Линда Ла Плант - Framed

Out by the desk, Archer was inching ever closer to the pressure alarm. On the street outside, a police patrol car had just glided slowly past the parked Jaguar. The officer sitting by the driver radioed McKinnes and told him the vehicle was empty. McKinnes told them to keep an eye on it.

Down in the vaults Von Joel was pushing the clerk back down on the floor when Larry shouted excitedly.

“Blue bags! Blue cloth bags! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

Von Joel ran to where Larry was hoisting the bags of money out of a box. Between them they began ramming the money into the parachute-silk bag.

Archer was now very close to the alarm pressure pad. On an impulse he threw himself the remainder of the distance. He clipped the pad and felt it give. The alarm screamed.

Von Joel reached for the gun.

“No!” Larry shouted, seizing his arm.

Von Joel shoved him away, picked up the loaded bag, and started running for the lift. “Briefcase!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Get the case!”

Larry stopped, gathered up the briefcase, and snapped it shut. When he got to the lift Von Joel was already inside with the grille closed. Larry heaved it open and Von Joel tried to stop him, shoving with his free hand, the gun poking out past the side of the grille. Larry drew back the grille two inches and swiftly jammed it forward again, cracking the steel edge against Von Joel’s wrist. The gun hit the floor and Larry snatched it up. As he straightened he saw the lift rising. He tugged at the grille but it had locked. He looked left and right, panic-stricken, the alarm deafening him. He mopped sweat from his forehead and took a tight grip on the gun, seeing Von Joel’s feet disappear above the upper margin of the lift doorway. Abandoning reason, he took a deep breath and hurled himself at the narrow stone staircase.

As the lift arrived at ground-floor level the manager went forward. Von Joel eased the grille open and stepped out fast, hanging on tightly to the bag.

“We’ve been stuck down there!” he shouted, still moving. “The lift’s not working, didn’t you hear the alarm?”

For just a moment the manager was thrown, but then he ran after Von Joel into the main banking hall. At that moment Larry reached the top of the stairs with the gun in his hand.

“Oh, my God, no!” the manager howled. “No!”

Larry tried to appeal for calm, waving the gun. “It’s all right!”

Von Joel had reached the main doors leading to the banking hall. They opened and he was out of the secure area, moving fast, heading for the exit. Larry ran after him. People scattered around them, running for cover. Von Joel realized the sight of the gun was panicking them.

“Stay down,” he yelled. “Stay! Don’t move and you won’t get hurt!” He was almost at the exit. “Please stay down! Back off and you won’t get hurt!”

He made it to the doors just as they were swinging shut, a guard blue in the face as he heaved against the reinforced structure. Von Joel made a spurt and got outside.

“I’m a police officer!” Larry yelled, running at the doors. “Nobody’s going to get hurt!” The door was open less than a foot. “Police!” Larry shouted at the guard. “It’s okay!”

The scattering, screaming clerks and customers were in hysterical chaos, but even so the guard hesitated. Larry hurtled out onto the street after Von Joel.

“Eddie!”

Von Joel was across the street, shoving the bag in through the open car door. He started clambering in behind the wheel just as a police patrol car came screaming down the street in reverse, heading for the bank.

“Eddie! Wait! Wait!”

Larry ran into the road and was almost hit by the patrol car. He jumped clear as it swerved and stopped.

“Get in the car!” Von Joel shouted. “Give me the gun, you asshole! It’s a dummy! Just get in the bloody car!”

The police car was directly opposite. One officer had run into the bank, the other was sliding out, keeping low; he could see Larry with the gun.

“I drive,” Larry said. “I want to drive.”

He grabbed Von Joel’s sleeve. Von Joel shook himself free. During the struggle a radio message was transmitted from the cover of the police car across the street.

“Urgent message! Urgent message! Robbery in progress, Millways Bank, City Road. Two white males, carrying firearms... Suspects driving green Jaguar XJL, index number 658, X-Ray, Kilo, Golf. Any units, urgent assistance. Repeat, suspects carrying firearms.”

“For Christ’s sake!” Von Joel roared, exasperated. “Drive! Get in and drive!” He slid across into the passenger seat. Larry dived in behind the wheel and slammed the door shut after him. He threw the engine into gear and tore away from the curb, taking the whole width of the road to straighten out before he reached the corner.

“I lied about the gun, Larry,” Von Joel said as they screeched out onto the straight. “Put your foot down. Move! Move it!”

McKinnes’s car revved backward out of the alley by the Rotherhill Bank. DI Shrapnel ran toward it, waving it down. It slowed and he yanked open the back door, diving in.

“We’ve got him,” he panted, pulling the door shut as the car accelerated. “Heading for the Blackwall Tunnel. Jackson and Myers in the green Jag.”

Two minutes later the radio intelligence was revised. The Jaguar had appeared to be heading straight for the Blackwall Tunnel, but then it had taken a sharp right turn and backtracked. It was now moving at high speed along the Embankment. The driver had been clearly identified as DS Jackson.

Seconds after the update was issued, the Jaguar was racing down Millbank, headlights on, overtaking traffic. At the lights it took a sharp right on red and headed down Vauxhall Bridge Road. It was spotted by two patrol cars, one at either end of the road. They sped toward the Jaguar from opposite directions, pedals on the floor for the kill, then the Jaguar did a breakneck turn and vanished into a side street. Both police patrols reported that they had lost sight of the target vehicle. Its whereabouts were uncertain.

Soon afterward Larry was tooling the Jaguar toward Liverpool Street Station. Three hundred yards from the courtyard they were clocked by a patrol. An APB went out.

“There’s a train direct to Stansted,” McKinnes announced into the radio. “If you lose him at the station go straight to the platform. Keep your distance, Myers is armed.”

The Jaguar roared up to the station, skidding along the courtyard as the brakes went on. Von Joel was out with the money before they had stopped. Their arrival created immediate mayhem among the taxis waiting to pick up fares, family cars unloading passengers, directionless hitchhikers and vagrants not used to moving fast. Carts were overturned as Von Joel ran for the concourse.

“Eddie! Wait, Eddie...”

Larry was holding his ID aloft, trying to get through the crowd.

Von Joel stopped. “Get the briefcase!” he shouted. “Platform seven. Passports. Get the passports.”

Larry ignored him. Von Joel ran on and Larry followed, shouting at the people as he struggled to catch up, trying to convince them this was an emergency.

Behind Larry, in the station courtyard, two patrol cars had hemmed in the Jaguar. Two uniformed officers were out and already giving chase. A third officer was examining the interior of the Jaguar. He found the briefcase, and on the passenger seat he found the gun. It was real.

“Stansted Airport Terminal train, platform seven,” the PA announced nasally. “Passengers for Stansted, platform seven.”

Larry ran through the barrier. There was no sign of Von Joel. A ticket collector came up to him; Larry flashed his ID and pushed him aside. He began a zigzag run along the platform, eyes darting from side to side, failing to see a flattened soft drink can in front of him. His foot landed on it and he skidded, hitting his chest and head against a luggage cart as he fell. Two uniformed police officers ran toward him. One grabbed Larry and pulled him to his feet. He jerked free.