by Nick Oldham
The Last Big Job
By Nick Oldham
Published by Nick Oldham at Smashwords
Copyright 1999 Nick Oldham
Smashwords Edition License Statement
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously
Cover photography/design: Belinda Cookson
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To Steve Bromilow for giving me an insight into the world of the undercover cop.
To Alan Shepherd and Nick Berry for putting up with my questions about firearms - and willingly sharing their vast knowledge with me.
To Chris Eccles: thank you for the music, the guitar bashes and the real ale.
To Robin Howard: thanks for accompanying me to the beaches. It was an unforgettable experience.
About the Author
Nick Oldham is the author of the ‘Henry Christie’ series of crime novels set in the northwest of England. He was born in April 1956 in a house in the tiny village of Belthorn – mums were very hardy in those days – up on the moors high above Blackburn, Lancashire. After leaving college then spending a depressing year in a bank, he joined Lancashire Constabulary at the age of nineteen in 1975 and served in many operational postings around the county. Most of his service was spent in uniform, but the final ten years were spent as a trainer and a manager in police training. He retired in 2005 at the rank of inspector.
He lives with his partner, Belinda, on the outskirts of Preston.
THE LAST BIG JOB is the fourth of Nick Oldham’s gritty, fast paced, highly acclaimed and well reviewed thrillers set in the northwest of England, featuring Henry Christie and is now available for the first time in e-format.
For more information about Nick and his books visit www.nickoldham.net or ‘Nick Oldham Books’ on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nick-Oldham-Books/134265683315905
THE LAST BIG JOB
An ex-KGB hit-man out to kill ... a caged lion with a taste for human flesh ... a careless drugs courier ... a vindictive ex-con ... a cop with ambition, whatever the cost ... a heist worth millions ... a terrifying encounter with a Black and Decker workmate ... and Henry Christie trying to hold his life together...
Blackburn on a Friday night at the beginning of summer is always a policing headache. But for the officers of Blackburn police station it’s about to become a nightmare.
When three police cars explode in quick succession in the station car park, it seems as if a spectacular terrorist campaign is underway. But as Blackburn’s finest get ready to do battle with the IRA, the real action is going down elsewhere – a building society heist that is about to go badly wrong and which will have consequences for the whole force.
Consequences which will ultimately involve an ex-KGB hit-man, an undercover cop in danger from his own side as much as the villains he’s trying to nail, and a spectacular attempt to relieve the Royal Mint of £50m.
THE LAST BIG JOB is Nick Oldham’s tough and authentic story of the men and women who put their lives on the line in the course of duty.
PRAISE FOR NICK OLDHAM
‘Gritty and Precise’ – The Times
‘Chilling authenticity ... a gripping tale’ – Manchester Evening News
‘Like everything good in life, a fast-paced, old fashioned shoot ‘em up is hard to find. Fortunately we have Oldham’s latest novel to remind us what it’s all about’ – Publisher’s Weekly
‘Oldham, a real-life copper, offers a story full of dark menace, gritty realism ... add head spinning action and surprising plot-twists and the result is a gripping, gut-wrenching thriller’ - Booklist
Also available by Nick Oldham at Smashwords as e-books in the ‘Henry Christie’ series:
A Time for Justice
Nightmare City
One Dead Witness
Contents
Prologue
Part One - Hard Penetration
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part Two - Terminal Ballistics
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
Blackburn, Lancashire, 1986
They moved into action at midnight.
Billy Crane checked his watch, eyed his two companions in the darkness and nodded sharply. The three men were sitting in a stolen Ford Sierra Cosworth fitted with clean number plates. It was the preferred getaway car of the moment - a big, powerful brute of a car which usually stuck two fingers up at the cops.
They pulled on their nylon Balaclavas, obliterating their faces with the exception of their eyes and mouths. Next they each eased on a pair of tight surgical gloves and over them, another pair of thin woollen gloves. Crane wasn’t too bothered about fingerprints being left in the Cosworth because within four hours of the job being done, it would be comprehensively destroyed; first by gutting it with fire and then dropping in into a crusher in the scrap yard owned by one of his questionable friends. From there it would be spewed out as a twisted metal box the size of a policeman’s helmet.
Crane climbed out of the Cosworth, his companions close behind. They went to the boot and grabbed their equipment for the job ahead. Then, tooled up and laden down, they moved cautiously through darkened alleyways until they reached the rear of a terrace of shops and offices at the edge of town.
By then it was 12.10 a.m.
Crane dropped to his haunches, as did the other two behind him.
‘We wait,’ he hissed, looking at his watch again. ‘Five minutes.’
