Chapter 4

Dan knew this had to be his final job so had to be worthwhile, not too greedy, but big enough to get him away for good. The last few jobs were all relatively little paydays but his desperation had grown enough to up the ante.

Bern would never take him back or go with him if there was a chance they would have to return again with nothing.

Back in the caravan, his only company were a few earwigs that had crawled in through the many holes that littered the now tired hiding place. They seemed to want to get away from the rain as much as he did.

As the feeling of cold bitter loneliness engulfs his body, vivid pictures of Bern rush to the front of his mind as though a TV had been switched on in the pitch-black vacuum of the room.

Shaking his head, physically trying to make the images fall out, snaps him back to life

"Focus for Christ sake, no time for memory lane now" stating aloud

Rifling through the stack of newspaper on the table he scours for any little article, just a few words of interest, which may catch his eye. Good thing about the British media is that they want to tell the world about everything. A new bank that's opening, a precious diamond that is arriving somewhere, even down to the Crown Jewels arriving for the State opening of Parliament. They don't realise that everyday newspapers are the underworlds greatest asset.

Skipping through the rubbish of the first few pages that shows the so-called world news, Beckham has a new haircut, some Z list celeb has bought a new dog to put in her handbag, he chuckles to himself. These are more like poxy comics than newspapers. There are wars and disasters all over the world and Dan finds it hysterical that the story of a pair of toffs divorcing, and who gets the dog warrants the front page.

Stopping at page 17 to read a little paragraph tucked into the corner. The biggest private collection of Van Gogh paintings are to be auctioned at Christies of London. That would be a nice payday for someone he thought. No good for me though. Precious stones, paintings and other material things are too hard to shift. Too many people have to be involved, from handlers to sellers and buyers, it would take too long. The longer you hold on to the goods the chances of being picked up increases tenfold, besides, I have no idea about that side of things. No, it had to be cash. Here we go

Turning the page a story catches his eye.

The headlines read, private security firm in the dock again. This is happening more and more lately, he utters to himself. There used to be Brinx Matt that had the monopoly of security now any Tom Dick or Harry can get a license and start a firm.

Every little firm were now undercutting each other trying to win the contract that will get them noticed in the dog eat dog industry.

Security was an industry that he had worked in many years previously, before regulation and introduction of licenses, and he knew how certain aspects work. The experience gained from the few years in the industry gave him great insight so inevitably banks were an obvious choice when he changed careers.

Working for one of the big firms, he had worked his way up through the ranks to manager. At one time, he was key holder to many of the banks within the radius of the M25 motorway. As soon as a banks alarm had been activated, it was his job to drive to the bank, check that the doors and the vaults were secure, and then reset the alarms. Reminiscing, he remembers one night responding to an alarm call. Picking up the keys for the bank, a torch and a radio, he jumps into the Fiat Brava and heads out. With every call out came apprehension. You never knew what to expect. It could be some geezer with a sawn off shotgun, ready to stick it in your face the minute you step foot inside, but usually it was some dozy cleaner that had tripped an alarm after forgetting to turn them off before commencing with their mundane chores.

As the adrenalin kicked in, tightening every muscle until his body were rigid, he holds his Maglite torch shoulder high. With his non-lethal, reasonable force, weapon in hand he takes his first tentative step inside he door.

Entering the bank, with all the stealth of a cat on a hunt, he was confronted by a cleaner. A little Nigerian lady in her polish and brasso covered apron and broom in hand.

"Hello Sir, I did not know what else to do so I hit the alarm button" she waffles choking on the air freshener she just sprayed that made the place smell like a brothel.

Shoulders dropped and with a sigh of relief, the tension leaves his body.

"What's up?" Dan asked

"I was about to start cleaning in the back and noticed the vault door was open"

"Hold on a minute"

Locking the main door from the inside, so that no opportunist could walk in and pop him on the head from behind, he follows the five foot nothing cleaner out the back to have a look. This was the first time he had seen a vault door open. Taking a minute, he marvelled at the complexity of the locking mechanism, it was about seven feet tall and a foot think of pure steel, with four huge dead bolts that looked like horizontal concrete bollards going across. The cogs and bars, connected to the main wheel that opened the door, looked like a puzzle from Mensa. Open about six inches, he slid his hands through the opening and pulled. Despite the size of the door, it was surprisingly easy to open fully. Holding his breath, he cautiously peered inside waiting for some huge human gorilla, coiled like a cobra ready to strike at him. The vault was huge, no human gorillas hiding, just cash and gold bars, and lots of it. The gold, piled high on a pallet, resembled the great pyramid of Giza. So highly polished that when the light from the outside rushed in the whole cold steel bunker shone as if the sun itself had been held captive in there.

"What do we do Sir?" said the voice, breaking the hypnotising glare of the artificial sun.

"I'll lock it up, you continue with your cleaning and I will write up a report"

"I will leave you this sheet to fill out, just put down what happened with time, date etc. Sign it and give it to your boss will ya"