`Roscoe?’ Hubble said. `What about Charlie?’
Finlay shook his head.
`Just Roscoe,’ he lied. `Nothing from Charlie.’
Hubble nodded. Smart move, Harvard guy, I thought. The image of Charlie being held down at a microphone with a sharp knife at her throat would have tipped Hubble right over the edge. Right off the plateau, back down to where panic would make him useless.
`The warehouse is where they are,’ I said again. `No doubt about it.’
Hubble knew the warehouse well. He’d been
working up there most days for a year and a half. So we got him to go over and over it, describing the layout. We found paper and pencil and got him to draw plans. We went over and over the plans, putting in all the doors, the stairs, the distances, the details. We ended up with the sort of drawing an architect would have been proud of.
The warehouse stood in its own compound at the end of the row of four. It was very close in line with the third shed, which was a farmers’ operation. There was a fence running between the two with just a path’s width between it and the metal siding. The other three sides were ringed by the main fence running around the whole complex. That fence ran close to the warehouse across the back and down the far end, but there was plenty of space in front for trucks to turn.
The big roller door covered just about the whole of the front wall. There was a small staff door just around the far corner which gave on to the main floor. There was a cage just inside the staff door where the roller door winch was sited. Go in the staff door and turn left, there was an open metal staircase running up to an office. The office was cantilevered way up into the top back corner of the huge shed, hanging there about forty feet above the main floor. The office had big windows and a railed balcony looking down into the shed for supervision. In back, the office had a door leading out to an external fire escape which was another open metal staircase bolted to the outside back wall.
`OK ,’ I said. `Clear enough, right?’
Finlay shrugged.
`I’m worried about reinforcements,’ he said. `Guards on the exterior.’
I shrugged back.
`There won’t be reinforcements,’ I said. `I’m more worried about the shotguns. It’s a big space. And there are two kids in there.’
Finlay nodded. Looked grim. He knew what I was saying. Shotguns spray a cone of lead over a big wide angle. Shotguns and children don’t mix. We went quiet. It was nearly two in the morning. An hour and a half to wait. We would leave at threethirty. Get up there at four. My favourite attack time.
The waiting period. Like soldiers in a dugout. Like pilots before a raid. It was silent. Finlay dozed. He had done this before. Probably many times. He sprawled in his chair. His left arm hung over the side. Half of the shattered handcuff dangled from his wrist. Like a silver bracelet.
Hubble sat upright. He hadn’t done this before. He just fidgeted around, burning energy. Couldn’t blame him. He kept looking over at me. Questions in his eyes. I just kept on shrugging back at him.
Two-thirty, there was a knock on the door. Just a soft tap. The door opened a foot. The older of the two old barbers was there. He pointed a gnarled and trembling finger into the room. Aimed straight at me.
`Someone to see you, son,’ he said.
Finlay sat up and Hubble looked scared. I signalled them both to stay put. Stood up and pulled the big automatic out of my pocket. Clicked the safety off. The old guy flapped his hand at me and fussed.
You don’t need that, son,’ he said. `Don’t need that at all.’
He was impatient, beckoning me out to join him. I put the gun away again. Shrugged at the other two
and went with the old guy. He led me into a tiny kitchen. There was a very old woman in there, sitting on a stool. Same mahogany colour as the old guy, stick thin. She looked like an old tree in winter.