by Nick Oldham
‘I have an idea on that score,’ Connor said.
Henry waited.
‘He’s got six unsolved murders on his plate at the moment, not including Jacky Lee. I don’t think the murders are connected in any way or anything like that, except that none of the offenders have been arrested and charged yet. There’s a feeling going round the Force that if they’d all been better managed from the top, there would have been results by now. For what it’s worth, I think Davison is getting twitchy and he’s panicking. This could be a last-ditch effort to get a good result by whatever means possible.’ Connor shrugged. ‘But it’s only a theory.’
‘And a bloody good one. He got me hammered. I could just as easily be dead now,’ Henry whined bitterly. ‘He’s always been a loose cannon, ever since being a PC.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
Henry thought for a moment. ‘No idea just yet. Instinct tells me I should try to take him down. I usually follow my instinct, even if it lands me in deep pooh.’
‘You’d probably have a justified grievance against him, but until you hear what’s on those tapes, you might be struggling for evidence. Tell you what, I’ll try and get authorisation - on the QT - to break the seal on the master tapes, have a listen and then get back to you.’
‘That sounds brilliant. Thanks,’ Henry said genuinely.
‘Let me buy you another coffee, then you can tell me what your plans are regarding Gunk and Gazzer.’ Connor signalled to a waitress. ‘I need to think about what to do with Davison, too. As an SIO I know he can do what the hell he likes, but running an undercover operation without letting me know is just a bit on the naughty side, not to say downright irresponsible. He’ll have to have some bloody good reasons for it. I think the guy’s in the shit, don’t you, H?’
Before he could answer, his mobile rang on his belt. ‘Frank Jagger,’ he said, straight back into role without thinking about it.
‘Frankie baby, how you feeling?’ came Gary Thompson’s voice brightly.
‘Unbelievable as it might seem, I feel like fuck,’ he responded and held a cautionary finger up to Connor to keep him quiet.
‘Aw, you soft git. Still interested in business? I know we were rudely interrupted last night.’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Where are you?’
‘City centre - mooching around.’
‘Get your arse back to your hotel and we’ll pick you up and go for a drive.’
Henry did not like the sound of that. Sometimes people who went for drives found themselves on mystery tours, deposited in canals with their heads blown off
‘I haven’t got a lot of time, Gazzer,’ Henry said, deciding to exert some authority. It was important that things progressed on his terms as much as possible from now on. ‘I’11 be in the coffee-house at the hotel and we can talk there.’ Henry had no intention of doing anything further with them in private or without back-up.
‘You’re too suspicious, Frank,’ Thompson chided.
‘Yeah, right, and I really can trust you.’
‘Be there in fifteen.’
The call ended. Henry looked across at Connor who was eager to know its contents. Henry told him nothing because it was better and safer that way. ‘Got to go. We’ll talk soon.’ He pushed himself up with a groan of pain. ‘Oh, there is one thing, John. Thought you’d like to know, if you don’t already.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The Russians are coming.’
Henry did not have time to get wired up before the meet with Gary Thompson in the hotel coffee-shop. He wasn’t too concerned about missing any evidence because he saw this rendezvous as the prelude to several others he would be engineering in the near future, but he did have time to make a quick call to Terry Briggs.
During the walk back to the hotel, Henry made the decision to stick with the operation for the time being, even though he was fuming with Davison. He had considered pulling out, but his professionalism as a cop - someone who hated to see the guilty go unpunished - made him want to be instrumental in putting Thompson, Elphick and hopefully Jacky Lee’s actual killer away for a long time. He had no doubt in his mind that the terrible duo had set Lee up and it was now down to his skill as an undercover cop to get them to admit that to him, on tape, in the not too distant future.
Yes, he would stay where he was and see the job through to its natural conclusion, whatever that might be.
Then he would dedicate his life to shafting Rupert Davison good and proper.
Twenty minutes after leaving Sticky Fingers he was sitting by one of the windows in the hotel coffee-shop, overlooking Piccadilly Gardens, having ordered his umpteenth dose of caffeine.
