by John Richie

The raid had gone like clockwork. Into the jewellers, grab the Tom and into the motor while people were still rubbing their eyes.

‘Are those guns real?’

‘Come any closer and you’ll find out.’

Even the Filth were right on schedule, but ducked behind their car when they saw the Uzi.

Chalky took the Jag through Seven Dials like Jensen Button with a wasp up his arse and we went round the first left-hander sideways. There was a fork-lift loaded with fruit coming the other way and we nudged it as we went past. Next thing the road is knee-deep in Granny Smiths.

Well, the two Noddys in the Patrol car coming after us ploughed into that lot and slid straight into this big Merc. We had a good laugh at that. German shite. Nipping through the back doubles, while watching out for the Sweeney, brought us out behind Covent Garden Opera House where we had spare motors stashed in the underground car-park.

We was getting out of the overalls and caps as we went down the ramp so it didn’t take a minute before we was driving out again in two Vauxhall Astras. We just had time to clock the Filth blocking the road before our tyres went.

‘Very ingenious, Harry.’ D.I. Skinner grinned at me. ‘Apples with stinger spikes in ‘em. Trouble is, they weigh too much. You should have had just one layer in each box. One of our Noddys got suspicious this morning when he saw your mate Charlie Barnes struggling to load your fork-lift booby-trap. So we nicked Charlie, and Charlie bubbled you. You see what happens, Harry, when you rely on rotten apples.’

John Ritchie only writes when the spirit takes him and shakes him till his teeth rattle. John has whiplash and is afraid of ghosts.