The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

A MEMORABLE DAY by L. C. Tyler

IF THERE’S ONE piece of advice I’d like to pass on it’s this. Keep a note of your alias. There’s nothing worse than the sudden realization that you’ve no idea who you are

The young lady, whose name had also temporarily slipped my mind, was starting to look at me a little oddly.

“Mr Smith? Your tea…”

Smith – yes, of course. “John Smith”, probably. My imagination is almost as bad as my memory. Hopefully they wouldn’t ask me to confirm Smith’s address, which was now forgotten way beyond any hope of recall. That’s the good thing about being a hero, of course – people don’t cross-examine you or expect you to provide proof of identity.

“Thank you,” I said, accepting the steaming mug and wondering how many times she’d addressed me before I’d responded. “Thank you. That will go down a treat after all this afternoon’s excitement. A treat.” I tried to appear brave but modest – I’ve seen it done, so had a vague idea how it should look.

I took a first sip of the tea. Heroes clearly took plenty of sugar, or maybe the young lady had distantly remembered that a hot sweet drink was good for shock. We’d all had a shock, though possibly I’d had a bit more than the rest of them. Hopefully the worst was over. Fingers crossed.

“I’m sorry we can’t offer our hero something stronger,” said Mr Adewole, who I remembered was the Assistant Branch Manager (or was it Deputy?). He straightened his tie. I’d seen one like it in a shop earlier – pure silk, sixty quid. I’d been tempted, as they say, but not tempted enough.

“Tea’s fine,” I said. “The cup that cheers.”

“You’re a hero,” said Mr Adewole.

“He’s a hero,” confirmed the young lady. (Arabella? Daisy? Lillwen? Some name like that anyway.)

“Seems like I’m a hero, then,” I said.

We’d explored the present indicative quite well. I am a hero. Thou art a hero. He, she or it is a hero. Actually it was the first person plural we needed. We are heroes. I hadn’t done it alone.

I’d been walking along the Holloway Road, head down, doing my level best not to get in anyone’s way. My bag was a bit heavy and I’d stopped outside the bank briefly to check the contents and make sure all was well. I’d just put it on the ground and had scarcely begun to pull the zip when this large geezer with a stocking mask over his face and a sawn-off shotgun in his hands comes charging out of the door. I stood up and stepped aside respectfully, as you do with large geezers carrying shotguns. He went past at a fair lick and off down the Holloway Road. Then, stone me if his mate (small geezer, stocking mask, large nylon holdall stuffed with cash) didn’t run straight into me from behind as I was stepping back. He wasn’t big, as I say, but he was going fast enough to knock us both to the ground three or four feet from where I had been standing. I didn’t bear him any ill will – he hadn’t trodden on my bag or anything – so I suppose it was just a reflex reaction that made me lash out at him the moment we were both back in a sitting position.

With my arm fully extended, my fist just about made contact with his face. I’m not sure he even registered that I was trying to punch him, to be honest with you. It must have been simple curiosity that made him pause, looking at me as best he could through ten-denier nylon, for just a fraction of a second too long. A stocky member of the public had come running up and pinioned him in a pair of muscular arms. The small bank robber cursed me under his breath, but there was nothing more for him – or me – to do. Game over.

In the middle distance, the big guy with the shotgun had reached a conveniently parked Honda with its engine running. It was purple – a bit too visible as a getaway vehicle, but I’d already seen evidence that they weren’t the brightest pair of bank robbers in North London. He’d been about to jump into the fake-leather passenger seat when he turned and saw that his mate with the money was sadly no longer with him. The big guy too was still wearing ladies’ hosiery on his face, and I couldn’t read his expression, but from his body language he wasn’t best pleased. For an instant I thought he might be about to come back and shoot a few of us, but fortunately all hell chose to break loose that very moment. The bank staff had been able to get their nervous little fingers to the alarm buttons and there were lights and noises and people running everywhere.

The young lady was already heading down the steps towards us, with Mr Adewole a few prudent paces behind her. Somewhere in the distance you could just make out a police siren – probably a squad car off to deal with a bad outbreak of graffiti, but it was enough to make up the mind of the guy with the gun. He was back in the purple Honda, which took off with a vicious roar of the engine and a screech of tyres – an event common enough on the Holloway Road not to draw much comment from passers-by.

