt. She shouldn’t be mixed up in all this. But it was her who apologised. “Sorry, Vince,” she said in a small, wavering voice. That nearly tipped Vince over the edge. He’d failed her and now they were both going to die.
“They were going wrong anyway,” Vince said, offering a small smile, before turning his attention back to Amos Ackley.
“The money and you let us go.”
“What if I get my man to kill Glory?”
“Then I’ll kill you,” Vince said softly, his eyes had narrowed and he was strangely calm, as if he’d entered some sort of meditative state.
Amos smiled, as if he thrived on this sort of adrenaline rush. He loved a good stand-off, whether it was in a game of poker or standing in the dark on Barnes Common. Who would blink first? The stakes were high – life and death. Amos knew that either way someone would die in the next few minutes. He loved that. His heart was pumping and he felt more alive than he had in weeks. He relished the challenge.
Vince seemed to be relishing it too. Even if it was mostly bravado. A need to save Glory.
But then Amos changed everything. He gave a signal to the thug holding Glory.
The man sprang open a long flick knife from out of his left hand. Where did that come from? Now that’s a magic trick, thought Vince grimly. Glory was trying to pull away, but the thug pushed her onto the ground.
“Let her go.”
Amos shook his head, coal-black eyes boring into Vince.
Glory looked scared. The thug was gripping her arm above the elbow. A tight grip from a meaty fist. She glanced at Vince for guidance. What did he want her to do? Would it help if she screamed to cause a distraction or something? Or if she struggled?
Vince gripped the crowbar. He glanced from her and then back to Amos, staring intently – both men determined to break the other’s nerve.
It was a stalemate.
But it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
Chapter 6
As dawn added a purple tinge to the retreating night sky, the ambulance slowed to a juddering halt. The petrol tank finally empty with even the fumes that had sustained the last few miles gone. As the engine clattered to a bone-dry, choking standstill, the driver managed to use the last of the vehicle’s momentum to tuck it onto a long-grassed verge. At the wheel, Vince winced as he wrapped the makeshift bandage tighter around his injured right hand. It had been bleeding badly, and it was only now that he noticed that the steering wheel was slick with redness. But it was a small price to pay for his escape. He staggered out from the cab, a gun butt sticking out from the belt of his trousers, and found his legs as he scanned his surroundings. It seemed to be the edge of a village: a fork in the road by some picture-postcard idyll of sleepiness. The place was called Thatchford Green, but the name meant nothing to Vince. He was simply relieved to be as far away from London as possible.
Walking along the road as the darkness finally lost its cyclical battle with day, Vince found himself in the village. He glanced up the main street and saw a pub. It was four in the morning, but maybe they would have a room for him to sleep things off.
He straightened his jacket, buttoning it to hide the gun and made his way towards the pub, bracing himself as he rapped on the door. After a moment, a bedroom light switched on above his head.
As Vince waited for a response, he noticed a newspaper vending stall next to the pub. The headline behind the mesh caught his eye.
“Courageous Connie Carter Saves Day”.
Vince was surprised. He knew that name.
It couldn’t be the same girl, could it? Vince plucked a newspaper from the pile behind the stall and leafed through it in disbelief. He was so engrossed, he didn’t hear the angry voice of the pub landlord behind him. He didn’t see the man standing in his vest and pyjama bottoms.
There was a photograph of Connie Carter and Margaret Sawyer on page three. He stared at the face of Connie Carter: her familiar smile. Her full lips. Bleeding hell, it was the same girl! He couldn’t believe it. As he tried to make
sense of it, Vince picked out a jumble of salient words as he scanned the page: train crash, vicar’s wife, Helmstead.
Vicar’s wife? What the hell? Was this some sort of joke?
“’Ere, I’m talking to you.”
Vince finally realised that the landlord had appeared and was giving him daggers. Vince flashed his best approximation of a charismatic smile. It wasn’t something that came naturally.
“Got any rooms?”
“Not for your sort,” the landlord growled, spotting Vince’s makeshift bandage and bleeding hand. This along with his sharp suit and dark demeanour, meant he had trouble written on him as clearly as words through a stick of rock.
Vince smiled.
“Just one question, then, and I’ll be on my way, yeah?”
The landlord pulled a face. He wasn’t about to serve alcohol at this time in the morning. Not to this fellow. But the question wasn’t about getting a crafty whisky or a breakfast pint.
“How far am I from Helmstead?” asked Vince.
A wailing scream came from elsewhere in the large house.
Connie ignored it. Hard as it was to listen to, she was used to the unpleasant background noise. One of the downsides of working in a hospital. Instead she got on with her work and pulled the white sheet taut. The tucked end came loose from the other side of the bed. Just as she got one end sorted, the other would always do this. Connie thought it was some sort of secret test to see how long it would take her to swear. But since Hoxley Manor’s East Wing had been turned into a makeshift ward for the sick and injured, this was a regular part of her work when she wasn’t toiling in the fields. Digging ditches and trying to get sheets to stay on beds. That made up her whole life, it seemed sometimes.
Joyce came over and pulled the other side of the sheet taut. Connie tucked it in and smiled thanks.
“Dr Channing said we can finish when we’ve made the beds,” Joyce said.
This made Connie smile even more. With three more beds to make, and with Joyce helping her, she might be able to leave in about twenty minutes if she got a wriggle on. Then she might be able to see Henry before he went off on his evening visit to see the ailing old Frenchman, Dr Beauchamp. Perhaps she could cook him dinner and make him see that she could do all that sort of thing as well.
