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whining like this we will shoot you,’ said Brewerton. He pointed at the bank manager. ‘Count your bloody blessings. Your family are okay, nobody died, we got our money.’
‘All’s well that end’s well,’ said Franklin. ‘And much as we’d love to keep on chatting, we’ve got to go. Remember, you wait here until your wife calls, then you phone the police.’ Crompton nodded. Franklin grinned. ‘Be lucky,’ he said, as he and Brewerton headed for the door.
Don Parkinson pulled hard on the steering-wheel and drove through the narrow alley, the dented wings of the Transit only inches away from the weathered bricks on either side. At the end he swung the wheel to the right and accelerated under a railway arch, then made a hard left turn down a road that led to a disused factory. It had once made fireproof safes but had closed in the face of cut-throat competition from China and South Korea. A sign at the entrance to the yard announced that a property-development firm had acquired the premises and would soon be turning them into upmarket apartments. The chain that had kept the gates locked had been cut and they were pulled opened by a man in a blue tracksuit and gleaming white trainers. Parkinson drove through. The man flashed Edwards a thumbs-up and began to close the gates as Parkinson drove to the delivery area at the side of the main building.
The metal roll-shutter door was already opening but Parkinson revved the engine impatiently. ‘Easy, DP,’ said Edwards.
‘They should’ve had it open,’ said Parkinson. ‘Bloody amateurs.’
As soon as the shutter was high enough, he stamped on the accelerator and drove inside. The factory was half the size of a football field with lines of square concrete pillars running up to a metal framework supporting the roof. Fluorescent lights festooned with cobwebs hung from the beams. The machinery that had once been manned by hundreds of workers had been stripped out and the only sign that it had been a thriving business was a line of offices at the far end. Rats scurried in the corners and pigeons cooed from the safety of the nests they had built in the joints of the beams high in the ceiling.
Another man, wearing a tracksuit and training shoes, was standing between two black BMW saloons, the boot lids open. He was the father of the man who had opened the gates for them. Dean and Roger Barrett had worked together even before Dean had been old enough for a driving licence and they were two of the best drivers in London. Knight, McMullen and Marker piled out of the rear of the van with the nylon bags.
‘Right, get the money in the motors and torch the van,’ shouted Edwards. He looked at his watch. ‘I want us out of here in three minutes flat.’
Roger Barrett climbed into one of the BMWs and started the engine. His face was professionally impassive. ‘Guns in that motor,’ shouted Edwards, pointing at Barrett’s BMW. ‘Two bags in each.’
Knight, McMullen and Marker threw the bags into the boots and put their weapons into the boot of Barrett’s ear. They slammed the doors, then ran back to the van and stripped off their gloves and coats. Parkinson was sloshing petrol from a red can over the bonnet.
Edwards tossed his gloves and coat into the back. Knight, McMullen and Marker did the same. Edwards gave the inside a final check, then nodded at Parkinson, who threw petrol into the back, then tossed the can inside. He took out a box of matches, lit one and flicked it at the can. There was a whoosh of flame and the van was ablaze.
Dean Barrett ran into the factory, climbed into the second BMW and fired the engine. He looked at his father and nodded. Roger Barrett nodded back, his hands caressing the steering-wheel as he gunned the engine.
Edwards looked at his watch again. ‘Come on, guys, in the cars and let’s roll.’ He hurried over to the BMWs and climbed in next to Roger Barrett. Knight got into the back. ‘You okay, Ricky?’ he asked.
‘No
‘All’s well that end’s well,’ said Franklin. ‘And much as we’d love to keep on chatting, we’ve got to go. Remember, you wait here until your wife calls, then you phone the police.’ Crompton nodded. Franklin grinned. ‘Be lucky,’ he said, as he and Brewerton headed for the door.
Don Parkinson pulled hard on the steering-wheel and drove through the narrow alley, the dented wings of the Transit only inches away from the weathered bricks on either side. At the end he swung the wheel to the right and accelerated under a railway arch, then made a hard left turn down a road that led to a disused factory. It had once made fireproof safes but had closed in the face of cut-throat competition from China and South Korea. A sign at the entrance to the yard announced that a property-development firm had acquired the premises and would soon be turning them into upmarket apartments. The chain that had kept the gates locked had been cut and they were pulled opened by a man in a blue tracksuit and gleaming white trainers. Parkinson drove through. The man flashed Edwards a thumbs-up and began to close the gates as Parkinson drove to the delivery area at the side of the main building.
The metal roll-shutter door was already opening but Parkinson revved the engine impatiently. ‘Easy, DP,’ said Edwards.
‘They should’ve had it open,’ said Parkinson. ‘Bloody amateurs.’
As soon as the shutter was high enough, he stamped on the accelerator and drove inside. The factory was half the size of a football field with lines of square concrete pillars running up to a metal framework supporting the roof. Fluorescent lights festooned with cobwebs hung from the beams. The machinery that had once been manned by hundreds of workers had been stripped out and the only sign that it had been a thriving business was a line of offices at the far end. Rats scurried in the corners and pigeons cooed from the safety of the nests they had built in the joints of the beams high in the ceiling.
Another man, wearing a tracksuit and training shoes, was standing between two black BMW saloons, the boot lids open. He was the father of the man who had opened the gates for them. Dean and Roger Barrett had worked together even before Dean had been old enough for a driving licence and they were two of the best drivers in London. Knight, McMullen and Marker piled out of the rear of the van with the nylon bags.
‘Right, get the money in the motors and torch the van,’ shouted Edwards. He looked at his watch. ‘I want us out of here in three minutes flat.’
Roger Barrett climbed into one of the BMWs and started the engine. His face was professionally impassive. ‘Guns in that motor,’ shouted Edwards, pointing at Barrett’s BMW. ‘Two bags in each.’
Knight, McMullen and Marker threw the bags into the boots and put their weapons into the boot of Barrett’s ear. They slammed the doors, then ran back to the van and stripped off their gloves and coats. Parkinson was sloshing petrol from a red can over the bonnet.
Edwards tossed his gloves and coat into the back. Knight, McMullen and Marker did the same. Edwards gave the inside a final check, then nodded at Parkinson, who threw petrol into the back, then tossed the can inside. He took out a box of matches, lit one and flicked it at the can. There was a whoosh of flame and the van was ablaze.
Dean Barrett ran into the factory, climbed into the second BMW and fired the engine. He looked at his father and nodded. Roger Barrett nodded back, his hands caressing the steering-wheel as he gunned the engine.
Edwards looked at his watch again. ‘Come on, guys, in the cars and let’s roll.’ He hurried over to the BMWs and climbed in next to Roger Barrett. Knight got into the back. ‘You okay, Ricky?’ he asked.
‘No
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