Dangerous Lady (44 page)

Carla laughed harshly. ‘I should think she was asking for it. No one else but you would fuck something so ugly. Only you. We’re finished, Malcolm. Finished.’

‘What about Joey? I’m his father!’ Malcolm was self righteous now.

‘If you do what I tell you, and get out of my life and my house, I may let you see him from time to time.’ She was enjoying herself. Now that the initial shock had worn off, she realised that she finally had a bona ride reason to get rid of him.

‘Carla, please. For all the love we’ve shared …’

‘Drop dead, Malcolm.’ Her voice was flat and hard. ‘Come on, Joey, let’s go to Auntie Maura’s, shall we?’

She went from the room, across the large entrance hall and finally out of the house. Settling Joey into his car seat, she went back into the house and collected her bag and a few things. As she left for the last time Malcolm tried again.

‘Please, Carla.’ His voice was desperate now. …. Standing on the driveway, she placed the middle finger

of her right hand in the air then, gathering as much air into her lungs as possible, shouted at him: ‘Rotate on it gently, arsehole!’ Then, getting into the car, she drove to Maura’s. Maura listened to Carla in amazement. She could not help picturing her dragging the woman across the carpet by her hair.

‘Oh, Carla love, I’m so sorry. It must have been terrible.’

Carla smiled sheepishly.

‘Stop spitting the meat out, Joey.’ She looked back at Maura. ‘Actually, Maws, I enjoyed every minute of it! I think I finally saw him as you all see him.’

‘We’ve never seen him with his cacks down!’

Both women laughed. ‘You know what I mean. He’s a prat, Maws. A prize prat.’

Maura was serious. ‘But you did love him, didn’t you?’

Carla looked at little Joey. ‘Yeah. I did love him in the beginning. But not any more.’

Maura carried on eating. The food was tasteless now. She was consumed with a feeling of hatred for Malcolm that made her want to go and kill him.

‘Can you imagine Nana’s face when she finds out I’ve left my lawful husband?’

Maura was cavalier. ‘Oh, sod her, Carla. Let her think what she likes. You can stay here with me until we get you sorted out.’

Carla put her hand gently over Maura’s.

‘I know that. I’m like a bad penny, ain’t I? Always turning up. My mum didn’t want me. Nor my dad. And now even my husband’s done the dirty on me. Maybe I do something wrong.’

‘Don’t be so silly!’ Maura’s voice was sharp. ‘I’ll tell you

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something, shall I? Once, a long time ago, I was in a similar state to you. I went to Marge’s. Well, she said something that I’ll never forget. She said that self-pity was a luxury none of us could afford. Those weren’t her exact words, but that was what she meant. You must pick yourself up, brush yourself down …’

‘And start all over again.’ Carla sang the last sentence and they both laughed again.

‘Yeah, well. That’s about the strength of it.’

‘In a funny way I feel free. Like I’ve been let out of prison after a long stretch.’

‘That’s good, Carla. Try to keep that feeling. It will help you over the next few weeks. And there’s one other good thing. My mother won’t ring you here so you can put off talking to her for as long as you want.’

Joey upset his beaker of milk and both women jumped up to get a cloth. Even though Carla’s being there was because of trouble, Maura was glad to have her and Joey anyway. It took her mind off what was going to happen the next day. And she could not rule out the fact that it would give her a cast-iron alibi if, by any chance, the police did decide to interview her.

Chapter Twenty-five It was 4am on 20 March 1985. Maura and Michael were sitting in a Portakabin in a yard owned by Michael’s friend, Jim Dickenson. Jim was an old lag. Throughout his life he had been put into prison for various offences, ranging from bank robbery (he got only eight years because his gun was not loaded) to extortion. He had tried to blackmail a high-powered executive who was a transvestite. On leaving jail he had approached Michael. They were friends from the Notting Hill days of Joe the Fish. He was a big powerful man and Michael had set him up in a plant hire business in Cranford. He had bought the business as a going concern and it had been put into Jim Dickenson’s name. To all intents and purposes, Michael Ryan had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

The yard consisted of over four acres of land, surrounded by ten-foot fence panels and guarded by three Dobermans and a Rottweiler. This morning, though, it was empty of any life other than Michael and Maura. The dogs were shut into a pen kept especially for them. Their barking and howling was already getting on Maura’s nerves.

