by Nick Oldham
Both men were well satisfied.
At the end of the meal, Crane got up and visited the toilet. While he leaned over the urinal, concentrating on the task in hand, the image hit him like a mallet. He stood upright with a shocked expression on his face, uttering a violent swearword under his breath. He hurried back to the table, sat down heavily opposite his partner.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Smith observed, puzzled.
‘I have, Don.’ Crane stared thoughtfully past Smith’s shoulder, then pinged him squarely in the eye. ‘We might have a problem.’
Rupert Davison had always been a high flyer. He had decided at a very early stage in his career about the path it should take and then he had made it happen. He had been twenty-four years old when he joined the police with a business-related degree behind him and two years in industrial management. Two years after joining the Force he had passed his promotion examination to Sergeant, gaining the highest marks in the whole of the country that year. This automatically made him eligible to apply for the accelerated promotion scheme (APS) and after a series of gruelling interviews - at which he excelled - Davison found himself officially classed as a high flyer and was promoted to Sergeant, to the despair of his colleagues. It seemed to them only to confirm that the system was flawed. Two years after that he was an Inspector with high expectations of progressing further.
Davison’s career plan had two prongs to it: one was to be a high-ranking detective at some stage, and another was to become part of that elite group of top cops known as ACPO - the Association of Chief Police Officers. He had his heart set on becoming a Chief Constable by the time he was forty-five.
Whenever possible, he engineered time on CID duties; this was fairly easy to do, as people on the APS could, to a degree, pick and choose their developmental posts. Hence he did short spells as a Detective Constable, Detective Sergeant and Detective Inspector -- to get these on to his CV. He eventually got stuck at uniform Chief Inspector, much to his annoyance. Because of this he answered a job advert in Police Review asking for suitably qualified officers to apply for Superintendents’ vacancies in the Greater Manchester Police.
He sailed through the selection procedures, was transferred form Lancashire and appointed to uniform Superintendent. Eventually, assisted by his CV, he got a job as a Senior Investigating Officer on the CID.
This was where his problems began.
He had not realised that a wide CID background was a necessity for this role. He had thought of the SIO more as a management function, rather than an investigative one. He was wrong. Whilst the management side of it was very important, the nous of an investigator - a body-catcher, a detective with a good nose for a collar - was probably even more important.
The first couple of murders he found himself heading were cleared up easily, lulling him into a false sense of security. The next six got nowhere and he started to panic. Six major investigations stalling was not good news for someone who wanted to go higher.
He desperately needed a spectacular success.
Davison knew that in his early days as a cop, his reputation had been one of recklessness. He had managed to curb that very successfully, even though on some occasions this trait would resurface: once, for example, as a uniformed Inspector, he single-handedly rugby-tackled a gunman at a siege, putting his own life and those of others in extreme danger, but at the same time achieving a remarkable result. He had been severely criticised for his actions internally, but externally the media hailed him as a hero.
It was that side of his personality that was driving his actions at the present time. If he didn’t get a result in the Jacky Lee murder case, he knew his time as an SIO would come to an ignominious end and maybe his promotion prospects would be spoiled for ever.
Desperation and the possibility of a superb result made him use Henry Christie and Terry Briggs’s statements and actually interview Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick himself. He could almost visualise the newspaper headlines acknowledging his success. But his lack of criminal interviewing skills showed when both men laughed in his face and admitted nothing; then when Henry had been beaten up, he realised what a stupid error he had made - hence his idea to make the master interview tapes ‘disappear’ from the library to cover his tracks.
And now his career was facing its biggest ever crisis: Henry Christie’s threat to expose his incompetence.
Davison knew that if Henry kept his word - and there was no reason to doubt it - he was finished. Certainly his time as an SIO would end. The subsequent enquiry would highlight his foolhardiness in jeopardising the life of an undercover cop and he would no doubt be accused of corrupt and improper practice for interfering with the interview tapes, maybe even theft. His police career could well come to an end in shame and disgrace.
Yes, Davison realised, in Henry Christie he had a problem.
Six hours after the Russian, Yuri Ivankov, had landed in Paris from Manchester over a week earlier, he was sitting in a cafe in the north of the city of Boulevard des Batignolles at the busy junction with Rue de Constantinople. He was eating a plate of oysters followed by ris de veau and had been there for thirty minutes, mixing in easily and inconspicuously with the early evening crowd, when the target arrived.
Yuri had been adequately briefed on his arrival in the city by a man who sat next to him on the coach from the airport. Little had actually been said, but that did not surprise the Russian. In his area of speciality, most people did not want to interact socially with him. He understood this, took no umbrage. The man simply handed him a slim briefing pack to read, containing a few, but essential, details; these included several recent photographs of the target, when and where he could be found that evening, where and what type of weapon would be available for use.
The Russian scanned the pack a few times, then handed it back. He and the man made no eye-contact and the remainder of the journey passed in silence. The Russian was at a window seat, watching the Paris skyline draw closer. It was a city he loved. He regretted not being able to spend much time in it. After tonight, his second hit in the city, he doubted he would ever return for pleasure.
