Take the hundred and scarper. It was a lot of money and they could get a long way away with it.
“Gotta keep your nerve,” Vince said. “In twenty minutes, we can double it. And then we’ll be gone. Promise.”
Glory looked unsure, scared. At this moment, the already young-looking seventeen-year-old looked about twelve – a nervous and petrified child with a ridiculous hat. Vince patted the back of her hand where her fingers were clenched tightly to the steering wheel.
“Think of your cottage,” Vince pleaded, playing her. “Hold your nerve, yeah?”
Glory hoped he was right. She wished she could be anywhere else. It was so easy how this had happened – so easy how trouble could find you if you made the wrong decision; took a path of least resistance because that’s what the charming man in your life told you was best.
Vince went to the back of the ambulance and unlatched the back doors. The inside had been modified and instead of a bed and hospital supplies, the back was full of wooden crates. Vince moved the topmost crate nearer and opened the wooden lid. Inside were twenty greaseproof packages nestled in straw. Vince opened a greaseproof pack and looked at the succulent red steak within. Glistening in the moonlight, it looked wet with blood. Satisfied, he wrapped it up and put it back in the box.
The scam would work because of the fifty or so wooden crates; this was the only one that contained any steak. The other identical boxes were weighted with straw and wood to make them feel as if they contained steak as well. When Amos got here, it was crucial that he opened and inspected this one box. If he picked any other, then he would immediately realise that Vince was trying to con him. And the consequences would be severe. It wouldn’t only be the steak that was covered in blood.
Glory had asked him, when she was pacing around his bedsit, wearing a furrow in the already threadbare carpet, how he would ensure that Amos Ackley opened the right box. How could he do that when there was only a one in fifty chance? Vince had smiled a reassuring grin. “Magic,” he’d said. And with that he produced – with a magician-like flourish – a hair grip from behind his hand. As if on cue, a strand of Glory’s hair fell down over her face. She was impressed with the trick, but it didn’t relieve her of the knot of cold fear in her stomach. It was all very well making your friend laugh in the comfort of your own room, but a different matter when you so much relied on getting it right, in the middle of a common in the dead of night.
So how would Vince ensure that Amos would open the box?
With ten minutes to go, Vince wished Glory luck. He told her that if anything went wrong she should run for it and save herself. There would be no point in them both being killed. Glory hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She shook Vince’s hand. He looked at her young and innocent face and smiled. Did he feel a pang of guilt for involving her in this crazy scam? “See you, Glory.”
“See you, Vince,” she said.
Vince kissed her on the cheek.
And then Glory walked off into the night.
Now Vince had been right. The plan would involve magic, or rather the magician’s trick of misdirecting an audience. You want a person to pick a certain card? You misdirect them. You want a person to lift a particular cup where you haven’t hidden the bean? You misdirect them. Vince knew that Amos would want to see the back of the ambulance. Naturally, he would want to inspect the merchandise he was buying. The thing was, instead of a van full of meat, Vince had one box which contained meat. When Amos came to inspect the merchandise, he wouldn’t be very impressed if Vince chose the box, opened it and showed him the contents. He’d smell a rat. No, so the trick would be to make Amos think he had free rein in his choice of box and then to switch the chosen box for the only one that contained any meat. But how?
Misdirection.
That’s where the fact that all the boxes looked identical came into play. Vince would ask Amos if he wanted to see the stock. Amos would pick a box at random. Vince would get the selected box from the van. On the outside it would look like the box that actually contained the meat and it would even weigh the same, thanks to the weight of wood inside it. But before they could open it, a carefully timed distraction would occur.
Misdirection.
Identical boxes.
Glory, hiding in the dark, would provide this distraction by blowing a policeman’s whistle. She had to do it at the perfect time – when Vince had removed the box selected by Amos from the ambulance, but before Amos opened it. During this distraction, Vince would switch the boxes, for the one underneath the ambulance. The one that contained the meat. And then Amos would open the staged box, see the meat and be satisfied. Then he’d hand over the other one hundred pounds.
That was the plan.
Simple.
Glory’s house in the country and Vince’s life as a club owner depended on it.
At five minutes ahead of schedule, Amos Ackley appeared behind the van. Moustache Man, Eyebrows and two other men were with him. The men were jittery, moving their feet around in nervous agitation. In the distance, Vince could see the lights of the butcher’s van parked up, engine running, the exhaust pushing out white smoke in soft clouds over the dewy grass. Vince couldn’t be certain if more men were in the van. Could there be more thugs inside? It was a risk. There might be more people watching who might not take their eyes off him when the police whistle went off. Misdirection was all well and good, but you had to control where people were looking. Vince suddenly felt like running away.
“In here, is it?” Amos had an air of suspicion; the brusqueness of a man who wanted to get this over with. Vince had to tell himself that men like Amos always had an air of suspicion. It didn’t mean they actually suspected anything was wrong, just that they were open to the idea that it might be. That’s how they operated. Suspicion at all times. Trust no one.
“Yeah. It’s all there,” Vince said, indicating with as much nonchalance as he could muster, for Amos to take a look.
Amos stepped back and Moustache Man opened the doors of the ambulance.
Row upon row of wooden boxes stood in front of them. Each crate was marked with a stencil saying “Property of US Military”.
Amos smiled. “Looks good. Let’s see inside.”
“Yeah. Choose whichever one you like,” Vince said, knowing that the only box he wanted them to look inside was the one hidden underneath the tail gate of the ambulance.
“One?” Amos laughed. “For two hundred quid, I might open them all.”
The others laughed. Vince felt his throat closing up. He knew he had to laugh as well and somehow he heard a small nervous giggle emerge from his lips. He hadn’t thought about this possibility. Why hadn’t he?
“Eeny meeny miney mo – that one,” Amos said, pointing a stubby, ringed finger to a crate two down from the top.
Moustache Man obediently started to remove the crates above it. Vince watched as they were placed on the ground. He still needed to get to the full crate and he was hoping, with all his soul, that Moustache Man wouldn’t block his access with the stack he was building.
Vince felt the plan slipping away from him.
Finally, Moustache Man reached the chosen crate and put it on the ground.
With
