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Matt, I know as you are a delicate petal that I should warn you that this episode does contain some strong language. Oh dear. Why can't people express themselves without swearing? It's the big ones as well.
I've just been thinking this week about duos, partnerships, and how more often than not, they end up broken apart. They end up in hurt and pain and distrust. It's kind of sad. Yes, it is. When you think of some of the big partnerships, Lennon and McCartney, Blair and Brown, they start almost as romantic connections. They end up hating each other. I just don't understand how you could end up feeling like that about someone you'd enjoyed working with so much. I don't know. I feel like if you work with somebody long enough, you could really start to hate their guts.
You really stared through me then. Did I? Should we get on with it? Yeah. Tuesday, April 7th, 2015. Hatton Garden safe deposit, 9am. Detective Sergeant Jamie Day peels apart a pair of latex gloves and snaps them over his hands. Rounding a corner, he stops. Takes in the scene of complete devastation before him. Discarded tools litter the corridor. Puddles of water dot the floor and a thick layer of concrete dust blankets everything.
At the far end, he can see the massive vault door, untouched. Just beyond it, the dark opening of a hole. Scores of black lock boxes lie gathered in a heap. The planning that must have gone into a job like this is, for want of a better word, impressive. And considering the location, the losses could be enormous. Day is a senior member of the Met's elite flying squad, the fabled unit called in to bring down the UK's most wanted and most dangerous.
He watches as the forensics team completes their work, swabbing and dusting surfaces. An officer in a blue paper boiler suit approaches carrying a bottle of bleach. He removes his mask. The place is soaked in the stuff. Doubt we'll get any DNA from the scene. Day's heart sinks. Using bleach to destroy DNA evidence shows a level of sophistication he doesn't often encounter. He looks back at the crime scene. The proficiency of the work. His nostrils burn with the smell of bleach.
Off to the side, security guard Kelvin Stockwell stares at the debris in a daze. Tall and well built with a shaved head, he looks on the verge of tears. Day approaches. I've a few questions about what you found this morning, if you don't mind. Day steers the guard through into the interior courtyard. Twenty years I've worked here. I can't believe what they've done. I mean, I got a call from the alarm company on Thursday night, but... Day's pen hovers over his notepad. You mean the alarm triggered? Yes.
You knew about this on Thursday? Oh, mate. Stockwell looks at him with bewildered eyes. His voice falters. I drove down here at 1am, but it was secure front and back, so I went home. They said it was a false alarm. Day's pulse quickens. Who said it was a false alarm? The alarm company. They said the police told them no further action was necessary. Day gazes at the alarm on the wall, its front panel hanging open.
If the police did fail to respond, the press are going to have a field day. But the missed alarm call tells him something else. The police might have made a mistake, but so did the thieves. The alarm wasn't completely disabled. Despite all of the planning and precautions, they still slipped up. Day knows it's only a matter of time before they make another mistake. And he vows that next time, he'll be there to make sure they don't get away with it.
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Hey!
So Matt, they got away with it. Incredibly, they got away with it, despite all the things going against them, their age, their hips, their knees, constant diet of fish and chips that had them falling asleep. Despite the fact they failed the first time, they'll have to go back and finish the job. It's incredible. It really is. And they've got the jewellery, they've got the cash, they've got the precious gems. What would you do with all that money? I'd spend it on chips and chocolate. So Matt, they got away with it.
So essentially, before they'd even left the heist, they'd done all the stuff that you wanted to do. They were winners before they'd even got the diamonds, yeah. What would you do with the money? You know, you hear about those people who have won the lottery and they're like, do you know what though? I'm not going to quit my job. I still just want to go in every day. I'm not that person. And that is not just a reflection on this production. None taken. This does feel all a bit too good to be true though. Did they really get away with all the money? Oh, you're finally learning, Matt. This is episode three.
The Flying Squad.
Behind his sunglasses, his eyes dart around. Nothing suspicious about that? I mean, that's a classic shifty move, isn't it? All he needs is one of those combination briefcases. News of the safe deposit raid is in every paper and on every channel in the country.