The same Friday night-Saturday morning.
Over any given year, Blackburn - statistically - is the busiest town in Lancashire from a policing point of view. Blackpool may have horrendously hectic summers, but in winter it can be a ghost town from Monday to Friday each week; Preston may not lag far behind, but Blackburn consistently puts them both in the shade in terms of officer deployments and public demand.
And weekends are always busy, even when they are quiet.
The only thing that made that particular Friday night any different was that it was the first night of the year warm enough for officers to turn out in shirt-sleeve order.
Since the night shift came on duty at ten, the few officers out on the streets had been run ragged. Sixteen people had been locked up over a two-hour period; sixty jobs been logged in the Comms Room. The town was heaving. Situation normal. However, things were about to take on a new dimension.
The first call which was out of the ordinary was logged at 12.16 a.m. At that exact moment a young policewoman called Danielle Furness was storming angrily through the underground cell complex at Blackburn police station. Scurrying sheepishly behind her was a male colleague, much the same age, bu
t barely out of his probation.
Both of them were dishevelled - owing to the fact that fifteen minutes earlier they had been rolling around on the ground, fighting. Not each other, but with a crowd of drunken youths who had taken it upon themselves to give the two officers a good hammering.
When Danny had paraded on duty at ten o’clock with the rest of her shift, she had been partnered up with the less experienced man and given the keys for one of the patrol cars. The younger officer had yet to earn a permit to drive police cars, having recently failed a standard driving course; in fact, having narrowly scraped through his probationary period by the skin of his teeth, he was fortunate even to have a job.
Rupert Davison had that certain knack of getting himself, and others, into trouble. Consequently, nobody wanted to work with him.
And yet, when Danny drew the short straw that night and found herself working with him, at first she did not mind. Blackburn is a tough Northern town, and night duty is always potentially dangerous. Bobbies needed partners for safety’s sake.
Danny received several comments about Davison and was told to watch her back. The guy was dangerous.
‘He can’t be that bad,’ she responded.
‘Oh he is, he fucking is,’ she was assured.
The first hour and a half or so of the tour had gone well. Danny was pleasantly surprised. She hated people who prejudged others and always tried to avoid doing it herself This was the first time she had ever gone out on patrol with Rupert, and contrary to reports, she found him amiable – charming - almost good company and pretty competent. If she had started off believing all the crap about him, she knew she would have struggled to remain positive. As it happened, they were busy, going from job to job, and Rupert had done his whack without any problems. Danny got to thinking that everybody was completely wrong about him. . . give a dog a bad name and all that. . . she was quite impressed.
Just before midnight, they were cruising along Darwen Street, one of Blackburn’s busiest thoroughfares, night or day.
‘What I really want is to get involved in cracking some serious crime. International stuff, if you know what I mean,’ Rupert was saying, revealing his pipe dreams. ‘I’m going to get on the Fast Track and I really want to be an ACPO officer. . .’ As he talked he spotted a couple of youths urinating in a shop doorway. ‘Stop!’ he shouted to Danny. ‘I want a word with those guys. Dirty gits.’
Danny slammed on the brakes, reversed back up the street. ‘Just warn them,’ she told Rupert. ‘We can’t afford to get involved in trivia tonight.’
He either chose not to hear, or genuinely did not. He jumped out of the car and strode authoritatively to the offending pissers, both of whom were completely drunk.
Danny remained behind the wheel, watching Rupert deal with the incident. It all seemed to be going well. There were a few smiles, nods and the typical drunken behaviour of wanting to shake hands. Then suddenly it all went banana-shaped.
Rupert began prodding one of the lads in the chest with a very attitude-filled forefinger, backing him up against a shop window. The drunk swung a punch and Rupert’s flat cap went flying through the air like a Frisbee. Rupert grabbed the lad’s lapels and then the second youth leapt on to the young PC’s back, trying to strangle and punch him in the head and face.
‘Oh hell,’ Danny moaned. ‘So it is all true.’ She dived out of the car, radioing for back-up.
Danny hauled the youth off Rupert’s back, stumbled and found herself flat on her back with the lad on top of her about to head-butt the bridge of her nose. She smacked him hard on the side of his head, sending him sprawling across the pavement.
Out of the corner of her eye she was conscious of Rupert and his opponent thrashing hell out of one another. Danny’s attention returned quickly to the youth she had belted. He had already staggered to his feet and was bearing down on her again, intent on delivering a mighty kick to her body.
She was up in a flash, but he was on her and once more she found herself on the ground fighting wildly.
