Ken Bruen - Vixen

He stared at her, rage creasing his brow. Then he put the notebook away and he turned on his heel, walked out. Andrews asked:

‘Which car is his?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Andrews felt she’d learned a valuable lesson in dealing with the public.

When they went to the counter, the owner said:

‘No charge, ladies, I’m honoured by your custom.’

Falls wasn’t pleased, near shouted:

‘Did we ask you for anything free?’

‘No, but…’

‘But you presumed we’d be bought for a lousy stale bun.’

She threw a pile of change on the counter and headed out. Andrews felt sorry for him, tried to give him a warm smile, it didn’t seem to do much good. Outside, Falls was waiting and Andrews said:

‘Wasn’t that a bit harsh?’

‘If you’re going to have a freebie, at least make it worthwhile; for a spoon of cream, you could lose your job. And, that guy would be on the phone every opportunity, asking for his favourite officers.’

‘Maybe he just meant well.’

‘He’s the public — they never mean well.’

Roberts had the team gathered in the conference room. The phone was in the centre of the desk, the deadline fast approaching. Roberts had arranged for the call to be put on the speaker so they all could hear. He had the briefcase of cash beside it.

Brant said:

‘So we’re really going to pay these assholes?’

Roberts nodded miserably.

Porter asked:

‘Have we at least a trace set on the money?’

‘We are going to try and see if we can catch them when they collect.’

The team digested this, doubt writ large on their faces. Porter said:

‘They seem very confident that they are going to get the money without any problem.’

Roberts’ face was set in stone, as if it had been achieved over his dead body. No one seemed reassured by this. The phone rang and some of the younger officers actually jumped. Brant smiled, he was looking forward to this. The robotic voice began:

‘Greetings friends, I assume I’m on speaker so I’ll take the liberty of addressing you en group.’

Roberts tried to stay cool, said:

‘The money is here.’

‘Good man, you’re a splendid errand boy. Now here’s the arrangement. Are you ready because I’ll only say it once, so pencils ready guys?’

Nobody moved, it was of course being taped. The voice began:

‘Get a large black holdall with the word “Swag” written on it. Then Roberts you, yes you — pay attention and stop sulking — you are to deliver it to the left luggage at Waterloo station before 8.00 this evening. Get a receipt in case it goes missing, Network Rail are a whore if you don’t have the ticket. That’s it guys, nice and simple, so I don’t see how you can fuck it up.’

Click.

Roberts looked round at the faces and said:

‘Get me a black holdall and write “Swag” on it.’

Two of the officers left the room.

Roberts asked:

‘Any thoughts?’

Brant leaned forward, said:

‘He sounded pretty confident.’

Roberts nodded and then Porter Nash said:

‘So, we deliver the money, stake out the place and then follow the pick-up — what’s wrong with that picture?’

Brant said:

‘It’s too fucking simple. I hate it when it’s too easy.’

They outlined various strategies and all had the feeling it was a waste of time. They thrashed out the numerous things that could go wrong and finally Roberts assigned the team to their roles. He then turned to Brant, asked:

‘What’s your gut feeling?’

‘That we’re going to lose the money and the gang.’

The officers returned with the bag, the word ‘Swag’ in huge white letters on the side.

Roberts went over the arrangements again and said:

‘I’d better go.’

Brant said:

‘I’ll drive you.’

As they left the station, the rank and file were in the corridor to watch them go, the sight of the bag causing huge merriment until Roberts shouted:

‘Get back to work.’

Traffic was heavy and Brant made some reckless moves to make time. After he’d cut up a taxi, Roberts pleaded:

‘Jeez, take it easy.’

‘No sweat, guv, I know what I’m doing.’

Roberts glanced at him, thought he looked positively demonic. To distract himself, he asked:

‘Is everything in place?’

Brant began to light a cig, taking both hands off the wheel to do so, then actually shrugged, said:

‘We have people watching the front and back, we’re setting up a camera, pulling records on the staff, and you know what? It’s all pissing in the wind.’

When they got to Waterloo, Brant pulled up in the no-parking zone just as his phone went.

He answered, said:

‘Uh, oh, mmmph, gotcha.’

And clicked off.

Roberts said:

‘You’re not giving much away?’

Brant smiled, said:

‘It’s a party and you and me, we’re going.’

‘When?’

‘After we dump the swag.’

Roberts thought that Brant truly was mad — not just wild, out and out barking. He shook his head but Brant went:

‘Listen to me, you’re not going to hang round the station. They need you, they’ve got your number. What you need is some R and R. When was the last time you got laid?’

‘What kind of party is it?’

‘The kind where you get laid.’

Then he was off, leaving the car in the no-parking zone. Roberts struggled to catch up, asked:

‘You’re not just leaving the car? They’ll tow it.’

‘Who cares, it’s a piece of shit.’

‘But what about the party? How will we get there?’

Brant looked back, delight on his face, said:

‘See, you do want to get laid. We’ll grab a cab, arrive in style; best if we don’t have transport in case we get shitfaced.’

The station was crowded and the left luggage place was right at the rear, attended by a middle-aged guy in uniform. Roberts hefted the bag on to the counter and, without looking up, the guy asked:

‘How long?’

When Roberts didn’t answer the guy finally raised his eyes and said:

‘You deaf?’

Roberts produced his warrant card, said:

‘No, I’m the heat, now give me a ticket.’

Slowly, the guy began to punch out the ticket and without handing it over, said:

‘Five pounds.’

Roberts snapped the ticket and said:

‘You don’t want to get in the way of a police operation.’

The guy was not impressed, said:

‘That’s corruption, that is.’

He took the bag and handed it back to Jimmy who was out the back, out of Roberts’ line of vision. Jimmy immediately began to fill his overcoat with wads of money. Angie had sewn pockets all down the sides and, thanks to Her Majesty’s Prison Service, her sewing was terrific. He also carried a nondescript shopping bag, which he jammed with more wedges of cash. Finally, he produced a Network Rail shoulder bag and rammed the last few packets into it. He was ready to roll. Waited until the cops had pushed off, then shouted:

‘Bob, I’m gonna go get us some coffees.’

And went out the back entrance.

He was just disappearing down the steps at the side of the station when he noticed a couple of cops watching the front of the left luggage. Angie had said they’d be there and that there’d be plenty of them.