Breathless pundits are hailing it as something out of a Hollywood movie. Or a top podcast. Reader chuckles as he remembers one article on how it must be the work of an Eastern European crime syndicate called the Pink Panthers. An efficient and organised crew of military-trained jewel thieves. It seems clear the police don't have any leads. But that doesn't stop him from feeling on edge. Eventually, Collins wheezes to a stop.
plonks himself down on the bench. His flushed face forces an apologetic smile. Reader takes a sip of coffee. I expected it from Perkins and those other dopes, but you... Collins squirms in his seat. It's nothing personal, Bri. I had to go back. I tried to say no. They offered me fish and chips. Reader's voice is scornful. Save me the sob story, Kenny. You're an ungrateful man. Always have been.
With irritation, Rita thinks of the work he's given Collins over the years. Jobs devised by him. You know I'm entitled to a share. Collins folds his arms. I can't just let you have it, Bri. Terry'll kill me. Rita's laugh is cold. Perkins? What does he know? Who's he going to sell the gear to? Those contacts are mine. A group of young women in shorts and skimpy tops pass by.
Reader thinks of his time spent on the run. The sandy beaches, dazed by the pool. What an old pervert. Sat there on the bench, leching at people. I love that he's master criminal till somebody's got their midriff out and then he's like...
As soon as he's got his money, he's heading back to Spain. Or maybe Chile. Somewhere hot, safe. See out the rest of his days in the sun. He turns to Collins. Perkins needs me to turn those jewels into cash. And for that, he'll have to pay. You tell him I want to see him. For a moment, they sit in silence. Collins stares ahead. He hesitates, then speaks. Fine, I'll tell him. But it was an open goal, Briyne.
We were right not to abandon it. Rita chuckles, his tone bitter. All of a sudden, everyone knows better. If the place was crawling with old Bill, we wouldn't have gone in. Rita sighs. But you didn't know that.
Oh, what an idiot. Now Collins laughs.
What an idiot. Firstly, you don't change the plan. Secondly, never return to the scene of the crime. And thirdly, in a city covered by cameras, don't take another vehicle that will be registered in your name. I mean, don't return to the scene of the crime is a phrase that we say as non-master criminals. That's well known. That's common parlance, everybody. Reader's head swims. He feels the floor falling away beneath him.
He knows Collins isn't the brightest, but Reader stands and scans the area. It's only a matter of time before the police come knocking. He moves away from the bench, heads towards the park's exit. Just tell Perkins I want to see him. Reader knows he doesn't have long, but races on to get his money. Then get as far away from London as possible. The same day, Flying Squad HQ, Putney.
Jamie Day reaches for the TV remote, turns up the volume. On Sky News, a large crowd is gathered outside 89-90 Hatton Garden. Journalists holding cameras and microphones form a tight ring around his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Paul Johnson.
Day winces as a reporter fires off his first question. Can you confirm that police came here on Friday morning and inspected the building inside or out? Johnson looks momentarily thrown. There have been a number of reports in the media of the alarm being activated and the police response. This will, of course, form part of the investigation. The unattended alarm call has been a point of embarrassment for the Met.
Day turns away from the TV and back to his computer. All morning he's been analysing grainy CCTV images of Hatton Garden during the bank holiday weekend. His eyes sting, and now his stomach is rumbling. Get some fish and chips, mate. It's two days into the investigation, and Day understands the enormity of his task. The pressure to find a lead is immense, and right now it's his case, his responsibility.
Whoever the crew is, they came prepared. As well as removing hard drives, storing CCTV footage from inside the building, they also destroyed the cameras. But luckily for Day, they made a crucial error. A camera next to the fire escape, belonging to a jeweller, captured their arrival. For hours, he's been watching the gang coming and going. He knows they came back twice. Once on Thursday, then again on Saturday, with two men missing.
But so far, the footage has yielded few clues as to their identity. The gang keep their masks on at all times. Day stands and stretches his legs. On TV, the news is now doing an item on pension reform. An old woman leans heavily on a cane. As she chats to the reporter, she struggles to catch her breath. Surely she's not involved. Like a light suddenly turning on, Day races back to his desk. He spools through tape until he finds what he's looking for.
This is amazing police work. With a rising excitement, Day realises why.
The man isn't just tired, he's old. He scrolls forward. Beneath the hat of another, a tuft of white hair is clearly visible. This isn't an Eastern European gang. This is a crew of old-timers. Men, he suspects, who likely know the safe deposit and the area well.
