The Last Big Job hc-4

by Nick Oldham

  However, the unexpected return of Spencer crashing through the door, bearing food, was some sort of motivation to do something.

  ‘ Give us a chip,’ she demanded.

  He leaned forwards protectively over the meal which he’d spread out on the paper over his lap. ‘No, fuck off.’

  ‘ Oh, come on, you tight-assed get,’ Cheryl whined. ‘I’m starving.’ She hoisted herself up from her position deep in the settee and reached across to help herself from Spencer’s pile of greasy chips.

  He saw her hand approaching and moved his knees just far enough to keep the food out of her reach. ‘I said fuck off.’ He took a swig of beer, belched loudly from the pit of his guts.

  ‘ Oh, come on,’ she pleaded, getting annoyed. ‘I haven’t had owt all day. I’m starving.’

  He sighed, turned to look at her. ‘Why the fuck should I give you anything, eh? You stupid bitch. You deserve sod all.’

  ‘ Oh, fucking forget it.’ She slumped back, folded her arms and crossed her legs haughtily.

  ‘ No, I won’t forget it. I still want to know why you didn’t tell me about that fucking Charlie. If I’d known, I would’ve kept my gob shut on the plane, wouldn’t I? Then we could have sold the gear ourselves, made a few bob out of it. But no, you didn’t have the bottle to tell me, did ya?’

  It was not so much the issue about carrying drugs that was driving a wedge between them, more the fact that Spencer felt cheated because he’d lost out on the opportunity to sell the drugs himself to his pals in Blackpool.

  ‘ Coulda made a fortune,’ he wittered.

  ‘ Oh, like, yeah,’ sneered Cheryl, ‘as if they’d really let you do that. Are you fucking stupid or something, Spencer? You could never have walked away with those drugs. You’d be dead if you did… I might be dead now, for all I know,’ she concluded desolately.

  ‘ Bollocks,’ he spat in disbelief. ‘We could be rollin’ in it now, but because you never told me, we haven’t even got your pay packet, have we? An’ how much was that gonna be?’

  ‘ Three hundred quid,’ she replied sheepishly.

  ‘ And now we’ve got fuck all, you stupid cunt.’ Spencer folded a particularly large chip into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of beer.

  ‘ Yeah, you’re dead right there.’ Cheryl’s face pinched tight. ‘I’ve got you and that’s as good as fuck all because I’m fucking sick to death of you.’

  Spencer shrugged. He grabbed the TV remote and flicked channels to Star Trek. ‘You know what you can do.’

  ‘ No, you know what you can do,’ she retorted, her anger bubble bursting. ‘It’s my flat, so you can go. Go on, piss off and leave me alone. I hate the fucking sight of you.’ Cheryl was now gearing up for full throttle and her mouth was beginning to take over before her alcohol-riddled brain cells advised caution. ‘It was a fucking pleasure to give that guy a blow job. At least he had a proper-sized dick.’

  Spencer blinked as the words filtered through his own alcohol barrier.

  Cheryl covered her mouth. Too late, the words had already left.

  Spencer turned his bleary eyes to her. ‘Blow job? What blow job? What guy?’

  ‘ The one I carried the drugs for.’

  Spencer stared uncomprehendingly at her for a few silent moments, his mouth lolling open stupidly. One or two things slotted into place for him. Mysterious absences by Cheryl on their holiday. He’d not bothered about them at the time, mainly because he’d been drunk or recovering for the bulk of the time. And — over one two-day period — with a bunch of guys he’d met out there, he’d gone walkabout anyway and ended up screwing some nameless girl in an apartment somewhere in Los Cristianos. They had all screwed her and her four mates. Cheryl did not need to know about that, Spencer reasoned.

  ‘ You slag!’ he uttered, as though disgusted by her behaviour. For a drunken person he moved quickly. He rose from the chair, shifting the fish-and-chip supper on to the palm of his right hand. He catapulted across the room and before she could react, he had slammed the takeaway full into her face, following it up with a punch and a scream.

  Cheryl was a mean fighter. She had been raised tough in the world of alcoholic and abusive parents and children’s homes. One of her bare feet connected hard with Spencer’s scrotum, sending him stuttering back across the room, clutching his balls.

