The Last Big Job

by Nick Oldham

  Smith wandered into the office where the others were downing their umpteenth coffee. ‘That’s everything,’ he announced. ‘One phone call’ - he tapped the mobile on his belt - ‘then we can roll.’

  Frustratingly for Danny it was almost 1 p.m. before the Murder Squad review workshop finished. Four hours since she had bumped into Henry that morning. As a Healthline check lasts only about forty minutes, he would be long gone.

  Annoyed by that and slightly depressed because the workshop did not seem to have taken the investigation any further, she meandered back to her beloved new car. When she sat down in it, she immediately began to feel better. She turned the engine on and revved it; then she spent a few minutes selecting the musical accompaniment for the return to Blackpool. Stars, by Simply Red. She slid the CD into the slot and as Mick Hucknall’s sex-filled voice grooved in, she drove off the car park and down Hutton Hall Avenue ... to be very surprised to see Henry Christie’s car still parked outside Occupational Health.

  Danny stopped and reversed into the narrow track by the tennis courts, more or less opposite the OHWU, and waited for him to appear.

  Twenty minutes later, the front door opened and Henry emerged. He seemed to have no more energy than earlier.

  Danny’s mind revolved. Four hours and twenty minutes. What the hell had he been doing in there for so long?

  She quickly got out of her car and strode towards him. He did not notice her, or look up, until they almost collided next to his car.

  ‘Danny!’ he said in astonishment, as though she was a being from another planet.

  ‘Hello, Henry.’ She held back the desire to say, ‘Bloody long Healthline check, wasn’t it?’ Instead, she said, ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Ahhh . . . what about? Work’?

  ‘Yes.’

  He shook his head and curled his lip. ‘Tell you the truth, I’m off sick, Danny. I ... er ...’ he said absently, unable to complete the sentence.

  ‘I know you’re off sick, but I’d really like your help.’ She laid a fingertip on the back of his hand, and despite herself and despite Henry’s wretched appearance, a thrill ran through her. She caught her breath. ‘It’s this job in Blackpool, the triple murder.’

  ‘I don’t know the first thing about it,’ he said quickly. ‘I have been away, you know.’

  ‘I’d still like some advice.’ She took her finger away.

  For the first time Henry looked squarely at her. ‘I don’t know.’

  Then he looked away, fumbling for his car keys.

  ‘Please, let’s go and have something to eat at Headquarters canteen. I really would appreciate it,’ she said coaxingly, but actually against her better judgment because Henry looked very, very ill.

  ‘OK.’ He swallowed.

  They walked up to the main Headquarters building, past the rugby pitch on which the Force helicopter now squatted like a huge insect. It had arrived mid-morning from its operating base at Warton aerodrome, and barring any call on its services, would be there until mid-afternoon for display to some police authority members and other visiting dignitaries.

  The HQ canteen was quiet, most people having dined by that time. They bought sandwiches and a cup of tea each and sat down near to a window.

  Hawker and Price had earlier been dispatched to buy fish and chips and cold drinks for everyone. The greasy wrappings were spread around the office. They had all finished eating when the call came into Smith’s mobile. It was a short conversation. ‘Yeah ... yeah. . . thanks.’ Smith looked around from Crane, to Thompson, to Drozdov, Elphick, Hawker and Price. ‘Here we go,’ he said.

  Normally Danny found it very easy to talk to Henry. They were on the same wavelength, had the same sense of humour and above all, fancied each other like mad. Her efforts to engage him in conversation that afternoon failed miserably. He was vague, distant ... troubled. She started to think this whole idea of hers was a waste of effort and time, and in the end she simply wittered on about the investigation whilst munching her way through her sandwich, trying to think of a withdrawal strategy without causing him offence because he wasn’t giving her anything here at all.

  He gazed past her shoulder into the middle distance as she talked. She could tell he was only quarter-listening, but then he turned to her and it was as if the old Henry had come home and switched the lights on.

  ‘Repeat that name,’ he said.

  ‘Cheryl Jones?’

