“It’s all arranged?” Bernie said, much relieved.
“Plonker,” Sly said. “What do you think you are — American Express? No one’s going to ask you for the paper work. You’re knocking it off, right?”
“It’s a hold-up?”
“Depends how you want to play it. If I was you I’d wear a brown coat and say I was staff. Shove it in the van — carefully, mind — and drive off fast. Make sure you’re not being followed and bring it here.”
He made it sound simple. Bernie wasn’t so confident. “If you don’t mind me mentioning this, Mr Small, is this harp easy to recognise?”
“You know what they look like,” Sly said. “Ever see a Marx brothers film?”
“No, what I’m saying is that when Rocky turns up at the Royal College with a harp that’s hot — a hot Horngacher — he’s likely to be in trouble, isn’t he?”
“It’s for home use, dickhead, for Rocky to enjoy in private. When he goes to college he can play one of theirs.”
“Right.”
It had to be faced. There was no persuading Sly Small that this was an ill-fated enterprise.
“It’ll be in a case,” Sly said. “But you handle it like it was a newborn baby, right? They’re easily damaged. The carving, the gold leaf gilding. Over two thousand parts go into a harp, Rocky told me. I don’t want a single one of them missing when you bring it here tomorrow night.”
The next morning found Bernie parked on a meter opposite the Albert Hall. He was wearing a brown coat over his t-shirt and jeans. In the rear of his Ford Transit were straps, ropes and foam rubber mats. The Horngacher would be well protected. And so would he, with a Smith and Wesson Combat Magnum under his arm. He didn’t plan to use the shooter. The sight ought to be enough.
He had got here early and found the only possible goods entrance. While he watched, a caterer’s van arrived with food supplies. A couple of men in brown coats came from inside the building and started unloading. Maybe the coats were a shade darker than Bernie’s, but he couldn’t see that anyone would make an issue of it. Half the battle was behaving as if you belonged.
The driver finished the delivery and drove away. Bernie switched on the radio. Classic FM would help get him in the mood. A bit of Chopin would do wonders for his nerves.
Just after mid-day, his heartbeat increased noticeably as a large brown furniture van came up the street. On the side was written Gentle and Good, Specialists in Musical Removals. At the same time, four Albert Hall porters in their brown coats appeared.
Bernie waited for the van to back up to the arched entrance and then got out and crossed the street and walked around the back to join the porters. They would assume he was a Gentle and Good man; and the Gentle and Good men would assume he was on the Albert Hall roster. That was the theory, anyway.
“What have you got for us?” one of the porters asked.
“Royal Phil,” Bernie said, trying to sound as if he’d been doing the job for years.
“The Bechstein grand,” the porter said, pulling a face.
Bernie pulled a face as well. The Bechstein grand was evidently bad news.
The van driver and one other man came to the back and nodded to the others and said something about the traffic. They seemed to know each other, which was not good news for Bernie. He sidled to the back and waited with arms folded while they unlocked and opened up. What a relief it was to see a large case the shape of a harp lashed to the side of the van.
First he made a show of assisting with the grand piano, a heavy brute. It had to be wheeled with great care onto the lift mechanism. When it was at ground level, the Albert Hall team took over.
Bernie was left with the Gentle and Good men. “I’ll take the harp,” he said with authority. He’d noticed a set of wheels on the case. It would be just a matter of trundling it across the street to his own van. He stepped up and started unbuckling the straps.
“You want help?” the driver said.
“No, mate. I can handle this.”
“We don’t want an accident. You know who it belongs to?”
“Tell me then,” Bernie said, giving his main attention to the straps.
“Igor Gurney.”
“Ah.” Bernie hadn’t thought of the harp as belonging to anyone. He’d assumed it was owned by the Royal Philharmonic. On reflection, it was obvious that musicians liked to use their own instruments. He said, “He needn’t worry. It’s in good hands.” He tilted it away from the side of the van and let the wheels take the weight. It was mobile. He manoeuvred it onto the lift, took a firm grip and said, “Bombs away.”
The platform descended. Bernie wheeled the harp off. Now all he had to do was cross the street with it. “Want me to sign for this?”
The driver had his clipboard in his hand. “What?”
“The harp. I’m supposed to be taking it to the Festival Hall.”
“I was told it was wanted here.”
“Yes, but tonight he’s giving a recital at the South Bank.”
“You’d better sign for it, then.”
Bernie signed the name of his ex-wife’s current partner. Then, trying not to show undue haste, he steered the precious Horngacher across the street and opened the back of his Transit. It took quite an effort to hoist the thing inside. He attached the straps and bunched the foam rubber against the sides. When the job was done he stepped out and glanced across the street. The first of the porters was just coming through the archway. Bernie got in and started up. Mission almost accomplished.
He didn’t put his foot down as he made his getaway along Kensington Gore Road. He drove with a care for the instrument. And he didn’t want to get stopped for exceeding the limit.
On the radio they were doing commercials. Then the news. It crossed Bernie’s mind that his daring heist might make the news bulletins later in the day.
The voice on the radio said, “And now a piece we should play more often, because I think you’ll agree it touches the heart — the Mozart Concerto for Flute and Harp. This is a live recording made at the proms last year and featuring Jane Stine as the solo flautist and Igor Gurney, the blind harpist, with the Hall Orchestra.”
Igor Gurney, the blind harpist.
Bernie’s hands gripped the wheel. God help us, he thought, I’ve stolen a blind man’s harp. What kind of monster am I?
He’d felt a twinge of conscience earlier, when he was told the harp belonged to a musician, and not the orchestra. To learn that the man was blind made him groan out loud. He pictured Igor Gurney with his white stick shuffling to the place where the Horngacher was supposed to be and finding nothing, his hands plucking at air.
He could also picture Sly Small sitting in his Surrey mansion waiting for the harp to be delivered, idly turning the cylinder of his revolver.
The soul-stirring notes of the concerto filled the van. Mozart and Igor Gurney were making a joint appeal. Get this, Bernie. Robbing a blind man of his harp is as low as you can get.
Bernie had done bad things in his life, like break-ins and hijacks. He’d stolen cars, shoplifted, cheated at cards and conned a few mugs out of a few grand. Until this point in his life he’d never wilfully hurt a handicapped person. There were limits, things even a hardened criminal hesitated to do.
I won’t be able to live with myself, he thought.
Sucks to Sly Small. At the next turn he veered left, down Palace Gate. Shaking, sick with fear, he turned left again and worked his way though the streets towards Prince Consort Road and the Albert Hall.
The men were still unloading. His parking spot had gone, so he drew in beside the Gentle and Good van.
“You’re back, then?” the driver said without any suggestion of blame. “Is something up?”
“Someone got their dates wrong,” Bernie said. “Good thing I phoned ahead.” He did this kind of deception well. People always believed him. “It’s to go inside with the other instruments.” He got out and unstrapped and lifted the Horngacher from the rear of the Transit. There was an immediate sense of relief. For once in his life he had done the decent thing. “Listen, I’d better find somewhere to park,” he told the driver.