The Last Big Job (3 page)

It had to be dealt with
in
situ.

Crane edged his way through the narrow gap and crouched in
front of the safe. He knew he had the freedom to move around inside
the premises as only the outer doors and windows were alarmed. Just
to make extra sure, though, he had ensured that the alarm box
outside had been filled with quick setting foam.

It was a one-key safe, not a combination lock, which made the
next part of the job easy to administer. He pulled off his outer
gloves and removed the blob of plastic explosive from his pocket.
He thumbed as much of it as he could into the lock and inserted a
detonator into it which resembled a length of pipe cleaner. He then
packed the remainder of the PE around the lock.

The two other men watched him nervously.

Eventually he looked up at them. ‘Sorted,’ he said
confidently. Before doing anything else, they enlarged the hole in
the wall behind the safe so their getaway would be smoother. When
this was done, Crane returned to the safe alone. The other two
remained hidden behind the counter in the insurance broker’s next
door.

Crane snapped the end off the detonator, activating it. Hands
over ears, he rolled through the hole and joined his
colleagues.

Danny recovered quickly. It had been like being blown over by
a hurricane. She had landed on her side and rolled over and over
until the energy of the blast within her dissipated.

‘
Third car gone up,’ she said crisply into the radio. ‘I’m
sure he’s still in here.’

Two police cars raced into the yard. Officers began to emerge
from the police station itself. Danny looked around for Rupert, who
was now on his hands and knees, chin drooping down on to his chest,
completely winded.

‘
Rupert - seal the car park,’ Danny screamed at him, urging
him into action. He set off like a 100-metre sprinter. Then her
eyes roved the car park, trying to focus properly even though the
explosions had momentarily blinded her.

The car park was fairly small and enclosed on three sides by
the high walls of neighbouring buildings, on the fourth side by the
police station itself. There was literally only one way out through
the main entrance. Danny knew that unless the man in the shadows
had somehow managed to leg it during the confused seconds following
the third explosion, he was trapped. Famous last thoughts. . . yet
she felt very confident of capturing him.

‘
Come on, pull back,’ she told everyone forcefully. ‘Let’s
wait for the dog - and let’s keep well away from the cars. We don’t
know if another one is going to blow or not.’

As she spoke, the dog patrol van accelerated into the
yard.

The whole building shook as the PE detonated.

Crane, now wearing goggles and an industrial dust mask over
his Balaclava, darted through the opening, fanning away the smoke,
trying to see what the damage was.

‘
Yes, fucking brilliant!’ he shouted as the safe’s interior
was revealed. The perfect blow. Completely destroying the lock but
not the contents, other than singeing a few notes.

He yanked the red-hot door open, reached inside and grabbed a
wodge of notes which he threw into the black bin-liner one of his
team was now holding open next to him.

There was at least sixty grand. But he didn’t stop to count
it.

Time was now of the essence.

They had to get out - quick.

The voice which came over the radio was cool and in control.
‘They’re emptying the safe now.’ It was the relaxed tone of a
Detective Inspector from the Regional Crime Squad by the name of
Barney Gillrow. Throughout the whole of the job he had relayed a
smooth commentary across the airwaves of the dedicated, encrypted
radio channel which was being used for the operation. It was a
channel which normal police radios could not pick up and the cops
who were running around Blackburn that night had no idea that any
sort of operation was on: pretty standard practice for the RCS, who
rarely told the locals what they were up to. A policy which had
ruffled many a feather on many an occasion.

Gillrow was secreted in the first-floor storeroom of the
greengrocer’s shop on the other side of the Halifax Building
Society. Surrounded by boxes of carrots and apples, he had been
watching the progress of Crane’s break-in through miniature cameras
fitted by Technical Services; one had been rigged up in the
insurance broker’s, one in the Building Society. The cameras
relayed the images on to two monitors set up in the storeroom,
giving him a clear black-and-white picture.

Gillrow had kept every officer on the operation - which
included a mixture of RCS personnel, a firearms team and other
armed officers - fully informed of the progress.

‘
They’ll be out in a matter of seconds. Get into position,
everyone,’ he said, controlling his excitement.

The trap was about to be sprung.

Police Constable Henry Christie’s eyelids drooped shut and he
fell asleep, his chin lolling forwards. Too many disturbed nights
caused by a newly-born daughter who refused to sleep were taking
their toll on him.

An elbow from his partner, PC Terry Briggs, jolted him
awake.

‘
Ugh!’ Henry rubbed his eyes and made a clicking noise with
his tongue. ‘Shit,’ he breathed, and pulled himself into full
consciousness.

Not for the first time in his life he was wondering why the
hell he had volunteered to become an Authorised Firearms Officer.
It had probably been some stupid macho impulse fuelled no doubt by
the diet of cowboys and Indians he had ingested as a youngster. He
had truly enjoyed the two-week intensive training course with the
handgun - Smith & Wesson Model 10, .38 calibre, four- and
two-inch barrels - down the shooting range at Headquarters and out
on the Army range at Holcombe Brook. . . but three armed operations
and a Conservative Party conference later - actually carrying a gun
in public, actually waiting for armed robbers to appear or the IRA
to assassinate him - had made him realise what a jerk he
was.

Firing down the shooting range, however intensive and
lifelike, was a doddle compared to even just having a gun strapped
on in public. The responsibility and implications sometimes
overawed him like a tidal wave.

And here he was once more, waiting for a man known to carry
firearms to come back to the stolen car he was using on a job.
Henry looked at his partner - all Firearms Officers worked in pairs
- who was leaning back in the driver’s seat of the Cavalier looking
cool, relaxed and unflustered.

