Mark Timlin - Guns of Brixton

ISBN: 978 1 84454 924 5

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Text copyright Mark Timlin 2004

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of theauthor's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actualpersons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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MAXCRIME series commissioning editor: Maxim Jakubowski

This book is for Geoff Thorn (1950-2004)

A good friend

Tableof Contents

In daysgone by, what is now the Brixton McDonald's - at the multi- corner junctionoverlooked by Lambeth Town Hall - used to be a branch of one of the 'big five'banks. A clearing house for money from all over south London, it sat packedwith cash, a peach ready to be plucked by anyone with enough brains and bottleto try it.

Inthose days there were criminals whose sole object in life was to hunt out suchtargets, research them thoroughly, then get together a team of likemindedindividuals and take them down. One such criminal was Daniel Butler - Danny tohis friends, of whom there were few. One Thursday morning in June 1982, whenthe rush hour was at its height and the bank was stuffed with notes awaitingcollection by armoured car, he put his plan into action.

Dannyhad been a mod in the 1960s. An 'ace face', as he liked to be called. He'dcruised the streets of London like a king in his souped-up Ford Anglia, makingacquaintances as he went: little gangsters who wanted money for clothes,records and cars without doing too much work. And from these young men herecruited a fine collection of villains who would make their mark on theunderworld of the capital in the latter half of the twentieth century.

Nowin his early thirties, Jimmy Hunter was one of those young men. When Danny hadcalled him up, a month or so earlier, Jimmy had been only too pleased to comein as top man on the bank raid.

Itwas a simple plan: straightforward blagging with little subtlety. A straightin-and-outer. Danny lined up the job, brought in the personnel, suppliedtransport and ordnance, a getaway route, took his cut off the top and droppedback into the shadows. When it worked, it was financially rewarding all round.When it didn't well, when it didn't he wouldn't be around to see it go bad.Danny made it his business to be in another country, if not another continent,when that happened. And on this job, the getaway was the problem. Danny didn'tlike it, but there was little choice. He'd explained as much to the little firmwhen he'd first outlined the plan to them. Do it, or don't do it, it was up tothem. They'd all agreed to do it. On such decisions lives are changed - andlost.

Thenight before the job was due to go off, the summer warmth kept the streets of Brixtonand the surrounding area busy until late in the evening. Stevie Little, knownto his mates and most of the Metropolitan Police as Little Stevie Wonder, brokeinto Stockwell bus garage and had it away with a double-decker red Routemasterbus which he drove to a scrap yard in Clapham and parked up behind a pile of60s and 70s motors waiting to be crushed into yard-square blocks of metal andrubber. He spent the rest of the night in the office drinking tea, readingancient copies of Penthouse and Playboy, and listening to hisportable radio.

Thenext morning at nine sharp, four men roughly the same age as Jimmy Hunter metat a coffee stall next to Clapham South tube station. Two drove to therendezvous in a stolen Ford Granada Ghia, the other two went by publictransport. In the boot of the Ford were two pump action shotguns, sawn off foreand aft and loaded with five double- ought shells, plus two six-shot.38revolvers, along with four large nylon sports bags with webbing straps. Enough,Danny figured, to carry away all the notes in the bank's safe. Jimmy Hunterdrove the car to the meet, the number two man, Dave Nicholls, in the passengerseat beside him. Jack Dewhurst caught a bus from Balham and Paul Walker tookthe Northern Line from Stockwell. By eight-thirty they were all drinking teaand smoking. No one ate. This was the biggie and none of them were hungry.

'Howmuch do you reckon?' said Paul to Jimmy as he sipped his strong, sweet brew.

'Halfa million,' said Jimmy, for the hundredth time since the gang had beenrecruited. 'Minimum. Maybe more, Danny said.'

'Jesus,'said Jack. 'Holiday in Spain.'

'Along one,' said Dave.

Themen stood talking and smoking for fifteen minutes until Jimmy looked at hiswatch and said, 'Time'.

Themen went to the car which was parked up in a side road a few hundred yards fromthe stall. They gathered around the boot and selected their weapons. Jack wasto drive the car to the job and wait with the engine running as the other threewent into the bank. Jack took a.38, as did Paul, the other two picked up theshotguns, wrapped in brown paper and slid them under their jackets before allfour climbed aboard. As they settled in their seats, Paul, Jimmy and Dave eachtook a woollen cap from a pocket and pulled it on. Paul found the stopwatchthat Danny had given him to time the raid, hanging it around his neck by itsstrap.

'Twominutes.'

Dannyhad told them so many times it was engraved in their minds. 'Two minutes fromthe off and you go, no more. Don't piss about, just leave.'

Jimmyknew that the getaway was the big risk. But then, everything in his life hadbeen a risk for as long as he could remember. That was why he and Danny hadimpressed upon the rest of them that two minutes from the moment they arrivedwas all the time they could afford in the bank. He knew that, no matter howheavily armed they were or how ready they were to use their guns, somejobsworth would press the panic button. And Brixton nick was less than half amile down the road in the direction they had to go; and, at that time of day,the traffic would be heavy down the Brixton Road. But there was a turning nextto the old Bon Marche building where Jimmy's mum had taken him shopping so manytimes when he'd been a boy. And once in that turning, the narrow streets ofBrixton twisted and turned away back to Clapham, where another stolen car waswaiting.

Ifthey could only get there, then they could vanish into south London without atrace. The cash would be delivered to Danny Butler's accountant to be countedand neatly laundered. Only then would they be paid in clean money. It took alittle longer than doling out the loot in the back of the motor like they wereused to, but Danny was careful, and being careful had kept him out of jail. Ifany of the blaggers didn't like the deal, then they could find employmentelsewhere. Danny didn't care. There were plenty more likely lads out therelooking for work.

Jackstarted the Ford's engine, and right on time, Stevie Little drove theRoutemaster along Clapham High Street with the destination board showing: OUTOF SERVICE and a canvas strap looped across the rear entrance. At the sight ofthe bus, Jimmy turned to Jack and said, 'Do it.'