Ashanti Gold

by James Crosbie

  ‘Brrr,’ Doc exaggerated a shiver, moving his shoulders and rubbing his hands as he settled in beside Colin. ‘Bit parky out there, mate.’

  ‘Motor all right?’ Colin asked as he turned the ignition key, stirring the car into life.

  ‘Yeah. We’ve got a clear view from there. Should be able to spot them right away. See exactly where they park.’

  ‘Don’t they always park in the same place?’

  ‘Nah,’ Doc shook his head, dismissing the idea. ‘The car park’s usually pretty full by the time they arrive. There’s a fair number of local workers use this place and once they’ve parked that’s them for the day. The wages car arrives just after ten o’clock and the driver always tries to get as close to the front as he can.’

  Colin reached forward and switched off the engine – Doc was a willing worker all right, but he had his flaws. He looked at three gold chains dangling ostentatiously against Doc’s black T-shirt, the thick links of a monogrammed gold bracelet, bright against the expensive leather of his jacket, and wished he would pay as much attention to his planning as he did to his appearance. ‘So they could be parked a good bit from the footpath then? Anywhere in the car park, come to that?’

  Doc cocked his head and glanced across at him. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen them right up here once. But they usually manage to get a place about the second or third row down.’ He looked at Colin with a puzzled expression. ‘Something about it you don’t like?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Colin replied. ‘The idea’s good enough. But I’m not too happy about them parking just anywhere. Could be a problem there.’

  Doc’s eyes narrowed. ‘What sort of a problem?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve checked this job out. It’s a good’un – a nice straightforward blag.’

  ‘The blag seems straightforward enough, I’ll grant you that,’ Colin conceded. ‘But there’s only one road in and out of here and …’ he pointed at the access road, ‘… if they happen to be parked near the exit and their driver is a bit lively … there’s every chance he could block your getaway.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Doc nodded impatiently. ‘We thought about that. But you know how these things go – crash bang wallop and away. We don’t reckon their driver would think that fast.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Colin agreed. ‘But I still don’t like it. Why don’t you get them to park down the front? Pick your own spot for them?’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ snorted Doc. ‘Would you please park here, sir?’ He spoke in an exaggeratedly polite voice. ‘It would make it much easier for us to blag you, thank you very much. Come off it Colin!’ he snorted scornfully.

  ‘But you would rather have them in the front row, wouldn’t you?’ Colin persisted.

  ‘Of course we would,’ Doc replied. ‘But we can’t just pick and choose a parking place for them …’ His voice tailed off and he looked cautiously at Colin, the flesh around his eyes crinkled in query. ‘Can we?’

  Colin sighed inwardly and pointed at the Cortina. ‘Park that motor in the slot you want them to use. When they drive in, you pull out and they’ll nick into the empty space. That way you’ll have them exactly where you want them. Then you drive off and reposition yourself ready for the job.’ He winked at Doc. ‘Right?’

  Doc looked at the Cortina, then at the empty parking slots in the front row. Slowly, his eyes moved between the two locations, thinking over Colin’s words. His hand thumped the dashboard. ‘I like it! We’ll be in control of them and they won’t even know it. Great!’ He opened the door to get out of the car. ‘You’re a wide bastard, Colin,’ he grinned. ‘Double wide!’

  In a few minutes he had moved the Cortina into a front row slot close to where the footpath entered the car park and rejoined Colin.

  ‘Better?’ Colin looked at him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Doc agreed. ‘Ideal. It’s a handy spot for them and it’s just far enough to one side to shield us from anyone using the footpath.’ He gave a satisfied nod. ‘Nice touch, mate. Nice touch.’

  Colin looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got almost two hours before we have to be in position. Plenty of time for breakfast and to pick up the other motor.’

  By ten to ten the changeover car had been left in a nearby sidestreet and Colin was dropping the others off before carrying on to position himself in the car park. His body was a knot of nerves as he slid his stolen motor into place. Two minutes later he watched the others enter the car park and make their way to the Cortina. Stillness settled over the parked vehicles and, dry-mouthed, stomach fluttering, he checked his watch. Five to ten.