You know what's quite interesting about this is they've thought about this so much and they've got such a clear plan, but they never considered the fact that they were old would be a giveaway. They never thought, actually, don't lean on a bin if you're out of breath. Don't have grey hair poking out the back. I mean, I don't know whether they should have dyed their hair or worn wigs, but for people who consider everything, they didn't consider the one thing that really gave them away. Dalien's back and lets a smile spread across his face. He's just narrowed the field.
And now he knows exactly where to start looking. The gang may have a head start, but Day has energy and determination on his side. And it won't be long before he catches up with them. The next day, Edgeware, North London. Terry Perkins stirs a steaming mug of tea and tosses the teaspoon into the sink. He sits at the kitchen table, a copy of the Daily Mirror spread open before him.
I can't wait to hear these.
Basil, who's obscured by a hat over a red wig, is named Mr Ginger. So one of them did wear a wig. Next is Reader, dubbed The Gent because of his expensive shoes. As he reads his own nickname, Perkins feels a rush of indignation. Despite being eight years younger than Reader, he's being identified as the old man. Oh, what an insult. What would be worse, Mr Ugly? Minger.
Perkins throws the paper in the bin. He's not concerned about the photos. They don't give anything away. Right now, his main anxiety is the jewels. He's sitting on millions of pounds worth of loot. He wants to cash in, but without Brian's connections, he's working in the dark. Getting rid of stolen gems is a risky business. Without connections, the few dealers willing to trade in illicit stones will take advantage of his situation, pay only a fraction of their value.
This is the most perilous bit because they've done the heist, which is one job, but now they're trying to sell diamonds at a time when a massive diamond robbery is in the news. Yeah, and in my mind, they're millionaires, but you're not until you sell them. It's a burden until you've shifted it all. As he runs through his options, the doorbell rings.
Yep. Yep.
Since meeting Rita at Greenwich, Perkins has been dodging Rita's calls. He enjoys the feeling of power, but he also knows Rita is now his safest ticket to shifting the gear. Perkins returns to his seat while Collins hovers in the doorway. What did His Highness say then? Collins shuffles uncomfortably. He said he wants to see you. Make peace. He wants to help out with the jewels.
Perkins sloshes his tea around the mug. If the paper is calling it a £60 million job, then some of these jewels must be worth a fortune, and Reader will know which. Plus, the chance for Perkins to rub his success in Reader's face is too tempting to ignore. Perkins turns to Collins. "'Tell him I'll meet him. But he's got to understand this is my job now. I call the shots.'
Perkins knows it's risky. With the police under pressure to catch them, they should be sticking to the plan. But he's got this far by trusting his instincts. And if he wants the rewards of his hard work to pay off, he knows Rita is his best shot. Wednesday, April 15th, 2015. Clerkenwell, London. Jamie Day clambers behind the wheel of his car and pulls out into Hatton Garden. He heaves a sigh.
For the last few hours, he's been interviewing people whose property was stolen during the heist. Day hoped it would be a welcome break from trawling through CCTV. But the stream of anxious faces heartbroken by the loss of precious items caught him off guard.
Oh no. Oh no.
Oh man, these are normal people. Yeah, it's easy to think that the people that they were stealing from, because it's diamond Rolexes and tiaras and gold bars and rubies, that these are all princes and billionaires living in mansions. But at
actually it's, for some people, like we heard, letters and, you know, precious things that are heirlooms rather than riches. And I bet the gang justified it to themselves, as so many criminals do, by saying, oh, well, it's a victimless crime. They're either rich people or they'll be insured. Well, guess what? They're not. Since Day's breakthrough, when he found out the gang were most likely pensioners, progress has been slow. That's pensioners for you. LAUGHTER
As he approaches the junction at Clerkenwell Road, his phone rings. It's his colleague back at HQ. We've got a lead for the CCTV, Sarge. A camera on Greville Street caught two men in high-vis jackets prior to the second visit on Saturday. Looks like it might have been a recce. They were getting into a white Mercedes E200. Collins! Day feels a jolt of adrenaline.
Day feels his spirits lift. Day curses under his breath.
His colleague continues. But we checked the local traffic cameras and it disappeared into an estate in Hoxton, just two miles from Hatton Garden. Day's smile returns. He turns right at the lights. If that car is still on the estate, he's going to find it. Heading there now. Minutes later, Day is walking round a warren of streets peppered with high-rise flats and small terraces. Cars line the road, some obscured by private yards. He cuts through an alleyway.
