by Nick Oldham
Danny already knew of a good reason for the deaths of Cheryl and Spencer: ruthless drug dealers who did not take kindly to the loss of about fifty grand’s worth of junk. Danny would be very surprised if the killing turned out to be for anything other than that. That, therefore, would definitely be one avenue for the investigation. Another would be identifying the other man; once that was done, other ways forward might spring up.
The other line of enquiry would be through the owner of the garage. Who is he? What’s his background? Who are his associates? Digging into his ribs could prove extremely profitable indeed.
Then there was the scientific evidence, not forgetting that Cheryl’s flat would need to be thoroughly examined by Search and Forensic teams now.
The office door opened at the top of the stairs, and Seymour led out a man with thick, straggly, oily hair, shoulder-length, wearing a pair of dirty overalls. Peter Maynard. He was about to begin helping the police with their enquiries. He looked exactly as Danny had expected.
Seymour led him out of the garage without a word.
Danny walked to the edge of the inspection pit once more and looked down at the three bodies lying one on top of the other. She was reminded of a Nazi war grave.
It made her realise just how dangerous the people behind this were.
Chapter Nine
At noon on Monday, the third day of his ‘holiday’, Colin Hodge awoke with the most terrifying hangover of his life, brought on by over-indulgence on San Miguel beer and cheap whisky. The bedroom of the apartment was in darkness, with the exception of slits of light filtering in through the cracks and between the curtains. The room was very untidy now. Clothes, plates and beer bottles were strewn around. Hodge slowly eased himself into a sitting position, desperate not to dislodge the ball bearings which seemed to be rolling around at the back of his eyes.
He breathed deeply and was nearly sick there and then, but he kept hold of it. The woman next to him in the bed groaned in her sleep. Hodge squinted at her. She was past her prime and not exactly on the petite side, but the previous night had verged on the incredible. Hodge touched his cock, which felt tender. It had been well abused.
He swung his legs out of the low bed, placing his feet on the cold floor tiles.
He could tell it was another hot day in Tenerife. So far over the weekend he had not seen much of the daytime, but was determined that he would get some sunbathing done today. Pointless to be here on a freebie and not get the benefit of the sun’s harmful rays. He stumbled out of the bedroom and tottered into the bathroom where he had a long shower. He wondered when they would come for him. Apart from anything else he was running low on his cash reserves. He needed a peseta injection.
As he stooped to soap down his legs, the shower curtain drew back. The woman had woken. She stepped in to join him.
Hodge was correct: it was hot in Tenerife. Baking hot at Reina Sofia Airport where Billy Crane waited impatiently for the passengers to filter out from the recently arrived flight from Manchester.
Don Smith was first one through, carrying only an overnight bag and a briefcase.
They shook hands and left the terminal building, climbing into the rear seats of a Ssang Yong four-wheel-drive monstrosity waiting for them. It was driven by Loz, Crane’s business partner and lion hors d’ oeuvre. His injured left hand was strapped up in a dirty-looking bandage and was resting. between his thighs. The vehicle was an automatic with power steering and he was able to drive safely enough with just his right hand. When the two passengers were settled into the back seat, Loz pulled away.
‘ Good flight?’
‘ Cramped as fuck,’ Smith complained. He rolled his neck, which creaked. He had managed to squeeze in on a spare seat on a holiday charter flight. ‘My arse is still asleep.’
‘ Where are we up to with our friend?’
‘ Checked him out.’ Smith positioned his briefcase on his lap and snapped it open. He extracted a file of papers which he handed to Crane.
‘ Give me the gist,’ Crane said. He would read the file later.
Loz shifted slightly and cocked an ear rearwards.
