Hostage to Death Read online

  The carillon sounded. There was a half second’s pause and then the first note of the hour struck. One road away, a man in the Rover closed the circuit on a radio transmitter.

  The explosion was violent and the wall was shattered for a length of fifteen feet. A boiling cloud of dust and debris speared up into the air and then rained down while almost all the windows of the houses along Rowley Avenue were blown in or sucked out, depending on the vagaries of the explosion. A woman began to scream. The two Alsatians, after a brief pause of surprise, resumed what they had been doing before.

  The Rover and the Vauxhall turned into Rowley Avenue, crunched their way over shattered bricks and came to a rocking halt in front of the gap torn in the wall. As they stopped, Thomas came through the gap, followed by the others.

  Whistles began to blow and there was a rising tide of shouting. A fifth prisoner tried to tag along and Jenkins paused long enough to hit him brutally to the ground.

  Thomas and Chase got into the Rover, Brent and Jenkins into the Vauxhall. The cars moved off to where Venables and Halliwell stood, momentarily stopping to pick them up, and then accelerated away. Immediately, the newly released men began to get out of prison denims into casual sportswear.

  The first change-over was not as smooth as they would have liked because a crowd of children were playing football quite close to the two getaway cars. Several pairs of ever-curious eyes watched them and they could be certain the police would get fairly accurate descriptions of their new cars. Twenty seconds after they’d driven off, the Rover and the Vauxhall burst into flames and burned so fiercely that the tarmac under and around them melted. The entranced children could move no closer than fifty yards to the blazing vehicles. Four minutes after that, the first patrol car roared round the corner.

  The getaway cars left Mimblesham on the Cheddington road which was dual carriageway all the way, allowing them to drive quickly. When they reached the end of the dual carriageway they had seen no signs of pursuit and soon after entering the built-up area they passed a stationary patrol car, the occupants of which took no notice of them.

  They parked behind a supermarket. The two drivers had been wearing gloves, yet even so they carefully wiped down the steering-wheels and any other surfaces which might have taken prints. When he was satisfied the cars were clean, Venables led the way round the side of the supermarket and along the narrow street, in which history and modern traffic did constant battle, to the parked Volvo and Ford. As the doors were unlocked, each man tensed because there was just one chance in a thousand that the police would have been lucky enough to outwit them and to have staked-out the two cars. But everything remained quiet.

  As they drove out of Cheddington on the London road and passed the derestricted sign, Thomas laughed. “It’s the most expensive car ride I’ve ever made but, by God! it’s been worth every penny.”

  *

  Rook sat at the desk in his fifth-floor office in the high-rise concrete-and-glass divisional H.Q. He picked up a pencil and doodled on the sheet of paper in front of him, eventually writing R.I.P. He wouldn’t be called on to face an enquiry because his negligence hadn’t been all that clear-cut (And how could he be charged without Mellon becoming equally involved?), but the entries in his confidential file would make it certain he gained no further promotion.

  He stabbed the pencil down on to the paper, breaking off the point. He’d been so tired his mind had been filled with cotton-wool. Even so, he’d handled the siege exactly as laid down. All the hostages had been saved. If three hundred thousand pounds had been lost, how small a proportion was that of the total capital which had been held in the bank?

  He suddenly cursed Young. Why hadn’t he smelled a rat when he’d handed over the suitcase marked A. R. Parsons? A good detective ought instinctively to know when he was dealing with a villain, yet Young had suspected nothing.

  The internal telephone buzzed and Communications told him that news had come through of a prison break from Mimblesham Jail: Thomas, Jenkins, Chase, and Brent, had escaped.

  He dropped the pencil on to the desk.

  *

  It was one in the morning and they’d arrived a couple of minutes before at the house which Drude had rented in Yexton and in which they’d stay until the hue-and-cry had died right away.

  Thomas went over to the table on which Drude had just placed the suitcase and the others crowded round him. Each man checked the seals to see none had been broken.

  “Here’s a knife,” said Drude. He passed it across.

  Thomas cut through the twine lashings and pulled them free. He pressed open the locks. Then, he flung back the lid.

  Thomas reached forward and began to throw out the papers and files. “It’s the wrong case,” he shouted. “That goddamn fool got the wrong bloody case.”

  Drude knew one thing for certain — if he’d given Dutch Keen the wrong instructions, they’d lull him. “You said the case was marked Parsons. That’s what Dutch had to sign. This case is marked Parsons.”

  Thomas jerked back the lid and saw that on the white label, in capital letters, was the name A. R. Parsons, written by himself.

  “That bastard, Dutch, switched cases on us,” shouted Chase.

  “Not the case, the contents,” corrected Thomas violently.

  Chapter 11

  Steen spoke to Wraight on Monday afternoon, after the bank had been shut to the public. He checked through the small spy-hole in the door to make certain Wraight was not engaged, then knocked, opened the door and said: “May I have a word with you, please?”

  “Yes, but make it as brief as you can.” Wraight indicated a mass of papers on his desk. “I’ve a great deal of work to complete.”