On Bledsoe Walk, he stops. A white Mercedes sits outside number 75. Day checks the description his colleague sent him. A white Mercedes E200 with a black roof and black wheels. Jackpot. He looks again. It fits the description perfectly. As he approaches the car, he hears the sound of a front door opening. Day ducks down out of view, tries to control his breathing.
A figure appears, stout, with unkempt grey hair and tinted glasses. Elderly. The man opens the door of the Mercedes. A white staffie leaps in. As the car pulls away, Day's heart thumps. After days of floundering in the dark, he thinks he's got his man. Back at the office, Day asks for a background check on the occupants of 75 Bledsoe Walk.
An hour later, he gets a call. The name on the deeds is John Collins. According to his rap sheet, he's a career criminal. He's served 10 custodial sentences. His last conviction was in 1987 for robbery, known to his friends as Kenny. Day silently punches the air. I want a full surveillance team assigned to him. Get me taps on the landline and mobile. Day hangs up the phone.
He knows he's found his mark. Now, he just has to wait for Kenny to lead him to the rest of the gang. Very slowly, with a walking stick. A couple of weeks later, the castle pub, Angel. Perkins wipes his wet hands on his trousers as he exits the pub toilet. Amen, brother. Across the bar, he can see Collins and Reader chatting animatedly. So far, the meeting has gone well.
There's no sign of Reader's usual snootiness. He's been getting the rounds in all afternoon. Perkins is even prepared to cut Reader back in, providing he gets them a good price for the jewels. Returning to his seat, Perkins sips his fresh pint. Collins is describing the moment the cabinet inside the vault finally toppled over. Reader looks rapt.
"'Ain't that right, Sal? The thing comes down with an almighty whoomp, and then we're in.' Perkins chuckles. "'How would you know? You're across the road getting your beauty sleep.' Three of them laugh, but Perkins knows he's taken the wind out of Collins' sails. Still, this is his moment. He should be getting the glory. He leans back in his seat. "'I always knew we could do it. With a little perseverance. That's all it needed.' He doesn't need to look. He can feel Rita bristle.
The older man swigs from his pint, clears his throat. His voice is suddenly harder. Well, yeah, and someone with brains to come up with the plan. Perkins narrows his eyes. He turns to face Reader. But you were ready to walk away, Brian. Good job for you. I was there. He holds his gaze, neither man speaking.
Perkins feels a surge of confidence ripple through him. No one can contradict him now. Not with the treasure he's got stashed at home to back him up. Collins clears his throat, breaking the tension. Terry, Brian says his jewellery contact is ready and waiting to have a look at the stuff, if you'd like. Perkins sits up tall in his seat. Is that right? Turning to face Reader again, he notices a cloud has descended on the other man's face.
It's as if a shutter has come down. His eyes are darker somehow. His mind elsewhere. For a second, he doesn't answer. He's looking across the bar, out the window at the traffic on Pentonville Road. When he speaks, his voice sounds far off. The thing about diamonds is that to the untrained eye, they all look the same. But those who know, a real expert, can spot a fake a mile off. Now he turns to face Perkins.
I've known it since the first day I set my eyes on you. You're a cheap knockoff, Terry. Trying to pass yourself off as the real deal. For a second, Perkins feels dizzy. He tries to formulate a sentence, but the intensity of Reader's stare pins him to the spot. Silent. Reader gets to his feet. He leers over Perkins, his finger poised in the air. I came here to bury the hatchet. Thought we could work together.
Perkins searches his brain for something to steady himself. Brian, look. But his words are barely audible. Reeder's nostrils flare as he delivers the parting blow. Nothing is worth having to put up with your tin-pot bullshit. You're a waste of time, Terry. Perkins watches in silence as Reeder turns and stalks across the bar. He feels an impotent rage flood his body, but can't find his tongue.
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The same day, outside the castle pub, Angel. Across the street, in an unmarked police van, Day watches as an elderly man storms out of the castle. His face is puce, steps determined. Day rattles off a series of photos on a long lens. Through the pub window, he can see Perkins and Collins sitting at a table. He knows who they are, but who's the mystery man?
