The Last Big Job hc-4

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ You cut yourself shaving?’ he asked Gunk, noticing a Band-Aid on his ear. Gunk smiled wickedly at him.

  Henry’s face became impassive as the four hands worked quickly around his body. Underneath the exterior he was struggling to prevent a bowel movement, even though he was pretty certain they would not find the wire. Because of his previous conversation with Lee, where Lee had mentioned mulling over who had blabbed on him, Henry had thought it prudent to reposition the wire on his person, which he did — literally. Normally it was taped to the small of his back. Today it was in his underpants with his cock resting alongside it.

  The two men did a reasonably systematic search, quartering him. Henry hoped that human nature would prevent them from doing anything more than a light cursory pat down around his privates and arse. And they were inexperienced searchers and probably didn’t know exactly what they were looking for. He was confident because he knew that police officers who searched prisoners day in, day out, still miss things, sometimes even the size of a hammer.

  ‘ He’s clean.’ The men stood back.

  ‘ And now,’ Henry said, face thunderous, ‘what about you, Jacky? All those years in jail — how the hell do I know you haven’t turned? You might be setting me up, for all I know. This could simply be bluffing shite.’

  ‘ Want to search me?’

  ‘ Too right.’

  ‘ Be my guest.’ Lee clambered out of the BMW He opened his arms wide to Henry who swiftly ran his hands around Lee’s outer clothing, more as a gesture than anything. He did find one thing — the butt of a revolver pushed down the rear of Lee’s waistband.

  Henry moved away.

  ‘ OK, Frank?’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘ Then let’s get down to business and forget this crap. I feel good about today.’

  After two hours of constant travelling averaging sixty miles an hour, the security van was close to its destination. Just to the north of Stafford, Colin Hodge, the driver, exited the motorway. Within minutes of leaving the junction, he was driving on to a fairly new industrial estate. Eventually he stopped outside the gates of a very large, secure-looking compound. The notice board gave the name of the company as ‘Secure-a-Waste’, followed by a phone number and e-mail address. There was nothing to suggest the company specialised in the disposal of all types of security waste from paper to chemicals. In this particular compound they had a huge incinerator which completely destroyed anything made of paper. It was not recycled, simply sent into the sky as smoke and into the earth as fertiliser. As the company held the contract with the Royal Mint, it was here they burned used, tattered, torn and otherwise worn-out banknotes of the realm.

  Hodge honked his horn a couple of times. A massive sliding gate, twenty feet high, topped with razor wire, and fifteen feet across, grated slowly open. He drove in and pulled up with the radiator grille nose up to a second similar gate. The first gate closed behind them, sealing the van in a sterile, mesh-roofed compound.

  It was very much like entering a prison.

  Hodge’s two colleagues had to disembark here and go to wait in a secure office. Only the driver and the security guard inside the back of the van were allowed through to the next stage of the process.

  Once the two were behind a locked door and the relevant paperwork had been duly signed, the inner gate opened. Hodge drove the van into the complex which basically consisted of a road which ringed a large, low, brick-built building; on its roof, in one corner, was a tall, wide chimney.

  Hodge reversed the van up to a roller door which rattled open. Once it was open at its full height, he manoeuvred the van back into the bay beyond. The roller door closed. For the second time the vehicle was in a secure area. He switched off the engine.

  This was the only time other people seemed to enter the equation.

  Two men in overalls, wearing industrial face masks and driving a forklift truck each, came out from behind a steel door and approached the van. Hodge watched and noted their movements through his wing mirrors.

  Hodge’s colleague in the rear exchanged passwords, then opened the rear door of the van from inside and began to pass out the metal boxes which contained the money collected that day. The men in overalls stacked them high on the forklifts until they were all piled up.

  Hodge’s insides flipped at the thought of all that money burning.

  The back door was closed and one of the men slapped the side of the van. Hodge fired up the engine. In his mirrors he watched the men drive their nippy vehicles through the steel door, out of reach.

  The roller door opened.

  Hodge collected all his mates from the entrance and began his journey back up North. He glanced across at Secure-a-Waste. Already black smoke was billowing out of the chimney. Hodge winced painfully.

