by Mark Timlin
'Yeah,' said Mark. 'What are you going to do now?'
'Christ knows. I can't stay here. I should've gone months ago.'
'Where?'
'Who knows. I'll find something. Maybe I'll look you up. Somewhere warm and safe, you said. Sounds about right to me.'
'Do it, mate. I'll let you know where I am, one way or another.' 'I'd like that.'
They hugged again, and Mark left the house for the last time. And he didn't look back once.
Chapter 37
Bank holiday Monday dawned fair. An unusual enough event for it to feature heavily in the local news bulletins that morning. 'Couldn't be better,' said Daniel Butler as the men gathered at the old print works. 'Perfect.'
There were a dozen men inside the building altogether, including the clean up crew whose job it was to make sure that nothing was left behind for the cops to find.
Mark packed his bags and checked out of the hotel after breakfast, then he drove to Croydon with his things in the Explorer, which he left in the public car park next to East Croydon station. Then he caught a train up to London Bridge and took a taxi on to east London. He got the cabbie to drop him off about half a mile from the printing works and walked the rest of the way. The sky was high and blue, criss-crossed with vapour trails, the sun was hot on his head and what tiny breeze there was whipped dust devils across the dirty tarmac of the road. The only sound was the tattoo his boot heels beat on the pavement.
He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a grey T-shirt. Just a bloke taking a morning stroll, maybe to pick up a paper or a pint of milk, or to find a pub with early doors. The night before he'd looked in the bathroom mirror and considered shaving off his beard, but that would have made things too complicated, so he compromised by trimming it down to a thick stubble. It felt strange under his fingers, but there'd be time later, if there was a later, to worry about things like that. And now his almost-shaven hair was beginning to grow out, he began to recognise himself as himself again after so long. He'd left the contact lenses off, keeping them in their case in his pocket, and the deep blue of his eyes was disguised behind his mirrored shades. His eyes felt strange without the constriction of the fine plastic. Free. As if he'd got his own personality back after hiding who he really was. Which of course he had. He wanted to face Sean and Jimmy Hunter wearing his own face. His father's face. The last face Jimmy would ever see on this earth. At least, that was the plan.
From his stash of weapons, he'd chosen a Glock 19 with the safety on the trigger, and a fifteen-round magazine. It nestled in a sheepskin-lined leather shoulder holster under his jacket, together with a fully loaded spare clip. As backup, he slid a Colt Commando.38 calibre revolver down into his boot.
The last thing he'd done before going to bed the night before was to phone Linda and confirm their meeting that Monday afternoon. Mark knew that it would be all over one way or another by then. He told her not to worry, that everything would be fine, and that he loved her. He told her to sleep well and that by the same time tomorrow they'd be well on their way to a new life. She told him she loved him too, and when they'd hung up, he hoped that everything he'd said would come true. He'd considered not showing up at the print works. To simply forget the whole thing and let the gang go in without him. But so much time and effort had already gone into screwing Butler and Hunter that he felt he had to go through with it.
He was still thinking about Linda as he crossed the deserted industrial estate, everyone who worked there, it seemed, taking advantage of the extra day on their weekend. And the only movement he saw as he walked the empty streets was an old tabby cat, washing its paws in the shade, its yellow, almond-shaped eyes following him as he went. 'Here, kitty,' he said as he passed. The cat ignored him, trying instead to prise something out from between its claws. 'Sod you then,' said Mark.
The old works loomed ahead, looking as empty as the buildings around it, but Mark knew that that was only an illusion. He walked through the open gates and across the concrete yard, overgrown with
weeds whose crushed stems were the only hint that anything was going on inside.
Mark knocked on the Judas gate next to the metal roller door aware, not for the first time, of the irony of the name. An armed man opened it and beckoned him inside. 'Cheers,' said Mark, and wondered if the man would live to see the evening. If, in fact, any of them would.
Inside was a hive of industry. He walked over to Bob and they shook hands. 'All ready?' Bob asked.
'As I'll ever be,' replied Mark.
'Need a weapon?'
'I brought my own.'
'Show.'
Mark slipped the Glock from its hiding place, reversed the gun in his hand and passed it to Bob who nodded his approval. 'Nice weapon,' he said. 'Traceable?'