An angry grimace is contorted on Perkins' face. Snarled words appear to fly from his mouth. Day dispatches a mobile unit to follow the unknown man, emails the pictures back to HQ for identification. Something significant has taken place, and his instinct is telling him it's connected. After weeks of waiting, the investigation is starting to bear fruit.
With Collins' phones tapped, it wasn't long before he led them to the others. Can you imagine? His was the best phone to tap. Hi, Terry, it's Collins. I'm just ringing about the diamond heart. First up was Terry Perkins. They followed him right to his doorstep. Like Collins, he has a long and established criminal history.
Next, Day's squad were able to place Collins' distinctive white Mercedes outside Machine Mart in Twickenham during the bank holiday. Inquiries uncovered the sale of a Clark 10-tonne pump, the same kind the thieves used to knock down the cabinet. The shop's records showed the pump was bought by a V. Jones of Park Avenue, Enfield, the real name and address of Danny Jones' wife, Valerie.
Great job he's got, isn't it? And they say police works hard. I had to get shit-faced and watch the FA Cup final for work. But the case was closed three years ago.
From the corner of his eye, Day watches Perkins gesticulating angrily. He tries to read his lips, thinks he can make out some words. Suddenly, Perkins turns to face him. For a second, they lock eyes. Day quickly resumes looking at the TV. He watches a player line up to take a free kick. Just as he's about to strike the ball, a figure darkens the screen. Day barely has time to move out of the way as Perkins lumbers into view, drink in hand.
As he passes, he knocks into Day, sending a splash of Guinness onto his jacket. For a second, there's silence. Perkins' eyes are full of fury. Oi, you dozy pillock. Sorry, mate, I was miles away. Before Perkins can speak, Collins is at his elbow, ushering him to the door. Day watches them pass the large windows and disappear. He knows his units will be on them. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he reads a message from HQ.
Unknown man identified as Brian Reader. The name stirs something in the recesses of Day's brain, but he can't put his finger on it. He dials the station. His colleague sounds stunned. Sarge, we've a file on Brian Reader, two foot thick. Not small jobs either. Brinks mat with Kenneth Noy. This guy's a major player. Something clicks in Day's mind. That Brian Reader, the brain behind major jewel heists going back 40 years...
Day realizes he's found his ringleader. Back at the office, Day leaves through the file. In a telling parallel, Rita was linked to a 1971 robbery of a Baker Street bank.
Using a bank holiday as cover, a gang tunnelled into the vault from the basement of an empty shop next door. And as with Hatton Garden, police were called to the scene but left after seeing no sign of a break-in. Can't help but feeling that if bank holidays didn't exist, there'd be no diamond robberies. Is it a bank holiday or a bank robbery day? Standing in front of the operations bulletin board, David Hatton,
Day looks at his collection of surveillance photos, names, addresses and rap sheets. It may have been a slow start, but his patience and thoroughness is paying off. He picks up a photo of Rita. With a drawing pin, he fixes it in place at the top of the board. I love that they actually do that. I know. And when they have the strings between. Below it, a youthful Terry Perkins glares back from a 40-year-old mugshot.
Day suspects what he witnessed today was a power struggle within the gang. He knows a destabilised crew is more likely to get sloppy, make mistakes, and the flying squad will take full advantage of it. But Day knows first they need to catch them with the loot. A couple of weeks later, May 15th, 2015, Enfield, North London. Terry Perkins blasts the horn and sticks his hand out of the open window.
Oi, you mug! Get off the fucking road! No excuse for road rage. Sorry, that wasn't in the script. Beside him in the passenger seat, Jones doesn't break from his tirade. I mean, he was a thief 40 years ago, but he's passed his sell-by date. You were right to cut him out, Tel. I hope he fucking suffers. Perkins steers his blue Citroen Saxo along Southbury Road. He watches as the restaurants and tattoo parlours slide by, but his mind is elsewhere.
For him to talk to me like that? I gave him a chance. Fucking wanker. As he grips the steering wheel, Perkins pushes Rita from his mind. He knows he should be feeling good. The media's declining interest in the burglary has kept it out of the papers lately. The general feeling is that it was an inside job. The loot already spirited out of the country. They've gotten away with it. Perkins relaxes his shoulders, allows a grin to form.
