Read Elephants can't hide forever Online
Authors: Peter Plenge
Elephants can't hide forever
Published by New Generation Publishing in 2012
Copyright © Peter Plenge 2012
First Edition
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
eISBN: 978-1-90939-539-8
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CHAPTER 1
THE BANK, 2003
St. Albans has always felt it should be the County Town of Hertfordshire. With its city title, majestic cathedral, Roman ruins and connections with Julius Caesar to name but a
few reasons, it was and is far more worthy of premium status than the rather shabby town of Hertford, which had been bestowed with that honour shortly after the signing of the Magna Carta at
Runnymede a thousand years previously. Well things had changed between the two towns over the millennium, for St Albans the road and rail infrastructure could not be better, access to Luton
airport, M25, M1, A1M and the high speed rail link to St. Pancras and Farringdon were all there.
St. Albans was a place where people could get to where they needed to be quickly. Unlike most towns, from the centre of St. Albans you could be thirty miles away in as many minutes, and that
brought affluence, wealth and Danny Gallagher to the city.
Danny Gallagher had done his research well. Each morning that St Albans held its market Danny and Madge, his wife of twenty five years, had left their home in Kent at 3.30am and driven up to St.
Albans via the fruit and flower market at Nine Elms where they collected the forthcoming day’s produce, and opened up their market stall for business by 7.30am. They kept themselves to
themselves, never stopping for an early evening drink at the trader’s local, but quietly packing up and driving back to Kent. In fact they were so innocuous that the other market stall
holders wouldn’t have recognised them should they have ever decided to call into the Red Lion.
Every Wednesday and Saturday was market day The main road through town St. Peter’s Street was always full with market stalls, and this was a place that was good business for the wheelers
and dealers of the market world, who plied their trade in their characteristically jovial fashion. The good people of St. Albans loved the market with its varied stalls and cockney banter from the
traders.
In between the fresh soap stall and the quality watches for under a fiver, directly opposite Barclays Bank, was the fruit and vegetables stall that Danny Gallagher had been waiting to become
vacant since he had selected St. Albans as his number 1 target. The stall had been operating for about 6 months and when the current occupier, that being Danny Gallagher, had been allocated the
pitch, the Market Trading Manager had fleetingly thought it a bit strange that the lessee seemed more keen on the position of the stall than what chattels he intended to sell; however, this was
soon forgotten when the fruit and veg appeared and the market needed another stall of this type. The quality of the goods was excellent and the rent was always paid with no fuss.
Mrs. Parkinson had discovered the stall in its first week of opening, liked the goods and liked the cheeriness of the owners; they were always polite and not as brash or as loud as the other
people on the veg stall one hundred metres down towards the clock tower.
“Five bananas, a pound of grapes, six apples and one of those nice looking pineapples?” Mrs. Parkinson asked of Madge Gallagher on this particular September Wednesday morning at
11.23 am. “And where’s your charming husband today?” she added
“Morning, love, he’s just tidying up round the back” replied Madge Gallagher.
Danny Gallagher was indeed round the back, and he appeared to be tidying up; with his brush in hand no one would have given Danny a second glance. Danny, however, was on high-octane. After six
months of watching the bullion truck delivering to Barclays Bank at various times, things were falling into place. Danny was now convinced he had spotted a pattern, in what was designed to be
random. If the bullion vehicle arrived today at 11 30am, he would not be serving Mrs Parkinson much longer.
At 11 30am, as Mrs Parkinson was admiring her fresh pineapple, a dark blue armoured security van pulled up directly opposite the fruit and veg stall. Two security guards climbed out, leaving one
inside, and started carrying the cash into the bank that was to pay the various factory workers of St. Albans the next day. Danny felt the adrenalin hit his brain. This was conclusive proof that
there was a pattern to the cash delivery at Barclays. He could now implement phase two of his plan.
Danny Gallagher, August 1983
It was the late summer of 1983 and both Gallagher brothers were sitting in the bar of Sammy Gallagher’s club down in Malaga.
“There’s someone wants to meet you,” Sammy said to his brother Danny, and when Sammy said ‘someone wants to meet you’, Danny knew it was a serious matter, and
hopefully a big pay day.
Danny didn’t like the Costa Del Crime; he was two years out of a long year stretch in HMP Wormwood Scrubs, and still wore the pallor of a man who had been incarcerated for a lengthy span.