  Steen brought out a letter from the breast pocket of his coat. “I’ve just received this from my uncle. He was my father’s brother and he left home some fifty years ago. There’d been no word from him until very recently, so I believed him dead. Then a letter arrived.”

  Wraight looked impatient.

  “He wrote to ask what had happened to the family and I told him I was now the only direct member living. This second letter which came this morning is asking me to go and see him so we could at last meet. I was wondering if I could have the two days’ leave due to me and go to Mallorca for a long weekend?”

  “We’re very busy at the moment, as you must know.”

  “Yes, I do, Mr Wraight, but he says he’s not well and reading between the lines I reckon he’s in rather a bad way — I think he wants to see me before it’s too late. Would you like to read his letter?”

  Wraight shook his head and began to tap on his desk with his short, stubby fingers. “When do you wish to go?” he asked finally.

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Very well. But no more than the two days extra that you’re due.” He pulled a folder across the desk to show the interview was at an end.

  “There’s just one more thing. I’m afraid I haven’t very much money in my account and flying over at such short notice means I’ll have to go schedule. Do you think I could have an overdraft to cover the fare?”

  Wraight tapped on his desk once more. “You know that the rules for employees of the bank are quite clear — no overdrafts under normal circumstances… However, the circumstances being what they are, I feel an exception is justified. I shall want you to pay it off within six months.” He made a brief note on his pad. “The maximum will be a hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “Thanks. I think it’s going to mean a lot to Uncle Silas.”

  “Silas?” said Wraight. “That is not a Christian name one hears very often these days.” His tone of voice suggested that he considered the name an undesirable one.

  Steen left. He wondered if he were the first person ever to ask for an overdraft of a hundred and fifty pounds when he had two hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds in cash. But then by doing just that he’d established the apparent fact that he was very hard up.

  *

  “
Can you remember how your father said he got on with his brother?” asked Penelope, as she carefully packed Steen’s suitcase on Thursday night.

  “Father hardly even spoke about Silas. There were five years between them and there were such ructions over the disgraced maid that I reckon Father, who was only sixteen at the time, was brain-washed by his father into believing Uncle Silas had disgraced himself beyond redemption… I wouldn’t mind betting, though, if they’d ever met again it would all have been over and done with immediately.”

  “It’s so nice to think of his writing to you and wanting to see you now — after all, he’s never even met you.”

  “Does it do your sentimental soul good?” he teased her.

  “Of course. And why not? …There!” she stood upright. “You’ve everything from casual wear to a dark suit, so you’ll be able to fit in with whatever style he’s living. Wouldn’t it make a wonderful weekend if he has one of those fabulous villas one sees in the glossies?”

  “It certainly would.” He was silent for a few seconds, then he said: “I’m his only direct relative. So if he is well off, he might…” He did not finish the sentence.

  “Bill, you know what I think of counting on wills before they’re probated.”

  “I don’t see there’s any harm in a good old daydream. He isn’t married and hasn’t any children — we think — so he might leave me his all and that could be enough to let us go out and live in the sun so that your asthma and bronchitis become only a nasty memory.”

  “Are you going to see him because you hope there’s a chance of that happening?”

  “I suppose if I’m honest I’ve got to admit the thought’s there. But I’m really going because when a person’s old and wants to see what’s left of his family before he pops it, it doesn’t seem much of a sacrifice on my part to go out. If I can make him a little happier, why not?”

  She came round the bed and kissed him. “You sometimes try to make out you’re a cynic, but at heart you’re just a wonderful old-fashioned sentimentalist.”

  He knew a moment’s guilty conscience because of the undeserved praise.

  She looked at her watch. “I’d better rush now or I’ll miss the meeting.”

  “Why not try to? From what you say it sounds as if you have to spend your entire time listening to all those old bitches rowing.”

  “And they think you’re so charming and polite! …I’ll be back as soon as I can be, darling.” She kissed him goodbye and left.

  He crossed to the east-facing window and watched her round the house and walk towards the car which he’d left outside the garage. God willing, within the next few months they would have moved to the sun and she would always walk tall and proud as she was now.

  When the car had driven out on to the road, he carried the suitcase through to the studio. After removing some of the clothes, he packed in the bottom as much money as would fit, making certain not to include any of the twenty-pound notes. A bank customer had once told him how easy it was to smuggle currency out of the country. He hoped that customer had been right.

  *

  Val Thomas stubbed out a cigarette in the ash tray. He stared across the dining room at Drude, his face harsh with anger. “He can’t just bloody disappear.”

  Drude, not scared of Thomas but prepared to be wary of him, said: “He must have put the skates under himself the moment he heard you’d been sprung from the nick.”

  That, thought Thomas, was obvious. But Dutch was an alcoholic and with two hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds to spend he was probably on the biggest bender in history, all thoughts of self-preservation drowned in the booze. “Move around the pubs.”

  “I’ve been moving. There’s no sign.”

  “Keep moving. Try every town within reach.”

  Drude turned and left the room.

