The Faithless - Martina Cole [92]
One thing was for sure though – Jack must never know about any of this. He would see his elder daughter dead before he let her back in this family again.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Terry Marchant was a Mancunian with a loud laugh and an even larger thirst. Vincent liked him and, along with his two cronies Patrick Miles and Anthony Dawes, he was good company. They were blaggers extraordinaire, and they roamed the country robbing banks and building societies with gay abandon. They did the stealing, and then relied on a good wheelman to get them out of the way. Which is where Vincent came in; he got ten per cent of the load, and all he had to do was drive. It was a doddle.
Now, sitting in a pub on Southend Seafront drinking orange juice, Vincent was getting a real insight into the men he would be dealing with. Terry Marchant was a hardcase, that was obvious to anyone. He had the look, the build and the carriage of a man who it would be foolish to mess with. Vincent had learnt that over the years – you could tell from looking at certain people whether or not you could fuck with them. Terry Marchant was a definite no-no in that respect. But he was a lot of fun, and he had a great personality. His two colleagues were small-time, but nice blokes all the same. Vincent felt he would enjoy working with them.
Terry Marchant, for his part, was pleased to see that the lad was not drinking alcohol. Even though the blag wasn’t for a few days, he appreciated that the kid wasn’t stupid enough to get a tug for driving over the limit. It meant he was sensible, and unlikely to get himself on the police radar, so to speak. Derek had spoken highly of the boy, and that should have been enough for him, but Terry still preferred to look the drivers over and form his own opinion of them before he gave the nod. Buyer beware and all that. He was weighing out a nice wedge for Vincent, and their livelihoods depended on him doing a good job.
It was strange really; no one ever understood that robbing was the easy part – it was the disappearing act afterwards that was hard. Once people saw a sawn-off, they tended to do as they were told. The Old Bill, on the other hand, were not so amenable. They hated blaggers with a vengeance; there was nothing so annoying to a Filth than a bank being knocked over in their jurisdiction. Fucking muppets! What were banks for? Sitting there, full of wonga, and no real security. Done properly it was a piece of cake.
He and the boys had sussed out the lay of the land already. It was a good little set up and the bank would be full of dough as it had all the wages for the surrounding areas waiting to be picked up. It was on a quiet road too – just the kind of place he liked. They’d do a final check but he was sure they’d covered all the bases and they’d be in and out, quick as a flash.
Terry ordered more drinks and started to tell a story about an old mate from Warrington who had robbed a bank while drunk as a cunt. It was a funny story but it was also a bit of an allegory. It showed the stupidity of people while in the throes of alcohol, and how badly things could go against you if you weren’t careful.
He noticed that young Vincent listened raptly, and he knew then that he had got his point across with the minimum of fuss. He didn’t like aggro and he didn’t like heroes. He liked people to do their jobs and forget about it. Seemed that this kid had all the attributes he needed.
So, finally, Terry Marchant relaxed and was able to enjoy the rest of his stay in Southend.
Chapter Eighty
‘I told the social worker I didn’t want to see her, Nana.’