The Big Bank Job

About the Author

Over the years, the author has written many TV and film scripts but has waited until retirement before writing his first crime novel.

Copyright Information ©

Johny Bowker 2024

The right of Johny Bowker to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN.9781035802265 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035802272 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.co.uk

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Appreciation to my daughter for all her technical support.

I could not have done it without you, Google.

Chapter One

The Day

It’s the summer of 1976 and what a summer it’s turning into. We’ve got a peanut farmer running the world in America. While on this side of the pond, Sunny Jim Callaghan, our beleaguered Prime Minister, is trying to stop the runaway train that is the British economy, from careering off the rails and crashing and burning.

But it’s not all gloom and doom, as Bucks Fizz have just put the UK, Kings of Eurovision again and Concorde will have us all flying to the US, in under four hours. With all this travel, it just might encourage the Wurzels to book a one-way ticket, to anywhere that does not have an appreciation of good music.

My life at present is stuck in a rut. Any progress I’d made towards a mystical idyllic nirvana, you see on the telly, I’ve managed to throw away, by gross incompetence and general fecklessness.

I sit here today waiting for my big break in life; what or whenever that may be.

Being a driving instructor to generally callow pimpled boys and buck toothed giggling adolescent girls; I go through the motions, with as little enthusiasm as I can get away with. Mind you, it’s not a bad job during this very hot weather we’re experiencing; it’s like being in the South of France without the snails and garlic.

At this moment, we’re travelling the length and breadth of South East London, with the wind rushing through my tousled locks; make mental note, haircut due. Sounds okay, but if you have to stop to do a three-point turn, or a bit of reversing around a quiet corner, in this heat, you roast and your crisp Fred Perry tee shirt, turns into a wet rag. I’ve heard through the driving grapevine, that air-conditioning could be a feature of our instructor cars next year. A year too late, I’m thinking.

I go into driving instructor mode.

When you are ready, I want you to pull up on the left.

The young Indian waiter who is getting my expert tuition today, carefully checks his mirrors in the plural, good start, then right foot off the gas pedal and squeezing the brake progressively, so far so good. Then he blots his copybook, by misjudging the proximity of the kerb, in relation to my front near side wheel. I quickly lean across and deftly feather the steering wheel away from contact with the kerb.

We come to an abrupt stop and the engine stalls.

He looks across and says, in a very worried voice. How was that?

I’m almost blinded by his dazzling set of glorious white gnashers. Make mental note; book up dentist.

To make sure he takes on board the knowledge I’m about to implant, I take off my Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses and turn and look him fully in the eye.

If I’m totally honest, Mohammed, I’ve had worse experiences. Especially as it’s only your, I check on his appointment card, 25th lesson. This answer seems to please him.

Matt, is it okay to finish lesson at Taj Mahal?

I feign my best mystified look. How do you think we can cross two continents, several time zones and thousands of miles, all in an hour’s driving lesson? Sorry Mohammed, no can do.

His face takes on a puzzled expression. No Matt, the Taj Mahal on the Woolwich Road.

Is it, I reply, with an impish look. I then burst out laughing. He finally sees the joke and joins in.

Without more ado, we head back to Woolwich.

As we approach his restaurant, we glide to a perfect stop. Handbrake on, car into neutral and engine off.

Definitely one of your best lessons today, Mohammed. He goes to open the car door. I let it seem as if this is just an afterthought. Any chance of a bit of discount, if I order a beef curry and chips tonight?

For you, half price. With that, he disappears into the restaurant.

Great, that’s tea sorted. I wasn’t looking forward to engaging my culinary skills, as I’m not your Galloping Graham Kerr. Though my beef bourguignon, is a thing of great beauty, but not very edible. You’ll know the limits of my wizardry around the kitchen, when my signature dish is, beans a la toast.

I now have a break, so decisions, decisions, where do I spend my valuable free time. Having a coffee and a stale doughnut at Joe’s Greasy Spoon café, or giving the pleasure of my charismatic company, to colleagues and my obviously appreciative employer, at our local driving school office. After careful consideration, which included what sort of welcome I may receive from the office, as opposed to Greasy Joe, who would probably be in my ear, to make me pay my ever-growing tab; the office won, but only by a short head.

As I open the office door, I get this premonition in my waterworks, that things may not go my way in the next few minutes; perhaps Greasy Joe’s might have been a better option.

I enter with as much bravado as I can muster. In the outer office sits the boss’s secretary come receptionist. She’s sitting at a mahogany desk, much too large for her position in the pecking order of the driving school. But to be fair, she’s wearing a very fetching silk blouse and a pair of tight fitting bell-bottom jeans.

Hi ya Marcie, you look good today. How’s things?

Where were you last night? she asks, ignoring my question and not sounding too pleased. I waited 45 minutes outside that fleapit they call a cinema. She sounds quite emotional. I was really looking forward to seeing ‘The Omen’, my mate Maize says it’s one of the scariest films she’s seen since ‘Psycho’.

I give her my best poor-little-me look. Sorry Marcie, I’m a bit financially embarrassed this week.

I then try my, always a winner, million-dollar smile, But perhaps next week… she never lets me finish.

If you were the last man on earth, I wouldn’t bother. Let’s just say I had a lucky escape.