  Henry Christie, Terry Briggs and Jacky Lee sauntered across the lorry park towards the transport cafe. They had inspected the contents in the rear of Terry’s box van. Jacky was over the moon by what he had seen — lots and lots of stolen whisky. He and Frank Jagger were back in business — a carbon copy of their first-ever transaction. He believed the whisky was from a blagging at a cash-and-carry warehouse somewhere down South.

  At?4.00 a bottle, Lee was not bothered where they came from, but for the purposes of Henry Christie’s scenario, Lee needed to think they were stolen.

  ‘ Forty grand… that’s a lot of money,’ Lee was moaning, even though he would make treble that amount within a couple of months as the whisky filtered through his pubs and clubs.

  ‘ No, it’s not,’ Henry argued. ‘It’s bloody cheap and you know it. I’m the one on tight margins,’ he bleated. ‘So many fucking people to pay down the line, I’ll be lucky to get fifty pence a bottle. Next time the price goes up, Jacky.’

  ‘ Yeah, yeah, yeah, my fucking heart bleeds, you whingeing twat.’ He slapped Henry on the back. ‘But business is business and it feels good to be doing it with you again.’

  They filed into the transport cafe, past Gary Thompson, who squirmed out of the door, nodding at his boss. ‘Just had a piss, boss,’ he explained for no reason. He trotted back to the BMW which was parked at the front of the cafe with Gunk lounging by it. The cafe was less busy now, but still doing a good trade. Henry, Terry and Lee sat at an empty table in a booth, having ordered three teas.

  ‘ Now then, payment,’ Lee began. ‘Where and when?’

  ‘ As we agreed,’ Henry said firmly. ‘All on delivery, here and now, otherwise the lorry goes. I’ve got at least three others sniffing around, cash in hand.’

  ‘ OK, fair enough,’ Lee conceded, holding up his hands in surrender.

  The tea arrived, steaming and brown.

  Lee inspected his and said, ‘Think I need a piss, guys. Back in a minute.’ He headed for the gents, his back watched by the two detectives. Henry quickly ran his fingers on the underside of the table to check for any hidden mikes and broke their rule when he quickly whispered, ‘He’s got a gun.’ Terry merely nodded. They reverted to role and picked up their drinks.

  ‘ Shit, that’s hot!’ Henry spluttered as the tea burned the top of his mouth.

  His eyes drifted to the window and out to Lee’s BMW The two minders leaned against it, smoking, Thompson talking on a mobile phone. The smaller, stockier one, Gunk, was fingering his plastered ear. He looked to be in pain. Both men looked spooked and nervous.

  ‘ Them too, I think,’ Henry said without moving his lips. Again Terry nodded.

  The one on the phone finished his chat and said something quickly to the other, then thumbed an urgent gesture towards a car which had driven on to the lorry park and was heading for the rear of the cafe.

  The two minders tensed up and exchanged a few words. Thompson threw down his cigarette and crushed it out, yanked open the driver’s door of the BMW and dropped into the seat. Gunk just threw his fag to one side and scurried around the car, skidding in the gravel, and dived into the front passenger seat.

  ‘ You see what I see?’ Te
rry said laconically. He had been observing the antics of the bodyguards too.

  ‘ I think we’re being set up here,’ Henry said, standing up quickly, knocking his boiling tea over.

  ‘ I want you to make this a very public execution,’ the Russian’s masters had told him. Being a former soldier and then a member of the world’s most ruthless intelligence agency, the KGB, he always carried out orders as instructed, even if he felt they were flawed. He would really have preferred to do something more subtle and classy — but if public was how they wanted it, public it would be.

  Since the meeting in the hotel in Fleetwood, he had spent the next couple of nights in a Travelodge on the outskirts of Manchester, in the guise of a travelling salesmen. He was continually in touch, via the mobile, with Thompson, keeping abreast of the target’s present whereabouts and future plans. When he was told that the target had arranged business at a transport cafe, he was interested. Without having visited the place, it seemed a good location for a hit — next to a fast main road, close to a motorway junction, with a choice of direction depending on the circumstances prevailing at the time.

