by Nick Oldham
‘ Danny.’ It was the Comms Room Sergeant. ‘Just got a message via Control Room for Manchester Airport. They’ve had to redirect a holiday charter flight from Tenerife into Blackpool Airport because of an incident on the runway at Manchester. Apparently a plane’s landed without wheels and the runway’s going to be blocked for an hour or two. They’re redirecting incoming flights all over the place.’
Danny waited. Very interesting, she thought. But what the hell was it to do with her?
‘ Two of the passengers have been causing a disturbance and have been restrained by the crew. They want the cops to be there when it lands. I’ve got a couple of uniformed PCs on their way, but no supervision. The Patrol Sergeant’s busy and so is the Inspector.’
And I’m not? Danny thought.
‘ I wondered if you’d nip across, It’s a bit different, isn’t it — aviation law and all that?’ he sounded hopeful.
‘ When is the plane due in?’
‘ About ten minutes.’
‘ OK, I’ll have a look.’ She hung up, checked her watch and made a few mental calculations. She could go to the airport on the way up to the hospital to see the knife-attack victim. Though she had to admit it was a fairly interesting and unusual occurrence and she was curious, she doubted if there would be anything for the CID. A couple of drunks on a plane, a bit of air rage — the trend of the moment… but so what?
Blackpool Airport is not very big. A few holiday companies use it as a starting point for package tours to Spain, but its main real source of revenue is from business flights to other UK destinations, in particular the Isle of Man. Having a jet the size of a 767 land presented no problem, fortunately. The airport controllers and emergency services could easily hand such a flight.
Danny and the two Constables watched the plane descend, painfully slowly it appeared; suddenly it grew large and was there, touching down perfectly, the merest hint of a screech of tyres and a puff of dust, then it was taxiing to the terminal building where the police van was parked. Motorised steps were driven to the front and rear doors which were heaved open.
Together with a Customs Officer and a member of the airport staff, Danny and the two PCs trotted up the front steps to be met by the Chief Stewardess.
Danny flashed her badge and warrant card, introduced herself, and found it impossible not to notice the woman’s shiner of a left eye, grazes on her face and cut lip. She succinctly explained to Danny what had transpired; in total, six assaults and drunk and disorderly conduct.
She led Danny into the plane where Spencer and Cheryl were still handcuffed and pinned to the floor by cabin crew. It was a situation which had caused safety concerns during landing, but handcuffed and held down they had remained.
‘ The man is called…’ the stewardess began.
Danny cut in with a snort and a chuckle. ‘I know them both,’ she said. ‘They are two local characters, well known to us.’ She did not use the term ‘toe-rags’ to describe them, even though it was more appropriate. ‘You’ve brought them home, saved them a trip from Manchester.’
Both Spencer and Cheryl were regular customers for the police on the Fylde coast. They were prolific thieves, mainly shoplifters, but Spencer also had burglary and robbery convictions. Both were known drug-users and were drawing dole.
‘ Hi, Spence, hi, Cheryl,’ Danny said, bending down to their eye level.
Neither looked particularly pleased to see her.
How they had financed their holiday was a question Danny was already posing to herself and it was one she would soon be asking. She was also relishing the prospect of searching them and their luggage very thoroughly indeed. She was certain she would find illegal substances on them. Probably for their own use, but even so, importing controlled drugs carried very heavy penalties.
Danny’s day was brightening up.
Twenty minutes later the police van was pulling up at Blackpool Central Custody Office. Danny’s car was behind and the holidaymakers’ suitcases were in the boot.
Spencer remained as obnoxious and violent in police custody as he had been in the plane. The result was he was quickly, forcibly searched and dragged screaming, kicking and shouting down the corridor and heaved into a cell.
Cheryl was more compliant. She had calmed down and looked extremely nervous as she was processed. Danny noticed her hands were shaking when she signed her name to her rights.