The biggest robbery in the fucking world, Dan. We was on it. Jones cackles and claps his hands. The biggest cash robbery in history. What a book we could write. Yeah, but that would involve giving away your identity, you fool. Perkins turns up the radio, feels the warm breeze coming through the open window. But despite himself, his thoughts keep returning to Reader and Collins.
He still doesn't have a buyer for the jewels. And he doesn't trust Reader not to manipulate Collins into giving him a share. How would you even be able to relax and celebrate if you haven't got any of the money yet? Exactly, it's all hypothetical. And actually, not just hypothetical, you're holding on to a lot of evidence. Perkins turns down the music. I don't trust Kenny with the loot. He's a wombat thick old prick. I mean, that's a great insult and I'm definitely going to use it at some point in the future. It's not the first time I've said it. No.
Jones replies, he's getting money for nothing. He just sat up there and fell asleep. Perkins feels his mood darken. I'm beginning to hate a lot of them. And if Basil wants a share, he's going to have to come and get it. Jones lowers the window. You've got to treat everyone as the enemy. I think that's really bad life advice. You'll end up on your own and miserable. Perkins feels a wave of irritation wash over him.
He's supposed to be the governor, but everyone's out for himself. He thinks about his pension and the houses he's promised his girls. He pumps the brake and pulls the car to the side of the road. I want to bring this to an end. I can't have it hanging over me. Jones looks surprised. We agreed six months. We'll lie low till then. Perkins feels his anger boil over. I don't care what I said. I'm telling you now. We do the rest of the cut up next week.
My Terry's off to Portugal on Sunday. We'll do it at hers next Tuesday. And it's finished. Over. He revs the engine and pulls out into the road. He's learnt from experience that if you want something, you have to take it. This time, he's not going to let his money slip through his fingers. Tuesday, May the 19th, 2015. Stirling Road, Enfield. Perkins tilts an emerald brooch towards the light and brings it close to his jeweller's monocle.
The deep green stone shimmers and casts a glow across his stubby fingers. As he tucks it back into his pocket, he looks at the clock. Collins and Jones should be on their way over by now. After weeks of uncertainty, Perkins feels like he's finally back in control. Once he's got his share, he can start building the life he's dreamed of.
A tingle runs down his spine. He's outmanoeuvred Reader and outwitted the police. All he had to do was believe in himself. He's an inspiration. It does feel like one of those quotes on Instagram, doesn't it? In the living room, he moves a coffee table to clear a space, pushes an armchair to the side, then the doorbell rings. Jones and Collins stagger into the house under the weight of several large holdalls. Perkins ushers them into the front room.
Careful with those bags on the walls. This is my daughter's place. Hasn't he got that the wrong way around? Shouldn't he be worried about them being careful with the diamonds rather than worried about the walls? Yeah, exactly. I also love the idea that he's like, it's a shoes-off house. As before, they tip the contents of the bags onto the carpet, begin sifting through the slew of pieces, pouches, boxes and bags. Ten minutes later, Perkins takes in a sea of jewels laid out in front of him. He eyes the gleaming ornaments greedily. There must be several million pounds worth, or more.
From the corner of his eye, he spots a dark shape outside the window. If it's one of his daughter's friends, he's going to have to send them packing. He rises to his knees, braces for the doorbell.
Instead, a sickening thud echoes down the hallway. Then, a tirade of screaming voices. Please don't move! Get on the floor! Before he can react, Perkins feels hands pushing him down. The sharp edges of jewellery press in his face. Lol, where are your scars from? Lying on diamonds. An endless procession of boots march past his eyes. Through the patio doors, he can see Jones's back disappearing into the bushes.
Seconds later, he reappears, hands behind his back. A police officer in a riot helmet pushing him forward. Now hands haul him to his feet. A 20-pound note is stuck to the side of his face, obscuring his vision. When it falls, Perkins sees a photo on the mantelpiece. It's his daughter, Terry, with her husband and kids. At 67 and in poor health, Perkins feels a sudden weight on his chest.
He realises it's less a case of when than if they'll ever see them again. Outside, the street is swarming with police. He's bundled into the back of a car. As he watches the familiar streets of Enfield pass by in a blur, he recalls something Jones said to him. What a book you could write. He's taken part in one of the biggest robberies in UK history.
