Shirley stared at herself in the full-length mirror, biting her lip. She smoothed her hands over the waist of the brocade and lace wedding gown and felt her stomach. Couldn’t have grown that much in twenty-four hours, could it? What did she have in there, the next heavyweight boxing champion of the world? ‘You’ll have to let it out another inch, Norma,’ she told her friend, kneeling at her feet with a mouthful of pins. Norma glared up at her, and Shirley spread her arms helplessly. ‘Shirley!’ Cliff pounded up the stairs. ‘It’s me!’ Shirley let out a small scream and dashed to the door. As it opened she slammed it shut, nearly flattening Cliff’s nose. ‘Go away! You can’t come in, I’m having a fitting!’ ‘I’m workin’ tonight…’ Cliff banged on the door. ‘Shirley? Did you hear me?’ ‘Yes, I heard you,’ Shirley snapped bad-temperedly. ‘Go away!’ She looked round. Norma was crouched double, clutching her throat, coughing, or trying to. ‘Oh my God… are you all right? You haven’t swallowed a pin, have you?’ ‘Don’t bother to ask if I’m okay!’ said Cliff furiously, thumping the door. ‘Shot at! Held up in an armed bleedin’ robbery! But don’t bother —’ Shirley threw open the door. Cliff’s furious expression sagged. He stood there with his mouth hanging open, and then he gave as low smile of rapturous wonder. ‘Oh man… that’s beautiful.’
Harry thought, Typical bloody cock-up. Down here in docklands somewhere, hired as bouncers for an acid house party gig, and they couldn’t even find the place! Cliff was driving the Granada, he was supposed to know but of course he didn’t have a clue. Berk! They drove round the badly-lit, deserted streets, Wally and Taylor in the back, looking for signs of life. Trouble was, there wasn’t a soul to ask — high gaunt buildings, not a chink of light to be seen, some of them derelict, boarded-up, everything sealed up tight. Not even a stray cat on the prowl. At last Harry spotted a phone booth and told Cliff to pull over. He was glad to get out of the car for five minutes, a brief respite from Cliff’s latest wedding bleeding saga. ‘Poor cow’s clutchin’ her throat, swallowed two pins, she was doin’ the hem, so we had to get her rushed to the infirmary… can be dangerous, you knows, pins!’ Wally got out to stretch his legs. ‘We all invited to this do, then?’ he asked Cliff through the window. ‘Who’s your best man — Frank? Is he the best man?’ Taylor laid spindly arms along the back of the passenger seat. He was a thin, wiry bloke with close-set eyes and a pock-marked face, a compulsive nail-biter. Not a ladies’ man. ‘I wouldn’t get married mate,’ he said gloomily. ‘Two mates just lost their houses, these mortgage rates.’ He sniffed up a dewdrop. ‘We gettin’ cash tonight, Cliff? These acid house parties can get heavy, y’know…’ Harry came out of the phone booth and walked back to the car, his broad frame silhouetted in the lights of a vehicle coming down the road towards them. He leaned in. ‘We’re close, said it’s a warehouse over by the docks, they’re expectin’ about two hundred kids. It’s off an alley — give us the A to Z, Cliff.’ Wally strolled round the car and started a quiet natter with Harry, who banged on the roof of the Granada. ‘Cliff, you deaf? Look up Gables Yard.’ Cliff pinched his nose between finger and thumb, goggling as the vehicle rumbled past. It was a large removals van. The radiator grille was damaged, as if it had been bashed in. Or had maybe done the bashing. And the geezer he thought he’d recognised was behind the wheel. Cliff shot out of the driving seat for another butchers. ‘Harry! … Hey, Harry! Get in! Get in the car!’ ‘WHAT?’ Harry turned back to Wally, finger on his chest. He had wanted a private confab since they’d arrived at the office, but there had been no opportunity. He knew he had to warn Wally, just in case anyone should get wind that they had been given a tip-off about the safe house. Wally looked Harry directly in the face. ‘I dunno what you’re talkin’ about sunshine, I’ve not been up the base for months.’ Harry winked. ‘Good, just remember that, you never told me nothin’.’ Cliff was hysterical as he yelled, ‘Harry get in the friggin’ car.’ Harry still took his time, easing his bulk into the passenger seat. ‘What you gettin’ your knickers in a twist about, we’ll be on time.’ ‘Behind you, didn’t you fuckin’ see it?’ Cliff jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s that van from this morning… let’s move.’ ‘What the bloody hell you doin’!’ Halfway in the rear door, Wally hopped on one foot as Cliff did a tight U-turn, and scrambled in as the Granada screeched off down the road.