  The car park was quiet. In five minutes only one vehicle entered, its elderly woman driver hurrying off to the shops. At eight minutes past ten a dark blue Rover entered the car park and cruised slowly along the line of waiting vehicles, searching for a space. Colin saw the Cortina pull out as the Rover approached and, just as he had predicted, their quarry surged into the empty slot. A moment later two men, one of them carrying a heavy leather satchel, left the car and strode briskly along the path towards busy Kilburn High Road. Two minutes later the Cortina slipped back into the car park and took up its ambush position.

  Outwardly everything seemed to be going like clockwork, yet an insidious feeling of unease disturbed Colin. At first he made excuses, telling himself it was natural to feel edgy. After all, he reasoned, four years in prison would affect anyone’s performance. But something just wasn’t right. He could feel it in his bones, and goosepimples rose as the prickling sense of danger conjured up a vision of Wandsworth. Angrily he shook his head in an effort to dismiss this train of thought. There’s no danger here, he told himself for the third or fourth time. I’m only a lookout. But still the feeling of danger persisted.

  Trust your own instincts, he recalled advice passed on by an old villain. When your concentration is targeted in one direction, your survival instincts take over. So, when you feel that fear, stop and take a good look round.

  His eyes swept the car park again, letting them come to rest on the Cortina, noticing its windows had steamed up from the body heat of the men inside. As he looked, a hand wiped condensation from the car’s windscreen and he felt a sudden coldness in his stomach as the penny dropped. His eyes darted to a dark-coloured Vauxhall squatting two rows ahead of him, its windows also opaque with condensation. Peering hard, he could just make out some movement on its front seat. Then a dark shadow leant forward from the rear; at least three bodies in the car.

  A stake-out team! Watching … waiting … They had to be cops! Somehow the law must have got wind of the job – maybe the cashier had caved in; perhaps the Cortina had been sussed. Whatever it was, the game was a bogey now. A movement on the footpath caught his eye and he focused on the two clerks as they returned, the satchel heavy between them.

  Suddenly sweating, Colin tightened his grip on the steering wheel, trying to squeeze out the vivid visions of prison that were piling on his mind. His world was shrinking into a bare twelve-by-eight cell again. He could practically smell the place.

  Groaning inwardly, he cursed himself. Stupid bastard! Should’ve had them spotted the minute I drove in. He pounded his fist on the steering wheel, but recognised the beginnings of panic and made an effort to collect himself. Reasonably certain that his own presence had gone unnoticed, there was no denying the initial temptation to simply drive away to safety. But he was part of the firm and knew he had no alternative.

  The two clerks were nearing the end of the footpath.

  Colin looked at the Vauxhall and saw pale, staring faces pressed against its windows. Any hope of a mistake gone, he twisted the ignition key and, nerves at breaking point, moved out onto the perimeter road.

  The two clerks had reached the end of the footpath and entered the car park when the Cortina began to roll forward, both nearside doors inching open in readiness. The doors opened wider. The heads and shoulders of two masked men began to emerge. Colin saw a blast of exhaust fumes belch from the Vauxhall and floored his accelerator. Burning rubber, he sc
orched towards the Cortina, pounding his horn and pointing at the suddenly accelerating Vauxhall. He saw the look of shocked comprehension on Doc’s face, the widening eyes behind the masks of Bert and Eddie. There was nothing more he could do and duty done, he crashed down a gear and raced for the exit.

  Too late! There was no mistaking the appearance or intention of the fast-moving police support vehicle careering into the car park, its doors already swinging wide. Another police vehicle swung across the entrance and blocked his path.

  Colin stood on the brakes, wrenched his car through a sharp turn and headed deeper into the parked vehicles, sideswiping one car then another as he gunned the engine, feeling the rear end skid and fighting to keep control. A police car loomed large in his rear-view mirror and his side vision caught the impression of running figures as the car park exploded into frenzied action.