Thompson’s BMW pulled up outside the hotel a few minutes later. Thompson stepped out from the rear seat and the car drew away. Henry got a brief glimpse of Elphick at the wheel and the shape of a man in the front passenger seat. Henry assumed it was Drozdov.
Gazzer was smartly dressed, looked the part. Slicked-back hair, the ubiquitous earring, mobile phone in one hand, he trotted in, nodding at the doorman, very cool, collected and sharp. A million miles from the individual Henry had seen scuttling away moments before the murder of his boss. He had obviously grown into the vacuum created by Lee’s death. And yet, although Gazzer had the majority of the peanut brain he and Gunk shared between them, Henry doubted if he really had the nous to take on Lee’s mantle, run his businesses and make them a success.
Gazzer flashed a winning smile, said, ‘Morning, Frank,’ sat down.
‘Gazzer,’ Henry nodded.
He pointed at Henry, clicking his thumb like the hammer of a gun. ‘Not Gazzer from now on. Gary, please. More in keeping with the position in life, credibility being an issue and all that.’
‘Sure, fine. Gary it is.’
Thompson peered closely at Henry’s battered face. ‘Mm, we did make a bit of a mess of you, didn’t we?’ he admitted.
‘I won’t disagree with that.’
‘Not that I’m apologising for it. I think it was totally necessary - and anyway, we needed to put on a little bit of a show for Nikolai.’
‘What?’ Henry demanded. ‘Couldn’t you have chosen some other poor sod?’ he complained. ‘Anyway, who is this Nikolai bloke?’
‘Just a new business partner.’
‘Sounds like a Russian name to me.’
‘He is Russian ... the way of the world now that Communism’s collapsed. They have a lot to offer people like me, people who want to expand.’
‘I take it you’re talking about the Russian Mafia as opposed to legitimate Russian businessmen?’
‘Is there such an animal?’
Henry decided to have a stab at the jugular, just to test the water. ‘Did he kill Jacky for you? And if he did, what does he want in exchange? Ten, twenty per cent of your business?’ He knew he had hit a nerve when Thompson shifted uncomfortably for a milli-second and then regained self-control.
‘Fuck all to do with you, mate.’
‘It does have something to do with me. I was there when Jacky got slotted, remember, and then I’ve been beaten up as a showcase of your serious intent. I’m a businessman, Gary, not a gangster or a violent sod. I make brass for myself and others, just like Jacky did. Live and let live, that’s my motto.’
‘You make Jacky sound like an angel - which he is now, of course.’ Gary leaned forwards. ‘He was an out-and-out violent bastard - he’d put a lump of lead into anybody’s skull if he thought they’d stitched him up.’
Henry - Frank - tried to look shocked.
‘Yeah, it’s true, Frank. All you saw was him being Mr Nice,’
Gary whispered, half-closing his eyes, giving the indication he had imparted a tremendous, earth-shattering secret ... and right on cue, Henry’s mobile phone rang.
‘Just give me a second,’ he said to Thompson, knowing it was Terry Briggs at the other end. ‘Frank Jagger. Hi . . . yeah. . . sure. . .’ He looked quickly up at Thompson and sa
id, ‘Yes, I can talk.’
He listened for a few moments, then: ‘Where do you want it?’ he asked. He listened to the response, then said, ‘How much? . . . Twenty? I’m not sure about that. . .’ He gave the impression of cutting himself off in mid-sentence, again looking at Thompson, who was seriously trying to earwig the conversation. Henry took the phone away from his ear and pressed the ‘secret’ button. ‘Look, sorry, Gary.’ He began to get to his feet. ‘Can you spare me a minute? Delicate business.’
Thompson nodded understandingly.
Henry moved stiffly away from the table and walked out of the coffee-house into the reception foyer. ‘Yeah, he’s all ears, Terry. I’ll feed him a few lines. . . Catch you later.’
He re-entered the coffee shop and slipped in opposite Thompson who was fumbling through his Filofax.
‘Wankers,’ hissed Henry angrily. He glared at his mobile phone.
‘Problem?’
