by Nick Oldham
Gary snorted. ‘You don’t half get on your high horse, don’t you, Frank? You’re hyper, man. Touchy, touchy, touchy. Cool down, chill out. I asked a valid question, that’s all.’
Henry took a deep breath. ‘Right - you’re right, Gary. Sorry.’
‘However, there is a slight change in the down-payment details. It’s ten per cent, not the fifteen per cent we agreed. That’s three and a half now, the rest the day after delivery.’
Henry bridled again. ‘A deal should be a deal.’ His voice was stone.
‘It will be,’ Gary said reassuringly.
Henry made a show of considering it. ‘OK, to show I trust you, I’ll take it - but don’t mess me around on delivery. That’s when I want the full balance.’
Gary allowed himself a small smile. His eyes flickered across to Drozdov, who shifted, leaned forwards and took a brown package from his jacket. He gave it to Henry who opened it and peered inside at the contents.
‘I know it’s a corny line - but do I need to count it?’
‘It’s all there, Frank, three and a half thou.’
Henry slid it into a pocket.
There was a knock on the office door. The four men turned to look.
‘Yep,’ Gary shouted.
The door opened a few inches. A guy Henry recognised as having been one of Jacky Lee’s gofers - now having changed allegiance and employed in the same capacity for Thompson - poked his head in. ‘Sorry to bother you, boss, but the guy you were expecting is here.’
He opened the door.
Behind him stood Billy Crane.
Chapter Thirteen
It had been a summer of rain in Britain. Records had been broken, many towns and villages devastated by flooding. Days of sunshine had been few and far between and no water authority had dared mention the dreaded hose-pipe ban. Most non-rainy days were overcast, dull and cold. The majority of people in Britain - and Danny Furness was no exception - were desperate to get some sunshine on their bodies to warm their creaking bones.
With the way things had gone for her over the last few months, particularly in terms of Jack Sands’s suicide and its aftermath, she had not been able to escape to sunnier climes. A long Caribbean holiday was planned for the New Year with a girlfriend. So, although the Tenerife trip was primarily work-related and short, she intended to take full advantage of it.
The morning after her arrival, Danny was up at eight and in the hotel dining room for the buffet breakfast shortly after. She sat contentedly alone at a table with a view across the pool and beyond that to the sea-front promenade which led to the centre and harbour of Los Cristianos.
Whilst eating she worked out her timetable for the day.
First thing was a pleasant stroll down to the resort centre, grabbing a coffee at one of the cafes to watch life meander by for a while. Then she was going to make her way on foot to Playa de Las Americas where Gillrow lived in his apartment. Danny aimed to be knocking on his door at ten o’clock. The interview would take as long as it took. After that she would return to the hotel, ease herself into her swimming costume, trying not to be too concerned by the bulges - and spend the rest of the day by the pool, with several long cool drinks to hand, chain smoking and reading a paperback.
She folded the last bite of the warm roll into her mouth, washing it down with black coffee, wiping her lips with a napkin. Then she stood up and walked out of the hotel on to the sun terrace surrounding the large free-form pool.
She almost collapsed with bliss from the heat of the sun, even at that time of day. She slipped her sunglasses on and breathed in the warm air deeply.
She felt better already.
Henry Christie and Terry Briggs were at the ‘unit’, the Undercover Operations Headquarters on a Blackburn industrial estate. They were planning the delivery of the whisky whilst waiting for a phone call from Thompson to tell them where and when.
Henry’s mobile rang. It was his own phone and he answered it using his own name. Karl Donaldson’s voice came clearly down the satellite link, speaking from his office in the FBI section of the American Embassy in London.
‘Gimme a fax number if you can,’ he instructed Henry. ‘Read what I send, then call me back on a landline, not a mobile. You never know who might be listening.’
Henry gave him the secure fax line number of the unit.
A few minutes later the machine fired up and Donaldson’s fax spewed forth.