‘It’s Cliff! Yeah! Is Frank there?’ One ear covered by his hand, the other ear glued to the portable phone, Cliff did his best to make himself heard above The Happy Mondays. He was a big Diana Ross fan, and this lot sounded to him to be in the throes of terminal agony. Cliff shut his eyes to cut out the flashing strobe lights, face screwed up in a painful grimace. The narrow passage was only feet away from a vast, heaving, sweating mob of youth, the noise and heat wafting over him in waves. ‘No, no, he’s not with me, you know where he is? I’ve tried him on the portable an’ I’m gettin’ no answer. Listen, if he comes in, love, will you tell him it’s urgent, I’ll wait for him at the office… yeah! Yeah, I know what time it is. Okay, tell him it’s urgent, an’ I’m with Harry…’ ‘Come on, come on,’ the young guy who was promoting the gig bellowed, beckoning to him. ‘There’s kids trying to get in by the back door.’ Cliff finished the call and scurried off. ‘Oi! Me phone.’ Cliff handed it back. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Dillon was doing his flunkey act, holding open the rear door of the Merc. He’d already taken the entire staff of the Chinese restaurant home, nine waiters and waitresses, dropping them off at their respective addresses, and now it was the turn of the manager and his wife. They settled themselves inside, and Dillon opened the front passenger door to get at the bleeping portable on the dashboard. ‘Dillon … eh, can’t hear, just take your time.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll be back at base in about an hour… Okay, hang on.’ He leaned in and spoke to the Chinese man and his wife, reclining in luxury. ‘You’ll have to call another cab.’ They both blinked up at him, totally bewildered. ‘Out. Go on — out!’ Dillon slammed the door after them and said into the phone, ‘Gimme ten minutes.’ He climbed in and zoomed off, leaving the manager and his wife on the pavement staring at him, not quite inscrutably.
This had better be worth it. Three-thirty in the morning and they want a pow-wow. Plus losing the chink custom. And he needed his sleep, badly. If this was all over nothing… Cliff opened the basement door and launched right in, gabbling ten to the dozen and waving his arms around. He followed Dillon into the office, where Harry was sitting with his feet on the desk, a mug of coffee in his fist. ‘… so we’re lost, right, Harry’s tryin’ to find the address, he’s in a call box, over by Tower Bridge, the wharf, when I see the truck —’ ‘What truck?’ ‘The one from this morning’ — the bleedin’ furniture van, went straight past me.’ ‘What you do? Call the cops?’ ‘I called you! Where the hell you been?’ ‘With the bloody Chinese…’ ‘We tried to follow but we lost it, then we had to get to this gig!’ ‘Probably be stripped an’ dumped by now,’ Harry reckoned. ‘There’s a couple of crusher yards around that area, an’ it —’ ‘Well, let the cops sort that out — it’s nothin’ to do with us.’ Dillon rubbed his eyes. ‘I better get home.’ Harry banged his mug down on the desk, slopping coffee. ‘Tell him!’ Cliff jerked his head rapidly. ‘Frank — the driver. I knew I’d seen him before. It was that Barry Newman’s heavy…’ ‘Colin,’ Harry said. ‘One that picked your kids up,’ he added softly, looking straight at Dillon with his shrewd baby-blues. Cliff was nodding, more arm-waving. ‘An’ if you put two an’ two together, I mean, he knows what business we’re in — he even owns this place, right, he could have… he could…’ He puffed out his cheeks. A thousand possibilities. Take your pick. Dillon’s head was down, staring at the floor. ‘Here we go again.’ He swiped the air viciously. ‘Why is it, every time I get a goddamned leg-up, something — somebody drags me down?’ He stared at the desk for a second, nostrils flaring, breathing audible. He stared for a second more, then jerked his thumb at Cliff. ‘Go out back, get some ropes an’ that gear Jimmy left.’ Dillon’s eyes were suddenly hard, like shiny black pebbles. ‘I’m gonna sort this bastard out once and for all.’