The stocky guy could probably have hung on to the small bank robber all day if he’d had to, but the police were there within a minute of the alarm going off. They handcuffed the robber and then they wanted statements from the rest of us. Under the circumstances it seemed best that I come up with a false name and address, though the rest of my account was much as I’ve just told you. The stocky individual, who gave an address in Preston, proved to be called Shuttleworth. He was just visiting London and had expected Holloway to be a bit like that. Shuttleworth didn’t seem the sort to lie about his name or anything else. He seemed pleased enough with his day so far, unlike the bank robber who shot me a glance before he was led away.

Mr Adewole, the Assistant or Deputy Manager of the bank, had congratulated us several times and then, possibly feeling mere words were inadequate, had issued a general invitation to tea in his office. I thought it might look a bit suspicious to say “no” and so said “yes”. Shuttleworth, having as clear a conscience as need be, declined both tea and any suggestion that his had been more than a supporting role in the proceedings. I was, he said, the only hero and it had been his privilege to assist me. The way I’d landed that punch! Wow! He’d help me again, if I would just state where and when he would be needed.

I watched him depart with a degree of envy and proceeded to Mr Adewole’s office, where we were joined by the young lady (Vicky? Martha? Faith?) and by the police inspector, who was taking a brief break from his questioning of staff and customers. The young lady had a nice smile. The police inspector didn’t. I sat in one of the plastic chairs and pushed my bag under the seat as unobtrusively as I could.

“It was terrible,” the young lady said. (Alis? Bubbles? Storm? Something like that.) “The two of them came running into the bank with stockings over their faces, yelling at the tops of their voices. Then the big one pulled a gun out of the holdall he was carrying.”

“Did he?” I said.

“Yes,” said the young lady. She frowned. “It was a bag… a bit like that one under your seat.”

“Like mine?” I said.

“Very much like yours,” said the young lady. “I can’t quite see it now you’ve moved your legs, but, yes, almost identical. They stuffed the money in it afterwards.”

“Funny coincidence,” I said. “He probably bought his bag in the market, where I got mine. At least, that’s what I’d imagine. Small world.”

“And do you know how much money?” asked Mr Adewole, uninterested in probability and coincidence.

Mr Adewole obviously wanted to impress me, so I guessed low. “Five thousand?” I suggested, as if I thought that was a whole heap of cash.

“Seventy-five thousand,” said Mr Adewole. “That’s what you saved us, Mr Smith, by your quick action. Seventy-five thousand pounds.”

“He should get a reward,” said the young lady, who not only had a nice smile but was clearly generous with the bank’s money. I was beginning to like her.

“I’m sure he will,” said Mr Adewole, slightly more cautiously. “Unfortunately we can’t give you cash now to take away in your bag.” He laughed.

“Shame,” I said. I took another sip of tea. It was in a Charles and Diana Engagement mug – goodness knows where that had hidden all these years.

“I bet,” said Mr Adewole, “that when you got up this morning you didn’t expect you’d be preventing a bank robbery.”

“No,” I said. “Nobody told me to expect that. It would have been helpful if they had.”

“In fact, a funny thought has just occurred to me,” said Mr Adewole, who was quite chatty for a Deputy or Assistant Manager. “Maybe you too have a sawn-off shotgun in your bag, Mr Smith. Maybe you were coming in to rob the bank, as the other two gentlemen were coming out. That would be terribly amusing.”

He was easily amused.

“Ha,” I said.

“What is in your bag?” asked the police inspector, speaking for the first time. He put his own mug of tea down on Mr Adewole’s desk. He’d got a yellow one marked “BOSS” in big red letters, possibly Mr Adewole’s own, though he was really assistant or deputy boss.

“In the bag? Oh… er… this and that. Bits and bobs. Various stuff,” I said, in a way that should have convinced even the most suspicious and untrusting of policemen.

“I didn’t really mean…” Mr Adewole began. He looked from me to the inspector and back again. We weren’t finding his joke as funny as he had hoped.