  ‘ You bastard!’ Cheryl jumped to her feet, picking the broken fish and crushed chips off her face and out of her hair, throwing the bits down with exaggerated flicking of her fingers. ‘I’ll get you for that.’ She hunted round for a suitable weapon, found nothing, so went for Spencer like an alley cat.

  He was no slouch in the fighting arena either, but the lucky strike on his testicles had taken his breath away. It was all he could do to fend off her blows. He went under until he was curled up in a tight ball with her raining punches and kicks on him — most fairly ineffectively — until she collapsed exhausted on the settee.

  Silence fell between them, punctuated by the sound of the adventures of Captain Kirk on the TV.

  Eventually and cautiously, Spencer raised his head. ‘You finished?’

  She nodded. There was a tear in her eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.

  ‘ Yeah, me too.’

  They were not the kind of couple who bore grudges against each other. They lived hand to mouth, mostly for the moment, wondering where their next drink was coming from, or their next spliff. They didn’t have the time or the intellectual capacity or complexity of thought to dwell on things for too long.

  Still smeared in chip grease, Cheryl slid off the settee on to her knees and shuffled across to Spencer. He pushed himself into a sitting position. The pain in his lower abdomen had become a dull ache. ‘I didn’t mean what I said. I love you really.’

  ‘ An’ I love you.’

  Their mouths clashed and locked in a ferocious kiss.

  ‘ I want a blow job too,’ Spencer broke off with a gasp.

  ‘ Sure, sure,’ she panted, planting kisses all over Spencer’s spotty face and neck. She drew him on to the floor and pushed him back, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, followed by the zipper on his jeans. She rolled down his underpants to reveal his eager but droopy penis. Cheryl tried to hide her disappointment: The man who said his name was Loz, whom she had fellated on Tenerife in order to get the courier job, really did have a very large one. She took Spencer whole in her mouth and worked diligently on him. He reached down between her legs and inserted his fingers into her.

  Billy Crane did not return to his home town of Blackburn. Instead, he was driven to the Lancashire coast where he took a room at the Imperial Hotel, Blackpool, which had been booked for him under an assumed name. The hotel was on the sea-front, North Shore, and was the one in which high-ranking politicians usually stayed during political conference week. He was shown to a suite on one corner of the building, overlooking the promenade. In the past, he was reliably informed by the porter, the room had been occupied by Prime Ministers during their stay at the resort.

  When the porter left, Crane gazed round the room fairly unimpressed. It seemed a lot of money for not much. But it was fine for his needs and it was unlikely he would be recognised in this environment. He walked to the window and looked at the grey Irish Sea, his countenance set grim.

  Then he lay on the wide bed, set his alarm and dozed off. Travel was very tiring. He woke before the alarm, showered, shaved and dressed smart but casual. Fifteen minutes later he was in the bar ordering a gin and tonic.

  Not long after, another man sauntered in. Crane’s business partner. After a quick drink, they gravitated into the restaurant and ordered dinner.

  Anyone observing them would have found it difficult to guess that between them, they operated one of the most successful drug-smuggling operations in Britain, or that, unless the observer could lip-read, their conversation that evening revolved around the subject of murder.

  Totally naked, Cheryl and Spencer lay on the carpet, warming themselves n
ext to the triple-bar electric fire.

  Cheryl was dribbling beer into Spencer’s mouth from her own. Both were smoking, passing a tatty joint back and forth filled with very potent Moroccan skunk, giggling as the weed took effect. Their world was now a very pleasant, if slightly off-centre, place to be.

  Reality did strike when Cheryl glanced up at the teddy-bear clock on the wall. She squinted at it, focused, and worked out it was ten past eight.

  ‘ Oh shit.’ She pushed herself up. ‘I should’ve signed on. Fuck.’ She tried to get up, but Spencer pulled her back — a gesture that probably sealed their fate that night.

  ‘ Fuck ‘em,’ he told her. ‘It’ll be all right. I should know — I’ve been on bail loadsa times.’ He manoeuvred her so that her small breasts were positioned over his face. He opened his mouth and sucked in the left nipple and a fair proportion of the mammary behind it, filling his mouth.

