The siren came nearer. The car was traveling very fast. He heard the
squeal of tires as it swung under the railway arch, then the scream of
the engine as the car touched seventy in third before changing up. The
sound got louder, then suddenly the pitch of the siren dropped and the
noise began to recede. Jacko breathed a sigh of relief, then heard the
second siren. He yelled: “Stay down!”
The second car passed, and he heard a third There was the same squeal
under the arch, the same third-gear burst after the corner–but this
time the car slowed outside the gate.
Everything seemed very quiet. Jacko’s face was unbearably hot under the
nylon. He felt he was going to suffocate. He heard a sound like
policeman’s boots scraping on the gate. One of them must be climbing up
to have a look over. Suddenly Jacko remembered that there were two more
guards in the cab of the van. He hoped to Christ they didn’t come round
just now.
What was the copper up to? He hadn’t climbed right over, but he hadn’t
fallen back, either. If they came in for a good look, it would all be
up.
No, don’t panic, he thought, ten of us can see to a carful of worries.
But it would take time, and they might have left one in the car, who
could radio for reinforcements.
Jacko could almost feel all that money slipping through his fingers. He
wanted to risk a peep around the side of the skip, but he told himself
there was no point: he would know when they left by the sound of the
car.
What were they doing?
He looked again at the currency van. Jesus, one of the blokes was
moving. Jacko hefted his shotgun. It was going to come to a fight. He
whispered: “Oh, bollocks.”
There was a noise from the van–a hoarse yell.
Jacko scrambled to his feet and stepped around the skip with his gun
ready.
There was nobody there.
Then he heard the car pull away with a screech of tires. Its siren
started up again and faded into the distance.
Deaf Willie emerged from behind the rusty shell of a Mercedes taxi.
Together, they went toward the van. Willie said: “Jolly good fun, ain’t
it?” “Yes,” Jacko said sourly. “Better than watching the bloody
television.” They looked inside the van. The driver was groaning, but he
did not look badly hurt. “Out you come, Grandad,” Jacko said through the
broken window. “Tea break’s over.”
The voice had a calming effect on Ron Biggins.
Until then he had been dazed and panicky. He did not seem to be hearing
properly, there was a pain in his head, and when he put his hand up to
his face he touched something sticky.
The sight of a man in a stocking mask was curiously bracing. It was all
very clear. An extremely efficient raid, in fact, Ron was somewhat awed
by the smoothness of the operation. They had known the route, and the
timing, of the currency van’s trip. He began to feel angry. No doubt a
percentage of the haul would find its way into the secret bank account
of a corrupt detective.
Like most police and security workers, he hated bent coppers even more
than villains.
The man who had called him Grandad opened the door, reaching through the
shattered glass of the side window to operate the internal lock.
Ron got out. The movement hurt him.
The man was young–Ron could distinguish long hair underneath the
stocking. He wore jeans and carried a shotgun. He gave Ron a
contemptuous push and said: “Hands out, neatly together, Pop.
You can go to hospital in a minute.”
The pain in Ron’s head seemed to grow with his anger. He fought down an
urge to kick out at something, and made himself remember how he was
supposed to behave during a raid: Don’t resist, cooperate with them,
give them the money. We’re insured for it, your own life is more
valuable to us, don’t be a hero.
He began to breathe hard. In his concussed mind he confused the young
man holding the shotgun with the corrupt detective and with Lou