by Nick Oldham
Wow, Henry thought. He settled deep into the bath, the hot water having a soothing effect on his wounds, and tried to remember exactly what the killer had said. Henry had thought it gibberish at the time.
Another person suffering that morning, though not in exactly the same way as Henry Christie, was Danny Furness.
She sat at her desk balancing her forehead on her forefinger, swallowing in an effort to hold back the contents of her stomach which threatened to burst forth at any moment, and wishing she was dead. Being so would end all her suffering. As well as her stomach being bad, her head was no better, being the cranial version of hellfire; and she was also suffering from the acute embarrassment of having a man’s erect penis almost in her mouth and him running out on her because it was all too weird.
Surely that could not have happened to any other woman, anywhere, ever?
Danny took a chance and lifted her head off her finger to look around the office through a pair of eyes which refused to open properly. No doubt about it, she should still be in bed, suffering her physical and mental anguish - alone.
The phone on her desk rang. She let it. It stopped eventually.
She had missed the daily murder briefing at eight, not having landed until well after nine, and that had been a miracle, so she had no idea if there had been any overnight developments.
‘Oh God.’ Her mouth fell open; her bottom lip sagged heavily. She got to her feet slowly, steadying herself on her desk, and walked, one measured, controlled step at a time, out of the office. She ignored the lift. The very thought of it made her queasy. She went up the stairs to the MIR, one tread at a time, pausing on each one to regain equilibrium.
Eventually she made it to the right floor and shuffled into the Incident Room which was very quiet. Everyone who should be, was out investigating. Everyone but her.
She went across to the Receiver’s desk. The Detective Constable assigned to that role raised his eyes.
‘Anything doing?’ she enquired.
‘This has just literally arrived by fax - results of the dental identification on your man.’ He held up a sheet of paper. Danny snatched it from his hand and read with glee. At last, a major step forwards.
Except that her excitement was halted quickly by a loud gurgle from her intestines.
She clamped a hand over her mouth and raced out of the room to the ladies’ toilets, where she burst into a cubicle and sank down to her knees over the toilet bowl. Almost before she had finished vomiting, she was scrambling like mad to drag her skirt up, knickers down, to plonk herself down on the loo and empty her bowels.
‘Oh my God,’ she moaned again just as a stomach cramp creased her guts.
Just her luck. Insult to injury. On the most important day of the investigation for her, she was sick, had diarrhoea and was about to start her period.
Henry Christie locked his hotel-room door, trotted down the stairs and wandered into Manchester city centre. He went into the Arndale Centre, which still bore the scars from the massive IRA bomb attack which had devastated it several years before, found an empty, working phone booth and made a quick call, after which he strolled to McDonald’s where he ordered coffee and an Egg McMuffin which tasted of cardboard. He wolfed down a couple more Advil for his pains, then, after buying a newspaper from W.H. Smiths he hobbled up to the Sticky Fingers restaurant off Deansgate. Here he had another coffee, far more expensive and far nicer than the one at McDonald’s.
Ten minutes later he became aware of a figure hovering next to him. He looked up slowly and his sore face cracked into a grin. ‘Thanks for coming. It’s good to see you.’
The man slid into the seat opposite, shook hands across the table. ‘Good to see you, too, Henry - but I have to say, you look like shite.’
Henry guffawed. ‘Thanks a bunch. Let me order more coffee.’ He folded the newspaper and beckoned a waitress. The coffee arrived quickly.
‘OK, nice coffee,’ the man said after taking a sip and wiping his top lip with his finger and thumb. ‘What’s this all about, H?’
Henry adjusted his backside, winced and glanced shiftily round the cafe. It was almost empty, being so early. ‘Beast of Burden’ played over the sound system, one of Henry’s favourite Stones tracks. ‘I believe you are the deputy SIO on the investigation into the death of Jacky Lee - and before that you were on the enquiry into the death of a guy that Lee himself was supposed to have iced?’