Danny strip-searched her in an interview room and found nothing other than an undernourished girl. Once Cheryl was dressed again, Danny herded her back into the Custody Office, aware she was now running late with her other, more important job. Danny was impatient to get to the hospital to see Mickey Mouse’s victim. Spencer and Cheryl’s stupidity was a job uniform could deal with quite capably.
However, there was still the possibility of smuggled drugs. Danny opened Cheryl’s suitcase and started to list the property. When most of it had been taken out and logged, Danny felt carefully around the interior of the case. She almost immediately noticed a split and a bulge in the inner lining.
Feeling her own heartbeat quicken, she glanced up a Cheryl, and saw terror smeared across her face. Slowly and carefully, Danny extracted a brown paper parcel from the lining. She rolled it open and pulled out a long clear plastic bag from within, secured by sticky tape. In the bag was a white, powdery substance.
Cheryl said, ‘Oh fuck, I’m dead,’ and fainted.
Chapter Two
The Russian hated airports. They were too sophisticated these days. Too many cameras, hidden or otherwise. Too many two-way mirrors and one-way windows, making it impossible to determine if you were being watched, your movement recorded and the details subsequently passed to the appropriate authorities and possibly used against you at some future time.
He often had to use airports, but spent as little time in them as possible. He always arrived at the latest possible moment before take-off and always tried to use some subtle disguise, even if it was only the way he walked or the language or dialect he spoke. The Russian could converse fluently in six languages and get by to a greater or lesser degree in four others. Being a pro active kind of person, his best foreign language was English which he could speak in a variety of accents — American, Australian, South African and several British dialects.
Much of his work took him across Europe these days and he gladly travelled by road or rail, savouring the way boundaries had been all but flattened. Nowadays he could move virtually unchallenged and unobserved from country to country. A perfect scenario for someone like him.
For this particular job, he had travelled west across Europe by train; a fairly circuitous route from Moscow to Paris, then up to Caen in Normandy. From there he collected a hire car which had been pre-booked for him and drove to Ouistreham where he boarded the ferry Normandie to take him across to Portsmouth, England.
That Sunday afternoon, the same day on which Spencer and Cheryl had been arrested, the Russian had spent the six-and-a-half-hour crossing inside a reserved cabin, sleeping to the gentle roll of the Channel, eating sandwiches and drinking Coke bought pre-boarding from a shop in Ouistreham.
Even on a ferry he was cautious. He always booked a cabin and got into it as soon as he boarded, only leaving it when the boat docked.
However, that afternoon, curiosity got the better of the Russian. He had never sailed into Portsmouth before and wanted to see HMS Victory. Naval history was one of his many interests, and after he had completed his task in England, he promised himself a short break along the South Coast, exploring ports and naval dockyards.
As the ferry sailed into Portsmouth, the Russian found himself amongst many other passengers in the front lounge of the boat, watching the steady progress towards the dock and gawping at the Victory.
The Russian thought the ship was magnificent. He became engrossed in his thoughts about it and its history. When a man nudged him and said, ‘Fantastic, eh?’ the Russian immediately feared the worst. The fingers of his right hand instinctiv
ely curled into the palm ready to press the release catch on the stiletto secreted up his sleeve.
‘ Yeah, superb,’ the Russian responded. He eyed the man for some sign that this was where it was going to happen, but the man was now ignoring him, trying to peer over someone else’s shoulder.
The Russian edged away, dry-throated, into a position where he could see the man out of the corner of his eye.
He was very suspicious.
Who was the man? Was he testing him? Did he know who he was? Would he have to kill him?
A glimmer of relief stabbed the Russian when two young children and a harassed-looking woman came up behind the man, who picked up the youngest child and pointed excitedly to the Victory.
The Russian’s eyes closed briefly. Next time, he admonished himself, no matter what the temptation, you stay in your cabin. You were lucky this time; next time you might not be so fortunate.
He spun out of the assembly of passengers and slunk away.