It was well after four, and Newman’s warehouse was in darkness. Dillon and Harry got out of the Granada, looking up and down the dark empty street. Harry collected the gear from the boot and carefully pressed it shut. Dillon leaned down to Cliff in the driver’s seat. ‘We’ll have a shufty around. Park it a good distance.’ The whites of Cliff’s eyes gleamed. ‘You mean walk back here?’ ‘Anythin’ happens, our logo’s on the side of the car, you pillock!’ Harry tapped on the roof, advising Cliff he’d got the rope and other stuff, and Cliff drove off. They approached the high gates, chain-link reinforced with iron bars, fringed along the top with razor wire. There was a snarling alsatian in a triangular metal sign with
GUARD
above and
DOG
beneath. ‘Dog!’ ‘I can read, Harry! But I didn’t see one when I was here, did you?’ Harry shook his head. ‘Just a front, cheap bastard,’ Dillon said. They moved further along, past the gates to a wall topped with broken bottle glass set in cement. ‘Okay, my old son, how we gonna work it,’ Harry said, unslinging the coil of rope from his shoulder. ‘This wall’s a piece of cake, an’ I got a crowbar…’ ‘Let’s just check out for alarms, no ruddy heroics. We’ve had enough for one day. We just sort the place out.’ Dillon’s fear of alarms was unfounded, at least as far as the external windows were concerned. Harry jemmied the catch and the three of them slipped inside. They moved on rubber soles along the aisles, hands cupped around the torch glass so the light was focused into tight beams. The shelves were chock-a-block with Newman’s Third World trade. One rack was completely filled with elephants, some without their decorative head-dresses, some in the process of being replaced with beads and coloured glass. At the far end they came to Newman’s office, a partitioned structure of wooden panels up to waist height and panes of frosted glass right up to the ceiling. Harry held up his hand. ‘Hang about…’ He did a slow sweep with the torch round the edge of the door. ‘You see any wires?’ Dillon ran his fingers along the top and down both sides of the door frame. ‘I’d say we’re okay.’ Harry moved back a pace or two. He switched off his torch and craned upwards, peering through the frosted glass. ‘Don’t go in,’ he warned Dillon. ‘See that red dot? We got to find the main electricity circuit. We cross that beam an’ all hell breaks loose. I’ll go, just stay put.’ He flicked on the torch and went off. Dillon and Cliff hunkered down, backs to the wooden panels. Down in the basement Harry followed the circuit cables along the wall, which led him eventually to the mains box. He opened the cast-iron cover and propped his torch at an angle to provide illumination. He leaned in, lifting two wires clear with his screwdriver, clippers poised. ‘Our Father which art in heaven…’ He snipped. Nothing happened. He isolated two more and snipped again. Still nothing. ‘Lovely,’ Harry grinned, and carried on pruning. Hunched against the wall of the office, Cliff shone the torchbeam on his wristwatch. Ten after five. ‘It’s gonna be daylight soon!’ he hissed at Dillon. Drops of moisture filled the air. ‘Christ!’ Cliff stuck his hand out. ‘It’s raining….’ Dillon squinted up, his face wet. The sprinklers had come on. The wavering beam of a torch through the racks marked Harry’s return. He came up grinning, dead chuffed with himself. ‘I clipped every wire, turned off every main switch.’ ‘Yeah, an’ put the sprinklers on.’ Dillon got up, rubbing his knees. ‘Can we go in now, or not?’
Dillon and Cliff knelt in front of the safe, a squat, old-fashioned green job with a brass handle, their heads close together as they studied the combination dial in the pale wash of light filtering through the windows. Harry was rummaging in the desk, still using the torch to peer into drawers, even though the office was brightening by the minute. ‘Try it again… turn it left, left,’ Dillon said. Cliff twiddled the dial. ‘If we can’t open it, we’ll blow it. Harry, turn that off, or stop flashin’ it around!’ ‘Hey, look at this —’ Harry reached into a drawer, a greedy kid who’s discovered a cache of Mars bars. ‘It’s a 9mm Beretta. Oh very nice… it’s got a custom-made silencer.’ He checked it was unloaded, clicked the trigger on the empty chamber. ‘I’m havin’ this…’ ‘Leave it!’ Dillon shot him a fierce look. ‘We’re not liftin’ anythin’, we’re just lookin’ for evidence.’ Cliff twiddled some more, then shook his head, mouth turned down. Dillon took out two small packs of plastic explosive, a wad of putty, and from a separate pocket a detonator with trailing wires. He nudged Cliff aside. ‘Get back, lemme stick it.’ Harry rooted, searching for cartridges. Dillon set the charge, attached the detonator wires. ‘Get under the desk,’ he said to Harry. ‘You too, Cliff.’ They took up positions. ‘Okay. Here we go.’ Dillon scuttled behind an armchair and put his head in the crook of his elbow. It wasn’t a huge bang, more like a heavy door slamming shut in the wind. Short and sweet. They waited till the puff of grey smoke had cleared and had a peek. ‘Beautiful, Frank,’ breathed Cliff. ‘Neat as a whistle. That Jimmy’s gear?’