“Maybe you could just open the bag, Mr Smith, and let me have a look inside,” said the inspector. “I’d better check it, just so that I don’t look a total plonker if Mr Adewole is right.”

I smiled to show that I understood he was only kidding and the heroes were not required to open their bags and justify what was inside.

“Now, please, Mr Smith,” he said.

If I could give you a second piece of advice it’s that you have to know when the game is well and truly up. My wife always says to me: “Benny,” she says, “your face gives you away every time. There’s no point in getting mixed up in any dodgy stuff because your normal expression is that of most people when they’ve just murdered their grandmother and cut her up for cat meat. My brother could lie his way out of anything and usually does. But not you. You have a naturally guilty conscience. Call it a curse. Call it a gift. But if you ever get caught, just own up. It’ll save everyone time in the long run.”

I opened the bag very slowly. The inspector looked inside and gave a low whistle.

“That’s top of the range, that is,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Blu-ray, built-in hard drive – only just in the shops.”

“Good picture quality?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The inspector looked at the unboxed DVD player in my bag, and frowned.

“I’m just returning it to Davies Brothers department store, down the road,” I said. “I bought it there a couple of days ago and it doesn’t seem to be working properly. I’m taking it back to check what’s wrong. Probably I just can’t programme it properly.”

“You got kids?” asked the inspector.

“No,” I said.

“Shame. They always know how to do these things. It’s about all they’re good for, but they do have that advantage.”

He bent down and zipped up the bag for me.

“Thanks for the tea,” he said to Mr Adewole. “I’d better finish what I was doing. Your people will want to get home.”

“Me too,” I said, seizing the moment. “I’d better get back. Home sweet home.”

“Where is it you live?” asked the inspector.

“Close by,” I hedged.

“Me too,” said the inspector. “We’ll bump into each again other soon, like as not. You’ll probably have to give evidence at the trial, of course.”

“Yes,” I said. But only if they could find me. However much I might be to blame for what had occurred this afternoon, at least I’d not be giving evidence at the trial – a small blessing but one to be counted all the same.

“And there’s the reward,” said Mr Adewole again. “We’ll be writing to you about that. A nice fat cheque, I should imagine.” He smiled. He too had decided he could risk being open-handed with the bank’s money. It was less of a risk than he imagined.

I wondered for a moment if there was any way of finding out what fictitious address I’d given, then going round there to intercept the cheque somehow and pay it into an account in the name of Smith… No, maybe not. There is a limit to how far you should try to push your luck and I’d ridden mine quite nicely so far.

“Thanks,” I said.

“And, Mr Smith, I do apologize if you thought we were in any way accusing you of being a bank robber. It was merely an inappropriate joke on my part. Neither I nor Fauzia would have wished to imply anything of the sort.” (Of course, not Lillwen or Arabella – Fauzia, that was it.)

“No offence taken,” I said to Mr Adewole.

“You’re a hero,” said Fauzia. “A have-a-go hero. You should get a medal.”

I gave her a sort of regretful smile that might have meant anything. A medal too was something I’d have to pass on.

“You had better go to Davies’s, before they close,” said Fauzia helpfully.

“Yes,” I said, though the store would be open for another two hours at least. “I’d better dash, hadn’t I? Time and tide.”

“And sorry about the robber thing,” said Mr Adewole again. “Just a joke.”

“I’ve already forgotten about it,” I said.

In the banking hall everything was back to normal. People were queuing and paying in cheques. People were getting cash without the help of shotguns. People were being sold ISAs. Nobody gave me the slightest glance as I crossed the floor, which is how I like things. I walked through the doorway and out on to the street. I breathed a big sigh of relief. Davies Brothers was a couple of hundred yards down on the right and that’s where I headed.

Oh, yes, I had something on my conscience but for once it wasn’t dodgy gear that I was fencing for my brother-in-law. I wouldn’t be fencing anything for him for… let’s say, five years less time off for good behaviour. No, what I was worrying about was what I would tell my wife when I got home. Maybe I should just begin: “Funny thing, Tracey, I bumped into your brother coming out of the bank this afternoon.” She’d laugh when I told her. Hopefully.