Henry settled down to read it, Terry peering over his shoulder.
‘Henry,’ he read, ‘I have been following up the details you gave me since we spoke the other day and have come up with a few interesting and disturbing facts.
‘Firstly, Nikolai Drozdov. As we’ve already discussed, and you know, the Russian Mafia are very powerful, but as in the Cosa Nostra, they are very divided, fractious and families are often at war with each other. Some families are more powerful than others and one of the top five are the Drozdovs, headed by an old-fashioned patriarch called Alexandr. Their power base is Moscow. They are one of the richest and most pro active of the families, very strategically-minded with long term goals. They are also one of the most extreme in terms of violence - if measured by the number of people they are alleged to have murdered. They specialise in drugs, prostitution and extortion rackets - extorting mainly from multi-national companies, not corner shops, incidentally. Nikolai Drozdov is Alexandr’s grandson. Nikolai’s father was killed in a gang shoot-out four years ago. Nikolai is being groomed to take over the number one spot when the old man (he’s about 90!) either dies or abdicates.
‘You may (or may not) recall an article in the Sunday Times recently about “crime kings” gathering in Europe to divide up the continent between themselves. One name not mentioned in the article is Drozdov, but they were the main players behind that meeting. Intelligence from French sources filtered through to the FBI about that meeting indicates that the Russians are very interested in wrestling the UK heroin trade from the Turkish gangsters who now control it. There was a lot of friction between the two parties and subsequently a lot of dead bodies have turned up across Europe this year. However, the position is still unclear as to whether the Turks have kept control or whether the Russkies have taken over. Time will tell, no doubt.
‘The other interesting snippet of intel states that the Russians intend to form a bridgehead into Britain for all types of criminal activity. I think it stands to reason they might choose a city like Manchester and an area like the North-West as starting points for their invasion. Nikolai will be eager to earn his spurs by setting up structures and networks within the already-existing infrastructure to achieve this. Britain is a biggie and carries a lot of kudos for Nikolai if he can achieve this.
‘Some facts and figures for you to chew on: there are eight thousand organised crime groups in Russia. Two-thirds of the country is controlled by them. Two hundred of these groups have constructive contacts in fifty other countries. They are spreading faster than AIDS ever did - and they are more lethal.
‘The appearance of Drozdov in the UK tells me this is the British foothold and once they’re in, they are here to stay. Very worrying, H.’
Henry glanced up at Terry. ‘Hm,’ he breathed thoughtfully.
He continued to read the fax. ‘The FBI are investigating a series of killings believed to have been committed by one man across Europe. He is called Yuri Ivankov (no photo, all descriptions poor). Ex-KGB Colonel and hit man, now in private practice, freelancing exclusively for the Drozdovs. Late forties - that’s all I have. Working on a photo and desc as we speak. He has murdered several Turks and some Euro-based American mobsters, operating on the continent, hence our interest, and also the CIA, I’m told, but cannot confirm this.
‘From what you’ve told me, putting 2 and 2 together, I would say he is Jacky Lee’s killer. Jacky was a barrier to the Russians, and they wanted his business. Thompson and Elphick are ambitious etc, etc... I’m sure you’ve already worked this out. What it means is that you’ve
got real trouble up there and I think you need to get a big operation underway to disrupt them - NOW!
‘Will be pleased to assist - in a consultancy capacity, of course.
‘Best wishes, Karl D.
‘PS - there was a killing in Paris just over a week ago. We think it could be the work of Ivankov.’
For the first time that year Danny was able to wear a loose T-shirt and cut-off jeans in the open air. With open-toed sandals, a clipboard and a shoulder bag, she set off to find Barney Gillrow. Whilst strolling along she noticed that couples tended to give her a wide berth; she wondered about this for a while until she realised she was in the uniform of a timeshare tout, many of whom were out prowling for their commission along the beach-front.
