Fleeced

Fleeced

It was the weather that made Henson plan the heist. Six months without a holiday in a country where sunshine was a rarity had depressed him no end. The money would pay for a week or two in sunnier climes.

He walked through the industrial estate between burned-out shells to one of the few buildings that had not fallen prey to vandals, graffiti artists, and arsonists. The barbed wire fence surrounding it bulged from the encroaching woods. It had one loading bay, a muddy yard awash with puddles, no security cameras, and was staffed by foreign labour. He had cased the place three times before and saw it as easy pickings.

Rain fell, stinging his eyes. He rubbed them with bruised knuckles–the result of a bar fight a few days before. He had been drunk and decided to pick a fight with a guy whose dress sense he didn’t like. They went outside. Henson beat him to a pulp before fleeing the scene. He couldn’t help himself, it just happened that way.

He tightened the drawstrings of his hooded fleece, leaving only a small circle of face visible. He had thought about wearing a face mask, but his asthma prevented him from breathing properly. For the job, he had roped in a young Irishman called Seamus as a getaway driver. He sent him a text.

Arrived. Stay put until further notice.

Seamus replied with a ‘thumbs up’ icon.

So far, so good, thought Henson. He pressed the buzzer attached to the gate post. A Glaswegian accent said, “What do you want?” a gruff voice snarled.

Henson was taken aback by his rudeness. “Some way to greet a new worker. Open the gates.”

“Hang on.”

When the gates flapped open, the left one bounced off a nearby tree, vibrating with a low whine like a tuning fork. The other one was silent, but lightly brushed Henson’s back in closing. He jumped when the musical gate banged shut.

The ground squelched under his boots as he approached the factory door. He spared his knuckles the pain of rapping and chose to side-punch it instead.

No reply.

He banged it again. This time a decrepit man whose name badge said Alan McGinty opened it. His shifty eyes darted between Henson and everywhere behind him. Then they slit as they studied Henson’s face. It gave him goosebumps, which surprised him. The wee guy looked like he couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.

McGinty spoke in the same tone as before. “What do you want?”

Henson tensed. Disrespect always brought out the worst in him. He clenched his fists to suppress the need to punch his lights out. “I’m Harry Harrison,” he seethed. “Agency sent me for the day. Something about stacking boxes.”

“That right? Never told me.” He glanced at his watch. “Morning shift started at seven. You’re ten minutes late.”

“Bus never turned up on time.”

“Aye, well. You’ll get docked an hour for that. Still want to work here?”

“Aye.”

“Better come in then.”

He led him to a roller conveyor belt, where six Asian women were inspecting boxes of tinned cat meat, then dropping them onto the rollers. A burly, bearded guy at one end was packing them onto a pallet.

“I’ll give you the rundown. You stack the boxes on the pallet. Watch how he does it first. While you’re doing that, I’ll be sat over there, scratching my bollocks. Have fun. And don’t bother me unless it’s urgent.”

“Alright for some.”

“Sure is.” He slumped on a black plastic seat a few yards behind Henson, watching something on his mobile phone.

The job was not as easy as Henson thought. It took two pallets before he got the pattern right, much to the relief of his teacher whose shift had finished.

Henson took over, but he was much slower than his predecessor, resulting in the boxes piling up at the end of the conveyor belt. He tried to gesture for the women to slow down, but they ignored him. Luckily, McGinty hadn’t noticed the shambles yet. The last thing he needed was to be sacked on the spot.

When he finished the task, a speedy forklift driver removed the pallet, providing him with a new one. He got to work immediately, stealing cursory glances at the loading dock.

Two layers of boxes later, McGinty came over. “Can you hurry up? Boxes are piling up there.”

“You could come and help.”

“No chance. I’ve done my stint at that. Not doing it again.” He clapped his hands twice. “Chop, chop. While you’re doing that, I’m off to the office to see the boss. He should have told me about you. Don’t skive while I’m away.”

Henson seethed. “Won’t. Scout’s honour.”

“See that you don’t.”

Henson waited until he was out of sight, then sent Seamus a message, telling him to come. The reply was fast: Already outside the gates. He replied with: OK.

By this time there was an even bigger logjam. He indicated to the women he had a sore back. They rolled their eyes, sighing in frustration. He took the opportunity to look over at the loading dock. The forklift driver had raised the shutter and opened the gates.

He got to work again, much faster this time, keeping pace with the others. His heart thudded. Sweat poured out of him, pasting his clothes to his skin. Salty beads slid down his brow, stinging his eyes. He kept swiping his brow but all that did was drench his sleeve even more. He had a tight window. Any delays would mean fight or flight.

Now and again he checked on the forklift driver’s progress, willing him to go even faster. He needed a full load to get the money. The wait tried his patience no end.

McGinty returned. “Just spoke to the boss. Knows nothing about you. Which means you’re not authorised to be here.”

Henson straightened, skin prickled with annoyance. “Blame the agency. They sent me here. Must have been some kind of mix-up.”

“Your problem.”

“Tell you what. Since I’m here, let me work longer. Otherwise, I’ll be stuck at home all day doing nothing. Tell your boss I’m working for free. You never know. He might give me a job.”

“You must be nuts. But fair enough. Go ahead and work for nothing. But I’m not telling him. You can do that yourself.”

“No problem.” He carried on as before. His nerves were jangling, sweat gushed out of him. This would be the last time he did something like this. The stress was too much, and the reward was not worth the risk. He should have found another way of getting the money instead of going for what looked like the easy route.

