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  ‘I can’t do this,’ said Crompton. He put his head in his hands. ‘My heart’s thumping like it’s going to burst.’

  ‘Deep breaths,’ said Franklin. ‘Take deep breaths and think happy thoughts. It’ll soon be over.’

  Brewerton stood up. His jacket swung open, revealing a semi-automatic in a nylon holster under his left arm. ‘Don’t worry, Owen,’ he said. ‘This isn’t our first time, we know what we’re doing. Just make sure you tell Max and Peter what to do. If anyone trips the silent alarm this could all turn to shit. And you know what that’ll mean.’

  The white Transit van bore the scars of a thousand or so days of battling the London traffic, with dented wings and scrapes on both sides. It was mechanically sound, though, and the engine had been carefully tuned. The vehicle was the clone of one used by an electrician in Brixton with identical registration plates and tax disc. The driver was in his late forties. Two decades earlier he had been a London taxi driver, one of the breed who knew virtually every street and landmark in the city by name. Don Parkinson had long since given up his taxi badge and now plied his trade as one of the most respected getaway drivers in the country. During the course of his criminal career he had acquired the nickname ‘DP’, which had nothing to do with his initials and everything to do with his habit of muttering, ‘Don’t panic,’ to himself whenever things got serious. He looked at his watch. There was a small digital clock in the dashboard but he didn’t trust electrical timepieces. The Rolex on his left wrist was half a century old and it had never failed him or his father before him. ‘It’s time,’ he said. A man was sitting next to him in the passenger seat and three more in the back. All were wearing long coats.

  ‘Rock and roll!’ said the man in the passenger seat. His name was Robbie Edwards and he was a veteran of more than two dozen armed robberies. He was thickset with well-muscled forearms and a rock-hard abdomen, but in the blue pinstripe suit and cashmere overcoat he looked like any other well-heeled businessman in the city. He was well tanned, and though his black hair was flecked with grey he still seemed younger than his forty-five years. He took a pair of dark glasses from his coat pocket and put them on.

  The three in the back of the van were in their thirties. They were all thinner than Edwards but had the look of men who spent a lot of time in the gym. Ricky Knight was the tallest, with dark brown hair and Ray-Ban sunglasses. Geoff Marker was also wearing shades, his hair had been shaved to disguise his receding hairline and he had a small diamond in his left earlobe. Billy McMullen was blond with a neatly trimmed goatee beard. The one thing they had in common, other than the long coats and the scarves around their necks, was that they were all cradling loaded Kalashnikov assault rifles.

  ‘Glasses,’ Knight said to McMullen.

  ‘I know.’ McMullen scowled, taking a pair of Oakley shades from his coat pocket and putting them on. ‘You’re as bad as my bloody mother. Wear your scarf, button your coat, don’t forget your dinner money.’

  Knight grinned. ‘Rough childhood?’

  ‘It was okay. She was just a bit of nag. Dad left when he couldn’t stand it any more so we kids took the brunt. She was a bit on the over-protective side.’

  ‘She still alive?’

  McMullen shook his head. ‘Dead. Cancer. Ten years back. She was nagging the doctors and nurses right until the end.’ He took the magazine out of the Kalashnikov, then re-inserted it. ‘Wonder what she’d make of my chosen career. She’d probably tell me I was using the wrong gun and wearing the wrong sort of shades.’

  ‘Mothers, huh?’

  ‘Can we stop all this touchy-feely heart-to-heart crap?’ snapped Marker. ‘I’m trying to get into character here.’

  Knight winked at McMullen but they fell silent. They knew what Marker meant. In a minute or so they would be inside a bank wielding automatic weapons, but the guns weren’t enough: the people in the bank had to believe that the men were serious about using them. It was an act because they had no intention of shooting anyone – that would mean a life sentence where life meant life, and they had no intention of spending decades behind bars.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Edwards. He opened the passenger door. He was carrying a black Adidas sports bag. McMullen pushed open the van’s side door and stepped into the street, his Kalashnikov under his coat. Knight and Marker followed him and headed straight for the entrance to the bank. Like McMullen, they had their weapons under their long coats. McMullen glanced left and right – no one was paying them any attention – and hurried after Knight and Marker.