  ‘No, no, no . . . the other one; did I mishear it?’

  ‘Malcolm Fitch?’

  ‘Yes, Malcolm Fitch.’

  ‘You know him?’ Danny chewed her sandwich quickly, becoming animated.

  Henry pursed his lips. ‘Not personally, but I do know that he was an RCS snout before I went on the squad. In fact,’ Henry leaned forwards, bright-eyed if not bushy-tailed, ‘do you remember that night Terry Briggs got shot and Billy Crane turned up at BRI? Nineteen eighty ... six?’

  The image dazzled Danny’s mind immediately. ‘How could I forget?’

  Henry tapped his temple to make himself concentrate. Danny felt the cheeks of her bum squeeze together with excitement. This was exactly why Henry, or someone like him, should have been on the enquiry from the word go, instead of a bunch of inexperienced jacks who had no history to them - not their fault, of course - and who probably hadn’t even been in the police in 1986. But Henry was one of those detectives who had ‘it’ - that certain something which sets them apart from the pack. Yeah, all those things like knowledge, experience, a prodigious memory, but also the ability to piece things together, to give attention to detail and above all, be there for others to learn from.

  ‘You probably won’t remember the guy, and there’s no reason why you should, but the detective who set that whole operation up that night, the Building Society break-in...’

  ‘Barney Gillrow,’ Danny offered.

  ‘You do know him?’ Henry was surprised.

  ‘Yeah - I haven’t come to that bit in my story yet, but you go on, Henry.’ Danny’s eyes flashed at him. God, she wanted to grab him there and then and have him across the dining table.

  ‘If you think back, you’ll remember that - strangely enough - only two of the three offenders were arrested for the burglary. Billy Crane and Don Smith. We got Billy at the hospital and Smith got pulled coming out of the back door of the shop next to the Building Society.’

  Danny’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the second name, Smith. She had heard it recently, but could not say where.

  ‘The third guy got away. I heard it was Malcolm Fitch. He did a runner from his arresting officer, who happened to be Gillrow.’

  Danny screwed her nose up. ‘I didn’t know that, but I didn’t really know very much about the job anyway. RCS didn’t tell anyone. I just remember getting a prisoner taken off me - the one who blew up the police cars in Northgate.’

  ‘I only know more about it because I was on that job as an AFO and I knew a few of the RCS guys because I’d been a detective. I was only back in uniform to get myself promoted to Sergeant. The rumour was that Fitch was Gillrow’s snout and that he gave Gillrow the gen about the burglary and then participated in it on the understanding, firstly he got paid and secondly he managed’ - here Henry tweaked the first and second fingers of both hands to accentuate the word ‘managed’ - ‘to escape at some stage, which he did. Gillrow let him do a runner on the way back to the nick. Smith got locked up and so did Crane - after he’d shot Terry and Terry had winged him. . . and the money was never recovered.’ Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Could have been a fourth man, maybe. Just rumour, though, I hasten to add.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ Danny said, holding up her hands, palms out. ‘Let me get this straight. Malcolm Fitch was an RCS informant and was handled by Barney Gillrow?’

  ‘Yes.’ Henry sighed. His energy seemed to be dissipating. ‘Fitch was one of the best sources the RCS ever had in the early 1980s. He was well in touch with a number of individual crims and some major crime gan
gs.’

  ‘That’s odd, then,’ Danny observed slowly.

  Henry waited for her to continue.

  ‘I’ve recently spoken to Barney Gillrow, now retired, living the life of Riley in Tenerife. He told me he hardly even recalls Malcolm Fitch.’

  ‘Unless he’s suffering memory loss, he’s not telling the truth.’

  Danny scratched her head. She told Henry about her visit to Gillrow, subsequently being warned off and the manner in which it was done.