  Thomas slammed his clenched fist down on the table. Taken for two hundred and seventy-five grand by an old soak…

  *

  The double-decker drew up outside terminal number two at Heathrow. Steen waited until the other passengers had moved, then he stood up and followed them down the stairs. The conductor had already opened the trailer and begun to unload the luggage and his suitcase was on the pavement.

  There were thirty-two thousand pounds in that suitcase. If the Customs suddenly held a spot check on outgoing baggage, he was a dead duck.

  He picked up the suitcase and carried it along the pavement and into the checking-in area. As he joined the queue of people he heard a couple argue about whether or not the gas in their home had been turned off. Too late now to worry, he thought. It was almost too late for him to worry, yet he was worrying until he sweated.

  He reached the counter and lifted his suitcase up on to the scales. The needle spun round to record just under twenty kilos. A destination tab was stuck on to the handle and then the uniformed porter lifted up the suitcase and put it on the conveyor belt. The checker-in handed him back his ticket.

  He moved away, but still watched the suitcase until it was out of sight. He imagined a few of the things which could happen now — the staff pillaging it, the strap caught on something and the lid torn off to scatter the contents all over the place… He went up the stairs and wandered along the general area, buying a newspaper at one of the kiosks. He read the headlines, but seconds later had no idea what they’d said: all he could concentrate on was that suitcase.

  The emigration officer looked at his passport, looked at him, then handed back the passport. No questions about currency. He carried on into the departure lounge and when he saw the bar he went over and bought himself a gin and tonic: it hardly seemed to moisten his mouth.

  His flight was called. He went out of the departure lounge and along passages until he reached the security check, where he and the other passengers were frisked. Beyond was the sloped walk down to their embarkation point. As he waited halfway along this, he could look through a window and see their plane. A trailer, piled high with luggage, came round. He tried to identify his suitcase, but couldn’t. Perhaps by some irony it had been left behind…

  They boarded.

  The flight was uneventful and beyond the centre of France the sky was clear of clouds. They came in over the east of the island and the northern mountain range provided a dramatic approach of cliffs and barren moon-like surfaces.

  After circling the airport once, they landed. Buses took them to the buildings and in the short walk up the path into the arrival area he was vaguely aware that the sun was hot and the flower beds were a riot of contrasting colours, but his thoughts centred on the suitcase. He handed in the immigration card and went to show his passport, but the immigration official waved him on.

  In the arrival lounge the public-address system said, first in Spanish, then in English, that their luggage would be coming through at number one point. The looped conveyor belt began to move, bringing the luggage. Standing halfway down on the ‘in’ side of the endless loop he was able to see each piece of luggage as it came into sight and after five minutes he identified his suitcase and when it reached him he scooped it up. He walked down the length of the area, towards the armed Customs officers who stood by the check points by the large doors. There was a stream of passengers and the two Customs officers seemed disinterested in anyone. He walked out into the long passage which connected with the rest of the building. He was through.

  *

  The bank stood on the corner of Calle Jaime de Navarra, a kilometre from Palma Cathedral. One of the counters was free and Steen crossed to it. “Do you speak English?” he asked the cashier.

  “A little, Señor,” replied the other, voice thickly accented.

  “I would like to change some English money. Rather a lot of money.”

  The man nodded.

  Steen took the thin wads of five and ten pounds notes from his pocket and passed them over. Would the cashier be surprised to be asked to change a thousand pounds in notes?

  “Passport, Señor, please.”
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br />   He panicked, then realised he was being ridiculous — this must be routine. The cashier put the passport down on the counter and counted the notes. He wrote the total on a form. “Señor, go,” he said, pointing across the bank to another counter. He handed back the passport.

  Steen crossed to the paying-out counter and there waited for over five minutes as the currency form made its leisurely way along the twelve metres which separated the two points. The second cashier switched on a small calculating machine and rapidly tapped out numbers. The machine printed out and the cashier tore off the form which he passed to Steen, pointing out a space where it was clear Steen had to sign. He then removed one of the two duplicate pages and passed this back. He opened a drawer and brought out a large number of thousand-peseta notes, bundled up in fives with the fifth note enveloping the other four. He paid Steen one hundred and twenty-one thousand two hundred and sixty pesetas, less commission.

  Steen dropped the few coins into his coat pocket and stuffed the notes into his breast pocket. The cashier’s lack of interest made it clear that the transaction had been quite unremarkable and that the British had been smuggling currency abroad for a long time. So what Steen had seen as a hurdle which might take some clearing had, like previous hurdles, turned out to be no hurdle at all.

  *

  Bank of England regulations were explicit and mandatory: no British citizen may open a foreign bank account without its consent. Luckily for currency smugglers, foreign banks could not have cared less what the insular Bank of England decreed.

  The cashier in the Caja de Ahorros said he’d be pleased to open an account for Señor Steen. Steen put the suitcase on the counter, opened it, and began to unload the pesetas. The cashier, as he counted the notes, showed no more amazement than if he had been opening a customer’s account with a few thousand rather than three million eight hundred and eighty thousand, three hundred and twenty pesetas.