Elephants can't hide forever Read online

  Published by New Generation Publishing in 2012

  Copyright © Peter Plenge 2012

  First Edition

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  eISBN: 978-1-90939-539-8

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.newgeneration-publishing.com

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  CHAPTER 1

  THE BANK, 2003

  St. Albans has always felt it should be the County Town of Hertfordshire. With its city title, majestic cathedral, Roman ruins and connections with Julius Caesar to name but a few reasons, it was and is far more worthy of premium status than the rather shabby town of Hertford, which had been bestowed with that honour shortly after the signing of the Magna Carta at Runnymede a thousand years previously. Well things had changed between the two towns over the millennium, for St Albans the road and rail infrastructure could not be better, access to Luton airport, M25, M1, A1M and the high speed rail link to St. Pancras and Farringdon were all there.

  St. Albans was a place where people could get to where they needed to be quickly. Unlike most towns, from the centre of St. Albans you could be thirty miles away in as many minutes, and that brought affluence, wealth and Danny Gallagher to the city.

  Danny Gallagher had done his research well. Each morning that St Albans held its market Danny and Madge, his wife of twenty five years, had left their home in Kent at 3.30am and driven up to St. Albans via the fruit and flower market at Nine Elms where they collected the forthcoming day’s produce, and opened up their market stall for business by 7.30am. They kept themselves to themselves, never stopping for an early evening drink at the trader’s local, but quietly packing up and driving back to Kent. In fact they were so innocuous that the other market stall holders wouldn’t have recognised them should they have ever decided to call into the Red Lion.

  Every Wednesday and Saturday was market day The main road through town St. Peter’s Street was always full with market stalls, and this was a place that was good business for the wheelers and dealers of the market world, who plied their trade in their characteristically jovial fashion. The good people of St. Albans loved the market with its varied stalls and cockney banter from the traders.

  In between the fresh soap stall and the quality watches for under a fiver, directly opposite Barclays Bank, was the fruit and vegetables stall that Danny Gallagher had been waiting to become vacant since he had selected St. Albans as his number 1 target. The stall had been operating for about 6 months and when the current occupier, that being Danny Gallagher, had been allocated the pitch, the Market Trading Manager had fleetingly thought it a bit strange that the lessee seemed more keen on the position of the stall than what chattels he intended to sell; however, this was soon forgotten when the fruit and veg appeared and the market needed another stall of this type. The quality of the goods was excellent and the rent was always paid with no fuss.

  Mrs. Parkinson had discovered the stall in its first week of opening, liked the goods and liked the cheeriness of the owners; they were always polite and not as brash or as loud as the other people on the veg stall one hundred metres down towards the clock tower.

  “Five bananas, a pound of grapes, six apples and one of those nice looking pineapples?” Mrs. Parkinson asked of Madge Gallagher on this particular September Wednesday morning at 11.23 am. “And where’s your charming husband today?” she added

  “Morning, love, he’s just tidying up round the back” replied Madge Gallagher.

  Danny Gallagher was indeed round the back, and he appeared to be tidying up; with his brush in hand no one would have given Danny a second glance. Danny, however, was on high-octane. After six months of watching the bullion truck delivering to Barclays Bank at various times, things were falling into place. Danny was now convinced he had spotted a pattern, in what was designed to be random. If the bullion vehicle arrived today at 11 30am, he would not be serving Mrs Parkinson much longer.

  At 11 30am, as Mrs Parkinson was admiring her fresh pineapple, a dark blue armoured security van pulled up directly opposite the fruit and veg stall. Two security guards climbed out, leaving one inside, and started carrying the cash into the bank that was to pay the various factory workers of St. Albans the next day. Danny felt the adrenalin hit his brain. This was conclusive proof that there was a pattern to the cash delivery at Barclays. He could now implement phase two of his plan.

  Chapter 2

  Danny Gallagher, August 1983

  It was the late summer of 1983 and both Gallagher brothers were sitting in the bar of Sammy Gallagher’s club down in Malaga.

  “There’s someone wants to meet you,” Sammy said to his brother Danny, and when Sammy said ‘someone wants to meet you’, Danny knew it was a serious matter, and hopefully a big pay day.

  Danny didn’t like the Costa Del Crime; he was two years out of a long year stretch in HMP Wormwood Scrubs, and still wore the pallor of a man who had been incarcerated for a lengthy span. He thought the place was vulgar, and the bars were full of faces he had shared recreation with back on the wing in the Scrubs, home from home in more ways than one. What Danny did like about this place was his brother. Although they lived in different countries, they were still very close, and his brother’s connections with the underworld were second to none. Sammy knew every villain in South London, indeed had worked with most of them, and now that he had moved out and bought this bar in Spain, he had a continuous flow of visitors from mainland Britain as well as the regulars who lived in their gated homes up in the hills, all of them villains. Sammy’s bar had become a Mecca for the criminal fraternity who liked to flaunt their ill gotten wealth in the bars around town. Danny knew anyone seeing him in his brother’s bar would know he was looking for work.

