Chapter 3
At this hour of the morning the bonded warehouse was in complete darkness and the dozen or so CID and uniformed policemen scattered about it in its various dark corners were beginning to suffer the stiffness that affects even able bodied men when forced to keep relatively still for several hours. In the warehouse offices in one corner of the warehouse, raised up on stilts made of iron girders and accessed by a metal stairway and gantry, Detective Inspector John MacAllister sat behind what was normally the warehouse manager’s desk, opposite the company’s night security man. He switched on a small pencil torch and checked the time on his wristwatch. Three fifteen. They had been here since ten o'clock following a tip off from one of DC Marcus Lomax's snouts, that there was to be a raid on this particular bonded store this very evening and the that night security man was in on it.
Lomax was very newly transferred to MacAllister's unit from darkest rural Wales and MacAllister had been sceptical about the value of his information. In his opinion Lomax seemed to be bit of an of an arse licker who in order to ingratiate himself with those in authority sometimes leapt in before he had checked out his facts. This was the third time he had given them a big one, but the other two had been duds and it looked as if one was going the same way. What had decided him to act on the information was that when he had checked with the warehouse owners they had informed him that this was the first time in months that this particular store had contained anything of value. Tonight it contained around half a million pounds worth of Cuban cigars that were sitting waiting for someone to pay the duty on them before being released. Lomax's snout had been positive that the raid would take place at one o'clock. Three o'clock had now come and gone and MacAllister had begun to get the sneaking feeling that they were on a bummer and his arse was aching from sitting on the hard office chair. MacAllister switched off the torch again and settled back to work out the many and several ways he was going to let Mr Marcus Lomax know of his displeasure at DCs that didn't check their facts out, if this turned out to be another crock of shit. At forty-two years of age he was getting too old to be spending half the night on wild goose chases.
Then he stared at the dim outline of the security man and wondered why he still seemed so nervous if nothing was going to happen. From the tiny amount of light reflected up from the small torch when he had checked the time he had seen the sweat on the man's brow. August or not it wasn't that warm in this big airy building. He lifted the two-way radio from the desk and spoke gently into it, his soft, Scottish accent just noticeable.
“Marcus.”
“Yes Guv.”
“Get your arse up here, but do it quietly.”
Two minutes later the tall dark Welshman arrived using his own small pencil torch to see where he was going in the pitch black of the bonded store. He took the only spare chair opposite the desk and switched the torch off.
“What's up?”
MacAllister let the silence build for a bit before he answered. Lomax must be only too aware of what was up and had probably been waiting for MacAllister to call him up for some time now. When he thought he had stretched the silence to its limit he answered, keeping his voice deliberately neutral.
“Marcus, are you sure we have the right night?”
There was reproach in the other's voice as he answered.
“Of course I am, Guv. And everything fits in with what the guy told me. This is the only time this month there will be anything of any value in this store and its only here until tomorrow afternoon. It has to be tonight.”
Even in the darkness Marcus Lomax felt he could see the cynical expression on the others face. It was an expression he was beginning to get used to. MacAllister was just about to answer him when the sound of a large and powerful diesel engine came from outside. It got steadily louder until it stopped outside the door on a throbbing tick over. MacAllister grabbed his radio, his intended bollocking for Marcus Lomax stopped in its tracks. This time the voice was full of urgency and expectation as he hit the send button.
“Everyone ready and remember, they have to get inside the building before we move. Await my signal and anyone who does otherwise will feel the weight of my boot up his backside when this is over. Radio silence now until they are in and then DS Sayers will switch all the lights on. That is your signal to go and we grab them.”
He released the button and indicated the security man.
“Marcus, handcuff this piece of dirt to the desk and then let's get into position.” He spoke to the watchman. “One sound out of you and you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
They were hardly out of their seats when the large doors at the front of the warehouse flew inwards as the giant articulated trailer reversed in, smashing them from their fastenings. It caught the waiting policemen completely by surprise and by the time they had frantically fled to any safe place they could find, the vehicle was completely inside the building. Five men had already jumped down from the back of the trailer just as DC Clive Sayers recovered from the shock and slammed down all the light switches.