Six other youths staggered noisily out of the Cathedral grounds at that point. All were drunk, carrying cider bottles. The moment they saw the scene in front of them, they joined in. Any opportunity to have a dig at a cop was not to be missed.
Moments later, two police vans screeched on to the scene disgorging the two ‘Strike Force’ teams: six bobbies with very hairy backsides, heavy boots and ugly dispositions.
Six arrests were made from the melee and, fighting all the way to the station, the youths were bundled - and battered where necessary - into cells. The documentation and processing would come several hours later when they had all sobered up.
Danny’s tights looked as though her cat had been using them for scratching practice. Her skirt was ripped down one seam, her white shirt had lost several buttons and her white, functional bra and generous cleavage was on view for everyone to see.
She was severely pissed off by the whole episode - not least because that night, of all nights, she did not have a spare shirt or skirt in her locker. Rounding on Rupert who had been trailing at her heels like a puppy, she hissed. ‘Just tell me this - what the hell did you say to those lads?’
‘I . . . er . . .’He hesitated.
‘All they were doing was peeing,’ she remonstrated.
‘Erm . . . I think it might have been something like, “Only dogs piss in the street”,’ Rupert admitted quietly.
Danny’s face sank in disbelief. She took a beat to prevent herself from blurting out something she might regret. ‘I think you need to work on your interpersonal skills, don’t you?’ Then she turned away from him with the word ‘Wanker’ playing on her lips.
‘Danny,’ someone called from the Comms Room. It was one of the PCs who worked in there who was constantly hassling her for a date. ‘Can you deal with this one?’ He waved a message pad in the air. Danny opened her arms and invited him to look at the state of her. Lust clouded briefly across his face when he saw her bra and what was in it. She picked up the expression and quickly pulled her shirt together. The PC gulped, returned to normal and said, ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry - but there’s just no one else to go.’
Her shoulders drooped. ‘What is it?’I she asked with resignation.
‘Report of a riot up on Fishmoor.’
‘Ugh, that’s all I need.’
She pushed her way out of the Custody Office door which led to the car park and ran to her car, Rupert close behind, fired up by the prospect of a riot. As she manoeuvred out of the station yard the radio operator informed her that two further calls in quick succession backed up the first one. Fishmoor looked like it was kicking off.
Danny hit the rocker switch for the rather pathetic blue light which rotated dimly on the roof of her Metro, screwed the car in its lower gears and tried to coax maximum performance from a vehicle well past its sell-by date. Six minutes after leaving the police station she was on the Fishmoor council estate. She careered, almost on two wheels, into Fishmoor Drive to find. . . nothing. The streets were deserted.
She radioed her findings to Comms and cancelled other patrols who had since been deployed. A quick sweep of the estate confirmed it was a hoax. Fishmoor was as quiet as she had ever seen it. The Comms operator gave her the addresses of the people who had called in, and Danny and Rupert drove by their houses; each one was in total darkness. However there wasn’t much time to dwell on it as a genuine call came in: a punter had just had a beer glass screwed into his face in one of the town centre clubs. Big trouble was brewing.
Danny gunned the small car back into town.
Crane and his team entered the rear of the building next to the target premises. He knew it was not alarmed and the entry, therefore, was done with little finesse. It was the office of an insurance broker’s with nothing of interest or value kept there, hence the lack of protection.
The three men moved swiftly through the rear kitchen and into the front office. They went straight to the window, unrolled a large s
heet of thick black polythene from their equipment bag and covered the glass quickly and smoothly in a well-rehearsed manoeuvre, running masking tape around the edges to ensure no light passed through the polythene.
Only when Crane was satisfied that the temporary blind had been correctly fixed, did he allow himself and the others to switch on their torches.
So far, so good. It was 12.30 a.m. Crane allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He turned and looked at the dividing wall which separated the insurance broker’s from the Halifax Building Society office next door.
His target.
This was when the heavy work began.
A few moments later Crane and his men waltzed four heavy filing cabinets away from the wall to reveal an empty fireplace, the chimney of which had been boarded and blocked up many years ago.
Crane knew that set into the corresponding fireplace on the other side of the wall was a safe which - so he was led to believe - contained £60,000.
All he had to do was get through the wall, open the safe, steal the cash, escape. Easy. It was what he did for a living.
At the first opportunity, Danny raced to her flat, which was less than a quarter of a mile from Blackburn police station, to get a change of uniform. She emerged cleaned and pressed as a message came over the radio asking all patrols to make for the Army Recruiting Office in the town centre. A report from an anonymous passer-by had been received to the effect that what appeared to be a bomb was on the front doorstep of the premises. Patrols were asked to take the job seriously. The Provisional IRA were very active and this could be the real thing.
