Authors: Mark Timlin
'Christ
knows. I can't stay here. I should've gone months ago.'
'Where?'
'Who
knows. I'll find something. Maybe I'll look you up. Somewhere warm and safe,
you said. Sounds about right to me.'
'Do
it, mate. I'll let you know where I am, one way or another.' 'I'd like that.'
They
hugged again, and Mark left the house for the last time. And he didn't look
back once.
Bank
holiday Monday dawned fair. An unusual enough event for it to feature heavily
in the local news bulletins that morning. 'Couldn't be better,' said Daniel
Butler as the men gathered at the old print works. 'Perfect.'
There
were a dozen men inside the building altogether, including the clean up crew
whose job it was to make sure that nothing was left behind for the cops to
find.
Mark
packed his bags and checked out of the hotel after breakfast, then he drove to
Croydon with his things in the Explorer, which he left in the public car park
next to East Croydon station. Then he caught a train up to London Bridge and
took a taxi on to east London. He got the cabbie to drop him off about half a
mile from the printing works and walked the rest of the way. The sky was high
and blue, criss-crossed with vapour trails, the sun was hot on his head and
what tiny breeze there was whipped dust devils across the dirty tarmac of the
road. The only sound was the tattoo his boot heels beat on the pavement.
He
was wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a grey T-shirt. Just a bloke taking
a morning stroll, maybe to pick up a paper or a pint of milk, or to find a pub
with early doors. The night before he'd looked in the bathroom mirror and
considered shaving off his beard, but that would have made things too
complicated, so he compromised by trimming it down to a thick stubble. It felt
strange under his fingers, but there'd be time later, if there was a later, to
worry about things like that. And now his almost-shaven hair was beginning to
grow out, he began to recognise himself as himself again after so long. He'd
left the contact lenses off, keeping them in their case in his pocket, and the
deep blue of his eyes was disguised behind his mirrored shades. His eyes felt
strange without the constriction of the fine plastic. Free. As if he'd got his
own personality back after hiding who he really was. Which of course he had. He
wanted to face Sean and Jimmy Hunter wearing his own face. His father's face.
The last face Jimmy would ever see on this earth. At least, that was the plan.
From
his stash of weapons, he'd chosen a Glock 19 with the safety on the trigger,
and a fifteen-round magazine. It nestled in a sheepskin-lined leather shoulder
holster under his jacket, together with a fully loaded spare clip. As backup,
he slid a Colt Commando.38 calibre revolver down into his boot.
The
last thing he'd done before going to bed the night before was to phone Linda
and confirm their meeting that Monday afternoon. Mark knew that it would be all
over one way or another by then. He told her not to worry, that everything
would be fine, and that he loved her. He told her to sleep well and that by the
same time tomorrow they'd be well on their way to a new life. She told him she
loved him too, and when they'd hung up, he hoped that everything he'd said
would come true. He'd considered not showing up at the print works. To simply
forget the whole thing and let the gang go in without him. But so much time and
effort had already gone into screwing Butler and Hunter that he felt he had to
go through with it.
He
was still thinking about Linda as he crossed the deserted industrial estate,
everyone who worked there, it seemed, taking advantage of the extra day on
their weekend. And the only movement he saw as he walked the empty streets was
an old tabby cat, washing its paws in the shade, its yellow, almond-shaped eyes
following him as he went. 'Here, kitty,' he said as he passed. The cat ignored
him, trying instead to prise something out from between its claws. 'Sod you
then,' said Mark.
The
old works loomed ahead, looking as empty as the buildings around it, but Mark
knew that that was only an illusion. He walked through the open gates and
across the concrete yard, overgrown with
weeds
whose crushed stems were the only hint that anything was going on inside.
Mark
knocked on the Judas gate next to the metal roller door aware, not for the
first time, of the irony of the name. An armed man opened it and beckoned him inside.
'Cheers,' said Mark, and wondered if the man would live to see the evening. If,
in fact, any of them would.
Inside
was a hive of industry. He walked over to Bob and they shook hands. 'All
ready?' Bob asked.
'As
I'll ever be,' replied Mark.
'Need
a weapon?'
'I
brought my own.'
'Show.'
Mark
slipped the Glock from its hiding place, reversed the gun in his hand and
passed it to Bob who nodded his approval. 'Nice weapon,' he said. 'Traceable?'
'Only
to a robbery of a gun shop in Switzerland, five years ago.'
'Fair
enough,' said Bob, returning the gun to Mark who stashed
it
away,
before going to lean against the Chevrolet Suburban, that it was his job to
drive, and watch the last-minute preparations as he smoked a cigarette. There
was food and drink laid out on tables in one corner, next to a couple of old
sofas the blokes who'd fixed up the Volvo had brought in, and two portable
toilets had been set up in another. Jimmy Hunter walked over, carrying his
shotgun over his shoulder, and Mark forced a smile on to his face. 'Morning,'
he said.
Hunter
just grunted.
'Been
here long?' asked Mark.
'Too
fucking long,' replied Hunter.
'That's
the breaks.'
'Sure,'
said Hunter and turned away.
Mark
shrugged, left his perch and wandered the concrete floor. He didn't want to
talk to Hunter. Time enough for you later, he thought. He didn't know anyone
well enough to strike up a conversation, so he just sat down on one of the old
sofas and made himself as comfortable
as he
could. He looked at the food, but he had no appetite, so he left it. He could
feel the tension start to build up inside and his stomach grumbled. This was
it, there was no going back now.