  His name was Don Smith. He operated and controlled the British end of Billy Crane’s Tenerife-based drugs connection. Crane, Smith and another man had been the three who had committed the Building Society robbery in Blackburn in 1986; subsequent to that, Crane and Smith had served time together, though Smith’s sentence had been shorter than Crane’s. Their time banged up together had been the foundation of the drugs business, Crane being very much the man in charge.

  ‘ I’m glad you decided to come over, Bill,’ Smith said. ‘We don’t see enough of each other.’

  ‘ Let’s keep it that way, Don.’ Crane wiped his mouth as he finished the last of his soup. ‘You never know who’s watching us. It’s best we stay apart.’

  ‘ Yeah, I know that. Communication being what it is, we don’t need to meet so much. But it is good to see you.’

  Crane nodded in agreement.

  ‘ I want to take advantage of you while you’re here,’ Smith went on. ‘I know you want to do the business and then get home quick, but I’ve had an approach from someone and I want you to meet him. Something I want you to consider.’ Smith was excited.

  ‘ I’ve come for one thing only.’

  ‘ I know, but this is well worthwhile, believe me. And,’ he said mysteriously, ‘there’s something else on top of that you’ll be interested in.’

  Crane rolled his eyes. He did not have time for games.

  ‘ Hey,’ Smith said placatingly, recognising he was beginning to wind his friend up. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘ I do trust you, Don.’ A waiter arrived and removed their soup dishes. ‘I enjoyed that,’ Crane said to him.

  ‘ Thank you, sir.’

  Crane leaned on the table when he’d gone. ‘It’s not you I don’t trust.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s all the other cunts.’

  ‘ Bill, believe me… everything tonight will be worth your while.’

  Crane shrugged. ‘OK — so what about the first item on the agenda — fifty g’s worth of smack in police hands?’

  ‘ As we speak, it’s being sorted.’

  Detective Sergeant Danny Furness stared down at the assorted paperwork on her desk which contained figures, charts, graphs, crime-pattern analyses — all produced on Excel software in very pretty multi-coloured bar charts and pie charts — and rubbed her gritty eyes. She had been attempting to make sense of the statistics which told her, in a complicated format, that crime was rocketing unchecked throughout Blackpool and whatever the police tried to do was failing miserably. Unfortunately Danny had the unenviable task of communicating this bad news to the Divisional Management Team at their next meeting and explaining why things were going wrong.

  She knew she was going to get a pasting.

  ‘ Stuff it,’ she hissed, tidied all the papers up and dropped them into one of the wire baskets on her desk. It did not matter which one. They were all brimful of paper, everything crying out to be dealt with — now!

  It was 8.30 p.m. She’d had enough. Another twelve-hour day. She rose slowly from her chair, stretching her aching spine, and slid into her coat. She was brain dead. She walked out of the CID office and trotted down to the front desk of the police station where one of her friends was working, a Public Enquiry Assistant (PEA) called Helen. She was busy. There was a waiting room full of people and she looked harassed. She was due to finish at nine; Danny wondered if she fancied a drink.

  ‘ I do, actually,’ Helen said, filling in a vehicle document production form — an HORT2. ‘I’m parched, tired and irritated. Where?’

  Danny suggested the name of a decent pub not far from the nick. They agreed to meet up at nine and walk there together.

  ‘ Oh, incidentally,’ Helen said as Danny was leaving, ‘your friend hasn’t signed on tonight. Cheryl Whatsername? Big time druggie.’

  ‘ Big time sucker, you mean.’ Danny looked at the bail signing-on book and turned to Cheryl’s page. She had signed on in the morning, but not this evening. Danny pouted. She checked her watch. ‘Time yet

  … see you at nine, Helen.’

  Which left Danny another twenty minutes to get her head around the crime figures and come up with some excuses for the DMT. She closed the signing-on book and trundled back to her desk, sat down despondently and lifted the paperwork out again.

  Danny knew why she could not motivate herself.

  Henry Christie.

  Or to be more accurate, a lack of Henry Christie.