'Only to a robbery of a gun shop in Switzerland, five years ago.'
'Fair enough,' said Bob, returning the gun to Mark who stashed it away, before going to lean against the Chevrolet Suburban, that it was his job to drive, and watch the last-minute preparations as he smoked a cigarette. There was food and drink laid out on tables in one corner, next to a couple of old sofas the blokes who'd fixed up the Volvo had brought in, and two portable toilets had been set up in another. Jimmy Hunter walked over, carrying his shotgun over his shoulder, and Mark forced a smile on to his face. 'Morning,' he said.
Hunter just grunted.
'Been here long?' asked Mark.
'Too fucking long,' replied Hunter.
'That's the breaks.'
'Sure,' said Hunter and turned away.
Mark shrugged, left his perch and wandered the concrete floor. He didn't want to talk to Hunter. Time enough for you later, he thought. He didn't know anyone well enough to strike up a conversation, so he just sat down on one of the old sofas and made himself as comfortable
as he could. He looked at the food, but he had no appetite, so he left it. He could feel the tension start to build up inside and his stomach grumbled. This was it, there was no going back now.
The morning passed slowly. The rest of the gang armed themselves and they all got ready for the off. Handheld portable two-way radios were issued to both vehicles and every man was given a black wool balaclava in order to hide his face. CCTV covered the inside and outside of the target building, and no one was that keen to get their face on to Crimewatch UK.
At precisely twelve-thirty, Daniel Butler clapped his hands for attention and climbed on to the running board of the Volvo tractor. 'Right,' he yelled. 'This is it. Let's get started.'
Mark went back to the Chevrolet, where Jimmy Hunter was already sitting in the front passenger seat, his balaclava on his head like a black cap, and the short Remington shotgun across his lap. Mark slid in behind the wheel and fired up the engine, which ticked over nicely. 'Belt,' he said, and Hunter grunted again but did up his seatbelt. They were joined by Ronnie, Les and Paul who jumped into the back as he watched Tony Green and Bob climb up into the cab of the Volvo. It looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. 'Jesus,' he said. 'If any coppers spot that, I reckon they'll make them produce their documents.'
'Bob'll produce something,' said Les from the back. 'And it won't be fucking documents.'
'You don't see many Old Bill round here,' said Paul.
'Only when you don't want them,' said Hunter.
'It's a bank holiday, man,' said Paul. 'They'll all be in the pub.'
The Volvo turned tightly in front of them, and Mark followed it. The roller door opened, filling the building with sunshine, and both vehicles went outside, through the open gates and headed for Silvertown, just down the road from where Mark had met John Jenner, all those months before. Mark wondered if it was an omen. And if so, whether it was good or bad.
The two trucks sped through the deserted streets of an east London on holiday. The traffic was light, and they were in position under the railway bridge, beside the depository, within a few minutes. Mark looked at his watch. They were ten minutes early. When he saw Bob get down from t
he Volvo, he switched off the Chevrolet's engine. The five men decamped from the Chevy, and those who smoked, lit up. It was quiet and deserted where they were, the only sound being the burble of exhaust from the Volvo's tall stacks. The guns Mark was carrying weighed heavily and he could see the slight tremble in his fingers as he held the cigarette. 'Nervous?' asked Hunter.
'Oh yes. Always. You?'
Hunter shrugged. 'Not too bad,' he replied.
Bob walked over and said, 'You all ready?'
The five men all made sounds of affirmation in reply. It was too late now to be anything else.
Bob squinted down at his watch. 'Come on, then, look smart,' and the smokers dropped their cigarettes and everyone got back into their vehicles. Mark looked away from Jimmy so that the older man wouldn't be able to see his eyes, removed his sunglasses, rolled the balaclava over his face, and put his shades back on. He knew it looked ridiculous, like something out of an old Invisible Man movie, but he didn't care. Immediately sweat broke out on his face and the wool of the material started to itch. Jimmy rolled his balaclava down too, and the two-way radio burst into life.
Bob's voice said: 'Go, go, go!'
The heist was on.