Bastard, Henry thought. Why can’t I be like that?

Then he put it into perspective. There was very little chance
that Crane would make it as far as the Sierra Cosworth. The full
Firearms team was actually at the back of the Building Society,
waiting for him to make his exit. As soon as he set foot outside
the premises, four guns would be pointed at him.

Henry and Terry, as Authorised Firearms Officers and not
actually members of the Firearms team, were on the outer ring of
the operation, well away from the main action, well away from
danger.

‘
OK, let’s go.’ Crane’s voice grated as he stuffed the last
bundle of notes into the bag. He grabbed it from the man who was
holding it, goose-necked it tightly closed and ushered his mates
ahead of him.

Jake always looked sleek and composed, as befitting one of
Lancashire Constabulary’s most successful manhunters operating in
the Force at that time. He was young, cool, keen, highly trained,
hardworking . . . and above all had a set of fangs which he loved
sinking into the flesh of villains.

That night he was raring to go.

His handler pulled him back to check his enthusiasm and Jake
obeyed the command immediately, settling on his haunches, but
unable to control a quiver of excitement. His ears were pricked and
pointing forwards. His sharp eyes pierced the gloom of the car park
behind Blackburn police station, searching the darkness for any
movement. His heart thumped quickly and he was ready for
action.

He tensed as his handler shouted out the familiar warning: ‘If
you do not come out, I will release the dog. This is your last
chance.’

The semi-circle of police officers waited for a response. None
came.

With a smooth flick of the lead, Lancon Jake, the four-year
old German shepherd dog, leapt into action, darting eagerly between
the nearest two cars.

The handler followed, confident that if there was anyone there
to be found, Jake would do it quickly.

As Crane’s two colleagues ran out into the back yard of the
insurance broker’s, arc-lights snapped on, swathing the scene in
brightness and highlighting a ring of armed cops, crouching in
combat positions, accompanied by a cry of ‘Stop - armed police! Get
your hands on your heads. Do it now!’

But Billy Crane was already at the front door of the insurance
broker’s, the sawn-off pump-action shotgun he’d been carrying over
his shoulder throughout the burglary now in his hands. He blasted
the lock off the door using Hatton Rounds – cartridges - purposely
designed to take out door locks and hinges - booted the door
outwards, and burst out on to the street unopposed.

Head down, money bag in one hand, shotgun in the other, he
sprinted across the road, ducked into an alley and vanished,
leaving his two companions to face arrest.

It took less than a minute for Jake to strike. A howl of human
anguish, coupled by one of canine glee, went up simultaneously. The
figure of a man rose from behind a police van and set off running,
dodging around vehicles whilst a wide mouth, jam packed with sharp,
dangerous teeth, snapped at his backside.

The man did not get far.

Propelled by strong back legs, Jake powered himself across the
short gap between himself and his victim. He sunk his teeth into
the back of the man’s thigh, bringing him down at the same time as
tearing out a chunk of flesh. The man screamed in agony and tried
to free himself from Jake who, with a certain degree of deliberate
pleasure, placed his mouth around the man’s right biceps and
squeezed gently. He looked up at his prisoner and blinked his big
brown eyes benignly.

Jake was a very intelligent dog.

He knew when he had won.

As often happens, when it all goes to rat shit, police
officers can lose their cool over the radio.

‘
There’s one gone out the fuckin’ front door,’ a voice
screamed, jolting Henry Christie and Terry Briggs out of their
complacency. ‘All patrols to be aware. PCs Christie and Briggs have
you received that? He could be coming in your direction.
Received?’

‘
Y-yes,’ Henry stuttered, acknowledging for both himself and
Terry.

They were parked at the top end of a narrow cul de sac from
where they had a view across to the alley into which Crane had
earlier backed the stolen Cosworth. If he was intending to use the
car as his getaway, Crane had no choice but to drive out past
Henry’s police car - but Henry did not want to give him that
option. It could result in a chaotic chase and no
arrest.

‘
Let’s see if we can bag him before he gets in the car,’ Henry
said. He jumped out of the Cavalier, and with Terry close behind,
ran across to the alley entrance, cursing under his breath about
not having had the foresight to disable the car when he had the
chance.

Breathing heavily already, Henry slammed himself on the wall
by the alley entrance and paused. His hand went down and touched
the handle of his revolver which was strapped in a holster at his
right hip. Terry slid in behind him.

Henry gritted his teeth and prepared to take a peek into the
alley to make sure the coast was clear. He intended to disable the
car now, even with something as unsubtle as lobbing a brick through
the windscreen; it would at least slow Crane down.

The moment he spun into the alley, a couple of things happened
simultaneously. A belated radio message announced, ‘Patrols beware,
suspect is armed, suspect is armed.’ And Henry saw that Crane had
already reached the driver’s door of the Cosworth, which was
open.

About twelve feet separated the two men.

Crane instinctively jerked the shotgun up. The cartridge which
was now in the breech was not for punching holes in doors; it was
meant to blow away other human beings, as were all the remaining
shells.

Henry saw the gun rise and threw himself to the ground a split
second before the discharge. Even though Crane missed, Henry felt
the whoosh of the shot blast past him. He rolled behind the cover
of the opposite wall whilst fumbling desperately for his own gun,
painfully aware that he had never yet drawn it in anger.

Then Terry moved into the alley, his gun drawn, in the classic
combat position.

Henry wanted to shout, ‘No, you stupid git!’ The words stuck
in his mouth as Terry screamed, ‘Armed police! Drop your
weapon!’