  McMullen, Knight and Marker pulled the bank’s doors closed and spread out across the floor, keeping the weapons under their coats and pulling the scarves up over their faces. Edwards stood by the doors. He took a printed sign out of the sports bag, pulled off the adhesive backing and pressed it against the glass. The sign read, ‘POWER CUT – CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. PLEASE USE OUR BRANCH IN REGENT STREET.’

  Edwards looked at McMullen and nodded. As McMullen swung his Kalashnikov out from under his coat, Edwards flicked the locks on the doors.

  ‘Everyone against the wall!’ McMullen bellowed. ‘This is a robbery and if anyone so much as looks at me wrong I’ll blow their fucking head off!’

  Knight and Marker pulled out their assault rifles and levelled them at the customers gathered at the counter. ‘You heard him!’ shouted Knight. ‘Against the wall – now!’ Keeping the customers in one place made them easier to control, and against the far wall they couldn’t be seen from the doors.

  Edwards pulled a large revolver from his sports bag and flicked off the safety.

  A young man in a grey suit fumbled with his mobile phone. Marker rushed over to him and slammed the butt of the Kalashnikov into his stomach. He fell to the ground, gasping for breath, and Markham stamped on the phone. ‘Any other heroes?’ he shouted, and kicked the man in the ribs. ‘Anyone else want some of this?’

  The rest of the customers huddled together by the wall. There were two elderly women in cloth coats clutching handbags, a young girl with a baby in a push-chair, three middle-aged businessmen in suits and a teenager in a black leather motorcycle jacket and torn jeans.

  Knight and Edwards walked over to the counter and aimed their weapons at the tellers behind the bulletproof screen. Knight gestured with his Kalashnikov. ‘The bullets in this will go right through that glass without breaking sweat,’ he said. He nodded at the door to the left of the counter. ‘Now, open the door or I’ll pull the trigger.’

  The girl with the baby began to cry. Marker walked over to her and pointed a gloved finger at her face. ‘Stop blubbering, you bitch!’ he hissed.

  ‘Leave her alone, she’s only a girl,’ said one of the businessmen. He was black with greying hair and he was clutching his briefcase to his chest.

  Marker left her and confronted the businessman. ‘Another bloody, hero, huh?’ he said. He gestured at the man in the grey suit who was crawling towards the rest of the customers. ‘You want what he got, do you?’

  He glared at Marker defiantly. ‘You don’t have to threaten girls to get what you want.’

  Marker thrust his face close to the man’s. ‘You want some, do you?’

  ‘I just want you to take what you want and go. It’s the bank’s money you’re after, not ours. No one here is going to stop you, so just get on with it and leave us alone.’

  Marker could see that the man wasn’t intimidated by the rhetoric or the gun. He stepped back and slammed the butt into the man’s face, splintering his teeth. Blood gushed from his mouth and he dropped the briefcase. Marker hit him again, this time on the side of the head. He slumped to the ground without a sound. ‘Anyone else?’ he shouted, turning back to the rest of the customers. ‘Anyone else want to give me any grief? Because I’ll kill the next person who steps out of line. Do you morons understand?’ They pressed together, too scared to look at him. One of the elderly women had her eyes closed and was muttering a prayer. Marker pointed the gun at them, waiting for any sign
s of defiance or resistance.

  Knight aimed his Kalashnikov at a blonde woman in a pale blue blouse. ‘Open the door, darling, before anyone else gets hurt. And don’t even think about hitting the silent alarm.’

  She moved towards the door. Edwards covered the other tellers with his revolver. ‘You two get back against the wall and keep your hands where I can see them.’

  Knight walked towards the blonde, keeping the Kalashnikov pointed at her chest, his finger on the trigger. ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ he warned her. ‘Like my friends said, the bullets in this will go straight through that glass.’

  She opened the door with trembling hands and Knight stepped through, Edwards behind him. ‘Everyone on the floor!’ Edwards shouted. ‘Face down with your hands on the back of your head.’ He pointed to the stairs that led up to the offices. ‘Anyone comes down, you take care of them,’ he said to Knight.

