Charlie was ambitious, wanting to make the next move, wanting to be respected.
‘You got that,’ Terry told him. ‘Everyone around here respects you.’
People stepped carefully around the Charlie Boys on the manor now. Nodded. Smiled. Charlie liked that. Terry didn’t mind it. He didn’t crave it, not like Charlie did. He was happy that they had cash, and that Jill loved him. He didn’t want more. But Charlie always did.
They started watching security vans. Whenever Charlie saw one, he’d make a note of the date, the time, the location and the registration number of the van. Then he’d be back a week later to see if this was a regular thing. Then a week after that, seeing how the people involved operated, which route they took in and out of the premises. Then again, checking the fine detail.
When Charlie was happy that everything was covered, him and the gang did the job, tooled up with one shotgun, two toy hand pistols. They targeted a clothing manufacturer’s place, where Charlie believed the pickings would be rich.
The boys crashed into the factory in hoods and boiler suits and went straight to the small glassed-in office where an inside operator had told them the wages were kept. Machinists started screaming as they kicked at the door. It was locked. Inside, through the bulletproof glass partition, they could see the female cashier.
‘Open the bloody door!’ yelled Charlie.
She backed away, shaking her head.
‘Fuck it!’ Charlie booted the door but it wouldn’t give. He motioned to big heavy-set Terry, who came up and rammed it with his shoulder. No good.
Then Terry kicked it hard, splintering the lock.
Another kick, and the door juddered open, the partition beside it caving in, glass and all, with a monumental crash.
‘On the floor!’ Charlie shouted at the cashier, and she got down straight away. He looked around for the safe. Couldn’t see one.
‘Where’s the safe?’ he asked her, prodding her back with the shotgun. ‘Where’s the money?’
She pointed a shaking finger at the desk. ‘In the drawer,’ she said.
Charlie almost laughed. A proper business, and some silly bastard had been too mean to fork out for a safe! He went over and wrenched open drawer after drawer – each one was stuffed with money and small half-filled brown envelopes. The cashier had been in the middle of doing up the wages.
They emptied the loot into their bags and scarpered. Then they went back to one of their safe houses on the manor and counted the takings. They’d expected a hundred grand – and ended up with sixty.
Charlie was fuming.
Terry, who was in charge of cleaning up after jobs, took their boiler suits and hoods plus the gear they were wearing underneath and stuffed everything into a bag. Later, he’d burn it. Beezer, who had been little Col’s adoring brother until little Col topped himself off by getting on the wrong side of that Rottweiler, refused to let Terry burn his designer jacket.
‘Come on,’ said Terry.
‘No way,’ said Beezer, who prided himself on his togs, the flashier the better. And he’d bought the jacket on a trip to honour Col’s memory. It had sentimental value, he said.
Terry shrugged. They divvied up the money and departed.
Ten days later, the Bill were round asking questions – everyone knew where the villains were on the manor, and Charlie had a reputation as a real heavy face now. They got hold of Beezer’s jacket and matched up fibres from that with some near the smashed office door.
Beezer got handed down two years and the rest of them got off with nothing.
Beezer’s sentence was unfortunate in one way.
But in another?
It was a cast-iron miracle.