The man nodded.
‘Were you, or are you, aware that an undercover officer had been assigned to Jacky Lee before he was killed and that the same U/C officer is now assigned to Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick in the hope of getting evidence of their involvement in Lee’s demise?’
‘No,’ the man said. His eyebrows knitted together, wondering where this was going.
‘Well, now you do,’ declared Henry.
A key turned in the lock. The handle revolved and the door opened. Loz stood there looking as grubby and dishevelled as ever. Colin Hodge was sitting on the edge of the bed, not having slept during the night and since his abduction. Loz beckoned to him. ‘Come on.’
He stood up and followed laggardly. His feet were like lumps of lead.
Without speaking, Loz took him down a wide hallway, a sweeping flight of steps to the ground floor, through a set of wide French windows and on to a terracotta terrace beyond which was the garden. A table and chairs were set up on the terrace, protected by a large umbrella. The sun was already hot in the clear sky.
Loz pointed with his bandaged hand to a mobile servery. ‘Help yourself.’
Nervous, but trying to give the impression of confidence, Hodge picked up a plate and examined a selection of breakfast dishes on the hot and cold plates. He chose scrambled eggs and sausage, a large glass of orange and black filtered coffee.
Loz lounged back against the villa wall and watched him, a sneer of contempt quivering on his lips underneath his rather pathetic moustache.
Whilst walking back to the table, Hodge caught sight of two men sitting on the grass by the outer garden wall, a good 100 metres away. They had rifles propped across their knees. Hodge sat down heavily, frightened.
‘What’s going on? Why am I here?’ Hodge demanded.
Loz shrugged uncaringly. ‘Eat your breakfast. You’ll find out soon enough.’
Hodge poked at his food, pushing it aimlessly around the plate, wishing he was back home, had never thought up this fucking scheme, and was back earning six quid an hour.
He heard voices from inside the villa. Don Smith and Billy Crane appeared from within, looking relaxed and cool.
‘Colin!’ Smith said loudly. He strode to Hodge and held out his hand to be shaken.
Hodge recoiled. ‘No chance! I want to know what’s going on. I want to know where I am, what I’m doing here and then I want you to take me back to the airport because I’m going home. This whole deal is off. No one treats me like this,’ he snarled, slashing the air with the edge of his hand. ‘No fucker.’
‘Sit down, Colin,’ Smith said with a patient smile.
‘Do not screw me around. I want out of here, out of this, now.’
‘Sit down, Mr Hodge,’ Crane said from behind Smith. ‘Let me explain a few things to you.’
‘No, you set of twats. Let me explain a few things to you.’ Hodge gestured angrily at them both. ‘This is my show, my deal. I run it, not you couple of wankers. Get me into a car and get me home, because it’s off. Understand? Off!’
‘No, no, no, no, no, no,’ Crane said patronisingly. ‘You have started a ball rolling. It’s not going to stop until it reaches the bottom of the hill now, Mr Hodge. So sit down and pin your lug-holes back. I have started talking to people, arranging things, promising things - and these people are not like me and my friend here: patient and friendly. They are ruthless and would not hesitate to kill should they be disappointed in you. The fact of the matter is, you are involved now and you cannot pull out. And why would you want to, anyway? All that lovely money. .
.’
It was all lies about the people, but Hodge did not have to know this. He stared from one villain to the other, shaking with rage. Smith nodded reassuringly at him. He was trapped. He sank slowly back into his chair.
‘Good man,’ Crane said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get myself some breakfast, then we’ll have a chat.’
‘Me too,’ said Smith.
They walked to the servery and began to select food and drink.
‘Butter him up again,’ Crane whispered to Smith. Then he turned to Loz, still lounging, and said, ‘Get lost.’
Like an unwanted, unloved dog, Loz slunk away.
