by Nick Oldham
He only just reached the toilet in time.
As industrial estates in Lancashire go, White Lund, on the outskirts of Morecambe on the Lancaster boundary, is pretty big. Hundreds of businesses operate from it, from well managed, prosperous, totally legitimate concerns, to seedy operations run by seedy operators down dingy dead-end roads - and everything in between the two extremes.
It was to one of these seedy operations that Don Smith drove Billy Crane later that morning.
Crane had managed to get back to sleep after his earlier bout of insomnia and was surprised to find Smith waking him at 8 a.m. They had strolled down to the promenade at Morecambe and devoured a big, fat boy’s breakfast at one of the sea-front cafes. Thus fortified, they returned to their lodgings, picked up their car - hired under false details and later to be destroyed - and drove up to White Lund.
They were using the warehouse owned by a guy who was predominantly dodgy. The man dealt in huge volumes of smuggled cigarettes, alcohol and perfumes from the continent, brought in either via the south coast ports or through Heysham, near Morecambe, by way of Southern Ireland. He supplied numerous independent retailers, mainly off-licences, chemists and market-traders with goods at rock-bottom prices. He made a very tidy living. He had been warned off by Smith and well-paid to take a day’s holiday.
Smith now had the keys and the alarm code.
‘This looks good,’ Crane commented as they drew up in front of the high steel gates outside the warehouse. The gates formed part of a twelve-foot-high fence which encircled the premises. Opposite the warehouse was a wide tract of spare land and no other business nearby had a direct line of sight to the warehouse, which is probably why the owner picked it in the first place, so business could be conducted unobserved.
The warehouse was low and long and big. There were three doors at the front, two roller doors, one of which opened into a loading bay, and a normal door.
‘That’s why I chose it,’ Smith smiled. He jumped out of the car and unlocked the gates. Crane slid behind the wheel and drove the car into the yard, leaving it parked there. It was 9 a.m. People would begin arriving soon.
Forty miles to the south, Henry Christie pulled off the A59 and drove slowly through the entrance to Lancashire Constabulary Headquarters at Hutton, near to Preston. He flashed his badge at the security man who waved him through impatiently and with the minimum of formality. Briefly Henry wondered about the level of security, not just at police headquarters, but at all police establishments. It was pretty lax, but he was reassured to have been told that in the not too distant future a perimeter fence was to be built and a proper procedure for entering and leaving the place introduced. However, before he could pursue any critical thought, the question of security left him as quickly as it had arrived, like a bubble bursting, and his mind segued back into the state of numbness which had been its feature over the last couple of weeks.
Automatically he turned first left after the gatehouse into Hutton Hall Avenue. On his left were former police houses, all now offices for various departments, including Discipline & Complaints and Performance Review. He trundled slowly past the rugby field on his right. As ever it was superbly maintained and looked wonderful in the early morning sunshine. Henry had played regularly on it in his younger days having, in fact, been rather a star of the county team for a couple of years in the late 1970s.
There would be no game that morning.
The windsock was out in one corner of the pitch, drooping obscenely in the breeze-free day and a huge letter ‘H’ had been unrolled, on one half of the pitch. That meant the Force helicopter would be landing later. Henry drove past, not really registering anything, then turned on to the driveway of the house which now belonged to the Occupational Health & Welfare Unit (OHWU).
He sat in the car for several minutes, blinking absently. The cassette-player was turned up loud, blasting out the latest studio album by the Stones. The songs perfectly matched the way Henry was feeling, particularly the loud rocker called ‘Flip the Switch’; in it, over Keith Richards’s harsh guitar chords, Mick Jagger sang sneeringly about a guy being executed by electric chair, encouraging the authorities to get the power turned on so that he could get into the filthy pit of hell ... into which Henry firmly believed he was stuck at that moment in time.
