CHAPTER 3

Harry Chance stood for a long moment outside the austere edifice of HMP Wandsworth Prison regarding the dun coloured exterior with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. He had spent most of his adult life actively avoiding the remotest possibility of spending any leisure time at Her Majesty’s pleasure and had succeeded. He had never voluntarily entered the environment of a Category B penal institution.

The prison didn’t have its own car park so he parked his Bentley Continental in as dark a side street as he could find. The immediate neighbourhood was lower middle class but that didn’t mean his precious car wouldn’t be a target for some passing oik.  The only personal possessions he had with him were his driving licence and a handful of change. Otherwise he was clean.

Patrick Brogan was serving eight years for his part in the Trim’s Bank bullion heist, the biggest and most notorious robbery ever carried out in the country. Brogan had been the quartermaster and had managed to reduce his sentence by grassing on some lesser associates on the periphery. The gang had walked away with nearly seven thousand gold bars worth today approximately ninety million.

Some of the gold had been smelted down mixed with copper to make it difficult to trace. To date only a proportion of the bullion had been recovered. Half of London’s underworld seemed to be connected in some way to the disposal of the haul although it was suspected that the Trim’s Bank gang itself consisted of only four well-known criminals. Of these only two had ever been convicted. Brogan was one, leaving a hard-core of very smart individuals lying low having fenced large quantities of adulterated gold bullion and siphoned cash into a network of hard-to-trace bank accounts and property investments.

Even now, ten years later, a sizeable chunk of the Trim’s Bank haul was still missing. The whereabouts of over fifteen hundred gold bars was unknown – except by the mysterious person who, under the noses of the gang, had absconded with the rundown Transit van containing the bullion. Whoever took it could be biding their time, or was dead, or had already removed the gold from its hiding place.

Harry Chance had steered well clear of the job. He preferred the simpler life of targeted safecracking and relieving the rich of their high-value jewellery.

His connection with Brogan went back before Trim’s Bank. They had once collaborated when Brogan offered Chance a job. He’d needed someone to step into the breach when his safe man had pulled out. It had been a vital freelance job at a time when Chance needed the money. So he owed Brogan a favour even after all this time.  He’d had no contact with him since then so the request for this visit surprised him. What could Brogan possibly want?

Near to the prison entrance was the visitor centre. Spurgeons House was a nice-looking detached property where visitors were processed. Brogan had completed a visitor order naming Harry Chance although he couldn’t know his address, phone number or date-of-birth. Chance had supplied this information. The visitor number would be married up with the strict identification procedures at the prison.

He sat in the waiting room with the other visitors, mostly wives and a few children. It was hot and noisy with an underlying feeling of tension that Chance could sense but not quantify.

When his name was called he went into the identification queue, showed his driving licence, and was frisked and checked over by a metal detector reminding Chance of airport security. He stood while a spaniel sniffed him and then walked outside for fifty yards to the prison gate and on into the prison reception area and locker room.

Chance glanced up at the CCTV cameras then looked away quickly. Turning his head he joined the queue.

A prison officer stood at the head of the line. After a short time he barked the order. "Follow me."

Chance walked in convoy along a corridor, through unlocked barrier gates and into a large, low-ceilinged room, illuminated by long, locked windows. Inside were neat rows of tables and chairs with gap lines between them, like an examination room. The other visitors moved quickly to their loved ones or friends. Chance had to stand for a moment to spot Brogan. Finally, a grey haired man wearing pale-rimmed spectacles perched on an aquiline nose waved him over.

Chance went and sat down opposite Patrick Brogan. "You’ve lost weight," he said. "I hardly recognised you after all this time."

"Prison diet," said Brogan smiling through thin lips. He regarded Chance with interest. "It’s been a while. Years."

"Yes," Chance said. "I was surprised you wanted to see me. It’s not like we were close."

"I thought you might be intrigued."

"That’s one way of putting it."

"You’ve done well for yourself, Harry. That’s what the word is."

"Is that right?"

"How’s the wife? What was her name, Valerie isn’t it?"

"Ex-wife," said Chance. "She’s doing all right as far as I know. You’ve got a good memory."

"You had a daughter."

Chance paused. "Amanda, yes. She’s fifteen now."

"How they grow, eh, Harry?"

"What is this, Brogan, happy families?"

"Just showing an interest, Harry."

"You haven’t asked me here to talk about my family."

"It’s my way of broaching the subject."

"I haven’t seen you for years. We never really knew each other. Last time I saw you, you were about two stone heavier."

"Did you a favour, didn’t I?"

"Here we go."

"Do you know I’m the crossword champion of this prison? Four minutes twenty-three seconds for the Times cryptic. Not bad for an old lag."

"I remember you loved conundrums."

"Yeah, I’ve just got that sort of brain, I suppose. Puzzles intrigue me. I’ve made a study of riddles and brain teasers."

"I can see why. I’m none the bloody wiser."

