The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) by Mark Dawson Page B
Authors: Mark Dawson
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the general said. “On the left.”
The London Vault Company was just to the north of the junction of Hatton Garden and Greville Street. It had jewellers’ businesses on either side of it. Hicks followed Higgins’s directions and parked the car in a space on the other side of the road.
“Wait here. I won’t be long.”
“Yes, sir.”
The general opened his case and put the envelope that Leo Isaacs had given him inside. Hicks glanced across and saw that the case was full of money. He saw it only briefly, turning away as the general looked up at him, but he saw the neat rows of banknotes. The money was from last night, Hicks guessed. The money that they had taken from Öztürk.
The general closed the case, stepped outside and crossed the road. Hicks watched as he went through the plain double doors that were evidently the main way to get inside the business. The London Vault Company. He took out his phone, navigated to Google and searched for information. The business had a website, and Hicks flicked through the pages. It had been established sixty years earlier and offered safe deposit boxes to clients who wanted to store valuable items. It had a variety of different-sized boxes, together with walk-in safes, and the copy declared proudly that the vault had never been breached and was considered to be impregnable.
It must be where the general kept his wealth.
Hicks switched on the radio. He found that his mind was racing, and he wanted to distract himself from the thoughts that were starting to develop.
Higgins came out after fifteen minutes. He crossed the road and slipped into the back of the car.
“Where to, sir?”
“Euston station.”
He put the car into first and pulled out. He took Gray’s Inn Road and started to the west. The satnav suggested that the drive would take twenty minutes if the traffic was kind.
Hicks watched in the mirror as the general reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a bundle of notes. He reached forward and dropped the bundle onto the passenger seat.
“What’s that for?”
“You have kids, don’t you?”
The reference to his children made his skin prickle. “Yes, sir. Two boys.”
“You’ll get your cut from last night soon. This is an advance. Treat them. Treat your wife. You’re not going to be going home until we’ve fixed this mess.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Nine
MILTON SLEPT UNTIL MIDDAY and, finding he was still a little sluggish, allowed himself an extra hour in bed. He woke again before one, got up and dressed for a run. The streets outside were wet, and, although the rain had stopped, another thick black cloudbank had collected over the city with the promise of another downpour.
Milton set off. He had always been a runner. It was his favourite exercise, an hour or so when he could switch off his consciousness and relax into the cadence of his stride, the sound of his shoes as they slapped against the pavement. Outside of the meetings, running was the best form of meditation that he had ever found.
He ran for an hour, east along the Old Bethnal Green Road until he could break into the open green spaces of Victoria Park. He ran hard, circling the large old boating lake with the fountain in the middle, then the café that served as a shelter for locals who had nowhere else to go. He kept running, all the way to the derelict bandstand, and then turned and started for home.
He ran back to the flat, showered and shaved, and dressed in a pair of jeans and a black sweatshirt. He looked around his little place. There was a lounge just big enough for a second-hand sofa and a table and chair. He had purchased the furniture from a charity that recycled pieces and sold them to those on low incomes. There was a tiny kitchen that was little more than a cupboard and a bathroom and a single bedroom. Milton had very little in the way of possessions. He had his well-thumbed copy of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous , a phone and a set of Bluetooth speakers
The London Vault Company was just to the north of the junction of Hatton Garden and Greville Street. It had jewellers’ businesses on either side of it. Hicks followed Higgins’s directions and parked the car in a space on the other side of the road.
“Wait here. I won’t be long.”
“Yes, sir.”
The general opened his case and put the envelope that Leo Isaacs had given him inside. Hicks glanced across and saw that the case was full of money. He saw it only briefly, turning away as the general looked up at him, but he saw the neat rows of banknotes. The money was from last night, Hicks guessed. The money that they had taken from Öztürk.
The general closed the case, stepped outside and crossed the road. Hicks watched as he went through the plain double doors that were evidently the main way to get inside the business. The London Vault Company. He took out his phone, navigated to Google and searched for information. The business had a website, and Hicks flicked through the pages. It had been established sixty years earlier and offered safe deposit boxes to clients who wanted to store valuable items. It had a variety of different-sized boxes, together with walk-in safes, and the copy declared proudly that the vault had never been breached and was considered to be impregnable.
It must be where the general kept his wealth.
Hicks switched on the radio. He found that his mind was racing, and he wanted to distract himself from the thoughts that were starting to develop.
Higgins came out after fifteen minutes. He crossed the road and slipped into the back of the car.
“Where to, sir?”
“Euston station.”
He put the car into first and pulled out. He took Gray’s Inn Road and started to the west. The satnav suggested that the drive would take twenty minutes if the traffic was kind.
Hicks watched in the mirror as the general reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a bundle of notes. He reached forward and dropped the bundle onto the passenger seat.
“What’s that for?”
“You have kids, don’t you?”
The reference to his children made his skin prickle. “Yes, sir. Two boys.”
“You’ll get your cut from last night soon. This is an advance. Treat them. Treat your wife. You’re not going to be going home until we’ve fixed this mess.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Nine
MILTON SLEPT UNTIL MIDDAY and, finding he was still a little sluggish, allowed himself an extra hour in bed. He woke again before one, got up and dressed for a run. The streets outside were wet, and, although the rain had stopped, another thick black cloudbank had collected over the city with the promise of another downpour.
Milton set off. He had always been a runner. It was his favourite exercise, an hour or so when he could switch off his consciousness and relax into the cadence of his stride, the sound of his shoes as they slapped against the pavement. Outside of the meetings, running was the best form of meditation that he had ever found.
He ran for an hour, east along the Old Bethnal Green Road until he could break into the open green spaces of Victoria Park. He ran hard, circling the large old boating lake with the fountain in the middle, then the café that served as a shelter for locals who had nowhere else to go. He kept running, all the way to the derelict bandstand, and then turned and started for home.
He ran back to the flat, showered and shaved, and dressed in a pair of jeans and a black sweatshirt. He looked around his little place. There was a lounge just big enough for a second-hand sofa and a table and chair. He had purchased the furniture from a charity that recycled pieces and sold them to those on low incomes. There was a tiny kitchen that was little more than a cupboard and a bathroom and a single bedroom. Milton had very little in the way of possessions. He had his well-thumbed copy of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous , a phone and a set of Bluetooth speakers
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