The
morning passed slowly. The rest of the gang armed themselves and they all got
ready for the off. Handheld portable two-way radios were issued to both
vehicles and every man was given a black wool balaclava in order to hide his
face. CCTV covered the inside and outside of the target building, and no one
was that keen to get their face on to
Crimewatch UK.
At
precisely twelve-thirty, Daniel Butler clapped his hands for attention and
climbed on to the running board of the Volvo tractor. 'Right,' he yelled. 'This
is it. Let's get started.'
Mark
went back to the Chevrolet, where Jimmy Hunter was already sitting in the front
passenger seat, his balaclava on his head like a black cap, and the short
Remington shotgun across his lap. Mark slid in behind the wheel and fired up
the engine, which ticked over nicely. 'Belt,' he said, and Hunter grunted again
but did up his seatbelt. They were joined by Ronnie, Les and Paul who jumped
into the back as he watched Tony Green and Bob climb up into the cab of the
Volvo. It looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. 'Jesus,' he said. 'If
any coppers spot that, I reckon they'll make them produce their documents.'
'Bob'll
produce something,' said Les from the back. 'And it won't be fucking
documents.'
'You
don't see many Old Bill round here,' said Paul.
'Only
when you don't want them,' said Hunter.
'It's
a bank holiday, man,' said Paul. 'They'll all be in the pub.'
The
Volvo turned tightly in front of them, and Mark followed it. The roller door
opened, filling the building with sunshine, and both vehicles went outside,
through the open gates and headed for Silvertown, just down the road from where
Mark had met John Jenner, all those months before. Mark wondered if it was an
omen. And if so, whether it was good or bad.
The
two trucks sped through the deserted streets of an east London on holiday. The
traffic was light, and they were in position under the railway bridge, beside
the depository, within a few minutes. Mark looked at his watch. They were ten
minutes early. When he saw Bob get down from the Volvo, he switched off the
Chevrolet's engine. The five men decamped from the Chevy, and those who smoked,
lit up. It was quiet and deserted where they were, the only sound being the
burble of exhaust from the Volvo's tall stacks. The guns Mark was carrying
weighed heavily and he could see the slight tremble in his fingers as he held
the cigarette. 'Nervous?' asked Hunter.
'Oh
yes. Always. You?'
Hunter
shrugged. 'Not too bad,' he replied.
Bob
walked over and said, 'You all ready?'
The five
men all made sounds of affirmation in reply. It was too late now to be anything
else.
Bob
squinted down at his watch. 'Come on, then, look smart,' and the smokers
dropped their cigarettes and everyone got back into their vehicles. Mark looked
away from Jimmy so that the older man wouldn't be able to see his eyes, removed
his sunglasses, rolled the balaclava over his face, and put his shades back on.
He knew it looked ridiculous, like something out of an old Invisible Man movie,
but he didn't care. Immediately sweat broke out on his face and the wool of the
material started to itch. Jimmy rolled his balaclava down too, and the two-way
radio burst into life.
Bob's
voice said: 'Go, go, go!'
The
heist was on.
The
two vehicles moved off together, gathering speed, and Mark turned and grinned
at Jimmy, though through his mask, the smile was invisible. 'This is it, then,'
he shouted, and Jimmy racked a shell into the breech of his shotgun. Mark could
hear the bolts of automatic weapons being set to fire from the others in the
back seats.
As
the vehicles left the main road and turned on to the industrial estate, all
seemed quite and empty. Mark wondered where the cops were hiding.
The
Volvo hit its stride as it approached the front gates of the depository, Tony
Green accelerating smoothly through the gears, and Mark saw the uniformed guard
at the gate peering through the glass front and reaching for his phone. 'Fuck
it,' he shouted. 'He's sussed us.' The Volvo smashed into the gate, which stretched
like elastic, then tore free from its hinges and flew up over the top of the
truck and hit the road, narrowly missing the bonnet of the Chevy. The guard was
desperately pressing buttons on his phone when Green swung his wheel hard and
dropped down a gear, the back of the truck swinging round, its tyres screaming
and leaving black tracks across the concrete and smashing the gatehouse clean
off its foundations, sending it and the guard tumbling across the ground in a
shower of broken glass. 'Fantastic,' yelled Mark as he skidded the Chevy to a
halt and Jimmy leapt from his seat and fired three rounds into the wreckage.
Jimmy
ran back and leapt through the open passenger door, reloading on the hoof, and
Mark sped away.
The
Volvo hit the main doors of the depository and Mark saw them burst open and the
truck vanish inside. He followed, broadsiding the Chevrolet to a halt, and
Jimmy dived out, with the others following quickly behind.
Inside
the depository was chaos. Workers sat at benches covered with black velvet upon
which sat a fortune in precious stones, glittering under the fluorescent
lights. The Volvo flew across the concrete floor sending men leaping out of the
way. One moved too slowly and was crushed under its giant tyres, his body bursting
like a blood blister.
Two
armed guards were stationed on a mezzanine floor and Mark saw their amazed
looks as they fumbled with the safeties of their Heckler Koch submachine
guns, as the Volvo skidded to a halt half in and half out of the open vault
door. One man, not in uniform, made for the switch to shut it but was cut down
by a hail of fire from Bob's HK, which he fired from inside his cab. The
gang was inside but not yet in control. Ronnie, Les and Paul began to fire
upwards at the guards and both were cut down before they had a chance to return
fire.
And
then, over the tops of the warehouses from the direction of the river, came the
roar of a helicopter engine, and a police chopper rose up. Mark realised that
his plan was coming good and that the most tricky part of the day was yet to
come.