The Ibis Hotel in Portsmouth was perfect for the Russian. Purpose-built and designed for people on the move, whether business or pleasure, it was soulless and sanitised. He registered using a different identity to the one he’d crossed the Channel with, then headed for the restaurant where he downed a quick meal and drank a pint of lager.
His room was neat, functional and clean. He showered, taking it long and hot, swilling off the dust and smell of travel, dried off and slumped into the double bed. Yawning, he refitted the knife to his wrist, then immediately fell asleep.
Just before midnight, a rustling noise awoke him. He came to quickly, his eyes darting around the room, his senses alert and prickling. He rolled off the bed and picked up the envelope which had been pushed under the door. He listened, ear to the door, but there was nothing to hear. Good. It meant the delivery boy had gone, was not curious.
Inside the envelope was a car key. On a small card was a make, model and registration number. A nondescript Ford. Nothing flashy. Again, functional.
The other item in the envelope was the most recent photograph of the man with whom he was required to do business.
A man who, within forty-eight hours, would be dead.
Danny had definitely decided to go back to her own place that night. Even if Geena’s ever-hopeful boyfriend had not been an issue, she had had enough of living out of a suitcase, sleeping in a single bed, not having her own toilet, not having the privacy to be a slob. She was too old and set in her ways to feel comfortable living like that. She needed her own space; room to get on with her life.
She was going to be brave and return home.
It had been a long day at work, complicated by Mickey Mouse and the redirected holiday jet landing at Blackpool Airport. But by 11 p.m. Danny had managed to get everything tied up.
‘ Mr Mouse’ had eventually decided to come clean about his true identity. He had been charged with Grievous Bodily Harm and was appearing in court in the morning. The file for that had been done and dusted.
Spencer had been refused bail and charged with offences relating to his behaviour on the plane. He had also been questioned extensively about the drugs in Cheryl’s suitcase, but denied all knowledge. Danny believed him. Cheryl, meanwhile, was as guilty as sin. She was going nowhere, either, other than in custody to the Magistrates’ Court on a charge of importing cocaine and assaults on the plane. The Crown Prosecution Service intended to oppose further bail for her, but Danny suspected the court would probably allow conditional bail — reporting to a police station coupled with confiscation of passport and strict residence and curfew impositions.
Danny actually felt sorry for Cheryl. She was obviously a mule, bringing in dope on behalf of some big-time dealer or organisation and getting nothing but problems for her reward.
Just after eleven, Danny left work and raced to a local pub where she knew her request for alcoholic beverage would be met with sympathy. She also found a couple of Detective Constables there and spent the next hour chatting to them… by which time the pub had emptied and the landlord wanted to know if they were staying put for a lock-in, or were leaving; if the latter, could he shut up shop?
They left. Danny walked to her car and got in. She rested her hands on the steering wheel and allowed her head to droop between her arms. Then she raised her face and brushed her hair back.
The moment of weakness had passed. The moment when she almost drove back to Geena’s instead of returning to her own house which she had not seen for three months… where tragic memories lurked… where someone had committed suicide in her kitchen.
It was 2 a.m. The sixth cigarette butt in a row was tossed out of the driver’s window on to the pavement.
Danny’s resolution to go home had deserted her like a rat from a sinking ship when she drove her new Mazda MX-5 into the street where her house was located. She had parked directly outside the semi, not even daring to pull into the driveway.
She had rolled the window down and lit a cigarette, drawing the heavy smoke deep into her lungs. She stared at the house, illuminated by the fluorescent street-light. Nothing had changed, other than the addition of a For Sale sign embedded in the front lawn. No prospective buyers had been to view the property. It was probably still too soon. The story was still fresh in everyone’s mind. The illicit love affair. The suicide when Danny ended it. The shotgun in the mouth. The brains blasted into the fridge. The revelations in the newspaper afterwards — another smut-scandal in the police. The media lapped it up. Photographs of the wronged wife. Danny, the Scarlet Woman (even invited on to a morning TV chat show!). Jesus, it had been completely horrendous. Then the funeral — not attended by Danny. The inquest… all major life-shattering events, the ramifications of which still bubbled on. Danny still faced the prospect of internal discipline proceedings for bringing the Service into disrepute, amongst other things.