‘ OK, the gist is that Colin Hodge is a bit of a sad bastard. He lives alone at an address in Bispham, north of Blackpool. Semi-detached house, forty grand mortgage, negative equity. Wife pissed off about two years ago, shacked up with some guy who guts chickens in a factory, which kind of indicates just how much of a boring twat Hodge is. Been working for the same security firm for eight years as a guard. Been robbed once — on a collection in Carlisle. Just dropped the money and shat himself, apparently. No bottle. Gets paid a pittance — something like five or six quid an hour; has to work all the hours God sends to pick up anything approaching a decent pay packet. Has a girlfriend… some slag who works behind the bar at his local club. Most of the adult male population of Bispham have been through her, apparently.’
‘ Why’s he gone bad?’
Smith shrugged. ‘I suppose carting millions around and getting paid fuck-all for it might have something to do with it. But I’d say the real reason is debt.’ Smith counted on the fingers of his right hand. ‘The mortgage, his car’s on HP, and last but not least, he owes money to a local bookie and to a loan shark, a guy with a very bad rep.’
‘ You know him?’
‘ Of him.’
Crane nodded. ‘Get him to back off.’
‘ Should I pay him off?’
‘ No, just get him to tread water with Hodge for a while.’
‘ Will do.’
‘ Are you sure Hodge isn’t a cop?’ Crane asked. He watched for Smith’s reaction.
Smith breathed in deeply, held it in while he considered the question, exhaled slowly. ‘How can I say for sure, Bill? I’ve had him well checked out by this private detective I told you about, and I reckon he’s done a pretty good job in such a short space of time. He’s still on it, by the way.
‘ Cops have good legends, I admit. A lot of time and effort goes into them, but I reckon Hodge is just an arsehole on the make, a greedy cunt. He’s seen an opportunity and is going for it.’ Smith looked out of the window. ‘Is he a cop, though?’ Then he sang, ‘How can I be sure, in a world that’s constantly changing?’ The old David Cassidy number.
It brought a smile to Crane’s face. ‘Yeah, right. OK then, what about this being a set-up? Is it some kind of elaborate plot to do us? He came to you and that worries me.’
‘ But only because Tony Roberts picked up on what Hodge was saying around the clubs. I’m the one who followed it up. He didn’t actually come to me.’
‘ Bluff, counter-bluff, falling into the trap,’ Crane offered sagely.
‘ Could be, Billy, could be, but I doubt it. My gut tells me that Colin Hodge is a genuine greedy, weak-kneed bastard who wants to escape from a squalid little shitty life, like a million other people. They just do the lottery instead.’
Crane watched the passing landscape for a while. He sniffed. ‘OK, let’s go with him — but keep our eyes and ears well pinned.’
A smile of satisfaction came to Smith’s face.
‘ Next question, Don: does he genuinely carry that amount of cash?’
‘ Haven’t been able to sort that one out yet, Bill. Working on it.’
‘ All right — keep snooping.’ Crane stretched and adjusted his position on the seat. ‘What’s happening with the murder investigation?’
At that exact moment, Loz was overtaking a slow-moving van. On hearing the word ‘murder’, he nearly left the road.
‘ Fucking watch it!’ Crane yelled at him.
Loz regained control. ‘Sorry, guys.’
‘ As far as I can tell, they’re getting nowhere with it. Obviously the cops reckon it’s drug-related — correct, to a degree. Otherwise, nothing.’
‘ What about the garage-owner?’
‘ Won’t be a problem — knows nothing anyway. I arranged use of the garage through a long chain of people. I’m well down the line, too far down to unra
vel. Don’t worry, I’ve been very careful.’
Crane leaned back. He wanted to know everything, but for the moment he was content.
They had just reached the outskirts of Los Cristianos. There were many questions still to be asked.
Contrary to widespread public belief, exaggerated by police dramas on TV and film, murders are not solved by maverick cops acting on their own instincts, breaking rules, disobeying their supervisors and falling into bed with sexy suspects. They are solved by routine, often tedious investigation by professional detectives who dedicate time and effort, often unpaid and unrecognised, and occasionally a smidgen of creativity, to catching the murderer.
