“The wife’s talking about Corsica this year,” Millington said, “but I’m not so sure.”
“You know that bloke I used to go out with?” Lynn said.
“The cyclist?”
“Yes, that’s right. Had a card from him the other day. Heard nothing in over a year. Did I have anything fixed for my holidays and, if not, what did I feel about the Tour de France?”
“Too hot, that’s what concerns me.”
“France?”
“Corsica?”
Lynn gave the Thermos a shake before pouring out what remained. Her mother had been angling at her, nothing direct but making it clear all the same, next leave Lynn got she should spend it at home with them. It’s your dad, Lynnie, he’s not what he was … What he was was a stick of a man, old before his time, wandering between the hen houses instead of sleeping. Likely as not, out there at this moment, checking for foxes, flicking his torch on and off and all the while talking softly, as if his presence not only scared off predators, it kept the birds safe from salmonellosis, aspergillosis, and blackhead.
Outside the light was flirting with the sky.
“Come on,” Millington said, firing the engine, “he’ll not show now. Let’s get back to the station. Get a decent cup of tea.”
They’d been gone scarcely fifteen minutes when Keith came round the corner, walking slow. Darren had got fed up with the sounds of Keith throwing up and when the diarrhea had kicked in that had been enough. “Here,” throwing him some Ajax and a balding lavatory brush. “Clean that mess up and then fuck off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Keith let himself into the house quietly but not quietly enough. His father was on the cellar stairs with a jack-handle in his hand. “Figured you for a burglar.”
“Figure again.”
“Christ, you look awful!”
“Thanks,” Keith mumbled and just got to the toilet in time.
“Thought you’d like to know,” his dad said through the door, “police were round earlier, looking for you. I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but when you get out there, I’ve a good mind to give you the hiding of your miserable life.”
What happened later that morning meant that, as far as the police were concerned, Keith Rylands was all but forgotten.
Seventeen
The time switch on the main safe was activated to open at nine-fifteen. Road works, caused by the need to replace thirty meters of sewage piping, had brought about a traffic bottleneck and the security van delivering cash for the start of business was slightly delayed. It finally appeared at nine-thirteen, three minutes late. The bank guard set aside his copy of the Express and moved to unlock the outer door. Two men wearing blue-gray uniforms and sky-blue protective helmets climbed down from the cab of the van, called out a remark about the traffic, and proceeded to unlock the rear doors.
A bottle-green Granada drew up across from the security van and a woman wearing a high-collared wool coat got out of the passenger seat and began to walk towards the bank.
The first security man was inside the van, passing down sacks of coins to his colleague, who was loading them, side by side, into a low wooden trolley.
The bank guard set the ramp against the stone step and used the side of his shoe to edge it into place.
“I’m sorry, madam,” he said, turning towards the woman in the woolen coat, “I’m afraid we’re not open till half-past nine.”
The woman, who was a man, pulled a sawn-off shotgun from inside the folds of her coat and jabbed the barrel ends hard against the guard’s neck, beneath his jaw.
One of the security men was wheeling his laden trolley across the pavement.
“Move,” the armed man said clearly, “and this one’s dead.”
The Granada was reversing towards the front of the van, two wheels on the pavement, two on the road. A second car, a gray Volvo estate, swerved around the corner and headed towards the rear of the van fast. Before it had come to a standstill, three men, wearing track suits and costume masks, had jumped out.
The security man inside the van had started to leave, one leg over the tail, and now he was back inside, struggling to lock the doors. A blow with an iron bar fractured his wrist, a second, across his shins, fetched him to his knees.
The man in woman’s clothing forced the guard to walk backwards into the center of the bank. Two masked men sprinted past them, heading for the safe. The cashier nearest to them was barged aside.
“If anyone tries to be a hero, they can be the second to die. After this one here.”
Shotgun forcing back his head, the guard kept both eyes clenched tight.
Inside the security van, both men, helmets removed, back to back, had their mouths and eyes taped shut.
The contents of the safe were being emptied into double-strength polythene sacks.
By nine-nineteen it was over: a yield, per person, somewhere in excess of three thousand pounds per minute.
Resnick was on his way to a meeting with the Home Office pathologist. The remains of a middle-aged man’s body had been found in some woods northeast of the city and the possibility was that they might correspond with a missing person case Resnick had been working on. They were almost there when the news came over the radio. He leaned forward and touched his driver on the shoulder, instructing him to turn round. Parkinson and his corpse would have to wait.
“Boss, you want Kev and me back out at the Meadows or what?” Divine was on the first landing of the police station, eager and open-mouthed.
“Get a couple of uniforms round there,” Resnick said, hurrying past. “You’ll be needed on this.”
In the CID room phones were ringing, some being answered. The furniture had been replaced, the boards-save those in Resnick’s office-had been relaid. It was as cold as before, if not colder.
Lynn Kellogg rose from her desk to intercept him. “Just had a call from the hospital. Harry Foreman, seems he’s out of danger.”
The concern that had leaped to Resnick’s eyes faded almost as fast. “Thankful for that, at least. Make a note to get out there and take a statement.”
“Today?”
Resnick was already moving on. “I doubt it.”
Reg Cossall appeared alongside him in the long corridor, matching Resnick step for step. “What I hear, this is the same team, buggers’ve changed their MO. Christ knows what we’re dealing with now. Bunch of bloody transvestites wearing Mickey Mouse masks. Next we know, sodding students’ll be putting their hands up, stunt for charity. Rag week. Awareness of tossing AIDS.”
Resnick pushed open the door to the incident room and let his fellow Dl enter before him. Most of the chairs were already taken and the air was thickening with smoke. An officer was pinning Polaroids of the two abandoned cars, the Granada and the Volvo, to the board on the side wall, beside the map showing the route of the gang’s escape-that which was certain, that which was conjecture. On a second map the location of the robbery had been newly flagged, joining the five others.
Out front, Malcolm Grafton was shuffling through his desk of six-by-four cards prior to the briefing. Alongside him, Jack Skelton was rehearsing what he would say in front of the TV cameras in an hour’s time, wondering if he had made the correct decision in going with the double-breasted blazer instead of the suit.
The door opened again and Detective Inspector Helen Siddons came into the room, acknowledging both Resnick and Cossall with a nod, before moving towards the far end of the rows of chairs.
“Looking for a bloke in drag,” Cossall muttered, “there’s our man.”
Malcolm Grafton coughed a few times and brought the meeting to order. Jack Skelton got to his feet and began to speak.