When the target appeared at the time specified in the brief and sat down as predicted, the Russian was pleased. It meant homework had been done. It also meant the target was a creature of habit, something that no underworld player could afford to be. Not if he wanted to stay alive.
The Russian wiped his mouth and checked his watch. Two minutes to go.
He had already called for the bill and placed a generous amount on the saucer. Generous enough for the waiter to develop a fogged memory.
Only then did he reach underneath the table to remove the handgun that had been taped there. The Russian did not check it. The briefing note had specified where it was to be found, that the safety would be off and that the gun would be wrapped in a plastic bag to prevent the spent cartridges ejecting. That was a nice touch, the Russian had thought. Empty cartridges meant evidence. The note also said there would be a bullet in the breech and therefore the gun would be ready for immediate use.
He stood up and strolled slowly out the cafe. It was a warm night. Many of the outer tables were taken. People chatted happily, concentrating on their food and wine.
He weaved between them, came up swiftly behind the target and simply fired four shots into his head. The Russian had been informed what type of bullets would be in the gun. The damage done to the man’s head confirmed this.
Two long strides took the Russian to the edge of the pavement.
Seemingly from nowhere, a trials bike screamed across in front of him, two on board. The passenger held open a black plastic bag into which the Russian dropped the pistol. The bike revved, slewed away into the traffic and disappeared, immediately replaced by a black Citroen. The rear passenger door swung open and the Russian coolly flopped into the seat, slamming the door behind him. The car accelerated away. The Russian did not have the slightest inclination to glance back over his shoulder to see
the terrified confusion he had left in his wake.
It had been an easy hit of the type he had pulled a dozen times before.
He was whisked away by more silent men, herded from one car to another around the outer perimeter of Paris until he found himself in the front passenger seat of a sleek Peugeot sports car, heading south towards Orleans. From there he changed vehicles again and travelled through the night to Clermont-Ferrand where he was ushered into a grimy hotel for a few hours. Another car picked him up at dawn and transferred him to the airport. Posing as a Swiss businessman he flew to Rome. From there he picked up a short flight to Luqa Airport on the island of Malta.
The last leg of his journey was by helicopter to Gozo, Malta’s sister island, and then by hire car to a villa in the village of Gharb where he had been crashed out ever since pulling the trigger.
Other than the staff - cook and gardener - he was alone in the stone villa. This suited him. He developed his tan and maintained his fitness by using the small gym and pool. He relaxed by reading some naval fiction, particularly Patrick O’Brian novels which he adored. He had picked these up at Rome.
He knew he would be safe at the villa. The place was owned, via a chain complex enough to deter even the most dedicated investigator, by a Mafia family from Naples who did regular business with the Russian’s master - the Drozdovs.
It was on the eighth day of his sojourn that his relaxed mind churned over recent events in his life. In particular the assassination he had carried out in Northern England.
He had been pleased enough with the job, having carried out his instructions to the letter. But what made his eyes narrow thoughtfully as he ate alone on the terrace, were the actions of Jacky Lee’s companion, the one he had pondered over before, the one who had pointed a gun at him, dropped into a combat stance - and not fired.
Surely if the man had been a friend of Lee, he would have opened up. Yet he didn’t. He had a golden opportunity, but chose not to fire.
That gave the Russian a very creepy feeling.
If the man had had a military background, he would have fired.
If he had been a criminal, he would have fired.
But if the man had been a cop - he would not have fired.
Soldiers and criminals don’t think twice about shooting people who are running away. Cops do.
The Russian knew he was only guessing, but he felt compelled to tell someone of his misgivings.
He finished his meal quickly, then made his way to the study in the villa where there was an e-mail facility. He logged on and started to type.
He would hate the man to become any sort of a problem.
The lure of two more duty-free Benson & Hedges Specials bought on her flight into Tenerife and a couple of miniature vodkas from the mini-bar in her room kept Danny dallying on the balcony for another half hour, watching the harbour lights and blowing smoke rings into the balmy night air. At one point she almost jumped out of her skin. There was a sudden silence, just for a fraction of a second. No music, no people, no cars, no hubbub - and in that moment she could have sworn she heard the roar of a lion. She dipped forwards in her plastic chair, ears craning. Then all the other noises clicked back into place. She sat back slowly, positive for a moment about what she’d heard. Then she shook her head and smiled, convincing herself it couldn’t be. Must have been a gust of wind.
She took one last long drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray before standing up and brushing her skirt down. Her stomach gurgled its hunger impatiently. She thought that perhaps she might have heard that rumbling rather than a lion.
Time to move. She caught the lift down to the foyer and walked out the hotel.
‘That’s her,’ Gillrow whispered to Loz. They were sitting behind a pillar, pretending to read newspapers, waiting on the off-chance of spotting her.
Loz nodded. ‘I’ll sort it.’ He folded his newspaper and slapped it across Gillrow’s chest. ‘And I’ll enjoy it.’
He followed Danny out into the night.
The journey to the rendezvous point took three-quarters of an hour. Henry followed Terry out of Blackburn and over the moors to Haslingden in East Lancashire; through the towns of Rossendale - Rawtenstall, Waterfoot, Bacup and Whitworth (all areas Henry knew of old) - winding down through the narrow main roads until they hit the Greater Manchester boundary at Rochdale. Here Terry did a sharp right off the road into a steep valley known as the ‘Thrutch’, where a river ran fiercely through a narrow gorge. This was Healey Dell Nature Reserve, just inside Lancashire.