He's stolen more than most people could earn in 10 lifetimes. But what has he got to show for it? If he was to write a book about his life, it would be a bloody tragedy. Yes, but I would buy it at the airport.
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A year later, March 9th, 2016. Woolwich Crown Court, London. Perkins glances around the courtroom nervously. Weak lights reflect off the drab wood panelling.
After 10 months in custody, he's readjusted to the dispiriting atmosphere of correctional facilities. After being charged, Perkins and the others were sent to Belmarsh, the notorious high-security prison known by inmates as Hellmarsh.
Although no stranger to life inside, the maximum security unit, a prison within a prison, proved a shock to Perkins. Crumbling tiny cells, ancient showers, rubbing shoulders with notorious murderers such as cop killer David Bieber. And, if it had been there a few years earlier, Lord Geoffrey Archer. Of course! Great throw to our other series. Thank you, Matthew. For three weeks, he and Reader were kept together.
Rita studiously avoided him until Perkins couldn't take it any longer. Do you think you're better than me or something? Rita levelled his cold blue eyes at Perkins, the fire and intensity they once held long gone. In a weak voice, he replied, I'm the fool forever trusting you. As he walked away, Perkins felt a knot form in his stomach. A few days later, they were moved to different parts of the prison.
Perkins looks over to the public gallery where his family is gathered. His daughter Terry waves to him. Hi, Dad. Rooting for you. Perkins smiles back, but inside, he's worried about the sentencing. He doesn't think he can handle much more time in prison. He hopes that after pleading guilty, the judge will go easy on them.
The room falls silent as Judge Christopher Kinch reads his closing remarks. The burglary of the Haddon Garden Safety Deposit Vault in April 2015 has been labelled by many as the biggest burglary in English legal history. Whether that assertion is capable of proof, I do not know.
It's clear that the burglary at the heart of this case stands in a class of its own in scale of ambition, detail of planning, level of preparation, the organisation of the team to carry it out and in terms of the value of the property stolen. This all sounds like a compliment. Yes. I feel like Judge Kinch is like, can I just say, done with aplomb. Well done, boys.
Despite the tenor of the judge's voice, Perkins feels a swelling of pride. I'm not surprised. Should have cut in. Yeah, and actually, it took us years to plan, Your Honour. Yeah, yeah, thank you for saying that. Meticulously. I've been telling her this. She never listens. The judge then lists their sentences. Terence Perkins, you were a ringleader and a party to meetings both before and after the offence. The sentence in your case...
is seven years imprisonment. Ooh. Perkins drops his eyes. A bubble of despair rises up through his body as the bailiff attaches his handcuffs and takes him from the dock. Back in Belmarsh, Perkins and Jones are led back to their wing by a guard. Jones is jubilant. Seven years ain't bad, tell. We'll be out in three after time served. And when we get out, I've got an idea. Collins also received a seven-year term and Carl Wood, six.
Perkins heard that Reader is at death's door following a stroke and too ill to be sentenced. As they walk out into the wreck area, cheers erupt. A group of young inmates who've been following the case approach. So how much you two fellas got stashed away still? They clap them on the shoulders. Perkins once again feels a stirring of pride. The two men sit down. Jones cracks a smile. The biggest robbery in the fucking world. Yeah, and you got caught. Yeah.
Perkins looks at the TV, where a report of the robbery is playing. He smiles to himself. He may not be a criminal mastermind, but at least he'll be remembered. Three years later, March 27, 2018. The Mersey estate is Linton. 7.30 a.m.
Bloody neighbours. There's no sound coming from inside.
but his surveillance team has confirmed the target is home. The raid is the culmination of almost three years of careful surveillance work by the Flying Squad. Once again, it was a meeting between Collins and an unknown man that gave them their lead. Collins, every single time. He's the absolute weakest link.
Quickly, Day realised their target behaved as though he was under surveillance, changing his clothes in shops to lose tails, waiting at bus stops to see if anyone was following him. But by the end of the year, they had a name and an address. 58-year-old Michael John Seed, the son of a Cambridge academic. What? You might know him by a different name. With no visible means of income, no phone, no car or bank account, Seed practically lived off-grid.
But surveillance footage showed both Seed and the gang's alarm expert shared a distinctive walk. Day was certain he was the elusive sixth man. Oh my god, it's Basil! Day moves to the side. An officer with a battering ram positions himself in front of the door. As the officer swings the ram, Day takes a deep breath. He knows this search warrant is the last roll of the dice.