  The Russian then reconnoitred the location, grabbing a cup of tea and using the toilets. Although he remained there a short time only, his experienced eyes — which had weighed up dozens of prospective assassination sites before — recorded everything and came to a conclusion: This would be the place where Jacky Lee would die.

  At a second quick meeting with Thompson, who came alone this time, the Russian outlined his requirements and questioned Thompson deeply about the nature of the business Lee would be conducting at the cafe. Who was he meeting? Was he likely to be armed? Could he possibly constitute a threat?

  When everything was answered to his satisfaction, he nodded.

  It was a goer.

  The Russian was assured that Johnny Snowden was the best getaway driver in the North-West, a big claim for a twenty-year-old. He had, he was told, six armed robberies to his credit and a multitude of other less serious crimes. He had outrun the cops on the four occasions he’d been pursued and was very much in demand for jobs. The Russian accepted the accolades, but Snowden’s past history did not interest him. Nor did any small talk, so when the youngster started chatting, he said, ‘Shut up. This is real business. Do your job, do it well and your reputation will be sealed for ever.’

  Snowden closed his mouth.

  ‘ Cock up, however, and you’ll be dead,’ the Russian added in a friendly way.

  They waited for the call in a country lane a short distance away from the cafe.

  When it came, the Russian simply said, ‘Go,’ and pulled on his favourite garment — his stocking mask. Nothing, he believed, worked as well when it came to intimidation.

  Snowden drove the Ford Mondeo, stolen, on false plates, down on to the A580 and into the lorry park adjoining the transport cafe, swinging wide to park behind the cafe.

  The Russian saw Thompson and Elphick scrambling into their car and could not prevent a lip curl at the thought of his masters operating with such rank amateurs.

  Then they were at the rear of the cafe. The Russian picked up the American Arms Spectre from the footwell and got casually out of the car. He was faced with two doors. The one on the right led directly into the kitchen; the one on the left was a fire door opening on to a short corridor off which the toilets were located, but which led into the cafe itself.

  If Thompson had done his job right, this latter door should be unlocked.

  It was.

  ‘ Can’t say I’m a happy Teddy here,’ was Terry’s understated response to the situation. He stood up a fraction more slowly than Henry.

  They moved away from the table and stopped in their tracks at the sight of Jacky Lee emerging unconcerned from the toilet corridor. He was zipping up with a little jump and adjusting himself shamelessly. He brushed the front of his trousers where there was a little damp patch. Then he looked up out of the cafe door — which was all windows and a wooden frame — to see his BMW careering away across the lorry park.

  Henry’s mind adjusted to this new development quickly. He had not expected to see Jacky Lee again because he believed Lee was part of the set-up. He thought Jacky had done a runner out of the back. Now there was a very different complexion to this: perhaps it was Jacky who was being set up?

  A puzzled expression crossed Lee’s face. His bushy eyebrows knitted together over the bridge of his nose. He put his hands on his hips as a sign of confusion and stepped nearer to the door to get a better view of the retreating car. ‘What the fuck…?’ he started to say, turning his head to look at Henry.

  The timing was impeccable. The Russian slid into the corridor the moment after Jacky Lee came out of the toilets and made his way back to the main body of the cafe. He recognised Lee immediately and that old twist of excitement knotted his lower stomach. Good luck favours the brave, he thought.

  At the end of the corridor, because of the way the light from the glass door was falling, Lee was framed in a perfect silhouette. Just like a figure in the firing range — and this little job was turning out to be as academic as a training session. The Russian transferred the Spectre to his left hand, deciding to use the Browning instead which he drew from his waistband. A much better, more effective, close-quarters weapon.

  Henry opened his mouth to say something to Lee, but no words ever left his mouth.

  The sound of gunfire was tremendous. Suddenly the front of Lee’s chest exploded as though aliens were bursting out. He was driven forwards by the impact of the bullets, writhing as each one impacted his back, then exited through his chest. He was thrown against the door of the cafe — a sheet of normal glass that had never been replaced in twenty years. He crashed through it, fell, and a jagged, deadly shard of glass shaped like a stalagmite tore into his neck, another into his stomach.