  Fear lent Colin a desperate recklessness and he battered his way past yet another car, heading straight for the only way out; the footpath. He smashed into a concrete bollard that divided the path and felt it explode under the impact of his racing car, the bonnet folding like tinfoil as shattered stonework chewed into the grille, forced metal into the fanwheel and ruptured the radiator. A jagged piece of concrete flew across the bonnet, whipping the windscreen into a blank white mask and his fist lashed out to clear a gap, giving him a limited view of the path ahead. But in a few yards, barely halfway along the path, blinding steam spewed from mangled metal and the staggering car lurched to a halt.

  Colin leapt from the crumpled vehicle, almost falling as he sprang round the open door and sprinted along the footpath, screaming klaxons and loud, excited yells spurring him on. People had begun to gather at the head of the footpath, staring towards the source of noise and excitement. In a moment he was among them, lashing out at one man who seemed to deliberately step in his way. Then he was through the gathering crowd and onto the broad pavement of the shopping area, spinning left and sprinting on a few yards to get out of his pursuers’ line of sight.

  No one had emerged from the footpath yet but he knew they could only be seconds behind him, delayed a little by the abandoned car. Desperately, he lunged into the stream of traffic, ignoring the hooting of angry drivers, almost going under the wheels of a huge red bus as he crossed the crown of the road. He felt a thump on his hip, then he was staggering onto the pavement, going down on one knee as he stumbled over the high kerb. An elderly gentleman, censoriously tut-tutting, helped him to his feet, his sober warning hanging in the air as Colin pulled himself free and hurried on, the broad stream of traffic isolating him from the confusion across the road.

  Heart pounding, he forced himself to keep to a steady stride as he turned one corner then another; distancing himself from the activity, his mind racing as he considered his situation. The police wouldn’t be far behind; too many pedestrians had witnessed his reckless scramble across the busy road, and they would have little difficulty in picking up his trail. He could hear the demanding klaxon of another squad car and it underlined the urgency of his situation. Striding hard, but not wanting to break into an attention-drawing run, he rounded another corner. His heart sank. A long straight street, devoid of intersections, lay ahead of him and on either side the long rows of terraced houses showed uniformly closed doors. A siren sounded from another direction. Pursuit was close. Too close.

  Abruptly he turned towards the nearest doorway, his fingers reaching out to press the recessed bell-push. For a few impatient seconds nothing happened and he pressed urgently again. Thankfully a flicker of movement showed through the opaque glass panel as an interior door opened and light spilled into the hallway.

  Come on! Come on! He willed the blurred figure to hurry, acutely aware of the rising sound of a speeding car closing down on him. A dim outline showed through the thick discoloured glass and, with a quiet smoothness, the door swung open.

  He began speaking the moment the gap appeared, hoping to gain entry without having to resort to force.

  ‘Good morning, Madam,’ Colin switched on his most disarming smile with all the charm he could muster as a flickering blue light appeared on the edge of his vision. Still smiling, he stepped into the hallway and pushed the door shut just as the police car went prowling by.

  The plain-looking woman he addressed was flustered; a little frightened at his intrusion. ‘Wha … What do you want? Who are you looking for?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘I’m the Daz man, madam,’ Colin quickly improvised. ‘The Daz Challenge! You know? From the TV adverts?’ His boyish smile made him look inoffensive and the woman visibly relaxed.

  ‘The Daz Challenge?’ The woman cocked her head.

  Colin sighed with relief; she was going for it. He would be okay.

  ‘Correct!’ His smile broadened. ‘Yes, madam, the Daz Challenge. Daz washes whiter brighter!’ He pulled a twenty pound note from his pocket. ‘If you can show me a packet of Daz you win twenty pounds. If you have one in use, plus an unopened packet you win’ … he pulled out another note. ‘Two Daz Challenge twenty pound notes! Now, madam,’ he held the money out temptingly. ‘Do you qualify for none, one, or two of these lovely twenty pound notes?’

  A pleased smile lit up the woman’s face. ‘Oh! I use Daz,’ she exclaimed. ‘I always use Daz.’

  ‘I have to see it,’ he grinned at her. ‘You must produce the goods.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. In the kitchen …’ she gestured and started towards the rear of the narrow hallway. ‘I’ve got one out just now as a matter of fact.’

  Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, he followed her into a small cluttered kitchen.

