Bye Bye Baby

22

I followed them to the bank. One of those private banks in the West End. Went inside with them and had a seat in a posh waiting room. Then got taken to a private room the size of our CID office where we were offered tea and coffee.

We all refused.

The manager arrived and shook hands with everyone. His face was scrubbed clean and he stank of aftershave. Reminded me of a pimp I'd once arrested.

"Is my money ready?" Mrs Wilson asked.

"On its way." He rubbed his hands together. "Now, are you sure I can't invite you to take a cheque instead?"

"Don't bother," I said and showed him my warrant card.

"Ah, okay." He took an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket, opened it, and gave Mrs Wilson a form to fill in.

We tried to make small-talk while we waited for the cash. But nobody felt like saying much and after a bit the conversation stopped and we sat in silence.

The money arrived in a charcoal-grey briefcase with the bank's logo stamped in gold on the front. A couple of security guards flanked the clerk who brought the money.

"Thanks." Mrs Wilson got to her feet. "Can we leave now?"

"Goodness, no," the manager said. "We have to count it to show you it's all there."

"That's not necessary." Mrs Wilson turned to the clerk and held out her hand.

"I'm afraid it is." He took the briefcase from the clerk. "With a sum this large, we have to insist on it. Mistakes can easily be made."

"I suppose that's going to take a little while," Les said.

"I'll get some help." The manager opened the case and started taking out bricks of fifty-pound notes. "But, yes, we're probably talking thirty minutes or so."

"See that coffee we were offered?" Les said, steering Mrs Wilson back to her seat. "We'll maybe have some after all."