  The other diners uttered yells of disbelief and fear, diving for cover behind anything they could find. A waitress screamed and huddled herself into a ball, covering her head with her hands and a menu.

  Henry counted six shots.

  He started to move towards Lee who lay squirming face down in the glass. His back was a terrible bloody mess. The glass had deeply gouged his neck. It seemed incredible he could still be alive. He jerked involuntarily, his head moving back, releasing a perfect arc of blood from his jugular which rose, then died away to a splutter.

  The Russian stepped out of the corridor, the Spectre waving warningly in his left hand, the Browning in his right.

  Henry stopped, as did Terry.

  The Russian shouted something indecipherable, followed quickly by the words, ‘Keep back.’ He edged towards Lee, eyes locked on Henry and Terry all the while. He aimed quickly and put two more bullets into the back of Lee’s head. That stopped him squirming. He then spun round and ran back down the corridor to the rear exit.

  Henry stepped over to Lee. Trying to ignore the blood, he lifted Lee’s leather jacket and pulled out the handgun, finding it to be a two-inch barrelled Smith amp; Wesson revolver, Detective Special, a model Henry was familiar with.

  It did not take the Brain of Britain to realise that the car which had driven round the back of the transport cafe as the BMW was driving away was probably involved in the shooting. Henry strode out of the door over Lee’s body and set off running along the front of the cafe where he figured the car was likely to appear.

  As he rounded the end of the building, the Mondeo skidded away.

  Henry saw two people on board. A young lad at the wheel — and the killer, still wearing the stocking mask. The car swerved on the gravel surface, the driver adjusting and readjusting, then regaining full control.

  Henry dropped into a combat stance: feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent and flexible, gun in his right hand supported by his left, elbows locked, arms forming an isosceles triangle. He aimed at the driver, his finger curved around the trigger tight enough for the hammer to roll back. Then he thought, Shit, what am I doing?

&
nbsp; The car hurtled past, out of the lorry park and headed west along the A580 towards the M6.

  Henry thumbed the hammer back into place and lowered the weapon. He felt slightly sick. He had almost done a stupid thing in the heat of the moment — fired at someone who presented no threat. That would have taken a lot of explaining to a coroner’s court. He returned quickly to the murder scene and found Terry.

  ‘ Let’s get lost,’ he said to him.

  Against all their instincts as cops, but in keeping with their undercover legends, they legged it.

  Chapter Five

  One and off, the argument had been raging since their arrests the previous Sunday. The tiny rooms of Cheryl’s grubby little council flat in Blackpool often rang to the high-decibel noise of her exchanging verbals with boyfriend Spencer. But that evening, drink entered the equation as, sooner rather than later, it was bound to do so.

  Spencer had been out since lunchtime, drinking heavily with his churns, spending one of the many state benefits he claimed on the booze and then urinating it away against the porcelain. His favoured drink was bitter beer. He adored the stuff and managed to consume nine pints over the course of the afternoon.

  When he rolled into Cheryl’s flat just after seven, holding a lukewarm fish-and-chip takeaway, he reeked of beer. On the journey from the chip shop to home the wrapping had started to work loose from around the food. Grease patches had seeped through the paper. He grabbed another beer from the fridge and plonked himself down on an easy chair in front of the stolen TV He flipped open the beer, emptied a large mouthful down his throat and unwrapped his meal.

  His face was creased and mean. There were some grazes on his cheek where he’d exchanged blows with a ‘mate’ earlier in the afternoon. Nothing serious.

  Cheryl was already in the flat, watching the news. She had been drinking too, having spent a couple of hours at a friend’s house, quaffing sweet Martinis. She was feeling pissed and rotten. Her eyes were red raw, she was tired and in no fit state to sign on at the police station between 7 p.m. and 8 p.m., as her bail conditions stipulated. All she wanted to do was sit where she was, wrapped in a skimpy dressing gown, stare at the TV and continue boozing until her supply ran dry.