He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up a bottle of water, took a mouthful. For a few seconds, whilst rushing the cool, apple-flavoured drink around his tongue, teeth and gums, his mouth felt fresh. He swallowed; within moments the taste had returned, making him retch.
Henry switched the engine off and got lethargically out.
The sleek BMW was next to pull in through the gates of the warehouse yard. Smith was operating the roller door, yanking the chain quickly, making enough of a gap for the German car to drive in. The door rolled shut as he released the chain.
Billy Crane directed the car across to the far side of the warehouse.
Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov climbed out and walked back towards Crane and Smith.
All were dressed in dark clothing and trainers. They looked mean and ready for business, exuding the smell of danger.
Crane eyed them through slitted lids, wondering, his nostrils flaring, a sense of unease in him. . . He shook it off, smiled and offered his hand to each of them in turn, welcoming them. He led them into the office where he made coffee.
‘How goes it?’ Thompson enquired.
‘No problems,’ Smith replied. He checked his watch. ‘Plenty of time yet.’
Not many minutes behind Henry Christie, Danny Furness also arrived at Headquarters, driving her nippy little Mazda MX-5, a car she had purchased following an insurance payout on her last car which had been stolen and torched. She turned left, as Henry had done, and drove past the OHWU just as Henry was walking up the driveway towards the door of the unit. He was the last person Danny expected to see. She thought he was still away working U/C. She saw him, slammed on and pipped her horn to attract his attention, waving madly - delightedly - at him. He frowned, a puzzled expression on his face - and Danny covered her mouth in shock. He peered towards her for a few moments, then realised who was honking at him. He waved listlessly and approached her like it was a chore, almost dragging his feet.
Danny wound her window down. She did her utmost to keep her smile bright, when in fact she was severely appalled by the sight of his face. He looked ten years older, haggard and very drawn and grey. His skin hung loosely off his facial bones, his eyes were surrounded by purple bags. His clothing seemed loose too, like he’d lost an enormous amount of weight very quickly.
‘Hi, Henry, what’re you up to?’ she asked brightly. The question seemed to faze and embarrass him and throw him all at once. He looked edgily round as though he needed to find a way of escaping the situation, like a trapped animal.
‘Mmm?’ he responded vaguely. It was obvious he could not think of anything to say. Danny hoped her horror was not betrayed by her expression. It was like being in the presence of an Alzheimer’s sufferer. ‘I’m just going for one of them Healthline checks,’ he said weakly. He was referring to the free, complete health and fitness check offered by the OHWU to members of the Force.
‘Oh, right - good idea. I could do with one of them,’ Danny said. She knew Henry was telling lies.
He pulled himself together a little. ‘You?’
‘We’re having a big review of that triple murder and we’re down at the Training School, using their facilities. It’s one of those Where are we up to? Where’s it going? Why haven’t we solved it yet? kind of things. Going to give ourselves a good whipping, I expect. Come down after, if you fancy it. You’d be dead welcome. Your ideas would be helpful.’
‘I might at that,’ he said. His tone of voice told Danny it was unlikely.
He tapped the roof of Danny’s car and gave her a pallid smile before turning and walking away. He did not give her a backward glance. Danny watched him go, very troubled. In that short exchange she conc
luded it was not the Henry Christie she knew - and loved. It was a pale shadow and she was intrigued to discover why that was. Maybe he had suffered a bereavement or something - or had he got some horrible disease? She clicked the car into first and drove on down to the training school, her thoughts bursting with Henry Christie.
Next through the warehouse gates was a beat-up Cavalier, its exterior condition belying the fact that underneath the bonnet beat a high-performance engine in prime mechanical condition. It pulled up in one corner of the yard behind the hire car; two men jumped out and made their way directly to the warehouse door which was opened for them by Smith. These were Hawker and Price, the two who had played such a big part in the abduction and murder of the unfortunate Cheryl and Spencer. They had been well remunerated for that job and had lain low since; today they expected to be paid well enough to see them through the rest of their lives.