Colin half-turned in the driver’s seat, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I sorted it personally, Mr Newman. The van’s crushed, you could carry it in a holdall.’ At his ease, Newman sat in the back of the Jaguar Sovereign, gloved hands lightly clasped, resting in his lap. The car moved along the dingy street, passing a few parked vehicles; it stopped in the middle of the road and backed up. Newman operated the window and leaned his head out into the chill morning air. ‘That’s Dillon, isn’t it?’ Colin went round to the Jag’s boot, took out a short crowbar, walked across and broke the Granada’s windscreen. He smashed the rear window and was about to start on the side windows when Newman said curtly, ‘That’s enough.’ Colin returned to the car. Newman leaned forward, rapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go, they gotta be close … get some back-up round fast!’ The car sped off.
‘Take a look at what we got here!’ Dillon slid open a deep metal tray, packed to the brim with small brown envelopes. He picked one up and tossed it to Cliff. ‘The lazy so-an’-so’s didn’t even take it out of the wage packets.’ Cliff unzipped his windcheater and took out a foldaway bag. He batted it into shape and he and Dillon started scooping wage packets into it. Newman must have stashed the rest of the money elsewhere, Dillon thought, because this was only a fraction of the stolen payroll. But that didn’t matter. The fact that Newman had some of the laundry wage packets in his possession was the real clincher. Let the slippery bastard try to wriggle out of this one! Harry’s eagle eye had lighted on a metal box, and his itchy fingers were in there quick as a shithouse rat. He rattled it and prised it open with his thumbnail. All shapes and sizes, several different hues, the heaped diamonds sparkled in brilliant profusion. Harry hissed in a breath between his teeth. ‘No, put them back! I mean it, Harry, put the box back,’ Dillon ordered sternly. ‘You’re worse than a ruddy kid! Do as I say — just get the evidence.’ ‘Okay Sherlock!’ Harry obeyed, though his heart was weeping. The floor in the main warehouse was awash. Coat collars up around their ears against the sprinkler jets, the three of them legged it for the main entrance. Dillon slid back the bolts, eased the door open a fraction, then quickly slammed it shut. ‘Newman’s outside. He’s out there!’ Cliff did a sliding turn, feet slithering on the wet floor. ‘We go the back way across the roof!’ They set off down the central aisle, heading for the fire exit door. Newman and Colin burst in. As he ran, Dillon grabbed one of the racks and brought it crashing down behind them. Harry and Cliff got the general idea and did likewise, bringing shelves of elephants, brass trays, fertility totems, candlesticks, temple bells and earthenware pots tumbling down. ‘Dillon — wait!’ Newman ran forward, kicking an elephant out of the way. ‘Dillon!’ He stepped on a tray and went skidding into one of the racks, bringing the whole lot down. Colin came panting back. ‘The roof — they’re goin’ to try and cross by the roof, the crazy bastards. It won’t hold their weight…’ Limping and cursing, Newman followed Colin into the yard. They stared up in the grey light to the three figures running as nimbly as cats along the apex of the old warehouse roof, crumbling yellow brick supporting a slanting metal-framed structure of skylights. They were balanced on a lead strip no more than six inches wide, sloping glass either side, so that a single slip could be fatal. Dillon, bringing up the rear, yelled down, ‘I warned you to stay off my back, you bastard!’ He hoisted the bag high. ‘I got the wages, an’ I’ll have you, Newman!’ As he turned to run on, Dillon’s foot caught the lead flashing. He slithered down, a swinging foot smashing through one of the skylights. As the glass gave way he lost his hold, Harry snatching his wrist and hauling him back up. Cliff had the rope unfurled. He secured one end, tossed it down, and moments later all three of them vanished from sight over the rear of the building. A truck piled high with the heavy mob pulled into the yard with a squeal of brakes. Colin ran up, waving his arms. ‘We’ll get ‘em — back up, turn around! They’ll be headin’ for their car…’ ‘Leave them.’ Newman walked back to the main door. 7 said leave it!’ He beckoned Colin. ‘Get them inside.’ As the men jumped down Newman said, ‘One of you try and track Dillon, see where he is an’ get back to me… Move!’