The Royal Epping Forest Golf Club was in Forest Approach, Chingford. It was 6.30 a.m., and the Colonel and Stanley sat in the back of the OBO van, which had JB Plumbers written on the side, spy holes and a one-way rear-view window. They were parked at the rear of Chingford Masonic Hall, opposite the club entrance, and had a good view, with binoculars, of the first tee and the eighteenth green by the club house.
‘I’ll bet the Ripleys are Freemasons,’ the Colonel remarked.
Stanley agreed. ‘And so are a few senior detectives, but thankfully none of them are on our squad. The rubber heelers and Countryman think any officer who’s a Freemason must be corrupt.’
‘Anybody that says I’m corrupt can kiss my Porsche!’ the Colonel joked.
Stanley had to put his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter from being heard outside the van. He nudged the Colonel.
‘Look up, here comes George in the Merc . . . He’s got someone with him.’ Stanley took a photograph.
‘It looked like Tommy,’ the Colonel said, looking out of the rear window.
Five minutes later Stanley saw a dark blue Mark 3 Capri Ghia approaching the golf club.
‘I don’t bloody believe this – the Ripleys are playing golf with Smith and O’Reilly.’
The Colonel looked out of the window. ‘Jesus, I thought you were taking the piss. I’ll call it in.’
‘They might just be having a meeting in the car park. Let’s wait until we see who George actually tees off with.’
Just before 7 a.m. the four men approached the first tee, two men carrying a set of golf clubs each, the others pulling theirs along on a trolley.
‘Do you reckon they’re just socialising or discussing a robbery again?’ the Colonel asked.
‘How the hell should I know? I’m not Rachel Wilson, I can’t bloody lip-read.’
They watched as George teed off and hit a decent drive down the middle of the fairway, as did his brother Tommy. Aidan O’Reilly was next to tee off.
‘Gold from KG, receiving . . . over?’
‘Yes, go ahead, over,’ Bax replied.
The Colonel told him who was playing golf and asked how long a round took, as he’d never played the game.
‘Depends if it’s nine or eighteen holes they’re playing, how good they are and if there are any hold-ups by the golfers in front of them.’
‘There’s no one in front of them.’
The Colonel watched O’Reilly hit the ball hard but slice it into the rough on the left.
‘You’re looking at about four hours then.’
Graham Smith made two air shots, missing the ball completely, and on his third attempt the ball scooted about fifty metres along the ground.
Stanley sighed. ‘This could take all fucking day the way Smith plays.’
‘I’ll nip out when the coast is clear and get some coffee and sandwiches.’
‘Get some newspapers and magazines as well.’
‘Hustler or Penthouse?’ the Colonel quipped as he got out of the van.
*
Jane woke early after a restless night thinking about her undercover role at the wedding. She felt nervous, not just about what she was doing, but also at the thought of seeing Carl again. Although part of her looked forward to it, she felt she was prolonging the agony for herself – and Carl – before she walked out of his life. She wondered if, after the Ripleys were arrested, she should tell him the truth, and that although she had lied to him she genuinely thought he was a nice man. It was all too much. As she sat in the kitchen eating her breakfast, she began to wonder if she should have told Murphy that she didn’t want to go to the wedding.
After a lot of indecision going through her wardrobe, she finally decided what to wear. She chose a knee-length pleated floral print dress in shades of pink, blue and yellow, with ruched shoulder straps that could be worn on or off the shoulder. To go with the dress, she chose some pink flat-soled shoes with a matching ribbon on them, and a beige wide-brimmed hat with an organza flower bow.
Before ironing her dress, she had a bath and washed her hair, then blow-dried it and put in some sponge curlers. Looking at the clock, she realised she still had five hours before Teflon would be picking her up. She put on her dressing gown, lay on the sofa and went back to reading Medea.
*
The day shift guard got out of his car with the engine running and pressed the intercom of the gated entrance to the Security Express depot in Curtain Road, Shoreditch.
‘It’s me, Harry. Open the gates, will ya?’ Archie said. ‘And stick the kettle on.’ Harry checked the TV screen linked to the front gate camera and, satisfied it was his work colleague, pressed the button to open the large electric gates. Archie drove in, then parked his car in the corner of the yard and heard an Irish voice call out.
‘Excuse me, my son, I was wondering if ya can help me.’
Archie saw an elderly, grey-haired, bearded man with stooped shoulders shuffling towards him as the gates closed. He was dressed in a black suit and shirt, and wore thick-rimmed brown glasses and black leather gloves.
‘You can’t come in here, mate,’ Archie said, warily holding his hand up.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, my son, it’s just that I’m a bit lost and can’t find the church. I’m the stand-in priest and supposed to be taking the service in fifteen minutes.’
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 realised 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 Security Express logos on the side, drove into the yard and reversed into the loading bay. Four men dressed in blue boiler suits 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 took off his glasses and put on a balaclava and stayed with him.
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 your 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 his boiler suit pocket 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 has 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 holdalls from the van.’
His colleague did as he was told and quickly returned with six large holdalls. 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 in 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.
‘That bloody siege is still going on,’ Stanley said. ‘They’ve threatened to shoot a hostage if they don’t get what they want. I wouldn’t want to be that poor PC they grabbed. He’ll probably be the first.’
Stanley folded the paper, put it down and took over watching with the binoculars. At ten to eleven he saw the four men walking up to the eighteenth green.
‘They’re on the green,’ he said.
Teflon picked up the camera and started taking photographs.
‘The way that Smudge bloke plays, I thought they’d be a lot longer,’ he remarked.
They watched as the four targets finished their game and shook hands with each other. Ten minutes later they all left the course in the same vehicles they had come in.