Archie noticed he was wearing a dog collar, and carrying a Bible and rosary beads in one hand and a map in the other.
‘What’s the church you’re looking for, Father?’
‘St. Leonard’s in Shoreditch High Street.’ He showed him the map.
‘Are you in a car?’
‘No, I’m walking.’
‘You need to go up Curtain Road, then turn right into Bateman’s Row and keep going until you come to the T-junction and the church is up on the left. It’s about a five-minute walk.’
Harry could see Archie was talking to a priest and giving him directions. He got up and put the kettle on.
‘Bless you, my son, you’re a guiding angel to be sure.’
‘My pleasure, Father. I’ll let you out.’
The priest held up the Bible and started to open it. Archie thought the old man was going to read a passage and bless him. It was only when he felt the gun pressed against his stomach that he realized the Bible had concealed a gun.
‘One fuckin’ wrong move and you’re a dead man, ya understand me?’
Archie nodded. The priest made him walk to the entry door to the building and stood close to him with the gun in his back. Archie entered the key code, opened the door and the priest put a small wooden wedge in it so it didn’t close. They walked up the stairs, then, as Archie opened the control room door, the priest smashed him over the back of the head with the gun and let him fall to the ground. On seeing the gun, Harry instantly stuck his hands in the air and backed off. As Archie sat up groggily the priest got a thick roll of duct tape from his inside jacket pocket and threw it down on his lap.
‘Tape his hands, legs and eyes, then gag him.’
With the gun pointed at Harry, the priest told him to lie face down on the floor and put his hands behind his back. When Archie had finished, the priest kept the gun pointed at him while he checked that the tape was secure.
‘Open the gate,’ he told Archie.
He did as he was told and a green Ford Transit van, with the Security Express logos on the side, drove into the yard and reversed into the loading bay. Four men dressed in blue coveralls and balaclavas got out of the vehicle while the driver, also wearing a balaclava, lay across the front seats. One was carrying a sawn-off shotgun and the other three had handguns. Two of them ran up to the control room and one remained in the downstairs corridor by the entry door. When they arrived, the priest dragged Harry to the toilet. Then he took off his glasses and put on a balaclava and stayed with Harry.
The man with the sawn-off pointed it at Archie.
‘When the supervisor arrives to do his check, you let him in, or I’ll blow yer fuckin’ brains out,’ he said in an Irish accent.
A terrified Archie nodded repeatedly as he was pushed down into the control desk chair, while the other man held the gun to his head.
‘The keys to the cash vault are locked in the safe and we don’t know the numbers for it,’ Archie said.
The man with the gun slapped the back of his head hard.
‘If yer hand so much as twitches towards that panic button, I will pull the trigger.’ He also had an Irish accent.
Archie folded his arms, squeezed them tight to his chest and began to shake with fear.
At 8:30 a.m. on the dot the supervisor pulled up at the gate, got out of his car and pressed the intercom. The man with the shotgun ran down the stairs and joined his colleague.
‘Morning, Archie.’
‘Morning, boss.’
‘Has Harry not gone home yet?’ the supervisor asked, noticing his car was still in the yard.
Archie felt the gun being pressed hard against his head.
‘Answer him.’
‘He’s just having a cuppa and a chat with me.’
‘OK, make me one, will ya?’
Archie pressed the button to open the gate and before he knew it, he was dragged out of the chair, slammed to the ground face down and a pillowcase was put over his head. He was then tied up with duct tape and dragged to the toilet by the man with the handgun. The priest let the two blindfolded guards know he was with them, so not to bother trying to escape.
As the supervisor opened the ground floor door and stepped into the corridor, he saw the masked man pointing the sawn-off shotgun at him. He wasn’t aware of the other man behind the door, who kicked it shut and stuck a gun in his back.
‘Top of the mornin’ to ya, mister supervisor,’ he said in a deep, calm voice.
The supervisor was forced upstairs to the control room and tied to a chair. The man with the deep voice spoke to him, while his colleague held the shotgun to his head. The third man with them watched the monitor in case anyone came to the gates.
‘What’s the code for the safe dat holds the vault keys?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said nervously.
‘Don’t fuck me about, son, or I’ll be toasting yer fuckin’ head.’
‘I swear to God, I don’t know the code — only the depot manager does and he’s not in today.’
‘Well, I’m the god of hellfire,’ he said menacingly.
He got a can of lighter fluid out of the pocket of his coveralls and squeezed the flammable liquid over the supervisor’s head. The terrified hostage could smell the fluid as it trickled down his face. He began to shake uncontrollably as the man got a gold lighter out of his pocket and flicked the top open.
‘Believe me, son, this is gonna hurt. And you’ll be disfigured for life.’
He flicked the friction wheel with his thumb, releasing a spark, which lit up the tiny stream of butane gas. He moved the flame towards the supervisor’s head.
‘All right, all right, please don’t burn me! It’s 200258.’
He flicked the lighter lid back down and lightly patted the supervisor’s cheek.
‘Good boy... Now ye can go be with your friends in the shithouse.’
The man with the shotgun then duct-taped the supervisor’s mouth, put a pillowcase over his head and dragged him to the toilet. The priest stayed with the guards, while one man watched the TV monitor and the other two got the keys from the safe, then opened the vault.
‘Jesus Christ, there’s got to be millions here!’ the man with the sawn-off said with delight.
‘I told you there would be — most of it’ll be from the Ideal Home Exhibition,’ the man with the deep voice said. ‘Open the loading bay door and get the duffle bags from the van.’
His colleague did as he was told and quickly returned with six large duffle bags. They hurriedly filled them with cash and the man with the deep voice looked at his watch.
‘One more each and we gotta go,’ he said.
‘There’s still loads here.’
‘It’s too risky, we need to do everything to plan and stick to my timing. We’ve got enough to make us rich for life.’
‘The Costa Brava, champagne and caviar, what more could a criminal want?’ The man with the sawn-off chuckled.
Once they had loaded the bags into the van, one of the men went to get his two colleagues and the priest warned the guards they were still being watched before quietly leaving the toilet. Before leaving they ripped the false Security Express signs off the side of the Transit van and threw them in the back.
‘Christ, I’m bored. What time is it now?’ the Colonel asked, looking through binoculars at the eighteenth green.
Stanley was reading the paper. ‘10:35.’
‘How can anyone play a game that takes so long?’
‘Stop moaning. A cricket match can take five days.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if we were doing something positive, but this is like watching paint dry. Tell you what — I’ll bet you a quid the guy on the green misses this putt.’
‘Go on then.’
As the ball fell into the cup, the Colonel sighed, fished a pound note out of his pocket and handed it to Stanley.