The two vehicles moved off together, gathering speed, and Mark turned and grinned at Jimmy, though through his mask, the smile was invisible. 'This is it, then,' he shouted, and Jimmy racked a shell into the breech of his shotgun. Mark could hear the bolts of automatic weapons being set to fire from the others in the back seats.
As the vehicles left the main road and turned on to the industrial estate, all seemed quite and empty. Mark wondered where the cops were hiding.
The Volvo hit its stride as it approached the front gates of the depository, Tony Green accelerating smoothly through the gears, and Mark saw the uniformed guard at the gate peering through the glass front and reaching for his phone. 'Fuck it,' he shouted. 'He's sussed us.' The Volvo smashed into the gate, which stretched like elastic, then tore free from its hinges and flew up over the top of the truck and hit the road, narrowly missing the bonnet of the Chevy. The guard was desperately pressing buttons on his phone when Green swung his wheel hard and dropped down a gear, the back of the truck swinging round, its tyres screaming and leaving black tracks across the concrete and smashing the gatehouse clean off its foundations, sending it and the guard tumbling across the ground in a shower of broken glass. 'Fantastic,' yelled Mark as he skidded the Chevy to a halt and Jimmy leapt from his seat and fired three rounds into the wreckage.
Jimmy ran back and leapt through the open passenger door, reloading on the hoof, and Mark sped away.
The Volvo hit the main doors of the depository and Mark saw them burst open and the truck vanish inside. He followed, broadsiding the Chevrolet to a halt, and Jimmy dived out, with the others following quickly behind.
Inside the depository was chaos. Workers sat at benches covered with black velvet upon which sat a fortune in precious stones, glittering under the fluorescent lights. The Volvo flew across the concrete floor sending men leaping out of the way. One moved too slowly and was crushed under its giant tyres, his body bursting like a blood blister.
Two armed guards were stationed on a mezzanine floor and Mark saw their amazed looks as they fumbled with the safeties of their Heckler Koch submachine guns, as the Volvo skidded to a halt half in and half out of the open vault door. One man, not in uniform, made for the switch to shut it but was cut down by a hail of fire from Bob's HK, which he fired from inside his cab. The gang was inside but not yet in control. Ronnie, Les and Paul began to fire upwards at the guards and both were cut down before they had a chance to return fire.
And then, over the tops of the warehouses from the direction of the river, came the roar of a helicopter engine, and a police chopper rose up. Mark realised that his plan was coming good and that the most tricky part of the day was yet to come.
Armed police appeared as if by magic from every direction, dressed in dark blue boiler suits, padded with body armour, their heads encased in tight helmets, their eyes hidden by tinted goggles and gas masks covering the bottom of their faces. They lobbed tear gas grenades and the building filled with acrid smoke. The cops were screaming and shouting for everyone to drop their weapons and get down on the ground, robbers and guards both. But no one paid any heed. Jimmy calmly raised the shotgun and fired, and a copper went down, blood spurting from his legs. Jimmy knew better than to aim for the body, and Mark couldn't help but grin.
His nervousness gone, Mark pulled the Glock from under his jacket and started firing. He was as calm as if he were on a shooting range as he picked his targets. He stayed close to Jimmy and yelled above the noise of the chopper, the motors and the sound of gunfire and men screaming: 'Jesus Christ man, we've been screwed.'
Everyone was shooting by then, coppers at robbers, guards at robbers, and the robbers at anything that moved in uniform. The muzzle sounds magnified inside the confines of the building, the bullets fizzing through the air and ricocheting off the walls. But Mark somehow knew that it wasn't his time. Not yet. It might be his day to die, but his work wasn't over yet. Mark kept shooting until the Glock's mechanism blew back empty. Next to him, Les took a round in the chest and fell on his back, the AK-47 he was carrying hitting the deck. Mark didn't have time to reload the Glock so he stuck the gun back in its holster and picked up Les's weapon. It was set for full auto and Mark fired off a burst, not caring who or what he hit.
