by GB Williams
23
‘Here.’
Teddington looked at Presswick, feeling sick, not sure why. She’d left the fallen chair on its side, and sat beside him in the seat Judith had vacated. Her head was throbbing, her anger had dissipated and only cold dread remained. She looked at the pristine cotton fold he offered. Handkerchief. From his top pocket. His eyes moved to the gash on her forehead. It was still bleeding, but less so now. She felt another trickle down the side of her face.
She didn’t take the handkerchief. ‘So now you choose to be human?’
‘What do you mean?’ His hand dropped.
‘She means,’ Zanti grated, ‘that you are a grade A imbecile.’
‘Unless you want to lose your job—’
‘My job!’ Zanti surprised everyone with the snap. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, you egotistical buffoon, there’s more on the line here than jobs. You took a seat and never once considered letting Miss Arden or me sit because heaven forbid you have to sit on the floor, but it’s okay for your staff and your customers to do so. Mr Presswick,’ Zanti’s voice was clear and strong, ‘you can take your job and shove it up your arse.’
Teddington felt an odd burst of pride, but she couldn’t figure out why. Her head hurt, her vision was swimming. In an effort to keep what little equilibrium she had, she concentrated on a spot on the floor, on that piece of white thread she’d seen hours ago, when the raid started.
Now her ears were ringing.
Presswick nudged her so hard she nearly fell off the seat. She turned slowly to glare at the man, but she didn’t want to pull at the cut so didn’t frown.
‘The phone,’ his hiss was urgent.
What phone?
She looked at it.
Oh dear Lord, it was vibrating. She accepted the call and concentrated on the floor.
‘Hello?’
‘Ari, it’s Matt. We have the van, it’s ready to pull into the service yard behind the bank. Is everyone in there ready to accept that?’
The temptation to close her eyes and sleep was nearly overwhelming, but she had a job to do. She looked up, then grabbed the edge of the seat as the world tilted under her.
Someone swore.
‘Mr White?’
‘Ari?’
Another man spoke. A face swam in front of her. She didn’t recognise the dark skin or heavy brow.
‘Ari? How many fingers am I holding up?’
She blinked and frowned. Neanderthal. Mr Brown. ‘One’s traditional.’ She looked at the hand. She tried to focus, to think. Not Brown. Charlie. Charlie Brown.
The giggle escaped with a bitter edge. She clamped her hand over her mouth and blinked, focused. Brown eyes were looking back at her. Charlie had blue eyes. Contacts. Think! He was worried. She had to focus.
‘Two,’ she huffed this time, ‘shouldn’t they be spread and the other way round?’
She felt the world shift again. A big hand held her shoulder, steadied her. She looked at the man who owned the hand. Charlie, my Charlie. Only he wasn’t hers. He’d saved her once; would he save her again? She closed her eyes. Sod that, wake up and save yourself.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
What is wrong with me?
‘I think she’s concussed.’
‘Oh,’ she agreed with the voice, ‘that makes sense.’ She tried to think straight. ‘Wasn’t there a question? Beside the finger thing. Van. That’s it.’ She looked up. ‘Mr White, they have a van ready. Are you okay for them to bring the van round the back?’
She frowned, then turned to the man beside her. ‘Did he nod?’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie said, his tone oddly gentle and surprisingly reassuring.
She brought the phone up. ‘Yes, Matt,’ she enunciated, ‘you can bring the van in.’
‘You tell the driver to leave the engine running and go.’ Mr White stepped up. ‘Any fire from the sniper opposite and I kill a hostage. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
Matt sounded very decisive, clear. Teddington envied him. She needed clarity and she wasn’t getting any. It was like thinking through treacle, hearing through cotton-wool.
Someone called for Orange. I could use a drink. Put a vodka in mine.
Mr Blue was moving. Must be moving fast, he’s all blurry. A single silly giggle escaped her. Maybe he’s the Flash, moves superfast. He was kneeling behind Zanti. For a moment Teddington thought he’d sprouted whiskers, then realised he had a bunch of zip ties clamped between his teeth. He was securing Zanti to the chair.
