Three streets away, Dillon, Harry and Cliff were running like the clappers. As they rounded a corner Harry glanced behind, checking for signs of pursuit, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen. ‘We did it!’ he exulted. ‘Come on… come on!’ Even the sight of the Granada’s shattered windscreen didn’t wipe the smile from his face. He brushed the broken bits from the bonnet and unlocked the door. ‘Get in — let’s get out of here!’ The rooftop escape had infected the three of them with an adrenalin high. Dillon especially was abuzz, the joy of triumph so sweet he could almost taste it. ‘We got enough evidence here to get that bastard ten years,’ he chortled. ‘Hey! That laundry offerin’ a reward?’ Driving off, they were too busy laughing like drains and congratulating one another to notice the black Jaguar Sovereign creeping out from a side street and ghosting behind at a discreet distance.
Newman straightened up from the safe, the metal box in his gloved hand. He could practically tell by the weight of it that the contents were untouched, but just to make absolutely certain he did a cool, professional appraisal of the stones in their padded velvet lining. Snapping the lid shut, he slid the box into his overcoat pocket. Colin was hovering by the door, cracking his knuckles. ‘I want this place cleaned up — like now!’ Newman said, his voice as lethal as cold steel. ‘If it takes ten or twenty men, get ‘em. This never happened, understand me?’ Colin glanced behind uneasily. The sprinklers had been turned off, but the warehouse was a total shambles, water inches deep in places. ‘Barry, what about the lads, their cut? They won’t go for this —’ ‘They’ll go for anythin’ I tell them,’ Newman sneered, his thin, wide mouth twisting contemptuously. ‘Fuckin’ ex-soldiers are all alike, they’re conditioned to take orders, why you think I use them?’ He suddenly kicked out at the desk, livid with a furious spite and overwhelming rage. ‘I made a point of helpin’ the bastards, handin’ out work to them. I did it for Billy, my Billy… well, not any more. An’ that Dillon.’ He spat the name. ‘I tried! I’d have given that stupid bastard more money than he’d ever dreamed of, because he was good to my Billy — but no! Legit. He wanted to be legit. Well, we’ll see how he gets himself out of this one!’ Breathing hard, Newman wiped spittle from his moustache. His voice sank to a murmur. ‘He was never here, understand? And you get on the first plane…’ ‘I dunno.’ Colin cracked his knuckles. ‘What about my wife?’ ‘You don’t know, son,’ Newman sighed, managing to sound fatherly and patronising at one and the same time. ‘I do. I survive, an’ I got,’ he patted his pocket, ‘one-point-five million here. An’ if you want your cut, you do as I tell you — you weren’t here tonight. Nothin’ went down here tonight.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Get over to Spain, call it a holiday!’ Colin nodded unhappily. It had the ring of a friendly invitation but he knew it was a command.
Dillon bounced into the office, dumped the bag on the desk. ‘Cliff, get the motor over to Fernie, see if he can fix it up by tomorrow afternoon. Harry, check over the jobs we got lined up.’ He unzipped the bag. ‘We get cleaned up, then first thing I go to the cops.’ Eyes all aglow, Dillon scooped up wage packets and held them high, tightly bunched in his fist. ‘We got that bastard!’
Newman paced along the aisles, head swivelling left, then right, left, right again, noting every tiny detail, every slight discrepancy. He adjusted the position of a set of brass candlesticks, nudged a china figurine back into line with its fellows. The boys had done good. Just over the hour it had taken them, and you’d never have guessed that at six-thirty that morning the place looked as though a bull had rampaged through it and pissed all over the floor. Three blokes were finishing off the mopping up at the far end; once the floor dried it would be as if nothing had happened. Newman pursed his lips and smiled. Nothing had. He strolled back to the office. Derek, the guy he’d put on Dillon’s tail, came in the main door and hurried over. ‘Dillon went straight to his gaff,’ he reported. ‘You see him carry the gear in?’ asked Newman quietly. Derek nodded. ‘You want us to pick him up?’ ‘No, but I’ll get him picked up, all right,’ Newman smirked. He held open the office door. ‘Come on, you got a call to make!’ Derek stared at him, mystified, and in he went, scratching his head. Newman and his smirk followed.