‘Now then Colin,’ Smith said smoothly, sitting down, ‘you’ve got to understand a few facts here.’ Crane sat down opposite and began to eat, not saying a word. ‘You’re right, OK, this is still your show. That will not be taken away from you. We have no wish to make it any different. You’re the guy with all the gen and we are relying on you. You call the shots. You are the man. But by the same token, we’re providing all the tools to do the job and because of the nature of who we are and who else is going to be involved - because make no mistake, Colin, this is going to be a big job and a lot of people will be involved - we have to have a degree of protection. That’s what this is about. Protection from outsiders. OK, you know who I am. I accept that, but there is no need to know anything about this man here, other than he is the organiser of all the resources. We have a lot to lose if the cops, for example, get hold of you, and you start blabbing.’ Smith forked some scrambled egg into his mouth. ‘See where I’m coming from? It’s to protect you and us.’
Hodge breathed in deeply. ‘Yeah, but I’ve been treated like shit and I don’t like it.’
‘That’s very much down to the way you were brought here, and we can only apologise for the manner in which our associate interpreted our instructions to him. He will be reprimanded.’
Hodge began to soften. The rhetoric, coupled with his own greed, was having a calming effect. He gave a minor shrug. ‘You going to tell me where I am?’
‘At a house somewhere on Gomera. That’s all you need to know.’
‘And what am I supposed to call you if you won’t tell me your name?’ he asked of Crane.
Crane considered this. ‘You can call me Matt - Matt Brinks.’
He smiled for the first time.
John Connor was a Detective Chief Inspector in the Greater Manchester Police. Henry had known him for many years, having attended a few national detective training courses with him. It could not be said they were great buddies, but they got along.
Connor leaned on the table. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Henry.’
Henry said sarcastically, ‘You would say that.’
‘Say what?’ Connor was very confused. ‘I don’t know what the hell you mean.’
Henry peered into Connor’s eyes. ‘He’s briefed you, hasn’t he? To say nothing to me, hasn’t he?’
‘Henry, are you off your tree? I’ve come here in all good faith as the result of a very mysterious phone call and you lay something on me I just do not understand. Tell me what you’re on about, or else I’m off.’
‘What has Rupert Davison told you about me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Have you seen and used a statement by a guy called Frank Jagger in your investigation into Jacky Lee’s murder? In particular when interviewing Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick?’
Connor shook his head.
‘Did you know an undercover operation was going on regarding Jacky Lee?’
‘No.’
Henry closed his eyes in deep despair and dropped his head.
‘Henry, what the hell are you talking about here?’
Malcolm Fitch. Date of birth 16.11.1940, Blackburn, Lancashire. Two convictions, 1982, 1984. Both for conspiracy to rob. OIC in both cases Detective Inspector Barney Gillrow, a Lancashire officer seconded to the Regional Crime Squad, based in Bolton. File held at that office.
Having purged her body of everything that was making her unwell, Danny now felt much better. Her head still throbbed unrelentingly, but the stomach pains and cramps had disappeared. She was half human again, but obviously still half dead.
She read the PNC printout again and highlighted the salient points with a pen, thrilled that at last she was looking at the identity of the third dead body from the vehicle inspection pit. She had been on to the Fingerprint Bureau to ask them to double-check the details and they promised a result by the end of the day.
There was no current address for Fitch and it would appear he had not come to police attention since his last conviction fourteen years ago. What she needed to do was start pulling together some up-to-date information on him ASAP. Her gaze settled on the name of the officer who had dealt with Fitch. Perhaps he would be a good starting point. She wondered if she knew Gillrow, but the name didn’t ring any bells with her. The fact that he was a Detective Inspector in 1984 suggested he might not even be in the job now. Could be retired. Might even be dead.
First port of call was the HR department at Headquarters to find the current status of Gillrow.
Five minutes later, her fears were confirmed. Gillrow had retired in 1990 and was now living in Tenerife.