‘No - well, nothing really.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Just a load of gear I need to get shifted PDQ. It’s sticking in a warehouse down South.’ He curled his lips bitterly. ‘Deal just fell through.’
‘Anything I might be able to help with?’
Oh, come to me, my melancholy baby, Henry wanted to sing. Come to Daddy. He had started to put together a little scam so that even if murder charges could not be pinned on Gary and Gunk, they would have a few handling or conspiracy charges on them at the very least. If Drozdov could be roped in too, what a bonus that would be.
‘Don’t know if it’s in your field, Gary. Some electronic gear - faxes, phones, about fifty Toshiba laptops . . . that kind of stuff.’
Thompson considered it. ‘You never know, could be of interest.’ He scratched his nose.
‘I’d be happy to exchange if you felt you had anything worthwhile,’ Henry suggested.
‘Let me think about it . . . but for now, let’s get down to our original business, shall we? Whisky, I think.’
Henry glanced out of the window across Piccadilly. He was not sure whether he covered the shock he felt inside as his throat constricted and his heart fluttered. Detective Superintendent Rupert Davison was crossing the road and heading towards the hotel.
Henry turned quickly back to Thompson, who said, ‘Christ, that coffee’s gone straight through me. I need to piss. Be back shortly.’
‘Don’t call me shortly,’ Henry laughed - slightly hysterically. He watched Thompson walk across the cafe and down the toilet corridor. Then he spun round to see Davison trotting up the hotel steps, about to blow Henry’s cover as wide open as the legs of a Manchester tart.
The three men were sitting at a table in the garden, under some trees. It was getting hotter by the minute on La Gomera, but the shade from the foliage kept the men cool, as did their long, iced juice drinks.
Hodge had calmed down considerably since his earlier outburst, having been coaxed and soothed by Smith in particular.
‘What we need to do now, Colin,’ Smith explained, ‘is start to ask you questions so that we can put a plan together. There’s lots of things we need to know about this money run. Routes, personnel - such as, who are the guys you usually do it with? What are their capabilities, their strengths, their weaknesses? Then there’s the technical side of things. What sort of vehicle do you use? What kind of boxes is the money carried in? Will they present any problems to us? How do we get them open? Do they spray dye? All those sorts of things. What do you wear? We’ll probably need to know the exact details of your uniform, headgear. What protection do you carry? How is your journey monitored? What is usual and what is unusual? Can you get away with stopping en route? How lax, or tight, are your procedures? Are the cops informed of your journey? What is your emergency drill?’ Smith shook his head. ‘Lots and lots of things. . . literally anything we can think of which will help pull this job off with the minimum of fuss and force. And, of course, anything you can tell us that we’ve missed. That’s what today is about - chatting to you. Getting to know you and you getting to know us. When we’ve done all that, found out everything we need, we’ll get back to Los Cristianos and you can have some more fun at our expense while we plan the job.’
‘I think I should be involved in that.’
‘You’re right, Colin, we will consult you, but in the end it has to be a plan we are happy with because we are the ones who need to get away - and the getaway is obviously part of it. So, yeah, you’re dead right ... but let me and Matt get our heads together first and then we’ll run it past you for your approval. How does that sound?’
Hodge nodded, believing his control was reappearing.
‘Just remember, Colin,’ Smith said, ‘you’ll be walking away with twenty-five million in your hands.’
A smile crept over Hodge’s greedy little face.
Smith and Crane stood up. Smith said, ‘We’ll be back in five minutes with a tape-recorder. We don’t want to miss anything.’
They left Hodge at the table.
Once out of earshot, Crane growled, ‘He gets nothing ‘cept for a bullet in the head.’
Henry slithered down in his chair, squirming with acute indecision, wishing that hell would open up beneath him and drag him down into a fiery dungeon. Should he try to hide himself by turning his back on Davison and hope he did not get spotted, or should he go and meet the guy and drag him across the foyer and into the restaurant opposite and risk drawing unwelcome attention to the situation?
All it needed was for Thompson to have someone sitting in the cafe who Henry did not know, surveilling him, and he was knackered.