  ‘Then the Tenerife link needs pursuing.’ He sat back. ‘As does the link with Billy Crane and Don Smith. Crane and Smith go back a long way. They were partners in crime, served time together; real hard cases. Guys like them bear grudges for a long time. If they found out, say, that Fitch had ratted on them to the RCS, they wouldn’t be averse to putting a bullet or two in his head, even now, years later. It could be a revenge killing, tied in with drug-related murders.’ Henry shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe Crane and Smith deal drugs now, too.’

  ‘Shit!’ Danny rocked forwards and pointed excitedly at Henry. ‘I know where I’ve heard that name - Don Smith. Henry, will you hang fire here for a few minutes while I make a phone call?’

  ‘Nothing better to do.’

  ‘You know something? I love you.’ Danny stood up, leaned over and pecked his cheek. ‘Where have you been all my life?’ She rushed out of the canteen to find a phone.

  Henry touched his face where her lips had brushed him. He could feel the heat. His fingertips stayed over the spot for a long time.

  The very last pick-up of the day was from a bank in Carlisle at 1.30 p.m. Slightly behind schedule, but nothing to be concerned about. Within minutes of leaving the bank they were on the M6 heading south. Colin Hodge was at the wheel of the security van. His stomach was still jittery, which was fine. It fitted in nicely with the plans. He’d already had to make one urgent, unscheduled stop and race to the toilet before shitting himself. It had been a stop where nothing untoward had happened, so a second stop would not raise eyebrows from his mates.

  And that second stop would be on the southbound motorway service area near Lancaster, formerly - and more widely - known as Forton Services. It was here that Hodge would be given specific instructions to follow before continuing southwards. The robbery, he had been told by Smith, would actually take place at the gates of the security waste disposal company in Stafford, but the stop at Lancaster was necessary in order to make contact and confirm everything was going to plan.

  Hodge tried to relax as he drove. He engaged in the inane banter of his colleagues and kept his mind focused on not betraying anything to them.

  But try as he might, he could not keep his mind off the passport and tickets which Don Smith was holding for him which would fly him firstly to Amsterdam, then on to Rome and from there, via the Middle East, to Australia, where, twenty-five million pounds richer, he would live a life of splendour and indulgence.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Each year one of the main political parties comes to Blackpool to hold its annual conference, usually at the beginning of October. The policing operation which services these conferences is phenomenal, costing millions of pounds. The public only see the visible side of the operation when the conferences are up and running, when normal day-to-day life in the resort is massively disrupted. That part is only a fraction of a huge enterprise which commences many months earlier, when much repetitive, mind-blowing legwork is done.

  Since the bombing of the Tory Party hotel in Brighton in 1984, the security of delegates, whether in government or otherwise, is at the top of the policing agenda. One of the ways in which this is achieved is by vetting. This means doing background checks on hundreds of people including staff employed at the Winter Gardens - which is the actual venue of the conferences - and of the employees at the main hotels where delegates stay during conference week.

  It is tedious work, often producing nothing remotely exciting, but it has to be done.

  At the hotels it is not only the staff who are checked out. Every guest registered in the preceding year is also checked. The rationale behind this is simple. As bomb-making technology improves, devices which can be planted months, even years, before they are due to explode can be placed in rooms to detonate during conference week, at night, when the delegates are most likely to be in their rooms.

  Each guest, unless known, is a potential terrorist and needs to be checked out and vetted.

  This is something that Billy Crane and Don Smith had not taken into account when the former booked into the Imperial Hotel under an assumed name and paid cash for his stay; and the latter paid for a meal with his own Barclaycard.

  Every name is checked out and any which are suspect will soon start to flash red in the system.

  DC Rik Dean, seconded for a six-month period to the vetting team, was sitting in a very cramped office in Blackpool Central police station, checking and cross-checking paperwork, when the phone rang next to him. He picked it up. ‘Conference Planning, Vetting Team, Rik Dean, can I help you?’ he answered blandly.

  ‘Rik, it’s me - Danny Furness.’

  Rik’s stomach did a hop, skip and a twirl. The back of his neck reddened. He swallowed. ‘Hello, Danny,’ he whispered timidly, mouth dry, vividly remembering leaving her high, dry, gasping and unsatisfied on her kitchen floor simply because he’d been spooked by the thought of screwing in the same location as a suicide.