Danny gave her temple a knock with the base of her hand and tried to concentrate, devise a way ahead. She looked at the details of the dead man again and those of the former DJ. HR had provided Danny with an overseas phone number for Gillrow and she thought that starting with him would be as good a place as any. She picked up the phone and dialled the number. It connected remarkably quickly and rang out clearly. No one answered. She hung up after two dozen rings, intending to try later.
Her next avenue was to the Field Intelligence Officer (FIO) at Blackburn, a detective she knew well from her days in the town many years before. This time, even though she was calling internally, the line was nowhere near as clear as the overseas one had appeared to be.
‘Danny Furness! A rave from the grave! How are you, gal? Haven’t seen you in ages.’
‘Doing great,’ she said, holding the phone away from her ear. ‘And you?’
They exchanged the requisite pleasantries before Danny posed the question about Fitch, deceased, of that parish.
The FIO interrogated Lancashire Constabulary’s own computerised intelligence system first - but it came up with nothing about Fitch. ‘Doesn’t mean to say we don’t have anything on him. I’ll check the manual files. Hang on . . .’ The phone was placed on a desk. Danny heard cabinet drawers sliding open, some background chatter, the tapping of a computer keyboard. Eventually the FIO came back on the line. ‘Nothing in the active files, Danny, but there is a file in the “dead section”. An old one. . . dum de dah . . . let’s have a looksee . . . no, nowt since the mid-eighties. I take it he’s reappeared on the scene?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Being in the dead section is remarkably apt - he’s the third body in the job over here. Just identified him this morning.’
‘Oh, interesting ... which possibly means he’s been bang at it and we didn’t know. He’s obviously upset someone.’
‘Upset is a little mild. Really upset, I’d say.’
‘There is a marker on the file. Any interest to you?’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s an RCS reference, now NCS of course. Bolton office. Got a pen? I’ll read it out.’
Danny noted it down, asked the FIO to copy the file and send it immediately to her.
Next she opened the Police Almanac and found the number for the NCS office at Bolton and made a similar request to the one she’d initially made of the FIO. The woman she spoke to took details and promised to ring back within ten minutes, which she did.
‘I can confirm that we do have a file in that name. Can’t give you any details over the phone, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Policy.’
‘Can you send me a copy by fax?’
‘Only if
you have the necessary authority.’
‘Does it make any difference if I tell you the guy is dead and I’m investigating his murder?’
‘Not to me.’
Bitch, Danny thought uncharitably. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ She hung up her phone with exaggerated softness, speculating as to why the woman would not give out the details. Maybe Fitch was more than just a target. An informant, possibly. She sniffed up, then dialled the overseas number again, but got no reply.
‘So you are telling me that you have no idea about the statements made by me and Terry regarding Jacky Lee’s murder?’ Henry’s voice was incredulous.
‘Swear it.’ Connor crossed his heart.
‘And you didn’t know there was an undercover operation up and running against Lee and subsequently against Gunk and Gary?’
‘Hope to die.’
‘Shit.’ Henry shook his head in major disbelief ‘What the hell is Davison playing at? He said he would tell you, his deputy, about me, Terry and the statements.’
‘I have picked up on some odd goings-on with him, I have to admit. For instance he actually interviewed Thompson and Elphick himself, which is pretty damn unusual. Came out from both interviews saying neither had made any admission - which we knew, because they’d already been spoken to by interview teams anyway. He justified himself doing the interviews by saying that someone had to have a real good stab at them as none of the interviewing team seemed to be getting anywhere.’
‘Presumably the interviews were taped?’
Connor nodded.
‘Have you listened to them?’
‘No. Davison kept hold of the copy tapes. The master copies are sealed and stored in the system by now.’
‘That’s obviously when he let it slip, intentionally or otherwise, to Gunk and Gazzer about mine and Terry’s statements,’ Henry concluded. ‘The stupid man! I’m just ... speechless - and angry. Just what the hell does he think he’s playing at?’