He thought the place was vulgar, and the bars were full of faces he had shared recreation with back on the wing in the Scrubs, home from home in more ways than one. What Danny did like about this
place was his brother. Although they lived in different countries, they were still very close, and his brother’s connections with the underworld were second to none. Sammy knew every villain
in South London, indeed had worked with most of them, and now that he had moved out and bought this bar in Spain, he had a continuous flow of visitors from mainland Britain as well as the regulars
who lived in their gated homes up in the hills, all of them villains. Sammy’s bar had become a Mecca for the criminal fraternity who liked to flaunt their ill gotten wealth in the bars around
town. Danny knew anyone seeing him in his brother’s bar would know he was looking for work.
John Illes, also known as Mouse amongst his friends and the flying squad of New Scotland Yard, due to his pure physical presence, at 6ft 7ins and 260lbs of muscle, approached Danny from behind.
Danny was hardly a small man himself, 3ins past 6ft, but Mouse dwarfed over him as he tapped him on the left shoulder and agilely nipped to his right like a kid’s playtime joke.
“Fuck me, Mouse, you made me jump,” said Danny, who had watched the Mouse approach in the bar mirror and turned to his right before the man had positioned himself.
“Same old Danny, smart as fuck, but plays the twat,” said Mouse, “good to see you never lost it in the shovel.”
“Thanks John” said Danny knowing how respectful it was to alternate between a man’s nickname and his real name. “So what brings you down here, John? Have you bought a
place so you can be near your mates?”
“Actually, Danny,” said Mouse “I’ve no inkling to live in Spain; I love London, in any case Cathy wouldn’t leave her mum, so that’s it.” Everyone knew
Cathy Illes ruled the Mouse; unlike so many of his contemporaries John had stayed faithful to Cathy in the ten years they had been married, and she to him, and what’s more everyone respected
him for it.
Mouse continued: “It’s you I’ve come to see Danny. I told Sam to give me a shout when you got here. So I jumped on a plane and got into Malaga two hours ago and here I
am.”
Danny’s pulse quickened; he knew Mouse was looking for a reaction, and he needed to stay cool. Luckily the inadvertent warning his brother had given him earlier about someone wanting to
see him had put him on guard. This was not an occasion for smart arsed remarks. So Danny looked Mouse straight in the eyes, and as was his way, got straight to the point.
“I guess we need to go somewhere very private then,” he said.
“You guessed right, Danny boy” replied John. “Sammy has shut the VIP Suite tonight, so grab us a couple of beers and let’s head up there.”
The VIP suite of Sammy’s bar, which Sammy had named The Crayfish after the watering hole back home, was discreet and opulent. Both men were as comfortable here as they were back in the
other Crayfish, on the South London estate where they grew up, with its sawdust on the floor each Saturday night to soak up the blood that would inevitably be split by some unlucky soul before
closing time. However, both knew the conversation that was coming was going to be for each other’s ears only. So they sat closely in the middle of the empty room with an eye on the door
although both guys knew that, if necessary, Sammy would stop the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from butting in.
John began, “Danny, it’s true I’ve come to Spain especially to see you, and quite simply I am in the final stages of planning a job that’s going to net us over 3 million.
I’ve got a part for you and when it’s gone down, and the old bill are crawling over every snout in town, I don’t want anyone remembering seeing us together in the smoke, before
the event.”
Danny nodded sagely. This was typical of Mouse’s good thinking and good planning. This was why John Illes was The Man and when The Man came calling, you were involved, simple as that.
“Go on,” said Danny, his mouth getting dry in anticipation of what he was hoping to hear.
“Here’s the deal then,” replied Mouse, taking a long swig of beer. “You remember Brian Robinson I trust?” Mouse wasn’t able to stop a lopsided grin
forming.
A few years earlier, Danny had been the wheels man on a blag in Slough. Danny had driven up to the bank at exactly the time Brian Robinson was hastily departing, having withdrawn £300k,
not with his cheque book either but with an up and over sawn off shot gun. A member of the public decided to be a hero, and rugby tackled Brian. What Danny should have done then was floored the
throttle and got out of there, leaving Brian rolling on the pavement and the other two in the bank. But he didn’t, he got out and went to Brian’s aid. Another member of the public also
steamed in and all hell was let loose. Before they could shake off the do-gooders, the Sweeney turned up, collars were felt, and the boys all got a one way ticket to the Scrubs.