She blinked and tried to focus. Her head hurt, her forehead was throbbing, she could feel the thick warmth of blood slowly moving down her face. Thinking was painful, but it hardly mattered.
‘Not long now,’ Charlie muttered.
Was that supposed to be reassuring?
Mr Orange re-joined the pack. He was at Presswick’s feet, using two zip ties to secure his ankles to the chair supports. For once the bank manager didn’t complain.
Her eyes fell to the phone. That was the last conversation necessary. Since she had no reachable pockets, she put the slim device in the only safe place she had—under the left strap of the corset. It was slightly awkward, but her right shoulder was aching and she didn’t want the cold metal making it worse. She shivered as it touched the top of her breast.
‘Ari?’
For a moment she looked at Charlie, now kneeling before her. His concern was touching, but out of place.
‘I’m okay.’ She tried to smile, but it pulled at the cut on her forehead. ‘You tie us down, you go. The police will come in, free us. I’ll get treated for…’ why couldn’t she remember the word?
‘Concussion.’ Charlie pushed her back so she was sitting straight, safe. She knew he left because she felt colder and her eyelids were too heavy. Sleep, I’ll sleep soon. Sleep forever. No, sleep can come later.
It was mind over matter, but she made her body function. She opened her eyes. Focus, woman!
Mr Blue and Mr White were near the counter. Each took a bag, crossing them over their shoulders. She figured they should have ‘swag’ written on the side instead of ‘Nike’. Oh, concentrate. The man who’d kicked her, Mr Pink, took a bag and another was passed to Mr Brown.
Mr Pink got the handle twisted, couldn’t sort it out. ‘Oh, fuck a duck.’
Fragments in her mind fell into place as the bag fell over the man’s shoulder. Over eight months ago, petty crime, didn’t adjust well, strip search, fuck a duck.
‘Lester Grimshaw.’
She hadn’t meant to say it out loud and only realised she had when everything went preternaturally still and quiet.
Mr Blue and Mr White were looking at her, seeming a little startled. Then Mr Blue raised an arm. Teddington hadn’t seen that particular pistol silenced before, it made an odd puff sound, then a nothingness happened, going on for what felt like forever. Lester stood, suspended. Behind him the colour of the carpet changed. A tiny trickle of blood crept down his forehead. Surprise relaxed to slackness as he fell to his knees, then lay quiet.
‘Jesus!’ Mr Brown swore.
‘She named him,’ Mr Blue said, his weapon now levelled at Mr Brown.
Oh God forgive her, she’d inadvertently killed a man.
‘Get his bag.’
Teddington watched Charlie move over to Mr Pink’s—Lester’s—body. She figured Charlie didn’t have much choice but to do what he was told, but she wished he’d shown slightly more reluctance to do it. Removing the bag from where it had been slung across the man’s chest wasn’t easy, and it left blood on the bag handle, but Charlie did it. Somehow knowing he had no other option didn’t help her rationalise the action, yet at the same time she tried not to notice that he looked worried about her as he glanced between her and Mr Blue.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. Something other than the dead man on the floor.
Why haven’t I been tied up?
She watched Mr Orange. He’d moved on from Presswick and was s
ecuring Megan, who was busy telling Lucy it would all soon be over. The girl was clinging to her mother. Mr Orange forced Megan’s arms from around the girl to secure them to the support rail of the bench. Lucy’s sobs turned to screams as Mr Orange viciously yanked her from her mother’s lap and handed her to Mr Blue. For a moment all Teddington could see were wide brown eyes full of fears and tears.
The moment was broken when Mr Orange grabbed Miss Arden with his left hand, his right pointing a pistol at her, dragging her to the back.
Mr Blue paused in his harassment of Lucy to catch Teddington’s eye.
Oh my God, he’s going to kill me now. That’s why I’m not tied up. Dead people can’t run anywhere.
Mr Blue’s grin was malicious as he pulled the kid towards him, keeping her uncomfortably close, taking her with him as he too turned and headed towards the back, ignoring Megan’s screams for her daughter.