  John Illes, also known as Mouse amongst his friends and the flying squad of New Scotland Yard, due to his pure physical presence, at 6ft 7ins and 260lbs of muscle, approached Danny from behind. Danny was hardly a small man himself, 3ins past 6ft, but Mouse dwarfed over him as he tapped him on the left shoulder and agilely nipped to his right like a kid’s playtime joke.

  “Fuck me, Mouse, you made me jump,” said Danny, who had watched the Mouse approach in the bar mirror and turned to his right before the man had positioned himself.

  “Same old Danny, smart as fuck, but plays the twat,” said Mouse, “good to see
you never lost it in the shovel.”

  “Thanks John” said Danny knowing how respectful it was to alternate between a man’s nickname and his real name. “So what brings you down here, John? Have you bought a place so you can be near your mates?”

  “Actually, Danny,” said Mouse “I’ve no inkling to live in Spain; I love London, in any case Cathy wouldn’t leave her mum, so that’s it.” Everyone knew Cathy Illes ruled the Mouse; unlike so many of his contemporaries John had stayed faithful to Cathy in the ten years they had been married, and she to him, and what’s more everyone respected him for it.

  Mouse continued: “It’s you I’ve come to see Danny. I told Sam to give me a shout when you got here. So I jumped on a plane and got into Malaga two hours ago and here I am.”

  Danny’s pulse quickened; he knew Mouse was looking for a reaction, and he needed to stay cool. Luckily the inadvertent warning his brother had given him earlier about someone wanting to see him had put him on guard. This was not an occasion for smart arsed remarks. So Danny looked Mouse straight in the eyes, and as was his way, got straight to the point.

  “I guess we need to go somewhere very private then,” he said.

  “You guessed right, Danny boy” replied John. “Sammy has shut the VIP Suite tonight, so grab us a couple of beers and let’s head up there.”

  The VIP suite of Sammy’s bar, which Sammy had named The Crayfish after the watering hole back home, was discreet and opulent. Both men were as comfortable here as they were back in the other Crayfish, on the South London estate where they grew up, with its sawdust on the floor each Saturday night to soak up the blood that would inevitably be split by some unlucky soul before closing time. However, both knew the conversation that was coming was going to be for each other’s ears only. So they sat closely in the middle of the empty room with an eye on the door although both guys knew that, if necessary, Sammy would stop the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from butting in.

  John began, “Danny, it’s true I’ve come to Spain especially to see you, and quite simply I am in the final stages of planning a job that’s going to net us over 3 million. I’ve got a part for you and when it’s gone down, and the old bill are crawling over every snout in town, I don’t want anyone remembering seeing us together in the smoke, before the event.”

  Danny nodded sagely. This was typical of Mouse’s good thinking and good planning. This was why John Illes was The Man and when The Man came calling, you were involved, simple as that.

  “Go on,” said Danny, his mouth getting dry in anticipation of what he was hoping to hear.

  “Here’s the deal then,” replied Mouse, taking a long swig of beer. “You remember Brian Robinson I trust?” Mouse wasn’t able to stop a lopsided grin forming.

  A few years earlier, Danny had been the wheels man on a blag in Slough. Danny had driven up to the bank at exactly the time Brian Robinson was hastily departing, having withdrawn £300k, not with his cheque book either but with an up and over sawn off shot gun. A member of the public decided to be a hero, and rugby tackled Brian. What Danny should have done then was floored the throttle and got out of there, leaving Brian rolling on the pavement and the other two in the bank. But he didn’t, he got out and went to Brian’s aid. Another member of the public also steamed in and all hell was let loose. Before they could shake off the do-gooders, the Sweeney turned up, collars were felt, and the boys all got a one way ticket to the Scrubs.

  “I think I can picture him.” Danny said sardonically. It was always taken as a given that the public never got involved; when there was violence afoot they just shit themselves and then boasted about it when they were safe, and for two Joes to wade in, there was more likelihood of the second coming but it had happened, and they had all got banged up for it.

  However, if one good thing did come of it, it was that Danny had won the respect of all the lags doing their bird alongside him. When word got round the nick that Danny had sacrificed his freedom to help his mates, he was soon elevated to celebratory status on the wing and no one bothered him for the duration; even the Rastas gave him slack, and more importantly, the real big fish like Mouse considered him sound. It would be fair to say that Danny’s act of loyalty eight years ago was why John Illes was now about to offer him a piece of the action. and unknown to both of them, a piece of history.

  Mouse continued, “Well, Danny, Brian’s got this brother-in-law name of Tony Black. He’s a security guard at a bonded warehouse at the back of T4 at Heathrow, somehow he got talking to Brian about his shit financial state, and one thing led to another, and it turns out he’s got access to all the security systems and even a key for the front door, he knows when there’s any heavy duty money coming in and not only that, but he’s willing to assist us in getting in and out.”

