Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery

‘Okay, so there’s nothing we can do.’ Newby turned away. ‘Come on, Harry,’ he called.

They drove away through the flat countryside. A Cortina passed them going in the opposite direction and Newby wondered incredulously what business a man could have in Harkdale. The tiny town had gradually appeared on the horizon while Harry Felton was talking. It was a farm town and once a week, on Fridays, it came to something like life, when the farmers brought in their wares to market. Even that was a dying tradition, Newby thought, thank God.

‘It was only boy’s stuff. Stealing lead off a church roof, I think, nothing serious. He got caught because he took the dog with him. But these things stick in a small town, so he never lasts long in a regular job. He’s known as a wide boy. The last job he had was with Kimber’s in Banbury.’

‘The estate agents?’ Newby asked absently.

‘That’s right. He was there nearly six months. I gather he did quite well at the beginning, but eventually they had to get rid of him.’ Harry Felton laughed. ‘It was the usual story. He would insist on having the dog with him all the time!’

Newby grinned. ‘Why does he call it Jackson?’

‘I don’t know.’ Felton shrugged. ‘It’s always been called Jackson.’

They had reached Harkdale and were driving through the main street. There was a Woolworths, a new supermarket, and a number of bay windowed shops selling afternoon tea, women’s clothes, and an old established firm of solicitors. Outside the bank there was a Ford Zephyr and a small knot of people were watching three men coming out of the building. Just as deserted as always, Newby thought, six people and two cars in the whole High Street. The three men coming out of the bank were carrying guns and their faces were covered by nylon stockings.

‘Good God, Harry! Look at that!’

The tallest man was wearing a suede jacket and grey flannel trousers. He was carrying a large leather bag.

‘What’s going on?’ Harry asked in amazement as the bell started ringing inside the bank.

The bell was a signal for the slow motion scene to erupt. The small knot of people watching suddenly scattered. It was real, and they were in danger. A frantic clerk came running, shouting and waving his arms, from the bank. The tall man tossed the bag into the car, then turned and shot the clerk.

‘Let’s move,’ grunted Newby.

Harry Felton accelerated across the street and swung the police car across to block their escape. He came to a halt with his front wheels on the pavement. Newby could hear two women screaming as he reached for his radio telephone, and a man was shouting, ‘Don’t be a fool!’ Felton leaped out of the car.

The three bank robbers were in the Zephyr and it was backing wildly to turn and make its escape. Harry Felton ran into the road but it drove straight at him. He threw himself clear at the last moment. By the time he had regained his feet the Zephyr had finished its three-point turn.

The next two seconds passed very slowly for PC Newby. He watched Harry Felton put out a hand to seize the passenger door, and the tall bank robber leaned out of the window, carefully pointed his gun at Harry’s stomach, and fired three times. Harry Felton toppled balletically onto the road, twitched twice and then lay still. As Newby knelt beside him the Zephyr sped off through the deserted High Street.

Newby wished the bloody alarm bell would stop ringing. But it brought out a few more people as soon as the street was safe. A doctor appeared and pushed his way through the sightseers to attend the bank clerk. Harry Felton was dead. Newby went across to the doctor.

‘Have you radioed for an ambulance?’ the doctor asked.

‘That’s what I was doing while my mate was getting killed.’

The doctor nodded. ‘This one will live.’

The bank clerk was conscious and babbling with the pain from his shoulder. The blood from his clawing hands mingled with tears so that his face became streaked with red and dirt. The manager of the bank had emerged at last to demand that somebody should do something.

‘Get after them,’ he blustered at Newby. ‘They’ve stolen nearly fifty thousand pounds!’

Newby glared. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get them.’ He turned and went back to Harry Felton’s body, before he could say anything he might regret. He could hear the siren of a police car in the distance, a black Jaguar doing what seemed to be ninety miles an hour. Within seconds it had skidded to a stop beside Newby.

Police Constable Brooks slid from the driving seat as it stopped. ‘How much start have they had?’ he asked.

‘A minute or so,’ murmured Newby.

PC Brooks looked down at the dead policeman. ‘We’ll catch up with them.’ He put a hand on Newby’s shoulder. ‘Harry was a good lad.’

‘Harry Felton was a fool and he got on my nerves but he was the nicest guy in the world.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Brooks.

He slipped back into the car, slammed the door and turned the ignition key all in the same movement, leaving PC Newby standing forlorn by the dead man. His speedometer was flickering around ninety again within fifteen seconds. He was a fast driver, and Bill Stanton sat next to him with his eyes closed. When they reached the open road and accelerated to a hundred and twenty miles an hour Stanton’s lips began moving in prayer.

‘Harry Felton was a nice bloke,’ Brooks said bitterly. ‘He never harmed anyone.’

‘Concentrate on the road,’ Stanton muttered.

‘I’m going as fast as I can.’

‘I know.’

Constable Horace Brooks was a dark, determined man in his late thirties. He had steel nerves and his list of commendations for bravery was almost as long as the list of cars he had crashed in the line of duty. Promotion had escaped him because he conducted his own one-man crusade against crime and police discipline. Only his charm and an engaging record of success had kept him in the force.

‘There she is,’ he said grimly. ‘About three miles in front.’

Far away in the grey distance a Ford Zephyr was going too fast and throwing up a cloud of dust.

‘We’ll be there before they hit town.’

Brooks glanced out of the corner of his eye at a lorry parked in the lay-by. A man and a dog were standing watching them go by, and then in his driving mirror Brooks saw the man climb with the dog into his driving cabin.

‘Look where you’re going,’ said Stanton. ‘The road starts winding soon.’

‘I can see.’

They were gaining rapidly on the Zephyr but Brooks didn’t dare let up; once the Zephyr reached town it would be a much simpler matter to double back through the busy streets and lose them. The two cars raced along the gradually winding road, tyres screaming and back wheels slithering into the verge.

‘Thank God for the winding road,’ Brooks called. ‘They won’t be able to use their guns on us now.’

‘God help us,’ muttered Stanton.

There was a farm on their right, and several seconds before the crash Brooks saw what was going to happen. A tractor was coming out of the fields; almost immediately he lost sight of it behind the farmhouse, and then as they sped past the farmhouse and round the corner Brooks saw the tractor lurch into the road. The Ford Zephyr skidded nearly twenty yards before hitting the tractor with a bang that sounded like an atomic explosion. The tractor disintegrated and came to rest in a muddle of twisted metal in the opposite ditch. The Ford Zephyr spun on until it hit a tree.

‘God help us.’

Brooks had slowed down. He manoeuvred the car perilously past the moving wreckage and managed to stop a hundred yards further on. Stanton threw open his passenger door and stumbled into the road.