  McMullen and Edwards went through to the safe-deposit room. Edwards dropped his sports bag on the metal table in the middle of the room and took out two electric drills. He handed one to McMullen, then pulled a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his coat. He scanned the list. ‘You do two-five-eight and two-five-nine to start,’ he said.

  McMullen ran his gloved hand down the bank of boxes until he found two-five-eight. He pulled the trigger on the drill and pressed the whirring bit against the lock. As he drilled out the lock mechanism, Edwards started on another box.

  Brewerton and Franklin watched the robbers leave the bank on one of the monitors on the wall behind the manager’s desk. On another Sandra Ford was comforting the customers. One of the pensioners was crying and she put an arm around her.

  ‘See, Owen, that wasn’t too hard, was it?’ said Brewerton.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Crompton, looking anxiously at the gun in Brewerton’s shoulder holster.

  ‘Now we’ll be on our merry way,’ said Franklin, standing up.

  ‘What about my wife and son?’

  ‘They’ll be fine, Owen,’ said Franklin. ‘You did everything we asked – you did us proud. Your wife and daughter will be released in one hour. All you have to do is wait one hour and she’ll call you. As soon as she does you can call the cops.’

  ‘My career’s over, you know that?’ said Crompton. ‘They’ll think I helped you. They’ll think I was your inside man.’

  ‘What do you want, Owen?’ asked Brewerton. ‘Do you want I put a bullet in your leg or we beat the crap out of you?’

  ‘I’m just saying, the police always think there’s an inside man.’

  ‘We kidnapped your wife and your boy. They’ll understand you had to co-operate.’

  Crompton folded his arms and shook his head emphatically. ‘You don’t get it, do you? Even if the cops don’t blame me, my bosses will never trust me again. My career’s over.’

  ‘Owen, if you keep whining like this we will shoot you,’ said Brewerton. He pointed at the bank manager. ‘Count your bloody blessings. Your family are okay, nobody died, we got our money.’

  ‘All’s well that end’s well,’ said Franklin. ‘And much as we’d love to keep on chatting, we’ve got to go. Remember, you wait here until your wife calls, then you phone the police.’ Crompton nodded. Franklin grinned. ‘Be lucky,’ he said, as he and Brewerton headed for the door.

  Don Parkinson pulled hard on the steering-wheel and drove through the narrow alley, the dented wings of the Transit only inches away from the weathered bricks on either side. At the end he swung the wheel to the right and accelerated under a railway arch, then made a hard left turn down a road that led to a disused factory. It had once made fireproof safes but had closed in the face of cut-throat competition from China and South Korea. A sign at the entrance to the yard announced that a property-development firm had acquired the premises and would soon be turning them into upmarket apartments. The chain that had kept the gates locked had been cut and they were pulled opened by a man in a blue tracksuit and gleaming white trainers. Parkinson drove through. The man flashed Edwards a thumbs-up and began to close the gates as Parkinson drove to the delivery area at the side of the main building.

  The metal roll-shutter door was already opening but Parkinson revved the engine impatiently. ‘Easy, DP,’ said Edwards.

  ‘They should’ve had it open,’ said Parkinson. ‘Bloody amateurs.’

  As soon as the shutter was high enough, he stamped on the accelerator and drove inside. The factory was half the size of a football field with lines of square concrete pillars running up to a metal framework supporting the roof. Fluorescent lights festooned with cobwebs hung from the beams. The machinery that had once been manned by hundreds of workers had been stripped out and the only sign that it had been a thriving business was a line of offices at the far end. Rats scurried in the corners and pigeons cooed from the safety of the nests they had built in the joints of the beams high in the ceiling.

  Another man, wearing a tracksuit and training shoes, was standing between two black BMW saloons, the boot lids open. He was the father of the man who had opened the gates for them. Dean and Roger Barrett had worked together even before Dean had been old enough for a driving licence and they were two of the best drivers in London. Knight, McMullen and Marker piled out of the rear of the van with the nylon bags.

  ‘Right, get the money in the motors and torch the van,’ shouted Edwards. He looked at his watch. ‘I want us out of here in three minutes flat.’

  Roger Barrett climbed into one of the BMWs and started the engine. His face was professionally impassive. ‘Guns in that motor,’ shouted Edwards, pointing at Barrett’s BMW. ‘Two bags in each.’