The scene was like something from a waxworks. Laying around in frozen attitudes on the floor where they had dived for cover were ten or more policemen, half in uniform. At the back of the trailer were another five men dressed in jeans and sweat shirts, also frozen in shock when the lights had gone on and revealed that a warehouse that should have contained only Cuban cigars, was full of the filth. One of the five was carrying a sawn off, pump action shotgun and he was the first to act. He lifted it and fired one shot in the air for effect, shattering some of the neon tubes in the ceiling lights and then pumping another shell into the chamber. He took two steps towards the nearest uniformed copper, who was still on his hands and knees from where he had dived to the floor when the doors came down on their heads and placed the barrel of the weapon against the back of his neck. In the sudden silence that followed the shot he smiled and nodded, looking around at the rest of policemen who had also been coming back to life, but who now froze again.
“That's right, lads,” the accent was strongly West Country, “You all just back off quietly and me and the boys will leave and this little fellow will keep his head.”
It was a stand off. The other policemen returned to being frozen all except the one with the gun to his head. He had squeezed his eye tightly shut and from the movements of his lips appeared to be praying.
From his position up on the gantry of the offices MacAllister took it all in at a glance. None of the thieves had looked up and were unaware there was anyone above them. He stood there for a few moments longer, making up his mind and judging the distance. Then he put one hand on the rail and vaulted over it and out into space.
The drop was around fifteen feet. Not much when you say it quickly, but enough to kill you if you land badly. MacAllister had only travelled about ten feet of it when his right foot kicked the gunman squarely on his right shoulder, breaking the collarbone and sending the shotgun flying from his suddenly numbed fingers. MacAllister, still in the air, pulled his body into a ball and hoped. He was lucky. Most of him landed on the policeman he had just rescued, knocking the wind from both and spraining the PC's wrist badly as it took the full brunt of MacAllister's weight. MacAllister lay where he had fallen as the rest of the squad came to life around him and handguns were rapidly produced to cover the astonished raiders. Clive Sayers suddenly appeared from alongside the trailer with the driver of the articulated lorry held at gunpoint.
“Are you all right, Guv?”
MacAllister snarled up at him, his voice dripping in sarcasm.
“Oh yes, Clive, of course I am. I just thought I would join the rest of you silly bastards laying about on the floor while these nice gentlemen emptied the warehouse, only unfortunately I landed on someone.”
A low curse came from the injured gunman.
Sayers grinned and picking up the fallen shotgun took charge.
“OK lads. Lets get this lot put away and then, Marcus, you had better get in touch with
the owners of this store and tell them to get someone down here to take charge until those doors are fixed or it will be empty by the morning.”
Marcus Lomax looked hurt. It was his tip and his snout that had caught this lot and here he was being left with the shitty bits while the rest of them packed it in for the night and returned to the Nick in triumph with all the bodies. Sayers read his mind and just grinned at him. Meanwhile MacAllister was back on his feet and rubbing his bruises. Everything seemed to be in working order. He looked around.
“Don't forget their little friend upstairs who tipped these boys off and Clive, there is a bottle of whisky in the drawer of my desk. Give all the boys a drink”
He waved his arm in the direction of the rest of the squad and then went out and climbed into his car. There he checked himself all over and paid attention to the bruises he had ignored in front of the others. At forty-eight years of age he really was getting too old for this sort of caper.
MacAllister was not a tall man, being a shade less than five feet eleven, but made up for it by being fairly well built. His nose, long, narrow and at some time broken during an interesting arrest, was slightly crooked and set beneath two brilliant blue eyes that could turn to ice when he was angry. His lips had at some previous time permanently adopted that slightly sardonic twist to them that is usually found on a man who spends a lot of his time dealing with the baser side of human nature. One of his eyebrows was also less than straight, but wild horses would not have got him to admit that this injury had occurred at home when an iron drain pipe he had been cleaning out had parted company with the wall and fallen on him. His shoulders were broad enough to have made a good rugby half back, which he had been in his more innocent days and he kept himself in good condition. His thirty-six inch waist size was only two inches bigger than when he had been twenty-four. A tribute to the hours he still put in the police gym.
He kept his unruly curly blonde hair cut fairly short to keep it under control and to disguise the fact that it was gently beginning to recede, but when roused he could look like an angry bird of prey. Not quite as menacing as an eagle, but certainly as dangerous as a kestrel. His complexion was that of a man who spends a healthy amount of time out of doors although he didn't, he was just lucky that he tanned quickly and an hour mowing the lawn on a sunny day gave him a bit of colour. Like most competent people he did not suffer fools gladly, and could be blunt to the point of rudeness at times of great pressure. Despite all this women loved him, as is usually the case with someone who is a bit of a maverick and good looking in a roughly put together sort of way.