Finally, the lorry was full. The forklift driver retracted the ramp, and then banged on the inside of the lorry. “Ready to go.” He opened the gates and closed the shutter.

Henson had to act fast as he couldn’t be sure if Seamus would abandon him. The Irishman had a reputation for being a bit iffy. Henson had threatened him beforehand about what he’d do if there were any shenanigans.

He spoke to McGinty. “Need a bit of fresh air.”

“Thought you wanted to prove your worth. We’re on a tight schedule. We need those pallets stacked pronto.”

“A two-minute break and I’ll be back. That make you feel better?”

“No. Tell you what. Just go. I’ll get one of the girls to do your job since you’re rubbish at it.”

Henson couldn’t let that go. He went up to his face, fists clenched. “Is that right, ya wee wimp?”

McGinty’s face and neck flushed scarlet. He started blinking like something was in his eye. He backed off two paces. “Didn’t mean to say that, Big Man. Tell you what. Go and have a break.”

“Good idea.” He sauntered out the factory and clambered up into the cabin beside Seamus.

“Any problems?” said the Irishman.

“None. Let’s go.”

They sped out of the yard, and hung a left along an old coastal road, potholed from years of neglect.

“As easy as nicking sweeties out a pram,” said Henson. He pulled out a half bottle of whisky from his coat pocket. “Time for a celebration. Want some?”

“Can’t stand the stuff.”

“A man that doesn’t like whisky should be shot. But fair enough. All the more for me.” He took a big swig, capped it, then shoved it back in his pocket. “Everything go smoothly for Maggie?”

She had been paid to chat up the lorry driver in the cafe, then slip a knock-out drug in his tea. Seamus was on standby to get the keys.

“Aye. The guy will still be sleeping it off.”

“Good stuff. Everything went to plan. And you know why that was, don’t you?” He paused, expecting him to ask?

“Tell me.”

“It’s all about the research, my boy. Get that right and everything else falls into place.”

“I’ll take a note.”

“You do that.”

Twenty minutes into the journey, they turned into the breaker’s yard, parking outside the office.

“Time for you to get lost,” said Henson.

Seamus gave him a puzzled look. “Aye, I will. Once I get the money.”

“You’re not getting any. You were just a useful idiot.” He jerked his head. “Off you trot.”

“Don’t try and fleece me, Henson. I want my fifty percent like we agreed.”

“Detective Constable Henson to you. And it was thanks to me disappearing the evidence, you beat that drug rap. I deserve your share for that alone. Now walk away before I frame you for something. This time there won’t be anybody to help you.”

“Don’t think you’ll get away with this.”

He grinned. “Of course I will. I’m an untouchable.”

“Think so?”

“I know so. Beat it.” He waited until Seamus had gone, and pocketed the ignition key. He went to the office. Frank Hutcheon, a man-mountain, was sitting behind the desk.

Henson’s eyes were drawn to a stuffed lamb sitting at the front of the desk. It wore a tammy, its ears sticking out the top, and a tartan waistcoat. It seemed an odd thing among the strewn papers and stationery. Probably a Christmas present from his kid, he thought.

“Where’s Seamus?” said Hutcheon.

“Wandered off. I’m meeting him later.”

“Without taking his cut? He must trust you an awful lot. Any hitches?”

“All smooth.” He rubbed his fingers together. “Let’s see the dosh.”

Hutcheon grinned. “We need to do this again sometime. And soon.” He took out a fat envelope from a drawer and handed it over. “Two grand as we agreed.”

“Let’s make sure.” He thumbed through the wad of fifty-quid notes inside, counting them slowly. He imagined the heat of a foreign sun on his face, drinking cocktails on the beach. “Yep. All there.”

Hutcheon turned his head towards a room behind him. “You heard the man.”

Seamus emerged from it, holding a gun. “Good to hear.”

Henson’s eyes bulged, his jaw dropping like a stone in water. Words scrambled up his throat, failing to reach his tongue. He stayed like that for all of five seconds before he blurted out, “What the–?”

Seamus interjected. “Tell me something. Who came up with this heist idea?”

Henson’s brow furrowed. “You know fine well it was me.”

“And the hiring?”

“What is this all about?”

“So you don’t credit me for any of this?”

“Absolutely not. Come on, Seamus. Give us a break. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be in jail by now. I deserve this. Tell you what. I’ll give you thirty percent. What do you say?”

“I’m taking it all.”

Henson had put too much time and effort into setting up the heist. No way would he part with his money, even if it meant risking his life.

“What if I say no? You going to shoot me?”

“Don’t get brave. I own you now.”

Henson sneered. “Think so? You might have the gun and the money. But I have the whole police force behind me.”

Seamus scratched his stubbly chin, grimacing. “I wouldn’t bank on that if I were you. You see, Henson. I had an idea you’d pull a stunt like this. So I had you recorded on the lorry’s dashcam.” He patted the kangaroo. “And there’s a hidden camera with audio inside this little fellow.” He splayed his fingers, closing them slowly into a fist. “I’ve got you right by the bollocks, matey. And I’ll keep squeezing, no matter how much you squeal. Hand over the money. Uncle Frank said I could keep it.”

“Uncle?” Henson shrilled.

“Yes.” He grinned. “You should have taken your own advice. What was it you said again? Ah, yes. It’s all about the research, my boy.”