Paper Money (13 page)

dangerous. How far had the transporter traveled with its load of

unsecured scrap?

Suddenly }he understood. "Give the Mayday!" he yelled.

Max stared at him. "What?"

Something hit the roof of the van with a clang.

The truck driver jumped out of his cab onto the motorcyclist. Several

men in stocking masks swarmed over the scrap yard wall. Ron glanced in

his wing mirror and saw the two motorcyclists behind the van being

knocked from their machines.

The van lurched and then, incomprehensibly, seemed to rise in the air.

Ron looked to his right and saw the arm of a crane reaching over the

wall to his roof. He snatched the microphone from a bemused Max as one

of the masked men ran toward the van. The man lobbed something small and

black, like a cricket ball, at the windshield.

The next second passed slowly, in a series of pictures, like a film seen

frame by frozen frame: a crash helmet flying through the air; a wooden

club landing on someone's head; Max grabbing the gear stick as the van

tilted; Ron's own thumb pressing the talk button on the microphone as he

said "Obadiah Mayd--"; the small bomb that looked like a cricket ball

hitting the windshield and exploding, sending toughened glass fragments

into the air in a shower; and then the physical blow as the shock wave

hit and the quiet darkness of unconsciousness.

Sergeant Wilkinson heard the call sign "Obadiah" from the currency

shipment, but he ignored it. It had been a busy morning, with three

major traffic holdups, a cross-London chase after a hit-and-run driver,

two serious accidents, a warehouse fire, and an impromptu demonstration

in Downing Street by a group of anarchists. When the call came in he was

taking a cup of instant coffee and a ham roll from a young West Indian

girl and saying: "What does your husband think about you coming to work

with no bra?"

The girl, who had a large bust, said: "He doesn't notice," and giggled.

Constable Jones, on the other side of the console, said: "There you are,

Dave, take the hint." Wilkinson said: "What are you doing tonight?"

She laughed, knowing he was not serious.

"Working," she said.

The radio said: "Mobile to Obadiah Control.

Come in, please." Wilkinson said: "Another job? What?"

"I'm a go-go dancer in a pub."

"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.

The siren came nearer. The car was traveling very fast. He heard the

squeal of tires as it swung under the railway arch, then the scream of

the engine as the car touched seventy in third before changing up. The

sound got louder, then suddenly the pitch of the siren dropped and the

noise began to recede. Jacko breathed a sigh of relief, then heard the

second siren. He yelled: "Stay down!"

The second car passed, and he heard a third There was the same squeal

under the arch, the same third-gear burst after the corner--but this

time the car slowed outside the gate.

Everything seemed very quiet. Jacko's face was unbearably hot under the

nylon. He felt he was going to suffocate. He heard a sound like

policeman's boots scraping on the gate. One of them must be climbing up

to have a look over. Suddenly Jacko remembered that there were two more

guards in the cab of the van. He hoped to Christ they didn't come round

just now.

What was the copper up to? He hadn't climbed right over, but he hadn't

fallen back, either. If they came in for a good look, it would all be

up.

No, don't panic, he thought, ten of us can see to a carful of worries.

But it would take time, and they might have left one in the car, who

could radio for reinforcements.

Jacko could almost feel all that money slipping through his fingers. He

wanted to risk a peep around the side of the skip, but he told himself

there was no point: he would know when they left by the sound of the

car.

What were they doing?

He looked again at the currency van. Jesus, one of the blokes was

moving. Jacko hefted his shotgun. It was going to come to a fight. He

whispered: "Oh, bollocks."

There was a noise from the van--a hoarse yell.

Jacko scrambled to his feet and stepped around the skip with his gun

ready.

There was nobody there.

Then he heard the car pull away with a screech of tires. Its siren

started up again and faded into the distance.

Deaf Willie emerged from behind the rusty shell of a Mercedes taxi.

Together, they went toward the van. Willie said: "Jolly good fun, ain't

it?" "Yes," Jacko said sourly. "Better than watching the bloody

television." They looked inside the van. The driver was groaning, but he

did not look badly hurt. "Out you come, Grandad," Jacko said through the

broken window. "Tea break's over."

The voice had a calming effect on Ron Biggins.

Until then he had been dazed and panicky. He did not seem to be hearing

properly, there was a pain in his head, and when he put his hand up to

his face he touched something sticky.

The sight of a man in a stocking mask was curiously bracing. It was all

very clear. An extremely efficient raid, in fact, Ron was somewhat awed

by the smoothness of the operation. They had known the route, and the

timing, of the currency van's trip. He began to feel angry. No doubt a

percentage of the haul would find its way into the secret bank account

of a corrupt detective.

Like most police and security workers, he hated bent coppers even more

than villains.

The man who had called him Grandad opened the door, reaching through the

shattered glass of the side window to operate the internal lock.

Ron got out. The movement hurt him.

The man was young--Ron could distinguish long hair underneath the

stocking. He wore jeans and carried a shotgun. He gave Ron a

contemptuous push and said: "Hands out, neatly together, Pop.

You can go to hospital in a minute."

The pain in Ron's head seemed to grow with his anger. He fought down an

urge to kick out at something, and made himself remember how he was

supposed to behave during a raid: Don't resist, cooperate with them,

give them the money. We're insured for it, your own life is more

valuable to us, don't be a hero.

He began to breathe hard. In his concussed mind he confused the young

man holding the shotgun with the corrupt detective and with Lou

Thurley, panting and groaning on top of him cent, virginal Judy, in some

verminous bed at a dingy studio apartment; and suddenly he realized that

it was this man who had messed up his, Ron's, life, and that maybe a

hero was what he needed to be to win back the respect of his only child;

and that no-goods like this corrupt detective wearing a stocking mask in

bed with Judy and carrying a shotgun was the kind who always messed it

up for good people like Ron Biggins; so he took two steps forward and

punched the astonished young man's nose, and the man stumbled and pulled

both triggers of his gun, shooting not Ron, but another masked man

beside him, who screamed blood and fell down; and Ron stared, horrified,

at the blood until the first man hit him over the head very hard with

the metal barrel of the gun, and Ron passed out again.

Jacko knelt beside Deaf Willie and pulled the shreds of stocking away

from the older man's face. Willie's face was a dreadful mess, and Jacko

went pale." Jacko and his like usually inflicted wounds upon their

victims and one another with blunt instruments; consequently Jacko had

never seen gunshot wounds before. And since in-house training in first

aid was not one of the perks in Tony Cox's management training scheme,

Jacko did not really know what to do. But he was capable of quick

thinking.

He looked up. The others were standing around, staring. Jacko yelled:

"Get on with it, you dozy bastards!" They jumped.

He bent closer to Willie and said: "Can you hear me, Mate?"

Willie's face twisted, but he was unable to speak.

Jesse knelt on Willie's other side. "We got to get him to hospital," he

said.

Jacko was ahead of him. "I need a hot car," he said. He pointed to a

blue Volvo parked nearby.

"Whose is that?"

"It belongs to the owner of the yard," Jesse said.