Lynda Plante - Tennison

‘I was thinking that now I’m the lookout, as well as one of the persons who put the job up, I deserve a slightly bigger cut than I’m getting, don’t I?’

‘You’re a greedy old sod, Dad. OK, I’ll slip a bit extra on the side for you.’

‘Shake on that, son,’ he said, putting out his hand.

‘But don’t say anything to the others or they’ll start kicking off,’ John said, shaking his father’s hand.

Clifford laughed, coughed up some phlegm and, pulling a dirty handkerchief from his pocket, spat into it.

‘If we finish the job by early Monday morning there’ll be plenty of time to stash the stolen goods. I’ve already rented another lock-up nearby in Dalston to count out the proceeds.’

‘Good thinkin’, son, the filth will be crawling all over the place.’

‘I know, and Silas is likely to be the first person the police will be looking for. I’ll give him his cut of the cash so he can make his getaway and fly out to Greece.’

Clifford smiled. ‘Make sure he’s loaded with the dodgy fivers.’

John laughed. ‘There’s a secluded area in nearby woodland where I’ll bury our cut of the money for a few days while the heat dies down, but I’m not sure yet what to do with any jewellery we find.’

‘Don’t worry, I know a good fence who can take it off our hands. What you gonna do with the van, son?’

‘Take it to some wasteland and set light to it, along with anything else that might lead the police to any of us.’

Clifford patted John’s back. ‘Good lad, looks like you thought of everything.’

‘Well, I was taught well, wasn’t I, Dad?’ John pushed his chair back and checked the time.

‘OK, we go in half an hour at just after eleven.’

Clifford nodded and poured himself another mug of tea.

‘I’ll be ready, son, just finish me breakfast and then put some long johns on under me jeans and shirt and a couple of jumpers on top as well.’

John left the room to speak with his mum. Clifford took the opportunity to quietly fill his hip flask with the remains of the bottle of brandy, sticking the flask into the inside pocket of his donkey jacket which was hanging in the hallway.

Renee had changed into her dress and was in the lounge drying and brushing her hair in front of the electric fire when John walked in. He told her that he and his dad were off down the bookie’s for a flutter and then the pub. She asked when they’d be back and he said he didn’t know and she wasn’t to wait up.

‘What you want for tea? There’s some stew left over,’ she said, as she sprayed lacquer on her hair, making it stiff.

John replied that they’d get something from the chippie and as he turned to leave he stopped and looked at his mother.

‘What you all dolled up for?’

She pulled on her white gloves and put on her hat, looking at John in the mirror as she adjusted it.

‘Ma Phillips is burying her grandson today. Half the estate is going and everyone’s given money for flowers and beverages.’

‘On a Sunday? You are fuckin’ havin’ me on. Besides he was a pitiful waste of space, and what have I told you about not going out the flat?’ John shouted.

Clifford heard them talking and walked in with his donkey jacket slung over his shoulder.

‘Leave it out, son. It’s always good to show respect.’ Clifford turned to Renee. ‘But don’t you go on the lash or blabbering with your bingo mates, you come straight back home, right?’

‘I heard you the first time, Clifford. It’s sunny out, so what you want your big heavy coat for?’

‘Because, you nosy cow, we might be doing some night fishing for carp on the Lea tonight. Me mate Chaz has invited me and John along.’

She laughed and took another look at herself in the mirror. She’d even put a bit of lipstick on. She wanted to see how David was doing before she left for the funeral, so she went out across the hallway and popped her head around his bedroom door.

‘How are you feelin, son?’

‘Not so good, Ma. I’ll try and get up later.’

‘I won’t be gone long, love.’

‘You look real nice, Ma. That’s a very pretty dress and hat you’re wearing.’

He gave a sad smile and blew her a kiss as she said she’d see him later and closed the bedroom door.

After a minute John looked in on David who was lying with the eiderdown pulled up to his chin.

John spoke quietly and told him their dad was going to be filling in for him again.

‘I’m sorry to let you down, John, but I’m still feelin’ really rough.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s sorted. But he’s gonna take your cut of the wedge for the two nights,’ he said, and moved a little closer before continuing. ‘I reckon we’ll get through to the vault by midnight and have the divvy-out done by morning. Come Tuesday the whole of the Met will be turning over London lookin’ for who done the bank so I’m gonna torch the van and bury our cut in the woods till things die down.’

David looked worried. ‘They won’t catch us, will they, John?’

‘No bloody way. They haven’t got a clue what’s going on or they’d have nicked us by now. By this time tomorrow we’ll be fuckin’ rich.’

As David smiled and coughed he saw his dad standing behind John.

‘Froze me bollocks off last night. It’s the wind that whistles round the effing place. It’s no wonder yer come down with a bad cold, son.’

‘Sorry, Dad, and thanks for taking over from me.’

Hearing the front door close and realizing they had all gone David eased himself to a sitting position on the bed and tried to get to his feet. He had to sit back down again as he felt so sick, but it was his nerves more than still feeling ill.

DC Stanley had switched from Op One and was now down at the far end of the estate with a colleague watching the garage where John Bentley’s van was parked. He was distracted by a call over the radio.

Oscar Pappa Five from One receiving, over.

‘Yeah, go ahead, over,’ Stanley replied.

Eyeball on Targets One and Two leaving premises with female occupant, all on foot towards you.

Stanley looked up the road and in the distance could see John, Clifford and Renee coming from the estate and heading in his direction.

He turned to his colleague. ‘It looks like they’re taking Renee with them now!’

‘Maybe she’s going to be lookout,’ his colleague said.

‘Well, she doesn’t look dressed for it,’ Stanley replied, and heard the sound of a number of vehicles passing the observation van.

‘Holy shit, I don’t believe this!’ He turned to his mate and gestured for him to look through the peephole.

His colleague crouched down and peered through. ‘It’s a funeral cortège and they’re parking up in front of the garages. If the Bentleys are going to a funeral they can’t be working on the bank job during the day.’

‘Or tonight — round here there’s usually a big piss-up afterwards.’

‘Clifford and John don’t looked dressed for a funeral,’ his colleague remarked.

‘Shit, I don’t know whether to inform Bradfield or wait and see what happens,’ Stanley added, rubbing his head.

Floral tributes adorned the sides and front of the old gleaming hearse. Written in carnations almost ten inches high were the words ‘Grandson Eddie’, and more flowers were lying on top of the coffin. There were two more Daimler funeral cars parked behind the hearse. The drivers, wearing black suits and ties, stepped out of the vehicles for a quick smoke and to stretch their legs whilst they chatted with the funeral director, who was wearing a black top hat and carrying a long black traditional undertaker’s stick.

John and Clifford followed behind Renee thinking she was going to Nancy Phillips’ flat, which was near the garages, and therefore wouldn’t see them getting in the van. They both froze on the spot when they reached the point where they could see clearly along the row of garages.