There was more knocking and some yelling from the next cage. A voice screamed, ‘Let me out. Don’t leave me here!’
It was Harry Harrison.
Tony Glazer looked at his brother who said, ‘Let’s go. Leave the bastard there.’
The Glazers, Oona and the two heavies stepped down from the van.
Harry Harrison yelled through the peephole in the door.
‘I’ve got money, Mr Glazer. Honest. Ten thousand pounds stashed away. You can have it all.’
Eddie Glazer turned back and said, ‘Where?’
‘In Wakefield. Just let me out of here. You can have it all.’
Oona yelled, ‘Come on, Eddie. The cops’ll could be here anytime.’
‘You’d better not be kidding me. When can you get it?’
‘This afternoon. Come on, Mr Glazer. I never done you no harm, have I? We’re mates, aren’t we?’
‘You’d better be on the level,’ Eddie Glazer yelled.
Glazer turned to the heavy with the keys.
‘Right,’ he said with a nod. ‘Let him out, Ox.’
The door opened and out shot Harry Harrison. He closed it quickly and gave a big sigh.
‘Come on,’ yelled Tony Glazer to his brother.
‘You’re coming with us,’ Eddie said to Harrison grabbing him by the neck of his coat.
Tony Glazer’s eyes flashed. ‘We’ve no bloody room!’
‘He’s worth ten grand to me. Find room!’
The gang left the van, its external side door open, swinging in the night air. They dashed down the banking to the rail track. A minute later, Eddie ‘The Cat’ Glazer was in a sidecar attached to a Honda 500 being driven alongside the railway track by his younger brother, Tony. Eddie’s wife, Oona, had her arms tight round his waist. Close behind them was another Honda motorbike with the two heavies and little Harry Harrison sitting precariously on the mudguard.
The two motorbikes noisily sprayed out silver grey gravel as they sped away into the night.
BROMERSLEY, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, U.K. 1800 HOURS. MONDAY, 5 FEBRUARY 2007
Simon Spencer looked round at the gloomy pub wallpaper, the scratched woodwork, the smeared dull copper work and the dusty tables strewn with empty bottles and dirty glasses.
‘Light ale,’ the bartender said, banging the bottle down in front of him. ‘That’s two pounds. Haven’t seen you in here before, John,’ he said pointedly with a sniff.
Spencer looked round at the quiet crowd of twenty-five or so drinkers; some were smoking cigarettes, standing around snatching teatime anaesthetic to bolster them up before going home to their nagging wives and irritating children for a boring evening watching repeats in front of the television, or mooching round houses, shops, offices, garages and warehouses looking for an unlocked door or an undemanding window to gain easy access, where, in the secret of the night, they might find something transportable and easy to sell.
Spencer glanced from man to man. As he did so, each in turn averted his eyes and sought cover by supping from a glass, taking the opportunity to turn away dragging even harder on his cigarette.
At length Spencer turned to the big tattooed man with the little gold ring in his ear and said, ‘I’m looking for somebody.’
‘No somebodies in here, John. All nobodies,’ the bartender said as he took the coins and tossed them into the open till drawer. He wiped the top of the counter with a dirty bar towel. His eyes narrowed. ‘What sort of somebody?’ he asked after a pause. ‘Has the body got a name?’
Spencer took his time. Spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. He looked across the bar room, then nonchalantly said: ‘Oh, somebody … anybody, who wants to earn a few hundred quid. Easy like.’
The bartender blinked.
‘A few hundred?’
Spencer shrugged and picked up the bottle.
‘Everybody’s up for that, John, I reckon,’ the bartender added.
Spencer took another gulp of the beer.
‘It’s a special kind of man. A man who maybe wouldn’t mind … maybe … bending the rules a bit.’
The barman looked at him closely then shook his head thoughtfully.
‘There’d be nobody here interested in anything dishonest, John,’ he said warily.
‘Not dishonest,’ Spencer protested irritably. ‘Just a wee bit … out of the ordinary, that’s all. And why do you keep calling me John?’
‘I call everybody John, John.’
A man came up to the bar. The barman turned away to serve him.
Spencer shrugged and slowly finished the beer. He looked round at the other drinkers in the little bar. They deliberately turned away from him when they felt the possibility that a glance from him might change into a hard intrusive look. He slowly finished his drink. He wrinkled his nose. He was disappointed with his foray into Bromersley’s unfriendly grubby backwater alehouse. He pulled up his coat collar and strode out of The Fisherman’s Rest on Canal Street. This thoroughfare was a short, unmade road that ran parallel to Bromersley canal for a few hundred yards before it joined the main road. The canal was a smelly, slow-flowing stretch of water from which, he had heard, dead bodies had been fished by the local constabulary from time to time.
Spencer hardly gave the water a glance. His mind was on other things as he trudged his way along the path to the main road on his way to the bus station.
He passed ten terraced houses whose front doors abutted the pavement. There were ginnels at every second house to give access to the back doors. As he passed the last ginnel, he suddenly heard a scuffling sound and then a man’s soft whisper.
‘Hey, copper. What you doing slumming round here?’
Spencer turned and in the moonlight, saw a man in a suit, shirt and collar. In the crisp February moonlight he could see that he was holding something shiny and black in his hand and pointing it at him.
He didn’t like what he saw.
He put his hands up … because … he had seen old films in the old cinema picture show and he thought it was the sensible thing to do.
‘Who are you?’ Spencer said. ‘And what do you want?’
‘I ashed you first, brudder. I tell you, we don’t like plainclothes coppers creeping round our places. And you’re sure getting brave coming round here in ones.’
‘I’m not a policeman. And I can prove it, but who are you?’
The man waved the gun boldly. He didn’t believe him.
‘Oh yes? This ain’t no lollipop I’m holding in my hand, brudder. It sort of gives me an advantage, don’t you think?’
Spencer swallowed.
‘Look, friend, I’ve got a wallet in my inside pocket. It’s got more than a hundred pounds in it. Take it, why don’t you?’
The man with the gun blinked.
Spencer stuck his chest forward and slightly inclined his body towards him.
The man hesitated. He licked his lips and said: ‘Keep still then. No tricks.’ He reached out. His hot, sticky fingers touched Spencer’s coat lapel, dipped swiftly into the inside pocket and professionally, between first and second fingers, lifted out the fat leather wallet.
It was quick and smooth. Spencer didn’t feel a thing.
The gunman tried to open the wallet.
Spencer took a step towards him.
He saw him. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said nervously and backed away. He tugged harder at the wallet. It was reluctant to open. He tugged at it harder. Then suddenly, he managed it. That quick positive action triggered the cunningly set up ignition of a strip of magnesium, by dragging an ordinary match quickly past two pieces of sandpaper held tight with an elastic band. The result was a blinding white light lasting for about a second.
The dazzle was long enough.
The gunman yelled and instinctively dropped the wallet.
Spencer reached out for the man’s wrist, gave it a sharp twist and then held onto it. The gunman was on the floor and the gun rattled across the pavement into the gutter. Spencer kicked him under the chin, let go of his arm and picked up the gun. Then he reached down over the stunned man and recovered the wallet. The gunman groaned and rubbed his jaw.