The road twisted tightly down until it bottomed out, flattened and widened on the valley floor, then began to rise gradually again. This time, on the right, was the entrance to a small industrial estate, consisting of brick-built units once part of a larger mill.
Terry drove in; Henry followed in the low-slung XJS, careful not to rip out the underside of the car on the uneven ground. They drew to a halt outside the shutter door of unit number four. Obviously this was one of the places where Jacky Lee - and now Gunk and Gary - stored contraband. It was heavily fortified but there was no burglar alarm on the premises. Cops turning out to false alarms could prove extremely embarrassing.
Henry switched the Jag engine off, got out and mooched over to Terry. He stayed in the van, window down, elbow out.
‘Where the hell are they?’ Terry asked.
As if in answer, the sound of a powerful engine grew nearer and louder. A Jeep bounced on to the industrial estate, going far too quickly, scrunching to a swerving halt just four inches away from the back end of the Jag.
‘Wanker,’ hissed Henry.
Gunk Elphick alighted from the vehicle, alone, big, bright, smiling; volatile and dangerous underneath. ‘OK, guys,’ he called. He fumbled in his jeans pocket, producing a set of keys, then opened a side door and went into the building. A few seconds later the big shutter door ascended noisily. ‘Reverse the van in,’ Gunk shouted.
Terry manoeuvred the Mercedes into the unit. Gunk leaned nonchalantly by the control box for the door. Once the engine had been turned off, he smacked the ‘door close’ button with the palm of his big right hand.
Henry opened the van doors, displaying all the boxes of whisky inside. It was one of those cheap mixed brands which he quite liked to drink in quantity, usually diluted with something else he would never even have shown to a decent single malt. It was good, pub spirit.
Gunk and Terry joined him.
‘Stack ‘em, over there.’ Gunk pointed to a corner of the unit where there was space amongst other boxes of merchandise. Henry’s eyes had already roved and seen that the majority of the other gear was electrical - cheap tape-recorders and some fairly dated-looking word processors. There was also a selection of do-it-yourself equipment, including power tools and Black & Decker Workmates. Henry winced at the thought of DIY.
In one corner of the unit was a good quality multi-gym setup, probably where Gunk came to work out. A series of weights were scattered about the floor like huge coins.
It took about forty-five minutes to empty the van. Henry and Terry ended up beaded in sweat, breathless. Gunk showed no signs of strain.
‘Good stuff,’ beamed Gunk, hands on hips, surveying the piled-up whisky. He smiled at Henry, whose flesh crept. Gunk’s mobile phone chirped some obscure sequence of notes. He fished it out of his back pocket and thumbed a button. ‘Yep?’
Gary Thompson did not live very far away from the industrial unit to which the whisky had been delivered. He inhabited a large, modern apartment on the outskirts of Rochdale in a soulless building where neighbours kept themselves to themselves, ensuring he could live a life of coming and going without raising eyebrows. He lived there with his - now - thirty-year-old lady friend. They planned to marry in the near future.
As the whisky was being delivered, Gary was in deep conversation with Nikolai Drozdov across the dining-room table. They were discussing the job which had been presented to them by Billy Crane. Both were eager to get
involved. It was easy money, exciting and dangerous. Just what crime should be.
The first phone call to interrupt them came to Drozdov’s mobile. It was a short terse message and Drozdov had no time to respond to it. The call ended abruptly.
‘A warning from my friends in Russia,’ he said to Gary. ‘Check out the guy who was with Jacky Lee when he was shot. Could be a cop. Stress “could be”.’
‘Frank Jagger,’ Gary said stonily.
Then Thompson’s own mobile rang. It was Billy Crane. He did not introduce himself, just expected Thompson to recognise the voice. ‘I know where I’ve seen that guy Jagger before,’ he said quickly. ‘Twelve years ago. He was a cop. Is he still one, or what? Think about it.’ The call ended.
Gary repeated Crane’s words to Drozdov. A horrible feeling, like rats eating away at him, gnawed in the pit of his guts.
‘Once is OK,’ Drozdov began his mantra. ‘Twice is coincidence-’
Thompson’s phone rang again, startling both men. The voice of a man Gary did not recognise said slowly, just once, ‘Frank Jagger is a cop. If you do not kill him, he will destroy you.’
‘Shit! Either this is one big fucking joke, or else we’re in deep crap.’
‘Three times,’ Drozdov concluded, ‘means big trouble.’
Gary nodded. ‘We need to get out of here and go to ground,’ he said, punching a number into his mobile. ‘Gunk? Is that you?’
‘Sure is,’ the big man answered.
‘Are you still with Frank Jagger?’
‘Sure am.’
‘Well, listen fucking good. Don’t do anything stupid, don’t say anything stupid. He’s a cop. I don’t know about the other one, but Jagger definitely is. Get out of there without making him suspicious. Got it? See me down at the Crown and we’ll take it from there.’