While I’m digesting her news, she carries on.

You’ve had another complaint, this time from Mrs Morris.

I go on the attack. Not Old Mother Morris! She shouldn’t be learning at her age, Christ! She must be nearly fifty.

I’m glad you think like that, because she doesn’t want any more lessons from you. I’ve put her with Reg. Marcie replies.

He’s welcome to her. I reply with spirit.

She gestures to the boss’s office. Go right on in, the man who pays your wages wants a word or two with you, but they may not be pleasant ones.

I start to open his door. Oh! I nearly forgot, a solicitor for your wife phoned, something to do with arrears on your child maintenance payments. Marcie gives me a very sickly smile and then goes back to her paperwork.

I find the boss talking on the phone. I go to sit down and wait, but he gestures with his hand for me to keep standing; reluctantly I acquiesce. I start to relax, as Fred has always been very good to me. My confidence comes flooding back, as he puts the phone down.

Alright Fred, how’s your haemorrhoids? I go to sit down.

Don’t bother to sit down; you won’t be here long enough. He says in a rather curt tone.

For some stupid reason, a silly grin creeps across my face.

This seems to make him annoyed. I’ll soon wipe that stupid grin off your face.

Him saying that puts my dander up. Will you now?

I certainly will, he comes back with.

I take a half step forward, thinking you and whose army.

Yea!

He springs out of his chair; very agile for a man of his age. Shouts and gesticulates like a madman.

Understand this you ignoramus! You’re sacked.

Sacked! I echo.

He slowly lowers himself back into his chair, seemingly a little more in control of his emotions.

Yes sacked, you know being given the order of the boot, being dismissed from your present employment, that sort of thing.

At this moment in time, I’m in deep shock. You are joking? I say more in hope than conviction.

Fred ignores my not very well thought out question. I’m giving you two weeks’ notice from today. And you’ve got one month to repay the loan I made to you for the car.

I summon up my last reserves of defiance. Excuse me; I’d like to know what grounds you’ve got for this trumped up attempt at a dismissal?

Fred fixes me with a steely glare. You’re a crap instructor. We’ve had more complaints about your incompetence and poor timekeeping, than I’ve had hot dinners.

At this moment, I’m feeling sick, but the first line of defence is attack.

Play fair Fred, you can’t blame me for the late starts. 1976 has been the hottest summer on record, or ever in the history of the world. How can anyone possibly sleep at night with that heat?

Our other instructors seem to manage, he replies, not giving an inch.

I try my final tactic, appeal to his good nature. But how am I going to repay the car loan, without a job?

That’s your problem, he callously replies.

I suddenly lose all control of my upper torso and find myself slumped on the chair, looking as if I’ve just been told about the sudden death of a close relative. My voice is now just a whisper. Did I forget to tell you last week, I owe my estranged wife nearly £2,000 in child maintenance?

Tough! he says, then carries on with his paperwork.

I’m still talking as if I’m in church. I’ve just had her solicitor on the phone, giving me grief. I pause for a moment for more effect. I could end up in prison.

Shut the door as you go. Is Fred’s unbelievable response; he doesn’t even look up.

I am emotionally drained, so with obviously no future me appealing to Fred any more this afternoon, I take the hint and leave. As I pass Marcie’s desk, I manage a weak smile.

Marcie glances up and with a look that says, ‘I told you so’ as her and Fred are as thick as thieves. She catches my attention again, just as my sweaty hand is about to turn the outer door handle.

I hope you haven’t forgotten Ian Brannan at three?

I give her my best blankety blank, shell-shocked look.

She seems a little exasperated, but tries again to communicate. You know, the assistant manager of our local bank. You may remember that you are supposedly teaching him to drive, in of course, your own inimitable way.

After the verbal battering, I’ve taken at the hands of my so-called-boss, it’s no surprise I’m a little slow on the uptake.

Oh! That Ian Brannan. I’m now back in the land of the living, so I give Marcie a thumbs up.

Her attention is drawn to the clock on the wall. You’ve got five minutes to pick him up; you’d better scoot.

That sun is beating down; it’s like being in the Sahara Desert, without the sand and camels. I’m sweating buckets; be glad when this lesson ends and I can go back to my little bedsit and have an overall wash; might even change my underpants.

Mind you, if Mr Tremble from upstairs is home early, you can never get him out of the communal bathroom. But I suppose when you’re a coalman, that coal dust takes a lot of getting off.

But I have to be fair to him; he does leave the bathroom in immaculate condition. It always whiffs of, what’s it called? I’ve just remembered, sandalwood.

Now my good friend and colleague Gerald, who has been a top rated instructor for over ten years, said that sandalwood oil comes from trees; second most expensive wood in the world. I never had a clue. And it’s been used for traditional medicine in India and China for centuries. He’s a fount of knowledge; he can talk about nearly any subject with complete authority. I think he goes to bed with The Encyclopaedia Britannica.

All these facts that Gerald has swirling around in his head, might not interest the average London bloke, who only thinks of his Saturday afternoon, following West Ham and whether Billy Bonds can still put it about. Together with, whether the local pub will be open after the game, so all the so-called-fans, can celebrate or commiserate with a few pints of warm beer.

Gerald says, You never know when a little known fact might impress a young bird on that special first date. And he should know; for a