Smith indicated the office. Hawker and Price joined the others, helping themselves to coffee.
Smith remained by the door, constantly checking his watch. If things kept going as smoothly as this, another vehicle would be arriving shortly. He smiled with satisfaction when a battered Ford Transit trundled through the gates and manoeuvred into a position ready to reverse into the loading bay. Smith already had his finger on the door-open button.
The contents of the van were delivered quickly. Within minutes the vehicle was leaving, the driver having seen only Smith, none of the others. Smith wasn’t too bothered by this. After today, remaining in England would be far too dangerous and unpredictable. He had also made plans for the future.
When the loading-bay door closed, Smith called out, ‘You can come out now.’
The rest of the team, Crane, Thompson, Elphick, Drozdov, Hawker and Price, skulked out of the office.
Smith tossed each one of them a bundle wrapped in polythene.
For Hawker, the package contained an exact copy of the uniform worn by the guards of the security firm whose van they intended to plunder later that day. It had been made to measure and was a perfect fit, including a crash hat bearing the firm’s insignia, overalls, socks and boots and bulletproof vest.
The others received their working clothes for the day ahead: bulletproof vests, overalls, light steel toe-capped boots, black ski masks and black jackets.
Smith looked at his watch again. Half an hour to the next delivery.
It came bang on time.
A very new, flashy Volvo estate drove into the yard, swung round and reversed up to the loading bay.
Again, everyone with the exception of Smith remained scarce as the contents were hauled out by him and the lone driver. There was no hanging about. Within seconds of completing the delivery, the Volvo had disappeared down the road.
Once more the team emerged from hiding and milled around Smith, gazing down at the equipment on the warehouse floor.
Guns. Ammunition. Shock batons. Person-to-person radios.
Smith, who had been basically acting as Quartermaster, distributed the weaponry between each person according to the plan he and Crane had put together. Soon each man was in his own little concentration bubble, checking and loading.
Drozdov looked up. An Uzi machine pistol hung in his hand down by one side, a pistol at the other.
‘I think, gentlemen,’ he declared, ‘it is time we were told the exact nature of the day ahead.’
Crane nodded. Drozdov was correct. The time had come to reveal all.
The Murder Squad, under the watchful, facilitative eye of the SIO, worked hard that morning, both as a big group in the assembly hall at the Training School and in syndicates dotted around various classrooms on the campus where they focused on particular aspects of the triple murder. In essence they were having a ‘brain dump’, collating and actioning ideas, ludicrous or otherwise, in an effort to take the investigation further.
The team was willing but, as Danny noted glumly, it was fairly short of experience of jobs like this, herself included. Most members of the squad were Detective Constables, and Danny sighed a few times when she gazed round at them; there were far too many young ones for major investigations like this. One of the Detective Inspectors was on the ‘fast track’, acquiring information for his CV on the way up. Hysterically he did not even have an investigative background; such were the philosophies of a police service where it was believed entirely appropriate that if someone possessed generic management skills they would be able to manage anyone or any group of people in the Force. A completely ridiculous ethos, of course. Ask anyone who has tried to manage a team of grumpy detectives without the necessary background. Unless they were exceptional people, they sank.
Danny despaired. The whole thing needed people with the calibre, bottle, clout and experience of detectives like Henry Christie; people who played the system but had the occasional flashes of perception, intuition - whatever - that set them apart from the crowd. And got results.
She saw her chance to make representations when ACC Fanshaw-Bayley strolled cockily into the assembly hall, chatting to the SIO. Someone like FB could get Henry on board.
Danny kept surreptitious tabs on FB’s progress. When it looked as though he was about to take his leave, she moved away from the group of detectives she was working with, sidled up alongside him and gripped him.
‘Sir?’
‘Oh, hello young lady.’
Instantaneously she felt her skin creep. She detested the man. He always rubbed her up the wrong way - intentionally or not, she did not know. She had her suspicions that he was naturally a chauvinistic pig.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘Have you got a moment, sir?’