Whilst it can be exciting to be part of a Murder Squad, most of the work is boring, generated by a harassed office manager churning out ‘actions’ which are then allocated to detectives — usually, but not always, working in pairs. They then follow up the ‘action’ to the bitter end until they get a result, or otherwise. Then they go back to be given another, and so on and so forth — until there is a breakthrough. Even then, the actions don’t stop.
Much to her surprise and delight, Danny had been drafted on to the murder team. These emotions were tempered by an action which, whilst of vital importance to the whole investigation, seemed to be getting nowhere fast. Very frustrating, as she believed this could be the key to the whole thing.
The action read, very simply, Identify the unknown male in the vehicle inspection pit. She was then expected to follow up all the avenues open to her to achieve this objective.
The first and most obvious port of call was to the Fingerprint Department. Danny had personally taken the dead man’s dabs whilst his body was on the mortuary slab, awaiting post-mortem. She had held his cold flesh, applied the fingerprint ink with a roller and manipulated good quality prints on to the required forms. That bit did not bother her in the least; what did was the sight of the head wounds. She could not stop her eyes from flicking up towards them, seeing injuries which reminded her of Jack Sands’s wounds as he lay in her fridge. However, she completed the task, relieved to get away.
Fingerprints are not without their problems. Firstly, the obvious one: if the person is not in the system, there is no result. Secondly, if the person is not on the ‘Livescan’ data base — the computerised fast-track fingerprint recognition system — then a protracted manual search of all files has to be carried out. Even if the person is on record, there is the possibility that it could take weeks, even months, to match the dabs. There is also the minute possibility that a match might not be made. No system is infallible.
The dead man’s prints were not on ‘Livescan’ and after three days, no manual match had been made. Danny was getting nowhere with her ‘action’. Dental records were another option to identification and she was awaiting results from this, which can also be a long-drawn-out process.
Another avenue to explore is Missing From Home files, but they were not producing anything of interest as yet and anyway, Danny held out little hope from this. It was more than likely the dead man was from the criminal fraternity, and mysterious disappearances amongst felons and their families did not always result in someone being reported missing.
Obviously the murders had generated a great deal of media interest. The press, locally and nationally, and local TV had been more than happy to circulate an artist’s impression of the dead man. This was Danny’s biggest hope in trying to ID the guy. The media usually prompted response, but so far there had been zilch.
Danny knew that FB was in contact with the Crimewatch TV programme, and other similar shows, with a view to getting some lengthy national TV time — but so were forty-two other police forces, all clamouring and claiming their crimes were the most important ones. If Lancashire could get it on soon, there would be a pretty good chance of a result. Big ‘if’.
As for the dead man himself, he had been completely naked. No clothing or documentation had been found, so nothing from that angle either.
Danny sat at a desk in the Murder Incident Room (MIR) and scratched her head. This was her first mega murder enquiry and she had been tasked with a pivotal ‘action’. She was getting nowhere with it and now she was grasping at straws.
Colin Hodge’s apartment was in Los Cristianos, about a mile away from the centre of the small port, in a block of at least fifty other similar apartments. There was a large pool outside next to which was a snack bar selling food and drink.
The woman from the night before had left and he was alone. His head was more together following his shower and another screw therein. He had spent the last hour on a sun lounger by the pool, sipping San Miguel and reading a paperback thriller. He reached the end of a chapter and folded down the corner of the page, then lay back with the book on his bare chest, his right hand reaching down for the beer at his side.
A figure appeared over him, blocking out the sunlight.
Something stirred in Hodge — maybe a tinge of fear — and for the first time he felt ever so slightly out of control. So far he had been master of ceremonies, but now, on their ground, he had lost that edge.
‘ Can I help you?’ Hodge asked. His eyes focused on the man.
He was only a small guy, maybe five-six, nothing more. Pretty weedy-looking, wearing a bright shirt and light trousers. His left hand was bandaged.
‘ Be on the ferry to La Gomera at three.’
That was all he said. He turned and walked away, ignoring Hodge’s, ‘But, what…?’