Zanti, Presswick and Megan were tied down. Teddington still wasn’t. Suddenly Mr White was standing over her. He grabbed her wrist. She was yanked to her feet, held in front of him. More cold metal was pressed against her flesh. Muzzle to temple this time. She was made to walk behind Mr Blue, Mr White’s gun pressed against her back. She sensed more than saw that Mr Brown was following them, though she was sure that she heard his footfalls pause, guessed she’d never know why.
Three hostages on the move. Not good odds. If it were only her, she could risk anything, but now she had to think about Miss Arden and Lucy. She couldn’t jeopardise their safety. She looked around as they were marched through the hidden part of the bank, which was even grottier than the front. They congregated in the hall to the back door. From the smell, the place clearly had a damp problem.
It was all Teddington could do to stand upright; she was distantly aware that she was rocking back and forth.
She’d faced worse odds, but in that moment she couldn’t remember when. The bigger issue was, she wasn’t sure how to get out of this.
24
Standing in the dim back room, as he followed orders and pulled on new gloves, Charlie struggled with every thought and feeling to make sense of what was happening.
He had retrieved the brown wallet Mr Blue had added to the pile of customer wallets on his way past. The wallet he’d mugged a guy for. One of Lincoln’s controls. So that was, possibly, one less piece of evidence against him, but only if he got it and himself right away from here. Given what a total fuck-up this day had turned out to be, that was looking questionable.
He could just see Beamish’s head behind the others. That Beamish was the man who’d watched him so intently in the pub the night he’d ‘killed’ Lexi, had been obvious from the moment of their introduction. Neither had offered spoken greeting nor a handshake. Neither had spoken of the night in the pub nor what Charlie had had to do. Beamish, however, had carried a superior look in his eye. A challenge. Beamish wanted to be top dog. Charlie held the gaze long enough and with sufficient disinterest to make it clear he wasn’t impressed. Then he turned to Lincoln and asked how many others were involved.
Beamish soon got the message and went to play with more interesting toys. The way Beamish had treated Grimshaw always reminded Charlie of a child with an insect: cruel and capricious.
They’d spent three weeks constantly rehearsing how this raid was going to go down. And from the second it had started, things had gone differently. Through their preparations, Charlie had constantly asked for backup plans, and the response had been ‘no need’. But standing now at the end of the line, Charlie knew that there were definitely contingency plans in place, and that he hadn’t been told about them. He turned back to look at the open door, leading to the front of the branch. He was pretty sure Lester hadn’t known about the contingency plans either.
And look what had happened to him.
‘Did you hear me, Brown?’
Charlie snapped back to the here and now. He blinked and thought about it. ‘Knock three times on the back of the cab when we’re in and ready to go. Got it.’
Mr White’s expression reminded him of a teacher displeased at not finding fault. ‘Good.’
‘What the hell?’ Piper couldn’t believe it. Surveillance clearly showed one of the robbers had been shot, and without Carlisle’s mike, he had no idea what was happening inside. He hit redial. Teddington’s phone rang all the way to answer phone. ‘Fuck.’ He met Andrews’ eye and answered the unvoiced question. ‘Either she can’t or won’t pick up.’
‘Can’t,’ Andrews declared, ‘but let’s hope it’s because she’s under orders, not because she’s already dead.’
Piper’s stomach acid rose at the thought.
Andrews looked deadly calm. ‘Give my men release to fire.’
‘No.’ One thing Piper was sure of was that he didn’t want a shootout. This wasn’t the wild west, after all. ‘Not while they still have hostages. Are your guys on open mike?’
Andrews reached out and flicked a switch. ‘Spader, you’re on open mike. What’s happening out there?’
A burst of static preceded the deep, disembodied voice. ‘Not a lot, sir.’
Why Piper found that sardonically amusing, he didn’t know.
‘The van is in position, the driver is away clean. The gunman at the rear window watched the driver retreat but has now moved out of sight. We no longer have a visual on anyone in the bank.’
‘Rear door?’ Andrews asked.
‘Solid, sir.’