He groaned inwardly. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the gung-ho Superintendent walking boldly towards him. Henry half-expected the idiot to call out his name.
Then his eyes flickered to the toilet corridor. Gary Thompson emerged from the men’s cloakroom, hitching up the last inch of his flies and adjusting his tackle.
The two men were on a collision course, Henry at the apex of it.
Thompson stopped unexpectedly in the corridor and extracted his mobile phone from his jacket pocket, put it to his ear and turned round, sticking a finger in the other ear.
Henry saw his chance. He shot out of his seat and walked swiftly towards Davison, almost colliding with him. Out of the corner of his mouth Henry whispered urgently, ‘Follow me, don’t speak.’
Davison’s face dropped the beaming smile it had been displaying. He slotted in behind Henry just as Thompson turned and ended his phone call.
Henry moved quickly across the wide foyer and hit the stairs by the reception desk. He bounded up on to the first-floor landing, decided not to stop there and went up the next flight on to the second floor. Davison appeared a second or two later.
‘You have almost compromised me,’ Henry spat venomously into Davison’s surprised face. He forced his room key into the man’s clammy hand. ‘Go to my room and stay put until I get there.’ He sneered with disbelief at the Superintendent, heaved his way past him and headed back down the steps.
Thompson was sitting at the table, looking slightly agitated and annoyed.
Henry sat. ‘Sorry - forgot my diary.’ He smiled at Gary and breathed out as he thought, Just what the hell am I doing this for?
Henry spent a very productive hour with Thompson doing business. They parted amicably, Henry a little bit more impressed with Gary than he had been previously. He seemed to have a fairly cool, logical head on his shoulders and bargained hard without a trace of embarrassment. Henry played the game with him even though he knew he could have given the whisky away for free. What was important was that Thompson believed he was buying stolen goods and that he was starting to trust Frank Jagger. The ability to build trust was an integral part of an undercover officer’s skills. It is always the first step in a relationship and once the trust is built, then it’s very easy to set someone up for a fall.
They settled on £3.50 a bottle because Henry gave the impression he wanted rid of the stuff as soon as possible. A deposit w
as to be paid in a couple of days’ time - in cash - prior to the delivery of the first part of the goods. Henry negotiated this short time delay because he wanted to ensure that from this moment on, each stage of the process of luring Thompson into a trap was properly documented and recorded for future evidential purposes. That also meant proper back-up for Henry and the technology to go with it.
‘Speak to you soon,’ Thompson smiled, shaking Henry’s hand. The big BMW pulled up outside the hotel on the double yellows, having responded to a phone call from Thompson a few minutes earlier. Henry wondered what Gunk and Drozdov had been doing to pass the time; if they had been cruising around they could easily have spotted Davison’s arrival. Henry prayed they hadn’t.
He accompanied Thompson to the hotel steps, but did not wave him off - that would have seemed too normal for a crim; however, he did make sure Gary got in the car and it moved away into the traffic. Henry twirled round, forgetting the pain in his body, and headed purposefully back into the hotel, building himself up for the coming encounter with Davison.
Halfway across the foyer, his mobile chirped its idiotic, irritating ring in his pocket. He kept striding and answered it. ‘Jagger.’
‘Connor.’ It was the DCI from Greater Manchester.
Henry halted mid-stride. ‘Go on.’
‘Just to say I went looking for the sealed master tapes. Neither one is in the tape library - or at least if they are, they’re not where they’re supposed to be. Can’t find them, in other words.’
‘You’re saying he’s got the masters, as well as the working copies?’
‘I’m saying the masters are not where they should be. You make your own assumptions.’
Henry thumbed the call-end button. A feeling of savage anger gushed through him. Two minutes later he was outside his hotel room door, rapping with his knuckles. ‘Come on, open up, it’s me.’
‘You’ve taken your time,’ Davison bitched on opening the door.
Henry burst in, taking the man completely by surprise. In a flash he overpowered Davison and spread him across the double bed, one forearm crushing his windpipe, his free hand bunched into a fist which hovered only inches away from Davison’s face.