Brogan paused, adjusted his spectacles and glanced around. When he spoke his lips hardly moved.

"I need a favour from you, Harry."

Chance said nothing. Just stared at Brogan.

"I want you to steal something for me." Brogan watched him.

Chance remained silent for a moment. Then he said. "Are you sure we can’t be overheard or recorded?"

"If we talk quietly like this we’ll be safe. Well, what do you say?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On how much of a debt I owe you and what the risks are."

"It’ll be like taking candy from a baby for someone like you."

"You’d better tell me everything."

Brogan smiled. "Ever heard of Maurice Cunningham?"

"The do-gooding MP, OBE?"

"The very same. The Honourable Maurice Cunningham is campaigning to have my sentence reduced."

"Good for you. Why?"

"He’s made a reputation for himself supporting the downtrodden and rectifying injustices. I fall into both categories."

Chance had to suppress a chortled laugh.

"Don’t mock me, Harry. The evidence against me was circumstantial. Richards was fitting up anybody he could to get a result. He only got two of us and one of them is sitting here before you."

"Funny, I bumped into Richards out-of-the-blue a few days ago. He’s a DI now."

"Out-of-the-blue? Don’t bet on it, Harry. That scheming scumbag never does anything by chance. Sorry for the pun, mate. He’s up to something, believe me. He’s been gagging to put you away for years. It’s eating him up. I was just higher profile and the pressure was on from the Home Office."

"Go on."

"Our Mr Cunningham is not the virtuous paragon of justice he claims to be. His public image would be permanently damaged if the information I have on him was ever made known to the media."

"He’s been a naughty boy, then?"

"I wouldn’t trust my child with him put it that way." Brogan coughed quietly. "There’s more, Harry and we haven’t much time left."

Chance inclined his head.

"He’s got a good chance of succeeding in his campaign. I’m hoping he won’t run out of steam. But, because he’s the only person trying to help me and he’s high profile, I gave him something to look after for me. I had no one else to turn to. He was the only one I knew who would keep it safe and secure."

"And?"

"I made him promise give it to my daughter if anything happened to me. I also gave him some names."

"You grassed. Fine, that’s none of my business. Can you trust him?"

"Trust an MP? Don’t be soft. Course I don’t trust him. If anything happens to me and my daughter does not receive the special gift he keeps in his safe then the plan is that a certain person would know this and would send some pretty damaging, career ending information to the media. Cunningham knows this too so he’s playing ball so far. He has no interest in my daughter’s heirloom. To him it’s just a sentimental memento."

"So what’s the problem?"

"The certain person I mentioned has died."

"I see. And Cunningham doesn’t know this?"

’No."

"I see your situation."

"So, I want it back."

"I think I see where I come in."

Brogan leaned forward a degree. "I want you to get it back for me, Harry. You’re the only one who can."

"Where? How much security?"

"You need to memorise this, Harry. The Wentworth estate in Surrey, near Virginia Water."

"Upmarket or what?"

"The house is called Park Manor. It’s on Belvedere Drive. Cunningham is rarely there. His wife works away most of the time. She’s a corporate lawyer having it away with her boss. And their only child, their son, is at university. Security is just the usual. Alarms linked to the local constabulary and a few cameras."

"You’ve been to the house?"

"Once, before I was arrested. I knew it was coming and I knew about Cunningham. He grudgingly agreed to allow a lowlife like me to enter his Englishman’s castle."

"What if I refuse?"

"I can’t force you, Harry. But you do owe me. When you were on your uppers I helped you out. When I get out of this place I’ll make sure you’re properly rewarded. That’s all I’ll say about it. Well?"

"What do I have to steal?"

Brogan smiled. "It’s a box."

"A box?"

"A very special box. It’s a conundrum: a Himitsu-Bako. I had it specially designed in Hakone, Japan. It’s not off the shelf. Try to smash it open and you destroy what’s inside. And what’s inside is worth more than you can imagine."

"How much of a puzzle?"

"I think even you would struggle to open it. The key to unlocking the box is in my will for my daughter, along with the information on Cunningham."

"You’re right. I am intrigued."

"Cunningham put the box in his safe. It’s behind a hideous painting of a cathedral in his study." Brogan glanced up the wall clock. "Five minutes. Yes or no?"

"Describe the box."

"Complex marquetry, multi coloured wood, about six by six inches square.  The top of the box is decorated in the shape of a compass although you might not recognise it as such when you first look at it. You’ll need to check Cunningham’s movements, and his wife’s. Well?"

"Okay," said Chance and stood up. "What do want me to do with it?"

"Take the place of my dead accomplice," said Brogan. "If I get released return it to me untouched. If anything happens to me my daughter will get in touch with you. I’ve got your phone number now. And do it soon."

Chance nodded. "It’ll depend on their movements, but yes."

"Don’t shake hands," said Brogan as the bell rang. He stood up. "Thank you," he said and walked away.