And she had never set foot in the house since the day Jack Sands, her boss and lover, had blown the whole of his head above his jaw into the freezer compartment and top shelf of her fridge.
Danny lit the seventh cigarette.
Her eyes burned with tiredness.
This was the first time she had ever smoked in her smart new car. And would be the last, she decided firmly, and made up her mind. She flicked the cigarette out of the window, then got out herself. She drew in as deep a breath as her smoke-saturated lungs would allow and walked up to the front door, slotted in the Yale key.
She was home.
A scrawny lion had once been rescued by some do-gooders from a tiny cage on top of a bar in Tenerife. The beast had been a pitiful sight. Poorly treated, badly fed and cared for, its ribs pushed out like a xylophone, its mane a tangled, dried-up mess, its eyes oozing pus. No doubt it could still have killed a man, given the chance — and enjoyed the feast — but it was a pathetic specimen by any standards. It deserved to be saved and the owner strung up.
However, the lion which, at 2 a.m. on that warm, balmy night in Los Cristianos, Tenerife, prowled the large cage on the roof top of Uncle B’s English Bar and Disco was a different matter altogether. He was fit, healthy and rippling with muscle. His tawny grey-yellow coat was glowing, smooth as a peach. The mane was black and looked as though it had been shampooed and trimmed by Vidal Sassoon himself.
The lion’s name was Nero, and he was capable of bringing down a Cape buffalo and a zebra at the same time.
Nero paced his cage, his large pads slapping down on the hard floor. A serious grunt emanated from his throat with each tread. He was impatient. And hungry.
He moved up and down the length of the cage, his head and eyes always fixed on the point where the staircase opened out on to the roof terrace. There was a click, followed by a scraping noise as a metal door was drawn backwards. Then there was the sound of footsteps on the metal stairs.
Nero stopped moving, his shining black eyes concentrating on the opening through the mesh of the cage.
Unusually, two men appeared instead of one.
Nero recognised t
he first one by his smell: the aftershave and the cigar smoke complemented by alcohol fumes. It was an aroma Nero loved — but only because there was the pleasure of food associated with this human being who was also his owner.
The first man up the stairs was carrying a coolbox.
Nero knew this contained his food for the day.
The first man walked confidently up to the cage whilst the second man hesitated in the background, hovering nervously. Nero picked up on this. The man smelled very much like the first one — smoke, aftershave and alcohol — but there was something else there which sent a tremor of excitement down the great beast’s spine.
Fear.
‘ Hey, Nero, look what I got for you. ’ The man held up the coolbox and rapped his knuckles on it.
A deep roar emanated from the beast’s throat, like thunder approaching.
‘ The best horsemeat money can buy,’ the man said. He walked up to the cage and placed the box on the floor next to a specially constructed sliding tray at ground level. He pulled the flap open and dragged out the metal tray.
Nero’s pace grew quicker, up and down the cage, impatience showing. He was hungry. He wanted food.
The man at the cage glanced over his shoulder at his colleague who had remained at the top of the steps, ready to bolt. He’d lit a cigarette. Shaking fingers placed it between his lips. Jesus, the lion scared the hell out of him. He spent as little time as possible on the roof.
‘ Hey, come over here, you soft bastard.’
‘ I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. Frightens the shit out of me.’
‘ We all have our fears, Loz. We’ve all got to come to terms with them.’
‘ I don’t mind coming to terms with normal things, but a fucking lion? No way.’
Nero snarled. The man at the cage looked at him and smiled. ‘It’s OK, pal. You’ll have some din-dins in a minute.’ He turned back to Loz. ‘C’mon,’ he coaxed, encouraging him to come across the divide with a gesture of his fingers. ‘You gotta do this. It’ll be good for your soul.’