Michael glanced at his watch. It was four minutes past the hour.

‘Another ten minutes, Maws, and it will all be over.’ Maura lit yet another cigarette and tried to concentrate her mind on Carla and Joey. Roy and Gerry were waiting at the roundabout on the Bath Road. Both were on 650cc Kawasaki motorbikes. They were dressed in black from head to foot. Gerry could feel the sweat pouring from his forehead. He was frightened, really frightened. He wished he had the guts just to start the engine and go … go anywhere away from here. Roy was thinking about Janine, and Benny who was nearly ten. Where his wife had completely disowned Carla, she tried to possess the boy. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the job in hand. If they went wrong now, that would be the end of them. Banged up good and proper. He felt the loose feeling in his bowels and hoped that he would not have to empty them at the roadside. He reassured himself with the fact that this robbery had been planned down to the minutest detail. What he would not give for a fag! Just to be doing something other than waiting for the lights of the articulated lorry. He could sense the nervousness of Gerry Jackson and it made him feel worse. He breathed deeply, trying to control his heartbeats. Garry, Leslie and Lee were in a dark blue Range Rover. All three were already wearing black balaclavas with just slits for eyeholes. Garry kept up a stream of low chatter. Leslie and Lee just grunted replies. All were nervous. Garry caressed the shotgun that he was holding. At four minutes past four they all started counting down. These were just ten minutes until the off.

Davie Muldoon drove the container lorry with its cargo of gold towards Heathrow airport. His mind was miles away

on an argument that he’d had with his wife the night before. She was a pain in the bloody neck. First she informs him that her mother’s coming, yet again. Then she drops the real bombshell. She’s pregnant again. Four bloody kids in five years.

She looked like something from a Hammer horror film already. She tipped the scales at just over sixteen stone! When he had first met her she had been eight stone with the best set of bristols he had ever seen. Nowadays, what with the rolls of fat and the stretch marks, it was like mounting Red Rum. But true to form she went by her old ruse. Attack was the best form of defence. Before he could comment on the fact that they could barely meet the mortgage payments as it was, without another baby to feed and clothe, she had started on about his drinking. Well, if she had a good look in the mirror she might get an inkling as to why he drank so much.

He needed at least eight pints of Hurlimans even to consider kissing the ugly bitch. He shook his head sadly as he drove along. He had been well and truly caught there. All his mates had warned him: ‘Look at the mother and see the daughter, twenty years on.’ He was well gutted.

The house looked like a council tip. She never cleaned up. Last night she had stood before him in all her glory. With her bleached yellow hair with the roots grown out nearly two inches she looked like a candidate for the black and white minstrel show. He grinned to himself. Her outsize nightdress had been stained with everything from baby puke to tea. Even her teeth were going rotten in her head. She said it was because of having the kids so quick, but he had already made a shrewd guess that not cleaning them was also a large contributory factor. The dirty bitch! He shuddered. She was only twenty-four! What would she be like in another five years?

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Joey Granger had been watching the changing expressions on his friend’s face with fascination. He also had an idea what had put them there. He had met Davie’s wife Leona only once and that had been enough. She had reminded him of a Rottweiler in drag. Poor old Davie, he had to be the most easy-going bloke in the world. Which was probably why she got away with so much. If she had been his wife he would have given her a good slap a long time ago. .

‘Light me a fag, Joey?’ Davie’s voice was soft.

‘We’re not really supposed to, you know.’

‘Of course I know, but it’s never stopped us before!’

Joey lit two cigarettes and passed one to Davie.

‘I hate these big pulls, they make me nervous.’

Joey laughed lightly.

‘Smoke your fag and calm down. There’s more old Bill out there than on the Masonic Lodge’s annual beano!’

Davie smiled despite himself. In front of the articulated lorry was a white Granada. Inside were Detective Inspector Tomlinson and three younger men, DS Milton, DC Johns and DC Llewelyn. DC Johns was what was commonly termed a chatterbox.

‘So, sir, if no one knows that this gold is going to Heathrow, why so many police?’ His voice was very young and very naive and DI Tomlinson was sorry for him. Just for a second though. He had too much else on his mind.

