The stocky guy could probably have hung on to the small bank robber all day if he’d had to, but the police were there within a minute of the alarm going off. They handcuffed the robber and then they wanted statements from the rest of us. Under the circumstances it seemed best that I come up with a false name and address, though the rest of my account was much as I’ve just told you. The stocky individual, who gave an address in Preston, proved to be called Shuttleworth. He was just visiting London and had expected Holloway to be a bit like that. Shuttleworth didn’t seem the sort to lie about his name or anything else. He seemed pleased enough with his day so far, unlike the bank robber who shot me a glance before he was led away.
Mr Adewole, the Assistant or Deputy Manager of the bank, had congratulated us several times and then, possibly feeling mere words were inadequate, had issued a general invitation to tea in his office. I thought it might look a bit suspicious to say “no” and so said “yes”. Shuttleworth, having as clear a conscience as need be, declined both tea and any suggestion that his had been more than a supporting role in the proceedings. I was, he said, the only hero and it had been his privilege to assist me. The way I’d landed that punch! Wow! He’d help me again, if I would just state where and when he would be needed.
I watched him depart with a degree of envy and proceeded to Mr Adewole’s office, where we were joined by the young lady (Vicky? Martha? Faith?) and by the police inspector, who was taking a brief break from his questioning of staff and customers. The young lady had a nice smile. The police inspector didn’t. I sat in one of the plastic chairs and pushed my bag under the seat as unobtrusively as I could.
“It was terrible,” the young lady said. (Alis? Bubbles? Storm? Something like that.) “The two of them came running into the bank with stockings over their faces, yelling at the tops of their voices. Then the big one pulled a gun out of the holdall he was carrying.”
“Did he?” I said.
“Yes,” said the young lady. She frowned. “It was a bag… a bit like that one under your seat.”
“Like mine?” I said.
“Very much like yours,” said the young lady. “I can’t quite see it now you’ve moved your legs, but, yes, almost identical. They stuffed the money in it afterwards.”
“Funny coincidence,” I said. “He probably bought his bag in the market, where I got mine. At least, that’s what I’d imagine. Small world.”
“And do you know how much money?” asked Mr Adewole, uninterested in probability and coincidence.
Mr Adewole obviously wanted to impress me, so I guessed low. “Five thousand?” I suggested, as if I thought that was a whole heap of cash.
“Seventy-five thousand,” said Mr Adewole. “That’s what you saved us, Mr Smith, by your quick action. Seventy-five thousand pounds.”
“He should get a reward,” said the young lady, who not only had a nice smile but was clearly generous with the bank’s money. I was beginning to like her.
“I’m sure he will,” said Mr Adewole, slightly more cautiously. “Unfortunately we can’t give you cash now to take away in your bag.” He laughed.
“Shame,” I said. I took another sip of tea. It was in a Charles and Diana Engagement mug – goodness knows where that had hidden all these years.
“I bet,” said Mr Adewole, “that when you got up this morning you didn’t expect you’d be preventing a bank robbery.”
“No,” I said. “Nobody told me to expect that. It would have been helpful if they had.”
“In fact, a funny thought has just occurred to me,” said Mr Adewole, who was quite chatty for a Deputy or Assistant Manager. “Maybe you too have a sawn-off shotgun in your bag, Mr Smith. Maybe you were coming in to rob the bank, as the other two gentlemen were coming out. That would be terribly amusing.”
He was easily amused.
“Ha,” I said.
“What is in your bag?” asked the police inspector, speaking for the first time. He put his own mug of tea down on Mr Adewole’s desk. He’d got a yellow one marked “BOSS” in big red letters, possibly Mr Adewole’s own, though he was really assistant or deputy boss.
“In the bag? Oh… er… this and that. Bits and bobs. Various stuff,” I said, in a way that should have convinced even the most suspicious and untrusting of policemen.
“I didn’t really mean…” Mr Adewole began. He looked from me to the inspector and back again. We weren’t finding his joke as funny as he had hoped.
“Maybe you could just open the bag, Mr Smith, and let me have a look inside,” said the inspector. “I’d better check it, just so that I don’t look a total plonker if Mr Adewole is right.”
I smiled to show that I understood he was only kidding and the heroes were not required to open their bags and justify what was inside.
“Now, please, Mr Smith,” he said.
If I could give you a second piece of advice it’s that you have to know when the game is well and truly up. My wife always says to me: “Benny,” she says, “your face gives you away every time. There’s no point in getting mixed up in any dodgy stuff because your normal expression is that of most people when they’ve just murdered their grandmother and cut her up for cat meat. My brother could lie his way out of anything and usually does. But not you. You have a naturally guilty conscience. Call it a curse. Call it a gift. But if you ever get caught, just own up. It’ll save everyone time in the long run.”
I opened the bag very slowly. The inspector looked inside and gave a low whistle.
“That’s top of the range, that is,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Blu-ray, built-in hard drive – only just in the shops.”
“Good picture quality?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The inspector looked at the unboxed DVD player in my bag, and frowned.
“I’m just returning it to Davies Brothers department store, down the road,” I said. “I bought it there a couple of days ago and it doesn’t seem to be working properly. I’m taking it back to check what’s wrong. Probably I just can’t programme it properly.”
“You got kids?” asked the inspector.
“No,” I said.
“Shame. They always know how to do these things. It’s about all they’re good for, but they do have that advantage.”
He bent down and zipped up the bag for me.
“Thanks for the tea,” he said to Mr Adewole. “I’d better finish what I was doing. Your people will want to get home.”
“Me too,” I said, seizing the moment. “I’d better get back. Home sweet home.”
“Where is it you live?” asked the inspector.
“Close by,” I hedged.
“Me too,” said the inspector. “We’ll bump into each again other soon, like as not. You’ll probably have to give evidence at the trial, of course.”
“Yes,” I said. But only if they could find me. However much I might be to blame for what had occurred this afternoon, at least I’d not be giving evidence at the trial – a small blessing but one to be counted all the same.
“And there’s the reward,” said Mr Adewole again. “We’ll be writing to you about that. A nice fat cheque, I should imagine.” He smiled. He too had decided he could risk being open-handed with the bank’s money. It was less of a risk than he imagined.
I wondered for a moment if there was any way of finding out what fictitious address I’d given, then going round there to intercept the cheque somehow and pay it into an account in the name of Smith… No, maybe not. There is a limit to how far you should try to push your luck and I’d ridden mine quite nicely so far.