Twenty minutes of slow walking brought her into Playa de Las Americas, a large, bustling, purpose-built resort with three manmade beaches and three natural ones - dark, volcanic, typical of the Canaries.
She found Gillrow’s apartment block sooner and more easily than expected. It was set back about 800 metres from the Playa del Bobo beach, and was low rise in comparison to the surrounding blocks and hotels.
Danny wandered in through the reception area unchallenged and to one of the four lifts, taking it up to the third floor, stepping out on to a walkway running along the rear of the apartment block, overlooking a narrow side road. She found Gillrow’s apartment and rang the bell. Whilst waiting she rooted in her bag and found her warrant card.
Gillrow answered the door, dressed in a light short-sleeved shirt and slacks, nothing on his feet. He looked very tanned and healthy. Danny gave him her best smile and held up her badge.
It was with a great deal of reluctance that he invited Danny into the apartment, muttering, ‘I told you all I know over the phone. Wasted journey, this. Wasted.’
‘Well, you never know,’ she said positively.
He gave her a withering look.
The inside of the flat was airy and bright, with patio doors opening out on to a wide balcony overlooking the pool. It was nicely furnished, with broad comfortable sofas and easy chairs. A huge TV squatted in one corner; Danny assumed it was able to receive satellite channels the world over.
Stairs led up to an interior landing off which were several doors - bedrooms and bathrooms, no doubt.
Ceiling fans rotated silently but effectively.
‘This is very nice,’ Danny acknowledged. ‘Where’s Mrs Gillrow?’
‘Down at the health club.’
‘In that case we can have a nice chat, can’t we?’
Barney sniffed doubtfully and gestured for her to sit down at the table out on the balcony.
‘Lovely view,’ she commented, once seated.
‘Mmm. Can I offer you a drink? You’ve come a long way for nothing, so it’s the least I can do.’
‘Thanks. Anything soft will be fine.’
Danny watched him go back in through the patio doors to the spacious kitchen beyond the sitting area.
He looked very well. Life out here in the sun obviously agreed with him. His hair was still dark with the odd streak of grey, swept back from his face, and he had a nicely trimmed moustache. Danny thought he was good-looking and could easily imagine him as a smooth-talking detective of the type to whom she had so often been attracted in her earlier days when she was younger and easily led. She had been very promiscuous way back then and, whilst not proud of it, she wasn’t raked by guilt either. A little regret, maybe, because she had a reputation which often preceded her and the ‘decent’ guys - as opposed to the ones after a bed for the night - avoided her like she had the clap, which she had once had.
Gillrow came back with a long, cool lemonade. Danny thanked him.
‘I’ll bet you do most of your eating out here. It must be wonderful. I love eating in the open air. Food tastes so much better.’ She was out to do a little softening by flattering his lifestyle if nothing else.
‘Yeah, we do eat out here mostly.’
‘What’s the social life like?’
‘OK. I’m a bit of a loner anyway, so I’m not bothered about mixing all the time, but my wife gets out and about. There’s a lot of ex-pats around here.’
‘What made you decide to come out here?’
Gillrow opened his arms, looked around and said, ‘This.’
Danny nodded, sipped the lemonade: real lemonade.
‘OK,’ Gillrow said. ‘Niceties over ... what do you want?’
Danny shrugged as if to say, ‘You pushed it.’ She opened her folding clipboard. ‘Malcolm Fitch was found murdered in Blackpool, shot through the head. He was dumped into a vehicle inspection pit with two other bodies, both of whom had connections with the drugs trade from Tenerife. Fitch used to be one of your informants. He hasn’t been seen, or at least we’ve had no recorded sightings of him, for about fourteen years.’
‘I had a lot of informants. He was one of many, as I remember,’ Gillrow said, making a great show of trying to jog his memory by screwing up his face. ‘He didn’t really give me much. I didn’t use him much, either. So you see,’ he apologised, ‘you have had a wasted journey.’