Behind the building, away from the action, Sean stood by his car and watched the whole thing go off from a distance. He was dressed in old jeans and a leather jacket. In the boot of his car was a Kevlar flak jacket. The vest was hot and uncomfortable, especially on a day like this, and he always felt like a fool wearing one. But rules were rules and Sean believed in keeping them, so he reluctantly he took off his leather, put on the vest and pulled his jacket back over it. He watched the Volvo truck blowing the gates, the guard hut and the main door to hell and gone, the helicopter arriving and armed police entering the warehouse. Then the shooting had started and he knew this was going to be a big one. His informant had been right, and now he wanted his reward, and it irked Sean to be the one to give it to him. But these were the breaks, so he just stood, watched, and waited for Steve Sawyer to make it over to him.
Inside, as the firefight grew hotter and the gas more dense, Mark knelt beside the Chevrolet and fired at the doorway and saw a cop hit the ground. He grabbed Jimmy. 'This is fucked,' he said. 'Let's get out of here.'
Jimmy nodded, and they left the shield of the vehicle and legged it across the floor towards the offices at the back of the building. There were bodies everywhere: robbers, guards and coppers too. Mark and Jimmy raced through the open-plan offices, jumping over desks and dividers, heading for the rear. 'What about the others?' gasped Jimmy as they dropped behind a filing cabinet for a breather.
'Fuck 'em. Let them take care of themselves,' said Mark.
'How the fuck did the filth know?' said Jimmy.
'It's fucking obvious. Someone grassed.'
'I'd like to know who.'
'Me too,' said Mark. 'But there's no time for that now. Are you coming?'
'Just show me the way.'
That's exactly what I wanted you to say, thought Mark and he shoved Jimmy down a corridor, yelling that there should be a back door close by, and there it was, just like Sean had told him, like he'd seen on the building plans he'd so carefully studied at Butler's briefing. A metal-covered door right at the back of the building. Sean had said it would be open, but Mark didn't want Jimmy to know that, so he emptied the Kalashnikov into it before pulling it open. He dropped the empty gun and shouted at Jimmy, 'Come on, man, let's get gone.'
Jimmy took one last, longing look back in the direction of the precious stones, then shrugged and followed Mark.
There was no one outside in the parking area, and they dashed through the rows of vehicles towards the gate. This was where Sean said he would be waiting.
M
ark spotted it. He hit it with his shoulder and it flew open. 'How…?' said Jimmy.
'Just lucky.'
The pair of them dived through the door to where Sean was waiting next to his unmarked Mondeo, Mark's getaway car. He was holding a pistol in his right hand and his police radio in his left. Jimmy skidded to a halt and raised his shotgun.
Sean looked shocked at the sight of two masked men instead of the one he expected. He brought up his gun, too. 'What's going on?' he shouted.
'Surprise,' said Mark. 'It's OK, it's me, Steve.'
'Who's this, then?' said Sean, his gun on Jimmy.
'Don't you recognise him?' said Mark. 'No, of course you don't. Jimmy, take that stupid mask off and meet your son.'
'Jimmy?' said Sean.' Not Jimmy…'
'Hunter,' said Mark. 'The one and only.'
Jimmy ripped off the balaclava and looked back at Mark. 'What the fuck's going on? Who's this? What about my son?'
'Don't you recognise him? Christ, are you thick or what? He looks just like you, Jimmy. It's your son, Sean.'
Jimmy peered at Sean as the sound of gunfire continued on the other side of the high wall.
'Sean?' he said.
'Yeah,' said Mark. 'Your son. Who's also Old Bill. It's a reunion, Jimmy. Aren't you going to say hello?'
Jimmy stood mystified, his shotgun hanging from one hand. 'But what's he doing here?'
'I told him we'd be here.' 'You did…?'
'That's right, Jimmy. I grassed us up.'
'Why?'
'Because I wanted you to meet your son. And because you killed my father,' said Mark, and he took off his glasses and balaclava and showed Jimmy his stubbled face and his blue eyes. The exact same colour blue eyes that had looked at Jimmy from Billy Farrow's face seconds before Jimmy had killed him. 'Do you know me now, Jimmy?' said Mark. 'Don't you know who I am, either?'
'Farrow?' said Jimmy, his face full of confusion. 'Billy? It can't be you'
'No, it ain't. I'm Mark,' said Mark. 'My dad was Billy. I'm Mark. You killed Billy Farrow and left me and my mum to live alone.'