  Knight, McMullen and Marker threw the bags into the boots and put their weapons into the boot of Barrett’s ear. They slammed the doors, then ran back to the van and stripped off their gloves and coats. Parkinson was sloshing petrol from a red can over the bonnet.

  Edwards tossed his gloves and coat into the back. Knight, McMullen and Marker did the same. Edwards gave the inside a final check, then nodded at Parkinson, who threw petrol into the back, then tossed the can inside. He took out a box of matches, lit one and flicked it at the can. There was a whoosh of flame and the van was ablaze.

  Dean Barrett ran into the factory, climbed into the second BMW and fired the engine. He looked at his father and nodded. Roger Barrett nodded back, his hands caressing the steering-wheel as he gunned the engine.

  Edwards looked at his watch again. ‘Come on, guys, in the cars and let’s roll.’ He hurried over to the BMWs and climbed in next to Roger Barrett. Knight got into the back. ‘You okay, Ricky?’ he asked.

  ‘No worries,’ said Knight. ‘Your jobs always as sweet as this?’

  ‘Always,’ said Edwards. ‘Once you’ve got the manager on side, the rest is easy.’

  McMullen and Marker walked quickly to the second BMW, Parkinson following. The van was now engulfed in flames and thick black smoke was billowing up to the rafters.

  The two BMWs drove out of the factory and Roger Barrett slammed on the brakes. Knight leaped out of the car, ran to the gates and pulled them open. He froze, then swore and slammed them shut again. ‘Cops!’ he yelled. ‘There’s cops everywhere!’

  He raced back to the cars. A split second later the gates burst open and a police Land Rover with a reinforced wire cage over its bonnet roared through, then two Range Rovers and two armed-response vehicles. The Range Rovers and ARVs fanned out across the yard, tyres squealing.

  Roger Barrett cursed as the Land Rover pulled up just inches from the front bumper. He glanced into his rearview mirror. His son’s car was jammed up behind him. ‘I’m sorry, boss,’ he said, his professionalism dented. He slowly took his hands off the steering-wheel and turned off the engine.

  Men in bulletproof vests piled out of the ARVs and Range Rovers, their MP5 assault rifles at the ready. ‘Armed police, drop your weapons!’ one screamed.

  Edwards smiled thinly. They didn’t have any weapons. All the guns were in the
boot of the BMW. But even if they hadn’t been, his team wouldn’t be looking for a shoot-out against professionals. There were a dozen armed police and every one of them had been trained to kill.

  ‘Not your fault, Roger,’ he said. In the wing mirror he glimpsed Knight’s fast-retreating figure. ‘Where the hell does that dopey bastard think he’s going?’ He raised his hands. ‘Oh, well, some you win, some you lose.’

  Knight’s feet pounded on the cement and his arms powered back and forth like pistons. He glanced over his shoulder. Only one man was giving chase, an officer in his forties, MP5 cradled in his arms. The rest of the CO19 unit were standing around the BMWs, their weapons pointed at Edwards and his team.

  Knight’s chest was burning but he ignored the pain and ran faster. He hurtled into the factory, eyes watering from the smoke billowing around the burning van. He gave it a wide berth, bent double to keep his head low and ran towards the offices. ‘Armed police, stay where you are!’ shouted the officer behind him.

  Knight ran to the nearest office and hit the door with his shoulder. The wood around the lock splintered and he barrelled into the room. There was a window overlooking a rear yard but there were bars on it. There was a connecting door to the left and he grabbed the handle and pulled. It opened and he ran through into what had probably been a meeting room. There was a large whiteboard on one wall and a worn carpet with the impressions made by a table and a dozen or so chairs, but no window, just a glass door leading to a corridor. He heard the armed cop run into the office behind him and pulled open the door. He looked up and down the corridor. To the left was the factory floor, to the right were more offices, and at the end, a fire exit, some thirty paces from where he was standing. He headed for it but had only taken a few steps before the police officer was behind him. ‘Armed police! Stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them!’

  Knight stopped and leaned against the wall, his chest on fire, panting like a horse that had been raced too hard. ‘You got me,’ he said.