‘Morning!’ Harry was using his electric shaver when Susie breezed in with a bag of shopping and a cheery smile. ‘As Frank didn’t make it home, I reckoned you had a busy night, so…’ She held up three paper bags, their contents seeping through ‘… breakfast! Bacon butties!’ There was the sound of running water from the washroom, where Dillon was engaged in his morning ablutions. ‘How you feelin’?’ Harry asked, unplugging the shaver. ‘You okay now?’ ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Susie showed him her hand, now out of plaster, and waggled her fingers, almost as good as new. ‘I’d have started back days ago but Frank wouldn’t hear of it.’ She opened a cupboard. ‘No coffee? Any milk?’ Harry nipped out behind her back to forewarn Dillon. Susie switched on the overhead light and shook her head at the state of the place. Leave three fellas alone for a few days and they could turn a palace into a pig-sty. Dillon appeared, drying his hands on a towel. ‘Hello, love, you’re early.’ He gave her a peck. ‘I was just havin’ a wash. Kids get off to school okay, did they?’ ‘Yes.’ Susie loaded a tray with dirty coffee mugs. ‘Kettle’s on. I’ll get some milk. Looks as if I came just in time.’ ‘Cliff not back?’ Dillon asked Harry as he came in. Harry shook his head. His eyes flicked a sidelong look at Susie. ‘How do you want to work it this morning?’ he asked Dillon, making it casual. Dillon gave a quick frown, gestured towards the passage. He said, ‘Can I borrow your shaver? An’ get me a clothes brush…’ Susie was standing with an armful of empty beer cans, about to drop them in the waste basket. ‘Frank!’ Dillon whipped round in the doorway. ‘Is something going on?’ He blinked at her, wide-eyed innocence. ‘No…’ and went out. When Harry came through into the washroom with the electric shaver Dillon had done a lightning change into a clean white shirt, black tie and neatly pressed grey trousers. Dillon turned on the tap and started shaving. Under the sound of running water he whispered, ‘I don’t want Susie to know what went down last night.’ He noticed his cuffs, slightly puckered, and fretted, ‘Should have had it laundered!’ The phone rang and they heard Susie answer it. Harry rubbed his palms briskly. ‘What we do? Go to the cops? If there’s a reward, maybe we can do a deal —’ Dillon nixed that with a swift chop of the hand. He had other worries on his mind. ‘We’re bound to have repercussions from Newman…’ He frowned towards the door. ‘I don’t want Susie left down here, that bastard could try to get my kids again. Soon as I’m cleaned up I go straight to the cops, no deals. Get that shooter they used, we’ll need that.’ He smoothed his hand over his chin. ‘Gimme me jacket… tie okay, is it?’ Harry unhooked the chauffeur’s grey jacket from behind the door and tore off the plastic cover. He helped Dillon into it, then climbed up on the lavatory seat, reaching inside the big old-fashioned wooden cistern. ‘I stashed it up here.’ Dillon twitched as the phone went again. He fumbled with his jacket buttons, a bundle of nerves. ‘We’re doin’ the right thing, Harry, trust me. I won’t let you down. Cops’ll want to question all of us.’ Harry stepped down with the Sterling, wrapped in The Sporting Life. Dillon looked him in the face. Now it came, what was really troubling him. ‘You and me made a terrible mistake.’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘One we have to live with, but, we’re for it if so much as a word gets out about what we done, right?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘So, that’s finished, that never happened, we never discuss it, agreed?’ ‘Yeah.’ Harry nodded. ‘I hear you, gov’nor. I’ll put this with the dough.’ He grinned. ‘You’re lookin’ good…’ Dillon turned to the door, whitewash all down the back of his jacket. ‘Hang on!’ Harry batted it off. ‘Whitewash on the back… s’okay now!’ He brushed Dillon’s shoulders. ‘You sure about this, Frank, maybe we can do a deal — not with Newman, the geezer from the laundry, he hadda be insured.’ ‘I said no deals.’ Dillon ground it out so that it stuck. ‘We play it straight. So far we been lucky! Don’t push it, Harry. I’m going in, that’s final.’ He took down his chauffeur’s cap, flicked off an imaginary speck of dust. He opened the door and Cliff came barging in, face shiny, out of breath. He’d changed too into his chauffeur’s gear. ‘I’ve left the motor at Fernie’s. Where’s the dough?’ ‘Where’s Susie?’ asked Dillon, fractious and fussing. ‘I look okay?’ ‘Gone for some milk.’ Cliff squinted sideways at his shoulder, brushing it. ‘Mind the walls… whitewash comes off!’ ‘Come on then,’ Dillon said decisively, ‘before she gets back, let’s get this sorted between us —’ Cliff started to move as the telephone rang, and Dillon hauled him back. ‘Just leave it, we got to talk.’ Dillon emphasised his words with his bunched fist. ‘When we go to the Old Bill, we got to all have the same story. Why we went to Newman’s, why we got that gun…’ Cliff’s eyes shifted uneasily to Harry, who was sucking his moustache. Two very unwilling volunteers, the pair of them couldn’t have looked less enthusiastic if they’d rehearsed. Dillon faced them, attempting to chide and jolly them along. ‘Come on, this is the only way … we sort this out, well, like Harry says, might even get some kind of reward, right? But what is important, and it’s gonna stay that way — we’re legit, an’ we stay legit, an’ I reckon we got a future, one we can all be proud of…’ Dillon’s fist shot up. ‘We made it! an’ we’re gonna go on makin’ it! What’s past is past, agreed?’ He spread his raised hand. ‘Harry?’ Harry whacked it. ‘Cliff?’ Cliff whacked it. ‘Yes …!’ Dillon was convinced himself. Edginess, uncertainty, doubt were banished, he was psyched up and raring to go. A new confident Dillon now, on his way to the top, and nothing on the planet short of a thermonuclear warhead could stop him. At last he was in control. He had a grip. He felt great! ‘I’ll level with them, tell exactly what went down, an’ then we’re in the clear. We learn from our mistakes. Only one way to go now, an’ that’s up!’ ‘Frank…?’ Susie’s voice started low and ascended the scale like the shrill whine of a thermonuclear warhead homing in on its target. ‘Frank — will you get in here!’