‘For you, Danny, I have many moments.’
I’ll bet you do, she thought. Don’t you ever learn? Danny knew FB was facing an Industrial Tribunal hearing in the near future for his sexist behaviour. She cut to the chase. ‘Did the SIO give you the party line, or did you get the truth?’
‘About what?’ He was intrigued.
‘The state of this investigation. Did he come clean, or did he bullshit you?’
FB blinked rapidly. His voice became serious. ‘I think you should explain what you’re inferring.’
‘OK - did he tell you that we expect to make an arrest very soon or did he tell you the truth - that we’re basically getting nowhere fast?’
FB’s political head slotted into place. ‘The conversation I have just had with the SIO is confidential, as is the conversation I’m having with you. Now what the hell are you talking about?’
‘What I’m trying to say is that we need better people on the squad. This lot are OK,’ she gave a sweep of her hand, ‘but they’re plodders and doers. We need some new blood on this if we intend to crack it - because every day we don’t feel a collar, means that whoever murdered those three people is one step further from our grasp.’
‘I thought you had a particularly good lead in Tenerife?’
‘I think I have - but I need help on it. Class help. Someone like Henry Christie.’
FB snorted. ‘He’s off sick with some mysterious illness. Doctor’s note says “General Debility” . . . soft sod. But yeah, he would be good to have, I can’t disagree with that - but he’s off sick, as I said.’
‘I’ve seen him at Occupational Health this morning,’ Danny said. Despite herself, she batted her eyelashes. ‘Could I ask him if he’d be interested - and would you square it with the SIO if he was?’
‘What was he doing at Occupational Health?’
‘Getting a Healthline check, he said.’
FB’s electronic organiser chirped tunefully in his pocket. He looked at his watch. ‘I should be with the Chief Constable.’ He started to move away from Danny, all his thoughts suddenly directed to the meeting ahead. Danny saw she was about to lose him.
‘Sir, sir. . . what about Henry?’
‘Right, right,’ he shouted back over his shoulder. ‘You sort it out with him.’
Danny bunched a fist in joy.
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‘I like this very much indeed,’ Drozdov nodded approvingly. ‘It is a very good plan.’ He raised his black eyebrows at his two business partners, Thompson and Elphick. Their faces acknowledged that it sounded good, too. ‘I particularly like these additional aspects,’ Drozdov concluded with an evil smile. ‘Very cunning.’
‘Thanks. It’s the kind of thing I’ve done before. It works well - and on today’s scale, it should mean we won’t be troubled.’
Drozdov sat back pensively. He pointed at Crane. ‘You have gone to a great deal of time and trouble for a quarter of a million pounds.’
Crane felt his ears begin to turn red, even though he had been ready for this. ‘Better safe than sorry, and the additional labour is cheap. Look, it’s coming out of my whack, so don’t worry.’
Drozdov eyed him uncertainly, was about to say something else when Smith called, ‘They’re here,’ from the window where he was stationed.
As before, everyone bar him filed back into the office, out of sight. Smith dragged open the roller doors which gave access to the warehouse. Two Audi sports cars were driven in and parked behind Thompson’s BMW Both were stolen, but bore clean number plates, new engine numbers and perfect tax discs (stolen two days before in a Post Office burglary in Swindon); the engines were perfectly tuned and serviced. Only the most rigorous physical check by a nosy cop would start to reveal any defects - and that would never be allowed to happen.
Smith went across to the loading bay and opened that door too. A blue Leyland Sherpa van, 3.5 litres, reversed into the empty space. Again stolen, all details accordingly altered or obliterated.
The drivers of these vehicles knew their jobs. They did not hang around, simply left the keys in the ignition and trotted out of the warehouse, looking neither left nor right, and got into a car waiting for them in the yard. By the time they drove out, the warehouse doors were half-closed.
