'The thing about Carstairs', said Bruce, 'is he just doesn't understand figures. Show him an accounts book and he goes cross-eyed.'
Harry grunted.
'I think you would do a much better job in the wages department.'
'Tea-break,' announced the attendant as the new arrivals manoeuvred around him. One of them was large enough to make the place seem overcrowded. 'See you later, gents.'
Bruce checked his false moustache in the mirror. It was still there, despite the sweat trickling down from under the brim of his heavy, modified bowler. As soon as the attendant had gone, Bruce turned to Charlie and the window. 'Well?'
'Where's Gordy?'
'Tying his shoelaces down the hall. See anything?'
There was a pause before Charlie said, 'The van has just come into view. Followed by the police car.'
'Right,' said Bruce. 'Places, everyone.'
Billy Naughton's radio crackled and he pressed the button to receive it, giving his call sign.
'Anything that end?' It was Len. 'Over.' 'No. Over.'
'Well, keep sharp. Something tells me today's the day. Over.' Billy laughted. 'You said that yesterday. Over.' 'And I won thirty bob on the horses. I was right about something happening.' 'Over.'
'Yes, yes, over. Hold up.' Len went off-air for a moment. 'Apparently, there's a suspicious car over at your end. Registration Bravo, Mike, Alpha seven two three. Can you check it out, Billy?' 'On my way. Over.'
The passes that Gordy had sourced worked a treat. As soon as Roy had flashed his to the uniform at the gate, the barrier arced skywards. He had hardly slowed. The guard threw Janie a salute and she raised an imperious hand. Christ, they think we're royalty, thought Roy. He watched as Mickey came through behind him and together they turned onto the perimeter road. Roy put his hand out of the window, waving it up and down to tell Mickey to slow down to 15mph. It had just gone ten o'clock. They didn't want to get there too early.
A Comet 4B roared in overhead, trailing a dirty brown cloud of burned fuel. Noisy bugger, thought Roy.
As Buster and Charlie waited for the lift to arrive, Buster began to whistle 'Colonel Bogey'. Meanwhile, Bruce, Gordy and Harry took the stairs down to the ground floor, the stairwell echoing with the sound of metal Blakeys on bare concrete. 'Stop that,' said Charlie. 'I hated that film.' 'Fair enough. Got any requests?' 'Yes.'
'What?'
Charlie winked at him. 'Don't whistle.'
Buster felt the pouch of the briefcase that held the cosh. A little spark of anticipation shot through him and he let the adrenaline flow, enjoying the thump of his heart.
A bell pinged and the doors slid back. Both men stepped smartly into the empty lift. Charlie looked at his watch and jammed his umbrella against one of the doors. 'Two minutes, yet. Don't want to be too early.'
Buster eased the cosh from his case and put his right hand behind his back to keep it out of sight. Anyone entered and made a fuss about a jammed lift, he'd take care of them.
Outside Comet House, the Bedford security van had pulled to a stop in front of the revolving door and the hinged glass double doors beside it. The police Wolseley slotted into place behind the armoured vehicle, allowing enough room for the guards to gain access to the rear of the Bedford. The supervisor came round from the front seat, banged on the door and the two guards inside opened up. The trolley was manhandled out and the four boxes quickly placed on it. The door was slammed shut again.
In the police car, one of the officers was surreptitiously reading the sports pages of the Herald, spread out on his knee. 'You know what? I wouldn't mind doing some breaststroke with that Anita Lonsbrough.'
The driver shook his head, more in pity than disgust. 'You wouldn't mind doing some breaststroke with Dorothy in the canteen.'
'Leave it out. I do have some standards.'
'Yeah. Low ones.'
The lead Jaguar, driven by Roy, rolled to a smooth halt in the parking bay ten yards behind the police Wolseley. Roy feigned disinterest, but from the corner of his eye he watched as the two security guards started to push the trolley towards Comet House and the basement vault. A third man appeared to be riding shotgun. But without the shotgun, just a baton dangling at his belt.
'Seats,' Roy said quietly.
Janie exited the rear and moved quickly to the passenger seat next to Roy. Tiny Dave quickly collapsed the two folding seats and remained crouching, his powerful thigh muscles able to take the strain for as long as need be.
Roy again looked in his mirror. He could tell that Ian, the other heavy in the back of Mickey's Jag, was also dismanding his stool. Excellent. Ten past ten and all was well.
Still crouching, Tiny Dave reached into his inside pocket. From it he extracted a new quarter-inch chisel and removed the red plastic cover protecting the tip. He gripped the handle like a knife, careful not to catch anything with the unused, factory-sharp business end.
At eleven minutes past ten, the two guards plus the supervisor entered the foyer.
'Morning!' the supervisor shouted to the male receptionist. One of the guards pressed the lift button. Nothing happened. The supervisor stepped in and stabbed it repeatedly. 'Come on, come on,' he grumbled. 'Is this lift OK?' he yelled at the receptionist.
The lad shrugged. 'As far as I know. Could be someone holding it while they load stuff in. It happens.'
The supervisor muttered a curse under his breath.
Somewhere in the shaft above them a distant bell pinged and an arrow above the metal doors illuminated, showing that the lift was on its way down.
'About bloody time.'
'Bacon butty after this,' said one guard.
'Starvin',' agreed the other.
The supervisor tapped his foot impatiently.
Billy Naughton approached the suspicious car at a crouch. There was a driver in the front, he could see the silhouette, but no passengers. He moved towards the rear so he could check the registration on the plate. It was the right car. A Morris Oxford.
Another aircraft came in low over his head, the screech of jet engines swirling around him, and his walkie-talkie squawked. He ignored it. What was this one up to? he wondered as he sprinted round and yanked the driver's door open.
Gordy, Bruce and Harry had reached the bottom of the stairs some minutes ago and watched the trio of security men waiting for the lift to arrive.
'Now?' asked Harry.
'Not yet,' said Bruce. The word had barely left his lips when the doors to the elevator began to separate and a louder bell sounded. 'Now!'
Gordy was out first, his long legs closing the distance between stairwell and reception desk in a few lengthy strides. He looked at the duty receptionist, a young man with bad spots, and decided he would give them no trouble. At the same time, a second internal voice told him it was always best to play it safe. Kid might be a black belt in karate, after all. Behind him he could hear Bruce and Harry crossing to the guards, the metal tips on Harry's shoes ringing on the parquet.
A puzzled look on his face, as if he wasn't certain what was occurring, the receptionist automatically reached for the internal telephone. Gordy whipped off his hat and brought it down on the kid's hand. It made a dull clang as metal hit bone. The lad, his expression transformed into a mask of shock and pain, buckled at the knee and he went down, disappearing from view.
Not a black belt after all, thought Gordy.
The driver of the car shrank into his seat as the door was pulled open and a wild-eyed figure lunged in at him.
'Who the fuck are you?' yelled Billy as he grabbed at a lapel and pulled the lad close to him.
'Who the fuck are you?' retorted the young man, raising his hands to cover his face.
'Flying Squad.'
'What? I ain't done anything. Honest.'
It sounded as if he was about to cry. Either he was a very convincing actor, or he really wasn't up to no good. Billy relaxed his grip. 'What are you doing here?'
The lad fumbled in his pocket and produced his airside pass. 'I work over there. Just showing the car to a mate. He might buy it.'