‘Of course.’ Piper nodded. Not only solid, but probably metal-cased, a security door to avoid break ins. ‘Keep a running commentary, Spader. Anything you see, report.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Even the air inside the van seemed tense as they waited. On the digital clock, mounted above the monitor, the large green numbers seemed to take a year to change. As they crawled through the seconds, Piper worried. He worried about Carlisle—would he survive surgery? He worried about Teddington. She seemed resigned to the fact she wasn’t going to survive at all, but he couldn’t reach that same point. He refused to. He worried about Charlie—he wasn’t the gang member already dead on the bank floor but if they were turning on themselves, he was probably the next in line. But while he was alive, could he protect Teddington? He worried, a little, about his own career. Broughton had said Charlie’s fuck-up was his fuck-up, and whatever way you cut it, even though Broughton had said nothing, this whole thing was fucked up.
Andrews and Piper jumped as the van door opened; Sheldrake stepping in didn’t lighten the mood.
‘Situation?’
Piper appreciated that she both shut the door and took the stool at the front of the ops area, out of their way. With Carlisle out of the picture, Wymark had been redeployed.
‘Van’s in place, ma’am,’ Andrews supplied. ‘Driver’s out, no visual on any of the gang.’
‘Hostages?’
‘Three in view inside the bank, three not.’
‘Our contact?’
‘Not.’
‘And the van is tagged?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Under the driver’s seat. They won’t find it unless they remove the driver’s seat.’
‘Range?’
‘Ten-miles.’
‘And we have a driver in place to follow?’
‘Yes, ma’am. A two-car tag team, in fact.’
Sheldrake took a deep measured breath as she considered. Her only response was a single nod.
For a few more everlasting seconds they waited. Another static burst, and Spader reported.
‘The rear door’s opening.’
Piper switched his gaze from the floor to Andrews then the speaker.
‘First to exit is a woman.’
Teddington?
‘Ah, a hostage. Has a Glock to her temple.’
‘Description?’ Piper demanded.
‘Blonde.’
Not Teddington.
‘Red dress and coat, crying.’
‘Must be Miss Arden.’
‘Man holding
her is average height, brown hair, grey suit, he’s wearing purple latex gloves. There’s one bag over his shoulder. It’s a Nike holdall, looks fully stuffed.’
Purple. Not latex gloves; nitrile. Odd choice.
‘They’re in holding position by the door.’
‘I have a shot,’ a second voice announced.
‘No.’ Piper was emphatic. With a mumbled apology he looked back at Sheldrake. ‘Ma’am?’
‘Not while the other hostages are still at risk.’
‘Hold your fire,’ Andrews commanded. ‘Spader, return to commentary.’
‘First man has disappeared behind the van. Don’t know if you just heard that, but he shouted for the next guy. Door is opening again. A second man has appeared. Shit.’
‘Spader?’
‘This one’s holding a kid, she looks terrified, cry—’
‘Describe the man,’ Andrews cut across the stream.
‘Dark hair and mid-brown skin, trimmed beard. Tan leather jacket. He has another bag over his shoulder, strap across the torso.’
All their ill-gotten gains, Piper presumed.
‘Now there’s another one coming out. Woman this time. Her hands are up, contusion across her forehead, it’s bled badly. She has long dark hair and a sexy burgundy corset.’
Teddington.
‘Spader,’ Andrews warned.
‘She’s a lot calmer than the previous two.’
‘Resignation?’ Andrews suggested to those inside the van.
Piper’s expression stressed his uncertainty. ‘It’s not the first time someone’s threatened her life.’ Not even the first time today.
‘Concentrate on the men, Spader,’ Andrews ordered. ‘They’re the ones we’re interested in.’
‘Next is another male. White, conventionally-cut blond hair. Black suit. Another bag. Another man has stepped out. Very tall, with an overhanging brow. Thick sweater, the kind you get from military surplus stores. No hostage and two bags this time.’
‘Do you have line of sight on all?’ Andrews asked.
‘No,’ a different voice came back. ‘First four are behind the van.’
Andrews cursed softly.
‘I see a man in the driver’s seat, wait a second, the first hostage must have gone into the van. Second adult hostage approaching—Whoa! She’s tripped, is down, man in black has grabbed her—Jesus!’