  “OK, that’s fine,” said Danny “But you know what these types are like, when the heat’s on he’s bound to get a tug from the old bill as he works there. And what’s to say that after ten minutes of questions he won’t crumble and sing like a bird to save his own skin, leaving us in the shit.”

  “Fair point Danny”, replied Mouse. “I’ve already thought of that, and that’s why I am here, and as far as the others are concerned no one makes contact with Brian, so the brother-in-law knows the only person he gets to see and talk to regarding this blag is Brian, so if he fucks up and opens his mouth it’s his sister’s brother he grasses and no one else. Not only that, but you know if Brian is collared he will keep quiet. Jesus, he owes us, and more particularly, he owes you.”

  “So what’s my part?” Danny asked.

  “Well” said Mouse, lowering his tone. “There are six of us going into the warehouse and vault, the cash we now know is coming will be delivered in at five am on the 26th November and we go in ten minutes after the shift changes at 6 40am. I anticipate loading the money, securing the guards, and getting out in fifteen minutes. You, Danny, will be the back up wheels and first change of motors, so I want you in position five minutes away down on Stanwell Moor. We’ll come to you, bung the cash in your motor, you high tail it down to my lock up in Bexley. I’ll give you the address on the day; you leave the van inside the lock up and make yourself scarce, ideally get yourself booked on the 11am flight back here. We will divvy up a week before Christmas, how does that sound?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Danny, a bit disappointed that he wasn’t on the front line operation, still, he was in, and knew unless he fucked up big time, he was in for life. Danny continued, “So who are the other guys, apart from you and Brian?” he asked.

  Mouse took a long breath before replying. “Well firstly there’s Eric Logan, he’s going to be the muscle backing me up.”

  Fucking hell, thought Danny, he’s a right psycho. Eric Logan, also known as Bones had always had and enjoyed a reputation as a nutter. A couple of years younger than Danny, they had been at the same school, and, even then, Danny had been canny enough to give him a wide berth. Bones Logan was the silent type who didn’t pick a fight; he just started it, no signs, and no warnings, just for the hell of it. What elevated Mr. Logan into John’s team was the fact that Bones Logan had dealt with a very bad problem a couple of years back, in a very discreet way, and only a handful of people ever knew, and of course Mouse was one of them.

  The story was that Eric’s sixteen year old daughter Loretta, or Loll to her friends and family, had been out in the Cray on a Saturday night, doing what sixteen year olds do, when two toe rags from Catford, having nicked a set of wheels, had decided to come over to Sidcup for a bit of action in their newly acquired AMG Merc 600s. Unfortunately for Loll and her mate Ruby, and as it happened, unfortunately for them. The two car thieves spotted the girls disappearing off the high street and heading down a quiet alley to take a pee. Both lads had jumped out of the Merc and followed them. Ruby was already squatting down, and the first of the lads commented, “Glad to see you’ve got your knickers off, that’ll save me a job.”

  Both girls were startled, but Loll was quick
to reply: “Fuck off arseholes.”

  One of the toe rags pushed Ruby over as the other approached Loll. Loll, daughter of Bones Logan, was no shrinking violet; neither was she in any doubt what these lads were after, and she had to act fast. As the boy approached her, she pulled a nail file from her bag and lashed out at him, opening a deep gash from the corner of his eye to just under his nose. She then gave him further verbal abuse. Both toe rags launched into the girls with a feral ferocity, and very shortly had overcome their initial resistance and beaten them senseless; it wasn’t exactly what they had in mind when they followed the women down the alley, but they were satisfied with their work, and duly left the scene looking for more sport.

  It was 3am in a local gambling den when Bones took the call from his wife Debby.

  “Eric, Loll’s in the intensive care unit Sidcup general, she’s been attacked, get here fast,” he was instructed.

  Bones, who doted on his daughter, threw what was the winning hand of the poker game over the pot at the speiler he frequented on most Saturdays, and drove like a bat out of hell to his daughter’s bedside. Half an hour after Eric’s arrival, the duty locum addressed Eric and Debby as he finished examining Loll, “She’s going to be fine, her spleen is bruised and there are two broken ribs. The cuts on the face won’t leave a scar at her age, so we’ll move her out onto the general ward and she can go home in a couple of days,” he said.

  Eric just managed a nod but his thunderous expression never changed. Debby, who had grown up in a very hard environment and had seen plenty of broken bones in her time, was not about to break down either.

  “Thank you, doctor, and please thank all your staff” she said, as she offered her outstretched hand, leaving the locum under the impression that he should now go and leave the husband and wife alone, which he duly obliged.

  With the room to themselves, Debby spoke to Eric:

  “Loll’s going to be fine, leave her with me, go and do what you have to, come home when its over.”

  Eric Logan walked over to his daughter’s bedside, ran the palm of his hand through her matted and bloodied hair, and left. There was only one thing on his mind - retribution.