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 Aldgate. 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 dared 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 a 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 wollies. But it would take time, and they might have left one in the car, who could radio for reinforcementsJacko 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 innocent, 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 nogoods 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.