“Topless?”
“You’ll have to come along and see, won’t you?” the girl said, and.
she pushed her trolley on.
The radio said: “Mayd–” then there was a muffled bang, like a burst of
static, or an explosion.
The grin faded rapidly from Wilkinson’s young face. He flicked a switch
and spoke into the microphone. “Obadiah Control, come in, Mobile.”
There was no reply. Wilkinson called to his supervisor, putting a note
of urgency into his voice. “Guvnor!”
Inspector “Harry” Harrison came across to Wilkinson’s position. A tall
man, he had been running his hands through his thinning hair, and now he
looked more distraught than he was. He said: “Everything under control,
Sergeant?”
“I think I caught a Mayday from Obadiah, guy.”
Harrison snapped: “What do you mean, think?”
Wilkinson had not made sergeant by admitting his mistakes. He said:
“Distorted message, sir.”
Harrison picked up the mike. “Obadiah Control to Mobile, do you read?
Over.” He waited, then repeated the message. There was no reply. He said
to Wilkinson: “A distorted message, then they go off the air.
We’ve got to treat it as a hijack. That’s all I need.” He had the air of
a man to whom Fate has been not merely unjust but positively vindictive.
Wilkinson said: “I didn’t get a location.”
They both turned to look at the giant map of London on the wall.
Wilkinson said: “They took the river route. Last time they checked in
was at Aidgate. Traffic’s normal, so they must be somewhere like, say,
Dagenham.” “Great,” Harrison said sarcastically. He thought for a
moment. “Put out an all-cars alert. Then detach three from East London
patrols and send them on a search. Alert Essex, and make sure those idle
sods know how much bloody money is in that van. All right, on your
bike.”
Wilkinson began to make the calls. Harrison stood behind him for a few
moments, deep in thought. “We should get a call before too long–someone
must have seen it happen,” he muttered. He thought a bit more. “But
then, if chummy is clever enough to knock the radio out before the boys
can call in, he’s clever enough to do the job somewhere quiet.” There
was a longer pause. Finally Harrison said: “Personally, I don’t think we
stand a sodding chance.”
It was going like a dream, Jacko thought. The currency van had been
hoisted over the wall and gently set down beside the cutting gear. The
four police motorcycles had been tossed aboard the transporter, which
had then reversed into the yard.
The riders now lay in a neat line, each of them handcuffed hand and
foot, and the yard gates were shut.
Two of the boys, wearing goggles over their stocking masks, made a
man-sized hole in the side of the currency van while another plain blue
van was backed up. A large rectangle of steel fell away, and a uniformed
guard jumped out with his hands above his head. Jesse handcuffed him and
made him lie down beside the police escort.
The cutting gear was wheeled away rapidly, and two more men got into the
currency van and began to pass the chests out. They were put straight
into the second van.
Jacko cast an eye over the prisoners. They had all been bashed about a
bit, but not seriously. All were conscious. Jacko was perspiring under
the mask, but he dare not take it off.
There was a shout from the cabin of the crane, where one of the boys was
keeping watch. Jacko looked up. At the same time, he heard the sound of
a siren.
He looked around. It couldn’t be true! The whole idea was that they
should knock the guards out before they had time to radio for help. He
cursed.
The men were looking to him for guidance.
The transporter had backed behind a pile of tires, so the white
motorcycles could not be seen.
The two vans and the crane looked innocent enough. Jacko shouted:
“Everybody get under cover!” Then he remembered the prisoners. No time
to drag them out of the way. His eye lit upon a tarpaulin. He pulled it
over the five bodies, then dived behind a skip.