Chance turned to go then noticed someone’s eyes upon him. In the far corner a small man with bad skin was saying goodbye to a woman. But he wasn’t paying her much attention. He was staring at Chance as if memorising his face.

Chance joined the group as it was escorted out of the visiting room and was searched again and sniffed at by the spaniel before being channeled out of the prison. Chance was thoughtful as he glanced up at the sky. It was one of those pre-autumnal days with high scudding clouds. He walked slowly back to his car and groaned aloud when he saw the pattern of bird shit on the roof.

"Bastards," he muttered looking up into the densely leaved plane tree under which he had parked.

He drove away then re-parked in a quiet lay-by on the perimeter of Wandsworth Common. He needed to think.

The Wentworth Estate was one of the most exclusive plots of real estate in the country. Chance knew it fairly well. Before he became an apprentice locksmith to Marius Gallow, one of the most skilled safecrackers and safe designers of his generation, Chance had worked for a national utility involved with converting the country from town gas to natural gas. This meant that people like him had to call on every property in the country, from the humblest to the Royal Palaces themselves, to survey gas equipment in advance of the conversion. No buildings were immune.

Wentworth had been one of his areas so he knew the mansions that were spread throughout the district would have some sophisticated security in place. After learning everything he could about breaking and entering and with an encyclopaedic knowledge of safe design plus the most sophisticated technology available to open virtually any safe, Chance was fairly confident he could pull it off.

Chance needed to erase the tainted stain the prison environment had left on him so he drove home across London, heading for the river, keeping calm amid the traffic pouring into the city. He motored past the Tower of London, into Limehouse and then down into the Isle of Dogs.

Finally, he turned into Cuba Street, drove to Anchorage Point, parked in his allocated underground bay and walked to his two-storey riverside apartment. He’d bought a nine hundred and ninety nine year lease on the exclusive property five years ago just after his divorce. Valerie hadn’t stayed with him long enough to enjoy the fruits of his nefarious talents. But then, he reflected sourly, they were the reason she’d walked out in the first place and taken Amanda with her. It had all been fairly amicable. She’d found someone else and agreed to reasonable access terms so he’d maintained regular contact with Amanda as she grew up. He liked to think they had a strong relationship now and had become friends not just father and daughter. He was seeing her tomorrow and was looking forward it. He usually took her somewhere nice but often they just chilled out in each other’s company, happy to be together.

Before cooking supper Chance had a little surfing to do. He checked out Hakone in Japan and found a mini industry that manufactured Himitsu-Bako: incredible puzzle boxes, some requiring nearly fifteen hundred minute adjustments of intricate panels to open. If Brogan needed to open his own box Chance surmised he’d have chosen a simpler model that required, maybe, fifty or sixty moves. Chance watched a video of one such designer opening a box and marvelled at the complexity of the process; how many tiny movements, often looking exactly the same, were required. So, this was the kind of box Brogan had used to keep something very secret, something that would be destroyed if the box was smashed open. Clever, or what?

The more Chance thought about it the more he wanted to open that box. That’s when he had the great idea. He sat on the sofa and made a call. The conversation lasted fifteen minutes. When he’d finished Chance looked satisfied.

He prepared a stir fry and opened a bottle of Sancerre. Before he started cooking he watered his house plants and then gave his patio Forsythia, Hostas and Busy Lizzies a good soaking. Fifteen minutes later he took his food and wine out onto the terrace and ate watching the river. He loved the sharp tang of the Thames. There was no smell like it anywhere, except perhaps the Liffey in Dublin where he was born and where he grew up until he was six. He could sometimes detect a faint whiff of the open sea especially when an urgent breeze was sent scuttering along from Gravesend. He listened to the rhythm of the river lapping quietly against the stone embankment as he finished his meal then poured another glass of wine.

In an oddly reflective mood he gazed across the river at the mangled urban cityscape of Surrey Docks and the hinterland of other undistinguished south London boroughs. His working class parents had settled not far from there with their only son to escape the poverty of Ireland at that time and build a new life for themselves. It was tough on the streets in those days and young Harry Chance had learned quickly to give as good as he got and a good deal more after he took up martial arts in his early teens winning championships and building a reputation. His father, a lifetime diabetic with endless complications, died young just before his son passed the examination and was accepted by a good Catholic grammar school. He would have been so proud, thought Chance, and shook his head to rid himself of the memory. As he poured another glass, he remembered the strict religious upbringing, the silent retreats, the confessions and communions, the evening services with the Franciscans, Jesuits and White Fathers. He wouldn’t have known what the word indoctrination meant at that age. But he did now.

Stop it, he instructed himself. Where did all that come from?

“It’s the bloody wine,” he muttered.

He raised his glass at the darkening river.

“Love you, Mandy. Sixteen, eh? I’ll see you soon, darlin’. And don’t go on at me about finding someone.”

He emptied the last of the bottle into his glass.

“I know you’re right. Course I bloody do.”