  She missed him dreadfully. Just to talk to, listen to his supportive voice, maybe fall into his arms at least once. Oh God, I’m in love with a boss and a married man again, she punished herself. Will I ever learn? At least he had the strength of character not to encourage her, even though she could tell he was interested.

  But she did need to talk to him. Just talk, that was all. She looked at the phone, picked it up and before she could stop herself, dialled his home number. It rang out several times. Danny was almost relieved no one was there and was about to hang up when it was answered.

  ‘ Hello, Kate Christie,’ came the bright voice from the other end.

  Danny’s tummy rolled over. She considered slamming down the phone, but kept her nerve. ‘Hi Kate, it’s Danny Furness.’

  ‘ Hi Danny, how are you?’

  ‘ I’m good, thanks. Look, Kate, sorry to bother you, but could I have a word with Henry? I just need some advice about something,’ she lied.

  ‘ I’m afraid not.’ Kate’s voice changed tone. Danny could not guess why. ‘I haven’t seen or heard from him for a few days now. I thought you’d know that. He’s doing some sort of job for the National Crime Squad and I don’t know where he is.’ Kate knew enough not to say Henry was working undercover. Even other cops might not be trusted. But she was clearly upset by what she was saying and Danny picked up on that.

  ‘ No, I didn’t know. I thought he was working on some kind of project… sorry to bother you, Kate.’

  ‘ Danny,’ Kate said quickly before she could hang up. ‘If you do hear from him before me, will you tell him to get in touch? I know nothing bad will have happened to him, but I’d like to speak to him.’

  ‘ Yes, of course I will, Kate.’

  Danny leaned back in her chair, mulling over the conversation. Working for NCS, she thought. Well, that explained some things to her. But what the hell was he doing?

  No matter how hard he tried, Spencer was unable to repeat his performance and get a second erection that evening. Try as she might, from oral, vaginal, mammarial and manual stimulation, Cheryl could not help. With a sigh of frustration she rolled to one side and lit another cigarette, blowing lazy smoke rings towards the ceiling.

  Spencer sat up and hitched himself into his underpants. He tramped into the kitchen where he opened another can of beer. He came back and sat down by Cheryl. She had pulled a cushion across her stomach.

  The rush of weed and alcohol had waned.

  ‘ What’s the chances of someone coming round here to collect what they’re owed?’ Spencer asked her. He leaned back against the settee.

  ‘ Fucked if I know, but I’m worried, Spence. T
here was a lot of gear in that suitcase and bastards like them always come and collect debts one way or another.’ She took a few long drags of her cigarette and stumped it out into the already overflowing ashtray on the floor. Propping herself up on one elbow, she suggested, ‘Spencer, let’s get out of here, at least for the time being. It’d be safer, it’d be sensible. I mean, we can be unemployed anywhere.’

  ‘ You’d be on the run from the cops.’

  ‘ The cops aren’t what bother me. Cops don’t kill you or beat you up. Pissed-off drug dealers do.’

  ‘ What about dosh?’

  ‘ That never bothered us before. We hardly have any money now.’

  He chewed the idea over. ‘We could become like Bonnie and Clyde, robbin’ an’ thievin’ an’ killin’ all over the place. Might be a good laff.’

  ‘ Or Mickey and Mallory,’ Cheryl added enthusiastically. Natural Born Killers was their favourite film of all time.

  ‘ Yeah, shootin’ and killin’. Sounds really fucking ace.’ He farted and a nauseous smell erupted from his backside. ‘Money! Money! Money! Fast! Faster!’ he quoted his favourite line from the film.

  ‘ Come on then, let’s do it,’ she urged him.

  ‘ What, now?’ he laughed, unsure whether or not to believe her.

  ‘ Yes, now. Let’s get going. You nick a car, we’ll rob an off-licence and then hit the road.’

  The prospect of actually getting dressed and leaving the confines of the warm flat at that exact moment suddenly had no appeal to the future Public Enemy Number One, Spencer Grayson. ‘No, I can’t be arsed,’ he grunted. ‘I’ve had too much bevy. I can’t even get a stiffy up. I just need to get to bed. Maybe tomorrow, eh?’