As the van moved at high speed along the narrow lane between the hedges, Rogan flicked the switch of the intercommunication system.
‘Take it easy, especially on the way through Kendal. We’ve all the time in the world.’
‘What kind of a steamer do you think I am?’ Morgan said angrily, all the tension of the past ten minutes bursting out of him.
Rogan flicked the switch and sat down. Paddy Costello was slumped on the bench seat opposite, his face shining with sweat, hands grasped tightly together.
‘It’s going to be fine,’ Rogan said. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’
The old man nodded, lips compressed together as if he couldn’t trust himself to speak. In Kendal, traffic was light and Morgan had to stop only twice at traffic lights. Once through the town and on to the Windermere road, he increased speed and turned into the plantation of fir exactly eight minutes after leaving Rigg Station.
As the van braked to a halt, Rogan opened the door and jumped out. Hannah was standing beside the cattle truck and she came forward anxiously.
‘Everything all right?’
Rogan nodded. ‘Couldn’t have gone better. What about the Morris?’
‘Parked at the back of the barn.’
Costello and Fletcher were already transferring the mailbags from the armoured van to the cattle truck and Morgan leaned out of the driver’s window and watched. Fletcher gave him a shout and Morgan released the handbrake and took the van towards the rim of the flooded gravel pits, where he jumped clear. A second later, the van plunged over the edge. By the time Rogan
and Hannah had joined him, it had already disappeared.
‘Now the Morris,’ Rogan said. ‘We’d better shove her over a little further up.’
They ran the little van along the track which followed the edge of the pits and, as it dipped over the crown of a small rise, Rogan gave the wheel a twist and jumped back. The van, running on down the slope, veered sharply to the left and vanished over the edge.
Costello was already behind the wheel oњ the cattle truck, Hannah beside him in the cab. As the engine roared into life, Rogan and Morgan joined Fletcher in the back. The truck dipped over the rutted surface of the track, paused for a moment outside the gate while Hannah closed it, then turned into the main road and moved rapidly towards Windermere.
‘How are we off for time?’ Morgan demanded.
Rogan checked his watch. ‘That goods train is due in at Rigg in exactly twelve minutes if it’s on time.’
‘Which they never are.’
‘It’ll take the crew at least five minutes to sort out what’s happened and get in touch with the authorities, another ten for the police to get any kind of an alert out. That gives us at least twenty-seven minutes.’
‘And Ambleside’s only ten miles away.’ Morgan laughed harshly. ‘We’re home and dry.’
Fletcher, sitting against one side of the truck, nudged a mailbag with the toe of his shoe. ‘My God, but I’d like to know what’s inside those two babies.’
‘I should be able to tell you,’ Morgan said. ‘I haven’t had time to look before.’
He took the receipt book from the pocket of his uniform and opened it quickly. ‘It’s headed “Consignment for pulping”.’
‘That means it’s all old stuff,’ Fletcher said. ‘Just the job.’
‘Bag Rs3, forty-five thousand in one pound notes, twenty-five thousand in fivers. Bag Rs/j, fifty thousand in one pound notes, twenty in fivers.’
‘Christ Jesus,’ Fletcher whispered. ‘That’s a hundred and forty thousand quid in old notes.’
‘Not bad,’ Morgan said. ‘Split three ways, that’s better than forty grand apiece.’ He grinned. ‘An interesting thought.’
‘Come on, let’s have a look,’ Fletcher said excitedly and reached for one of the bags. Rogan slammed the heel of his shoe across the back of the outstretched hand.
Fletcher scrambled to one knee, snarling like an animal and found himself looking into the barrel of the Colt automatic. ‘Colum O’More opens those bags, no one else.’ Rogan reached forward and touched Fletcher between the eyes with the barrel. ‘Another play like that and I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.’