‘Mr Gillrow, your record suggests you were a very diligent, highly motivated cop. I’ve got to say, I find it hard to believe you can’t remember more about Fitch.’
Gillrow’s face dropped and set like concrete. ‘I’ve been retired for eight years, Miss. And you are talking about someone I had dealings with - what, fourteen years ago?’ He leaned forwards. ‘I don’t remember - OK?’
Danny swallowed, completely dissatisfied by him, but aware there was nothing else at all she could do about his attitude or his memory loss. She gulped the lemonade, which tasted superb.
‘If that’s the way you want to play it, fair enough. But remember this, Mr Gillrow. We’re investigating a triple murder with drugs connections all the way from Lancashire to here, Tenerife. I am not going to let that connection go cold, because sometimes it’s those tenuous ones that make a case.’
‘Are you threatening me, young lady?’
‘All I’m doing is telling you that I am a very thorough detective - just like you were, no doubt, and I don’t let go easily. There’s every possibility that I’ll be back to see you again - I because I think you’re telling me porkies.’
They eyed each other like two boxers. Danny sipped the last part of her lemonade. The ice cubes crashed against her teeth. She nodded almost imperceptibly and folded her clipboard closed. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Gillrow. It was very enlightening.’
The atmosphere between them was as cold as the ice in her glass. Danny swilled it round and placed the glass on the table. The interview was over. She handed him her business card on the back of which was the name of her hotel and room number. ‘Call me if you get your memory back,’ she said sweetly.
Gillrow closed the apartment door behind her, went into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of cheap whisky out of the refrigerator, poured a long measure into a glass and stalked out to the balcony. Troubled, he watched Danny walking across the poolside area of the apartment towards an exit. She glanced up and saw him, gave a nod of acknowledgement. Gillrow did not respond, his eyes blazing towards her, a lump of fear growing in his stomach like a tumour. He swallowed a mouthful of the whisky and it burned his mouth with its cheap coarseness. Then he emptied the rest of it down his throat as he saw Danny disappear down the road towards the centre of the resort.
It had always been at the back of his mind that one day his past would catch up with him and destroy him. Now it was beginning to happen.
Eight years of placid retirement, shaken like the walls of Jericho by a phone call and then a visit from a woman detective. A bloody woman shaking him up! He had not liked her on the phone; in person he detested her with a passion because she had got her foot in the door and now all she needed, possibly, was a bit of muscle and she would have forced an entry.
He was trembling like an alcoholic on his next visit to the fridge, filling his glass with an
even greater measure of Scotch. Then he slumped down on one of the sofas and shuddered as if he had the flu. It didn’t bear thinking about, but he had to get this detective to back off. Quick.
With reluctance he picked up the phone and dialled a well remembered number.
‘I need to speak to Billy Crane - urgently,’ Gillrow gasped when the phone was answered.
A detective can only work on actual words spoken during an interview. Body language is not evidence of anything, no matter how much it might say. And Danny Furness, during her years on the Family Protection Unit before joining the CID, had interviewed numerous people with dark, horrible secrets to hide. Whether they admitted them verbally or not, Danny could always tell the truth from the NVCs.
Over seventy per cent communication is by way of non-verbals, it’s just that most people don’t know how to read them consciously.
Danny had been reading the signals for years, trying to interpret them, just as she did whilst walking back to Los Cristianos in the sunshine.
Barney Gillrow’s hands, eyes, head, posture, had all told Danny he was one big fucking liar. She knew this, not just because of his highly defensive body language, but because even in the bad old days of slack procedures and loose guidelines, informants needed handling, nurturing - and sucking dry of everything they had to offer. They take time and effort. They take money and reassurance. And because of that, they do not fade in the memory unless you’re suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Barney Gillrow was as sharp as a knife still and could easily have been in the job had he so wished, because Inspectors and above can work up to the age of sixty before enforced retirement.