Hodge leaned slowly back and picked up his beer with a dithery hand. He finished it off, but his throat remained constricted and dry.
Henry Christie’s hair had been closely cropped again with a number two attachment to the trimmer. He’d allowed his stubble a couple of days’ growth and now shaved electrically with the shaver head to maintain that level of growth. Designer stubble. He did not like it personally. He preferred a good, wet, close shave each day, but stubble suited the image of Frank Jagger, his alter ego.
Once again, he was back into his legend, rather like slipping into an old raincoat. He was at Lancashire Constabulary Headquarters near to Preston, where he was being briefed by Rupert Davison on the current state of the investigation into Jacky Lee’s murder. Also present, listening in and butting in when appropriate or otherwise, was ACC Fanshaw-Bayley.
Although Headquarters was quite close to his home, Henry had not driven directly to it that afternoon. Instead he had set off early and made his way to a very secret location on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Blackburn. It was a location known only to undercover police officers, the admin staff who directly supported them and a couple of high-ranking officers in the National Crime Squad which covered the North-West of England. Not even FB or Rupert Davison knew where it was. Its location was strictly controlled on a tight need-to-know basis.
It was a large, single-storey unit, surrounded by a high fence, protected by the latest hi-tech equipment, rented ultimately by the NCS. A fictitious company operated from the unit, ostensibly distributing goods in various shapes and sizes throughout the country. At least that’s what all the other companies on the estate were led to believe and anyone watching the place would also believe it too. It looked like a real company, operated like one, but it was only a shell. In reality it was the base where undercover police operatives went to adopt or ditch their legends or pick up or drop off gear and equipment.
Henry had driven all the way from Blackpool in his own car, cautiously adopting anti-surveillance tactics to ensure he wasn’t being followed — which could mean his cover was blown. In the undercover game nothing is ever taken for granted, not if you wanted to collect a pension. And Henry wanted.
In the unit, accessible only by key-code and swipe cards, he picked up Frank Jagger’s pager and mobile phone and the keys for the XJS. He slid into the driver’s seat, enjoying the only perk to being undercover — rarely was money any object. Going for top-class villains meant that cash had to be spent. It was probably the only area in p
olicing where spending had not been drastically reduced over the past few years, though it still remained a consideration in this cost-conscious age.
Then, adopting anti-surveillance tactics again, he made his way to Headquarters Training School.
Henry focused his attention on Davison’s words. They might just save his life.
‘ OK, it stands like this: the murder squad in Manchester have had both of Jacky Lee’s minders in for questioning. Funnily enough they deny any involvement in the dirty deed, and what they say conflicts with your and Terry Briggs’s statements.’
‘ In what way?’ Henry asked.
‘ Thompson and Elphick reckon they did a runner after Lee had been shot, not before, which is what you said. They say they were so frightened, they ran… poor little mites.’
‘ Do any other witnesses contradict what they say, and support our version of events?’
‘ No.’ Davison pulled a pained face. ‘Everybody conflicts with everybody else, at least in some details. You know what it’s like when this sort of thing happens — your mind gets blown. So, because your evidence does not exist, in inverted commas’ — here Davison tweaked the first and second fingers on both hands to indicate inverted commas — ‘we can’t put it to them, as such.’ He was referring to his decision not to use Henry and Terry’s statements, at least not until the undercover operation had paid off, or not, as the case might be.
‘ What do you mean, “as such”?’ Henry wanted to know. He was suspicious of the phrase. It sounded odd to him.
Davison corrected himself. ‘Only that we haven’t used your evidence at all. Now,’ he moved on smoothly, leaving Henry slightly dissatisfied with the remark, ‘it was suggested to Thompson and Elphick that they were behind Lee’s death and that they have gained considerably from it. They denied it, of course, but the word picked up by the murder team is that these guys are now in control of Lee’s operation. It’s a pretty big rumour out on the streets too, but not substantiated yet.’
