The Bank Job
Martine Love: I know you, Terry. And I know your mates. You've always been looking for the big score. The one that makes sense of everything. I have it for you.
Terry Leather: What?
Martine Love: A bank.
Terry Leather: A bank, as in rob? How would you know about a bank?
Martine Love: I've been seeing this guy, runs his own business - security systems. Next month they're installing new alarms in a bank in Marylebone. Seems like the trains have been setting off the tremble alarms in the vault, and so they've had to turn them off. So for a week or so, they won't have any.
Terry Leather: Now why would he tell you all this?
Martine Love: We were having a laugh about it. Imagine if half the villains in London knew about this, he said. And I thought, I know half the villains in London. I grew up with some of them.
Terry Leather: Radio's in the bag. Binoc's as well. There's a bed set at the top floor of this building. Pay for the week. The ladder will get you to the roof. You're in from Liverpool, looking for work.
Eddie Burton: I don't have a Liverpool accent.
Terry Leather: Then don't talk to anyone, Eddie.
Terry Leather: So, you're getting married tomorrow Ingrid?
Ingrid Burton: I hope so.
Terry Leather: Go on, get off home, go make yourself more beautiful than you already are... if that's possible.
Terry Leather: [on radio] We can smell the money, over.
Eddie Burton: [on radio] Look, money may be your god but it ain't mine, alright? I want a warm bath and a cup of tea, over.
Terry Leather: [to Martine, who's looking through newspapers] What, we don't make a mention? Strike you as strange?
Martine Love: It's kind of scary, actually. If that news could disappear, so could we.
Terry Leather: There's another problem. This robbery's pissed off some local villains.
Tim Everett: The guts come with the glory, eh?
Terry Leather: One of our mates has been killed.
Tim Everett: Hardly surprising considering the roster of reprobates that are the safe deposit box customers. Listen Terry, our commitment is for the recovery of the royal portraits only. The proceeds and the piss-offs are both yours to deal with.
Terry Leather: These people aren't regular cozzers, Martine. They're above that. They do things coppers can't. They think we've seen these photos, and we're expendable as dog shit.
Terry Leather: This is The Major. Major Guy Singer. Final member of our team.
Bambas: I don't know this man. Who are you?
Guy Singer: None of your business.
Terry Leather: No secrets around here. Major's a con artist, usually elderly widows.
Guy Singer: There's no need to bring that up.
Terry Leather: Why'd you pick Kev and me? You could've found better thieves.
Martine Love: Old times sake.
Miles Urquart: Might it not be prudent to get the committee to consider issuing a D-notice, to protect everyone potentially embarrassed by this criminal activity?
Philip Lisle: Which we instigated?