‘DC Johns?’ His voice was stern.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Shut your bloody trap for five minutes, and give your arse a chance!’

Llewelyn and Milton laughed softly. Johns sat silent and embarrassed. How were you to find out anything if you never asked? he reasoned.

Tomlinson was nervous, very nervous, and the younger men put it down to the seriousness of what they were doing. In fact, he was more aware of what was going on than they were or even than the Bank of England was. He had always had a passion for the horses. Over the last few years it had become an expensive passion. A passion that Michael Ryan had encouraged wholeheartedly. At this moment he could not make his mortgage payments, his car payments or, God help him, his maintenance. He was also into Michael Ryan for so much money he felt faint if he thought about the actual amount. It was his job to see that these three imbeciles bodged their job. Then he was home and dry, with all his debts paid.

The guns were still locked in the special armouries built into the dashboard in the front of the armrest in the back. He had the keys, and would take as long as he could before arming the three young cowboys in the car with him. He sneaked a look at his watch. Four minutes till the off. He was surprised to find that he was not even sweating. Behind the articulated lorry was another unmarked car. This time it was a Sierra. A dirty brown-coloured Sierra 1600E.

Inside were DI Becton and another three young plainclothes, DS Bronte, DS Marker and WDC Williams. Becton was annoyed. He did not like the thought of a WDC in this thing at all. He also held the magic keys that would arm what were in effect little more than children. Becton, too, had to make sure that his end of the operation went wrong.

After twenty years in the police force he had finally been found out. He was married with three teenage children, a lovely wife Jeanette whom he honestly loved with all his

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heart, and a nice detached house in Chiswick, nearly paid for. He had only one problem and it was a big one. He had discovered many years ago that he had a penchant for very young boys. Up until now it had never interfered with what he termed his ‘real life’, his family and his career. Then a week ago he had been sent certain pictures of himself through the post in a plain brown envelope. There was no mistaking that it was him in the pictures. They were in glorious colour. They were also very explicit.

He had been standing in the hallway, clutching the pictures to his chest, when Jeanette had walked out there. She had looked as pretty as a picture in the early morning light, not at all like the mother of three teenaged children or like the wife of a sexual pervert, because when he had seen himself in those pictures he had realised exactly what he was. And the thought of her knowing and his children knowing had nearly brought on a heart attack.

He had telephoned the number enclosed with the picture and now sat in this car, with two young men and a lovely young lady, waiting to do something that would be a blot on their career files all their life. He glanced in the mirror and saw the meatwagon full of uniforms driving behind him. He looked at the clock on the dashboard of the Sierra. Three minutes to the off. He was trembling. As the meatwagon passed them, Gerry and Roy started up their bikes. Gerry’s took three good kicks before it roared into life. They pulled their visors down on their helmets and nodded to one another, then they roared off behind the meatwagon. It was about two hundred yards from the roundabout. Inside the meatwagon were ten armed officers, most of them dozing. Only two were alert. One was the driver, DS Raymond Paine, and the other the controller of the radio, DS Martin Fuller. Both were unaware that

they were going to be blown off the road within seconds. Outside the window, Paine could hear the dull drone of the police helicopter that was following them above. He yawned. He hated these special assignments. Roy had already cocked his .357 Magnum. He drove parallel with the meatwagon and with one shot completely disabled the vehicle. The back tyre blew out with a ferocious bang that woke up all the sleeping officers. They woke up just in time to feel the van mounting the grass verge at the side of the road and then turn over twice before it finally came to rest on its right side, on the opposite side of the carriageway. ‘Jesus Christ! Did you see that?’

Up above in the helicopter Officer Watts and Officer Harper had seen in the dim light a bright blue flash.

‘Calling all units in the vicinity of the roundabout on the Bath Road. We have reason to believe a robbery is in progress …’ As the helicopter message came over the radio in Becton’s car, WDC Williams answered the call. Becton and the two young men were already out of the car and going to the aid of their colleagues. WDC Williams was aware in the pandemonium that Becton had not unlocked the small arms cache. She punched the dashboard in frustration. There had been the definite sound of a shot, officers were undoubtedly injured, and they did not have so much as a lolly stick between them. It was pathetic! She picked up the radio handset and began to call for the fire brigade and ambulances. DI Tomlinson had done his job properly. At least from the