The one on the left was of average height and broadly built, while the one on the right was equally broad but a little taller. Both wore dark clothing, including black leather jackets, but also scarlet woollen ski-masks with holes cut only for their eyes. Each was armed with what looked distinctly like a sub-machine gun, the two weapons levelled on him.
Strangely, almost as quickly as the shock had hit Lazenby, it subsided.
All along, he’d perhaps expected something like this. It hadn’t seemed terribly probable, not in that safe, average, everyday world that Lazenby’s success had lulled him into believing he still occupied. But there’d still been that constant, nagging doubt, which is why the stuff had been ready to move at a moment’s notice.
‘What … what do you mean, this is yours?’ he stammered, breathing hard from his exertion. He hadn’t yet given up on the idea that a deal could be made. Maybe they were simply testing him here?
‘Just what we say, arsehole,’ the taller one said. ‘The bag.’
As if to emphasise that this wasn’t a joke, the shorter one raised his weapon to chest height and squinted along its barrel. Helpless to do otherwise, Lazenby rocked forward on the balls of his feet, and hurled the heavy sports bag over the two or three yards between them.
The taller one let his firearm swing from a shoulder strap while he hunkered down and tugged the holdall’s zip open. Almost immediately, he glanced up. Lazenby could only see his eyes – which were colourless in the dimness – but he had no doubt there was a smile behind that woollen visage.
‘Good lad,’ came the voice.
The taller one drew something out of his jacket pocket, which, when he unrolled it, turned out to be a black canvas sack. Almost casually, he began cramming the blocks of cash inside it.
‘Seriously?’ Lazenby said as he watched. ‘This is the whole plan? A chicken-feed robbery? I thought you guys were supposed to be businessmen. Have you any idea how much money we could make if we reached some kind of agreement?’
They didn’t bother to reply.
Lazenby’s sweat rapidly cooled in the October night. His thoughts swam like directionless fish. There was still no need for despair. They weren’t for playing ball at present, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t do in due course. These two were just crude muscle, no doubt; a pair of paid thugs. Making deals didn’t figure in their remit. And that really could not be the end of it. The Crew hadn’t got to the top of the criminal tree by knocking off a bit of bent gear here and there.
But throughout these ruminations, Lazenby increasingly found himself distracted by how small their canvas bag was. It didn’t look big enough, not for the coke as well. And indeed, once the money was loaded, the bag was zipped closed and kicked backward into the shadows. Lazenby watched, increasingly bemused, as the taller bandit now zipped up the original sports bag, with the coke still inside it, and tossed it back into the lock-up.
Were they simply here to teach him a lesson then? Taking every spare penny he had as a down-payment on future deals? He supposed that might be one underworld method.
But then something even more bewildering happened.
The taller bandit walked around to the other side of the Galaxy, bent down and picked something up. There was a metallic snick – the sound a cigarette lighter makes when being struck – followed by a burst of wavering light. When he came back, he was carrying a two-pint glass bottle full of greyish liquid, with a burning rag stuffed into the neck.
‘What the fu …’ Lazenby shouted, diving out of the way as the guy flung it into the lock-up.
It exploded furiously, the blazing payload engulfing the old clothes, the decrepit furniture, and the bag containing the cocaine.
‘Are you fucking nuts!’ Lazenby screamed, scrambling back to his feet and trying to approach the open doorway, but inevitably being driven back by the heat of the flame-filled interior. ‘There’s over four-hundred grand’s worth of dope in there!’
He never noticed the reply coming – in the shape of a sub-machine gun’s walnut stock, which slammed into the side of his jawbone with such force that he literally saw stars as the world cavorted around him, and the damp tarmac rushed up to his face.
As Ordinary Joe Lazenby lay there, groggy, only half aware of the hot blood filling his mouth, a wool-clad face appeared next to his ear, and whispered: ‘Not anymore.’
Lucy clocked on at eight the next morning, and found a memo on her desk from DI Beardmore.
Report to Robbery Squad at 1st opp. Liaise with DS Tucker
(they’ve got you for one week – after that, we reappraise)
Lucy stood up from her desk just as Beardmore entered the DO.
‘You sure you can spare me for a week, boss?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m not,’ he said, pulling a face and stripping off his coat as he headed into his office. ‘But you started this thing, Lucy. Only seems fair you get a sniff of wherever it’s leading.’
She halted in his office door. ‘What about the break-ins on Hatchwood Green?’
Beardmore rustled distractedly through the usual pile of bumph that always seemed to accumulate on his desk during the hours of darkness. ‘I’m sure Harry can carry that for a few days.’
‘He’ll whinge.’
‘He always whinges. One thing he never does, though, is whinge to someone who cares.’ The DI didn’t look at her as he slumped down into his chair. ‘Go on … shoot up there before I change my mind.’
Lucy mounted the stairs with that usual mixture of elation and trepidation that always accompanied inclusion in major enquiries. It was a curious feeling, to be truthful. Most divisional CID officers had to juggle three or four minor investigations at any one time – sometimes more. It certainly kept them on their toes, but quite often it was routine stuff.
But the major investigations, or the ‘monster hunts’, were something else. On these occasions, you were after real predators, soulless psychopaths with an overwhelming urge and a huge potential to cause damage, deranged felons whose swift capture was deemed to be so important that you had to focus entirely on them, leaving everything else on the backburner. The thrill of these special investigations was often a reward in itself. This was certainly what Lucy had joined the police for.
The Robbery Squad office wasn’t too busy at this stage of the day. However, DI Blake and DS Tucker were already present, poring over a series of street maps spread on a desk in a corner of the room directly opposite from the one dedicated to the Saturday Street enquiry. Lucy also noticed that some maps had been tacked onto the walls, alongside photographs of the cashpoints she herself had earmarked as possible attack zones, plus the alley entrances and subway mouths in their vicinities. The majority of these were professional surveillance shots, taken from multiple high angles so as to fully recreate on film the anatomy of each environment. It might be early, but the Squad had clearly been busy.
DI Blake glanced up. ‘DC Clayburn … welcome.’ She herself had dressed down today, wearing only a jumper and jeans. ‘Glad you could join us.’
‘Delighted, ma’am,’ Lucy said, approaching the desk.
‘For the duration of the time you’re with us, it’s Kathy,’ Blake said, with half a smile. ‘Unless I need to pull rank on you. Which I’m sure I won’t.’
Unseen behind his boss’s shoulder, Tucker winked