  Danny tried to sound bright and unconcerned. ‘How are you?’

  ‘All right, I suppose.’

  ‘About the other night, Rik. Forget it. No hard feelings, not a problem.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, whatever.’ God, he almost choked when he thought about the opportunity missed. It had been there on a plate. ‘Maybe some other time?’ he ventured hopefully.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, still bright, failing to add, You missed your chance, tosspot. ‘I was a bit out of my head and it probably wouldn’t have been the right thing for us anyway, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said sonorously.

  ‘Rik, what I’m phoning about is - when we were talking the other night in the club, you mentioned you were on the vetting team and that something interesting had been thrown up from the Imperial Hotel. Something about a guy ... now correct me if I’m wrong, Rik, because I was totally pissed when you were telling me this and most of it went over my head. . . something about a guy who seems to have given false details when he was staying at the hotel, who stayed for one night, paid cash, and had dinner with another guy who visited him. This second guy - again correct me if I’m wrong - was called Don Smith. He used a credit card in that name. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, you are. I don’t even remember telling you.’

  ‘Shows how bladdered you were, too. Tell me about it.’

  ‘This fella books into the hotel into one of the best suites. Has dinner with this Don Smith character and leaves the morning after. We run all the normal checks and it transpires the address he gave does not exist - some street in Blackburn that was demolished years ago.’

  ‘What’ve you done about it?’

  ‘Tried to get hold of Don Smith, but we haven’t been able to do so yet. His credit-card address relates to an office in Blackpool which just seems to be a place where post gets sent.’

  ‘Have you any idea who the other guy is?’

  ‘Not yet. The one called Smith is a local Lancashire villain from Blackburn. We got his details from the credit-card company, but haven’t been able to pin him down at this address yet. It’s a mystery, but we’re not too concerned about it. There doesn’t seem to be a terrorist link, which is what we’re really concerned about, obviously.’

  ‘Has the suite been used since? The one Mr Unknown used?’

  ‘I imagine so. You thinking about fingerprints?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’ll have been cleaned if nothing else, so I doubt whether it would be worth dusting. What’s all this about, Danny?’

&nbs
p; ‘Not sure yet. Possibly a connection with the triple murder.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Rik said, interested.

  Danny shuffled her thoughts. ‘What I’m going to do is this, Rik - and bear with me please, because I’m just following a hunch here. I’m going to get a motorcyclist to pick up a mugshot of a guy from here at Headquarters and I’ll ask him to drop it off with you.’ She was already thinking ahead to losing a case because of lax procedure, so she wanted this done correctly. ‘You go to the CID office and get a book of photographs similar to the one I’ve sent and slot it in. Then go over to the hotel and ask the waiters to have a look through the book. See if they pick out the guy. Do it properly. Record it all on the right forms and don’t prompt - that’s important. In the meantime I’m going to get Scenes of Crime to go over that suite. You never know. Any questions?’

  ‘No, but I love it when you’re authoritative.’

  ‘Rik, honey. . . I could’ve been all yours, but you blew it.’

  Danny hung up and rubbed her hands. All she needed to do now was root out a photo of Billy Crane which even though it would be a dozen years old would have to do. Beggars could not be choosers.

  She dashed back to see Henry.

  Colin Hodge checked the time. It was 2.30 p.m. now and he was approaching the North Lancaster exit of the M6, about six miles away from the service area. He had been instructed to try to arrive at the services about 2.45 p.m., to fit in with the ‘bigger picture’, whatever that meant. Once at the services, he had been told to go to the gents’ toilets where Smith would be waiting; the latter would brief him about the next stage of events. Hodge would then continue his journey south - or so he believed.

  Hodge was keeping the security van at a constant 55 mph, but he relaxed his right foot ever so slightly to reduce the speed by a couple of sly notches without alerting his companions. He did not want to be too early. He wanted everything to work perfectly on this, the first day of the rest of his life.