Harry appeared in the doorway, sent to forestall nuclear armageddon. ‘Where’s Frank? You get in here, now!’ Susie was blazing. Cliff came in behind Harry and she let them both have it. ‘Fernie left a message for you. He said — and I won’t repeat it word for word — but he said unless you pay what you owe him he’s keeping the car, smashed up as it is, but it’s nothing to what he intends doing unless he gets paid —’ ‘Oh…’ Harry feebly waved a pacifying hand. ‘We had a bit of a prang last night…’ ‘I haven’t finished. He also said he’s keeping the portable phone! And—’ ‘Oh man,’ Cliff moaned. ‘We need that!’ ‘I haven’t finished Cliff! The bank called, wanted to know if there was a problem. There’s not been one repayment on their loan, and the Stag Security account is overdrawn up to…’ Susie snatched up her notepad. ‘Three and a half thousand pounds. And don’t either of you tell me that’s Frank’s business —’ ‘I dunno anythin’ about the loan, Susie,’ said Cliff lamely. Susie yanked a drawer open. ‘Do either of you know about these betting slips?’ He glare would have blistered paint. ‘Or is that Frank’s business as well, like the account at the betting shop. Eight hundred quid outstanding! My friend went out on a limb for you lot, is this how you repay him?! Don’t you understand what’ll happen to him?’ Harry stepped up to the desk, hands raised. ‘Just calm down, love…’ ‘Calm down!’ The nuclear warhead was about to explode. ‘They’ll take his taxi firm — he’s guaranteed your loan!’ Dillon came in, smart in his chauffeur’s grey uniform, bag of money in one hand, the Sterling sub-machine-gun wrapped in newsprint under his arm. ‘Okay, we all set…?’ All four heads jerked towards the window. The sudden loud wail of police sirens, the screech of brakes in the street outside. A look of bewilderment on Dillon’s face. ‘You didn’t call ‘em, did you?’ he asked Harry. Car doors slammed and the basement steps were immediately filled with dark blue trousers, the thump of heavy boots, a fist hammering on the door. ‘This is the police! Come on, open up, we have a warrant to search the premises. This is the police!’ Dillon was rooted to the spot, staring blank-eyed at Harry and Cliff. Harry and Cliff, blank-eyed, stared back at Dillon. Standing behind the desk, Susie’s face had drained to a whiter shade of pale. ‘This can’t be about the Newman business,’ Harry muttered, blue eyes vague and confused. ‘Can it…?’ More hammering, the shouts getting louder and angrier. These weren’t bumbling PC Plods, they were the hard squad, as tough and ruthless in their methods as the villains they picked up. Dillon felt a sick fearful panic knawing at the pit of his stomach. He had a terrible vision, seeing once again the door open, the pale blue light splashing into the hallway, the man framed in the doorway with the TV flickering behind him, frantically pushing the door shut, and then the blast of the rifle, the body hitting the floor, the electric fire turned on its side. He gripped Harry’s arm, fingers digging in. ‘How much you tell Wally? He wouldn’t have opened his mouth, would he?’ ‘He knows nothin’, I swear, Frank. I told him nothin’.’ Harry was shaking his head, all at sea. ‘It’s got to be about last night, nothin’ else…’ Dillon recovered himself, his face hardening. He looked at the two men, holding their eyes with a deadly fixed intensity. ‘Say nothin’ — hear me!’ Susie came slowly around the desk, not a shred of colour in her face, arms lifting up beseechingly. ‘Oh God, Frank, what have you done?’
Harry was taken out, handcuffed to a uniformed officer. Cliff was next, handcuffed to another. Dillon followed, hands cuffed behind his back. Going up the steps he yelled out, ‘You don’t say a bloody word! Let me explain it… you don’t say nothin’. You don’t know anythin’ —’ For that he got his face rammed into the iron railings. The officer jerked Dillon’s arms up his back, nearly pulling them out of their sockets. Then he was shoved, staggering, into the street towards the open door of the police car. Finally, an officer came out carrying the zippered bag and the Sterling, its muzzle peeping through The Sporting Life. Susie trailed after him. Her arms hung limply at her sides, head thrown back as she sobbed her heart out. Coming up the steps, she was met by the lowering bulk of Detective Chief Inspector Reg Jenkins. He looked like the kind of copper who enjoyed pulling the legs off tarantulas. Waving the search warrant in her face, he gestured her back down. Standard procedure that someone had to be present when premises were searched, and in this respect, at least, Detective Chief Inspector Jenkins always went by the book.