‘Terry, Terry, this is no fucking game. If the wrong people got to know about that lorry, we could both get seriously hurt. We could both get more than fucking hurt. Are you listening to what I’m saying? Is this sinking in to your fucking brain?’
Terry sat up sharply from his semi lying position in the cab.
‘Okay Boss, no need to go off on one, it just sounded like you were going over the top a bit. I didn’t mean to have a go at you. I’m just confused, and you’ve got me more than just a bit worried now.’
‘I’m sorry’ said Frank sounding tired and weary. ‘I haven’t slept all night. When I realised my mistake with the paperwork, it was quite late and when I couldn’t get hold of you I thought the worst.’
‘Fuckin’ hell Frank, now I am worried. I haven’t heard you sound like this before.’
‘Listen Terry, each of those shrink wrapped pallets contains a million quid in untraceable ten and twenty pound notes.’ There was silence from Terry and Frank continued. ‘Every so often, as the notes get dirty and worn, the banks take them out of the system and they get replaced with new ones. The old notes, which are still legal tender, were on their way for incineration. The Bank of England sometimes transports them this way to save on the massive costs involved when they do it normally. Usually, they would have four vehicles escorting their normal wagons with two armed officers in each of the vehicles. Not so much an armed escort as a small fucking army. Anyway, twelve months ago, a decision was made to try a couple of runs, quietly and without fuss. That worked out well and the Bank saved thousands and thousands of pounds by not having to pay for the armed escorts. There was no problem until today.’
Terry sat in stunned silence as the gravity of the situation he was in began to dawn on him.
‘Terry, can you hear me, are you still listening?’ The words drifted into his ear again, ‘Terry, Terry.’
‘It’s okay boss. I’m still here. Fuckin’ hell Frank, how could you do this to me? 24 million quid in my wagon. I don’t think I’ll be able to drive this thing without crashing into something. How the fuck am I supposed to concentrate on driving knowing that I’ve got that lot in the back? Who else knows boss, could I have been followed? What if someone’s watching me now knowing what’s in the container, what if?’
Now it was Terry who was panicking and it was time for his boss to offer some words of comfort by trotting out that well known Liverpool expression, “calm down, calm down,” and trying to bring a little humour back and lighten the mood and circumstances for both of them.
“It’s ok Terry, no one knows what’s in the box. When the company took on the contract, it was agreed with the Bank of England management and our MD, Bob Stock that for security reasons, only me and their Head of Security would know which containers would be used. That’s why we have never had a problem until I made that fuck up last night.’
They were both quiet for a few more minutes. Neither said a word allowing them to mull over the thoughts going through their heads. Terry had a load of questions, but now wasn’t the time to ask them; plenty of time for the inquisition later. What should he do now?
Terry spoke first.
‘Ok boss, you’ve convinced me that you’re right. The safest thing for both of us is to get this wagon back to the yard pronto. You know I will be taking a chance on getting caught so I hope you bear that in mind when I get back.’ Terry could both feel and hear the relief when Frank spoke.
‘Terry, you’re an absolute bloody star mate. Fifty quid and a bottle of scotch if you get back here before 12.’ Terry looked at his watch and thought he could make it okay providing he didn’t get snarled up in any traffic jams.
‘Okay Frank, lunch is on you, bacon butties in your office.’
‘Nice one Terry. One more thing bollocks, less of the Frank; its boss or Mr West ok?’
They both laughed and Terry said,
‘I think we’ve got past the boss bit now eh. Frank sounds about right after today don’t you think?’ Frank laughed again down the phone and said,
‘I reckon you’re right Terry, but not in front of the other lads okay. When they’re around, its boss or Mr West, agreed?’
‘Sorted boss, now piss off and let’s hope I don’t prang this on the way back. See you soon.’
Without further ado, Terry jumped down from the cab and went to the back of the container. He opened the doors and got back inside and using the fork lift truck, made sure the pallet he’d moved to collect his torch was put back in exactly the same position as he had first found it. The last thing he wanted was for someone at the receiving depot to know that a pallet had been moved. Twenty quid would certainly come in handy for a few pints but even so, he resisted the urge to slice open the shrink wrapping and retrieve the single twenty pound note.
He wondered whether or not it was a ploy by the Bank of England bosses to see if any one interfered with the packaging in a similar way to that which used to be used at post office sorting rooms from time to time to test the employees honesty. Sometimes a ten or twenty pound note would be mixed up with the mail and parcels being sorted by the workers. Everyone was well aware that it was a plant and it always amused them when it was the only thing left on the table after it had been cleared of envelopes and packages. A big empty table except for a shiny new note always brought a smile to the faces of the sorting staff.
He dismissed the idea almost as soon as he’d thought of it. That would defeat the whole object really. The point of this operation, the blandness of the ‘ordinary’ pallets; plain boxes and shrink wrapping, was to make it all seem normal. The last thing the Bank of England staff would want to do is draw attention to the contents of the packages. Far more likely was that a stray note had got caught between the outside of a cardboard box and the heavy duty plastic when being sealed and nobody had noticed it.
He took one last look at the twenty four pallets all neat in two lines of twelve. In a strange way, he savoured the moment as he thought to himself of the cars and people he would pass on the way back to the depot. Twenty four million quid and no ones got the foggiest idea.
He climbed down from the back, closed the doors and placed a new seal over the locking mechanism. He thought about putting one of the heavy duty; high security padlocks on that he carried in the cab but then thought better of it. If I turn up at the yard with a decent padlock on the back of a container that’s supposed to be carrying old engine parts, that might just tip the wink to one of the other drivers that there is more to this box than meets the eye, he mused to himself.
Terry, whilst not exactly a knight in shining armour, did not think of himself as particularly dishonest. He didn’t mind receiving the odd few things over the years that he knew had been nicked from the docks, but he was a long way removed from getting involved in any heavy stuff. He knew some of the other drivers who were into the thefts of lorry loads of gear and he knew also to steer clear of them. He didn’t want to become a target for any of the well known criminal element that frequented the Port. Once you got involved with any of that lot, there was no going back.
He’d heard the whispers over the years and the names of a few of those who were into it, but he always kept his distance and didn’t get involved. He’d been approached on a few occasions with suggestions of earning a few bob. All he’d have to do was just, ‘leave the keys in the ignition for a few minute’s Terry while you go for a piss.’ He always reacted the same way; ‘not interested mate,’ and after a few gentle suggestions had received the same answer over the years the ‘boys’ left him alone and moved onto someone else. There was always someone looking to earn a few bob. Usually someone who could be leaned on a bit. Someone who was desperate for a bit of extra cash. More often than not, that’s all he would get. A bit of extra cash. It was the driver who took all the risks, sometimes he was knocked about a bit or even given a good hiding by his ‘mates’, ‘just to give it a bit of realism eh Bill?’ It was always the heavies higher up the chain who got the rich pickings.