If there's nothing to connect Seed to the robbery, he'll be bailed. The door booms open and Day follows a tide of bodies flooding into the flat. In the bedroom, Seed looks terrified. He pulls his duvet around him as officers yank him from his bed. I hate it when people pull the duvet off you when you're cold.
Yeah, that's the worst part of his day. Day scans the room. On a desk, he spots an electric gold smelter. On a workbench, piles of jewellery are being disassembled. A colleague calls him over. An officer in gloves unravels a plastic bag to reveal two smooth gold bars with assay numbers imprinted on the front. Day turns to Seed. What are the chances these numbers match those taken out of Hatton Garden safe deposit in 2015?
Back at headquarters, Day reads an assessment of the loot found in Seed's flat.
993 pieces in total, valued at around £143,000. Combined with what was recovered from Perkins, Jones and Collins, police have retrieved just £4.5 million of an estimated £14 million haul. Just over a third of the loot in almost three years. Day closes the file in front of him. The audacity of the robbery has secured its place in British criminal history.
A plucky heist by an aging crew. But for Day and his team, the hunt will continue. He knows out there somewhere is the rest of the cash. And he makes a vow to himself he won't rest until each and every one of the victims has got their money back. July the 7th, 2019, Belmarsh Prison. Brian Reader struggles to open his eyes. He can hear the beeping of an alarm.
He knows he needs to deactivate it, but the light is too bright and he's too disorientated. Then he feels hands on him. He struggles to break free but can't move. Something is pinning him down. Eventually, his eyes adjust to the light. A figure is looming over him. Tears in her eyes. It's his daughter, Joanne. She smooths down his hair and kisses him on the cheek. Rita looks around.
The alarm is still beeping, but it's attached by wires to his chest. A nurse approaches his bedside. You've had a stroke, Mr. Reader, caused by a fall. Reader's head feels tight. He tries to bring his hand up to touch where it hurts, but it's yanked back. A heavy silver chain around his wrist is handcuffed to the bed frame.
With a jolt, Reader sits up in his bed. It's dark and he's alone. The dream felt so real. Oh man, I thought that was real. He checks his watch. Almost 4am. In six hours, he'll walk out of Belmarsh and rejoin his family. Now aged 79, he feels a decade older. His mind runs through the events of the last four years.
Police officers flooding his house. In custody, he declined to answer questions. But when they produced the scarf he was wearing in the CCTV footage, he realised the game was up. He remembers the headlines. The son called his crew the Diamond Wheezers. That is good. The country shocked that a gang of pensioners pulled off the biggest robbery in UK history. Just after 10am, a cold wind whips through the gates of Belmarsh Prison.
Rita has tears in his eyes as a guard guides his wheelchair towards a group of his waiting family. After serving three and a half years of his seven-year term, Rita is thrilled to be out. But a judge has ruled if he doesn't pay back £6.5 million from the raid, he could face another seven-year sentence. As he's driven away from the prison by his son Paul, Rita stares out of the window, his legacy in ruins.
The thought of being a master burglar seems risible, pathetic even. Doctors have told him he doesn't have long left. Two strokes have left him blind in one eye and going deaf. He also has prostate cancer. A year earlier, Reader was shocked to learn Perkins had been found dead in his cell from a heart attack. The news put their feud into perspective. The futility of the whole enterprise is undeniable. He sees the streets become more familiar as he gets closer to home.
He thinks of all those years ago, their life in Spain. The hot sun roasting his skin. Cold beers and beautiful women. He was happy then. His family were happy. He hates the part of himself that decided to go back to London to chase hidden treasure. He never wants to go back to prison. He's old and scared of dying alone. Then and there, he vows this time he really will live a changed life.
Brian Reader is never going back to a life of crime. Unless... This is the third episode in our series, The Hatton Garden Heist. A quick note about our dialogue.
In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read One Last Job by Tom Pettifor and Nick Summerland, or The Last Job by Dan Bilefsky. I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. Jack McKay wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our sound design is by Rich Evans. Script editing by James Magniac.
Our associate producer is Francesca Gelardi-Cradrio-Corzio. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes. Our executive producers are Jenny Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.
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