  ‘There you are!’ she pointed triumphantly at the large coloured packet on her sink-top. ‘Giant size too!’

  ‘And in your cupboard?’ Colin raised his eyebrows.

  Her face fell. ‘I’ve just opened that packet. The empty one is still in the bin.’ She pedalled it open to expose an empty Daz packet. ‘I usually keep one spare. In fact I’ll be buying another when I go out shopping.’

  ‘Oh, well … I think I can stretch a point,’ Colin conceded, smiling. ‘After all, you do have two packets, even if one is empty.’ He held out the money. ‘Madam, you are a winner!’

  The pleased woman happily accepted her ‘prize’. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she enthused. ‘I’ve never won anything like this before.’

  ‘Is that coffee I smell?’ he distracted her again. ‘I could do with a break. I’ve been tramping the street all morning trying to give these twenties away.’

  For over an hour he regaled the woman with fictitious tales of his door-to-door adventures, killing time, knowing every minute that passed reduced police activity outside. Finally, when the woman hinted that she had some shopping to do, he asked if he could phone for a mini-cab. ‘Have to get back to the office,’ he explained. ‘If you get your coat on I’ll drop you off at the shops.’ Ten minutes later they heard the toot-tooting of a car from outside and, using the housewife for cover, jacket casually slung over his shoulder, Colin escorted her across the pavement and into the waiting mini-cab.

  A few minutes later the happy housewife got out of the cab outside a supermarket, leaving Colin with a cheery wave. He sagged against the cab’s upholstery, utterly drained. He had felt the walls of Wandsworth closing in; heard the clanging doors and echoing shouts of the long prison wings. It had been close – too close.

  Carefully he weighed up his situation. At least he was clear of the police. He had about fifty pounds on him, a wristwatch, a handkerchief and a comb. Like all good villains he carried nothing to identify himself on a job – just a few pounds for emergencies. He thought things over, trying to figure out a plan. There would still be time to get his gear from the flat, even if Bert had been nicked. He would be using the old ‘false name, no fixed abode, no comment’ ploy as a delaying tactic to gain time for friends and accomplices to get clear, dump anything incriminating and prepare a tale. He looked at his watch – eleven thirty-five – and made up his mi
nd. ‘Make that Eustace Road, driver,’ he instructed. ‘Eustace Road, Fulham.’

  Less than an hour later, Colin had packed a bag, picked up his passport and exited Bert’s flat, anxious to avoid any confrontation should any unwelcome visitors come calling. Later on, settled into the safe haven of a small hotel in Paddington, he scoured the late editions of the Kilburn Times. There was a small article about the robbery attempt at the foot of the front page and Colin felt a wave of relief at the concluding sentence, ‘As yet, no arrests have been made.’

  Good news! But still too dangerous to hang about; the cops would be working on solving the case and who could tell what they knew? Colin felt for his passport. He wouldn’t be around if the cops came calling.

  4

  ‘Good afternoon, may I help you, sir?’ The attractive counter assistant in the British Airways shop in Regent Street flashed perfect teeth at the young man in front of her, noting the stylishly cut lightweight coat casually unbuttoned over a smart blue suit and well-chosen tie. And although he was pale, he looked fit – blue eyes clear, skin taut over broad cheekbones, lean, his squared jaw lending him an angular, athletic appearance.

  The States … New York or Los Angeles. She played her usual guessing game with herself.

  ‘I’d like to book a flight to Accra, Miss.’

  ‘Accra? Accra, Ghana?’ the girl asked, a little surprised at her misjudgement.

  ‘Accra, Ghana. That’s right,’ Colin confirmed, looking on as she referred to a thick air schedules book.

  ‘Here we are, sir. British Airways have three flights weekly. Any particular day you wish to travel?’

  Colin looked out onto Regent Street. It was a bleak January scene; people outside scurrying by, heads tucked low as streaks of grey sleet lashed at them and splattered the pavement outside.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he smiled.

  The girl smiled back in sympathy and pressed buttons on her computer keyboard. ‘Yes. We have a flight tomorrow – BA231. Accra direct, leaving Heathrow 10.35 in the morning.’